Exile

by Al Sarrantonio

  Jamal's eyes welled with tears.

  "She is so beautiful!"

  "This is true," Kamath said, the barest of emotions entering her words. "And finally, the houses of Clan and Kris will be joined."

  "Yes!" Jamal said.

  A precise three meters from Jamal, Tabrel Kris stopped, lowering her eyes.

  Jamal, too, lowered his gaze.

  Immediately the chanting stopped, leaving the temple in an echoing hush.

  Tabrel raised her eyes slowly and spoke in a loud, strong voice:

  "I, Tabrel Kris of Mars, do take you, Jamal Clan of Titan, with heart, mind, and soul, to be my wedded husband."

  Jamal raised his eyes to meet hers. His heart was pounding within his breast.

  He knew what was expected of him now, but he turned instead to look up at his mother, a sudden fear filling him at the sight of Tabrel's smile.

  "Is she mine, Mother?" he whispered fiercely. "Is she really mine?"

  His mother looked down emotionlessly. "She is yours. What part of her is not will follow."

  Without hesitation, Jamal took a deep breath and stepped forward to lift, with gently trembling fingers, the veil from Tabrel's face:

  "And I, Jamal Clan of Titan, do take you, Tabrel Kris of Mars, with heart, mind, and soul, to be my wedded wife!"

  With abrupt, choking terror, he knew that something was not right within Tabrel's gleaming eyes. He saw another kind of terror deep within them.

  But still, he took her two soft hands into his own, preparing to say, with her, the words that would lock them forever together.

  The spices in the air intensified.

  And then suddenly the smell of sulfur, a vague, unpleasant backdrop until now, became overpowering.

  Vast plumes of yellow vapor roiled up the center aisle in a billowing cloud, overtaking Tabrel and Jamal and expanding to fill the temple. Sounds of choking filled the air.

  With a mixture of anger and panic, Kamath Clan strode toward the side entrance of the temple and threw open the large doors. She lurched outside into artificially lit daylight, followed by the rest, all save Kamath wiping at their eyes and gagging.

  The queen marched into clear air and looked back at the temple: Its clean, tall lines and twin spires pointing toward the heavens were enveloped in a yellow fog, made ghostly by the bright lights focused on the structure.

  "Who dares to interrupt this service?" Kamath Clan roared.

  Kamath Clan followed the line of the spires and looked upward.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  There, barely illumined by the upward-reaching spotlamps, hung the belly of Wrath-Pei's huge ship. It covered the sky nearly from horizon to horizon, its sleek cone suspended like the hugest of toys on a string.

  Commander Tarn, still fighting to regain his breath, staggered past; Kamath gripped his arm and pointed angrily upward. "What is that doing here?"

  "My God," Tarn said, his jaw dropping open. "You assured me our shield was inviolable!" Tarn gaped from the gargantuan ship to the queen's visage. "It is!"

  "Obviously that is not true!"

  "I will go see—" Tarn said, attempting to break away.

  "Tarn!" came a nearby voice, even colder than the queen's.

  Tarn's knees instantly turned weak, and Kamath Clan had to support him.

  Wrath-Pei's gimbaled and cushioned chair drew out of the thinning fog like a floating specter. Ka-math knew that it was only a form of sloth that kept him in the chair—though he showed nothing of laziness in his body, which appeared in every way perfect, from the silver mane of hair swept back from his high forehead down through the sculpted cheeks, Roman visage, chiseled features, and commanding eyes, and on through the muscled, tight body, well-advertised through his tight black clothing.

  Commander Tarn had turned the color of ash at Wrath-Pei's voice. "Y-Yes, Your Grace?"

  Wrath-Pei smiled, lynxlike. "Why haven't you returned my calls? Hmmm?"

  Tarn bowed. "I apologize, Your Grace. But with the wedding—"

  Wrath-Pei clicked his attention from Tarn to the queen. "The wedding!" he said. "And why wasn't I invited?"

  Choking back wrath and fright, Kamath Clan bowed and said, "An oversight, Your Grace. My underlings will be duly punished. They must have thought Your Grace was not available—"

  "But of course I'm available—I'm here, aren't I?" His grin widened, sending Tarn into a near swoon. "And I must say that it was not an easy thing to get here! It seems someone in Tarn's command—an underling, perhaps—left Titan's shield on at full capacity! Imagine! But, well—" he said, waving his hand as if in dismissal of unpleasant thoughts, "I'm here now, and that's the important thing. And on young Jamal Clan's wedding day! How glorious!"

  He opened his hands in mild benediction in the direction of the temple, which was now becoming visible again through the dissipating yellow smoke. "But first, before we resume the ceremony, there are a few matters to discuss," Wrath-Pei said earnestly. "You don't mind, do you?"

  "Of course not, Your Grace," Kamath said.

  By this time they were joined by Jamal Clan, who stood in near shock, staring at Wrath-Pei and his magical chair, and his new bride, Tabrel, who stayed back a step, with no expression on her face.

  Wrath-Pei nodded toward the newcomers, yet Spoke to Kamath Clan.

  "Good. Good. It seems that my old friend Prime Cornelian, who now fancies himself something called High Leader—" Wrath-Pei paused to chuckle, "anyhow, Prime Cornelian has taken it into his head that he would very much like me to return this young lady, here"—Wrath-Pei lifted a finger to point at Tabrel—"to her native Mars. In fact, he's very insistent on this matter."

  "No!" Jamal blurted out, earning him the sternest of glares from his mother.

  Wrath-Pei laughed. "A boy in love! How charming and rare! However," he continued, his expression thoughtful, "this is what my colleague, the 'High Leader,' demands."

  There was silence for a moment until Wrath-Pei blew out his breath softly. "However, I don't believe I'm willing to do that. Because I'm afraid that the High Leader has something nefarious in mind for young Tabrel Kris. And, being a moral man, I don't believe it would be the right thing to do."

  Kamath Clan had to restrain her son from throwing himself at Wrath-Pei's feet.

  Wrath-Pei showed a slight smile. "Consider it one of my wedding presents," he said.

  "Thank you, Your Grace!" Jamal said, breaking out into sobs and stepping back to clutch Tabrel.

  "By the way, is she . . . awake?" Wrath-Pei said, studying Tabrel.

  "Yes . . ." the Queen said, and when Wrath-Pei caught her eye, he winked.

  "I see.... Anyhow, I feel we should all get back to the wedding, after I cover one small detail. in fact, I'll need to speak to you about this in more detail privately, Tarn—but that chat can wait until after the ceremonies."

  The color drained from Tarn's face.

  "The basic point, though, is that I . . . believe we should approach the future security of Titan from a . . . different perspective, if you will. In fact, I believe I should be responsible for the protection of Titan from now on."

  Wrath-Pei smiled congenially. "Agreed?"

  Save for Tarn's gasp, there was silence.

  Wrath-Pei clapped his hands. "Very well, then! And now, back inside the temple! There's a young man 'itchin' for hitchin',' as we used to say! But first, my other wedding present! Lawrence!" he commanded. "Come here!"

  From out of the wispy remains of the yellow cloud limped a young boy. His eyes were masked by a helmeted visor; his arms, which ended in stumps, held a large boxy parcel covered with bright paper and ribbons which sparkled with self-generating light.

  "A gift for the newlyweds!" Wrath-Pei said, motioning for Lawrence to deliver it.

  When it was handed over into Jamal's arms, Wrath-Pei added, "Please! Open it now!"

  After a nod from his mother, Jamal did as instructed. On tearing off the wrappings, he opened the thin metallic case with
in, then stood looking down dumbly at what appeared to be a human limb: an ankle and foot, shriveled by preservation and swaddled in oiled rags.

  "Do you like it?" Wrath-Pei laughed brightly, pointing to Lawrence's left boot, which Jamal now saw was overly large, of a solid piece, lashed to the abruptly ended stump of the boy's lower leg.

  "Think of it as a rabbit's foot—for good luck!"

  Chapter 16

  On his fifth day as a woman giving birth, Dalin Shar was visited by Erik.

  There had been three more visits by the authorities, two in the last day alone, prompting more birthing performances and necessitating that the king remain constantly in bed, ready for another performance at a moment's notice.

  "It is no longer safe for you to be here," Erik said brusquely. Dalin had the feeling he was being brusque so that Dalin would not challenge him.

  "I can't argue with you, Erik," the king said, patting his prosthetic womb. "I don't know how many more times I can give life to that." Dalin pointed to the rubber doll's head, splashed in fake blood, which lay propped on the bed table like a guillotined horror.

  To Dalin's surprise, Erik completely ignored his levity.

  "It has been decided that you will be transported elsewhere," Erik said, as if the king had not spoken. After a moment he added, "Offworld."

  "Offworld! That is impossible! How am I to fight my enemies if I am not here? No—I won't hear of it!"

  Erik now looked at him.

  "It is not your decision, Your Majesty."

  "Of course it is my decision! What you do for me is my decision! I am your king!"

  Erik spoke slowly. "It has been decided that you would be safer in another place, off the Earth. I have been ordered to help that take place."

  Dalin's voice rose to an indignant shout. "Ordered? By whom? Who has decided these things?"

  "I am sorry, Sire," Erik said.

  Behind Erik, an unsmiling Porto, along with the dour young man with hooded eyes, whose name Dalin had yet to learn, entered. The nameless man held a hypodermic tube firmly in one hand and now had a wry little smile on his face.

  "Do what you must," Erik said, leaving the room as Porto took hold of Dalin's shoulders and held him firmly.

  Raising the hypodermic, the dour man said, "Gladly."

  Dalin awoke in darkness with a headache and a feeling of weightlessness, which was something he had never experienced. For a moment he panicked until he realized that he must be in the hold of a shuttle.

  However, his explorations in the dark did not support this. His first discovery was stubble on his chin, which told him that he had been unconscious for a number of days. He seemed to be dressed in some sort of jumpsuit, which was secured with elastic bands to one side of the enclosure, keeping him from floating free.

  After some fumbling he was able to undo the straps,, which allowed him to explore his surroundings.

  There was not much to find. He was enveloped in a hexagonal box, barely wider than his own height. Four of the six walls were perfectly smooth. One was recessed with what felt like a window covering, but which was impervious to his efforts to open it. The sixth proved fruitful, for it was encased with what felt like a Screen and which proved, indeed, to be just that.

  When Dalin ran his hand over the engage strip, the screen blazed into life, blinding him.

  "Low light!" he ordered, and the Screen immediately dimmed, giving him his sight back.

  Floating before the square screen, Dalin quickly took in his surroundings once more, this time bathed in soothing amber light.

  The box really was empty, save for two vents set in one of the other walls, and a lockbox secured in a corner of a second. Dalin was dressed in a common dun-colored jumpsuit, used by maintenance workers on all Four Worlds.

  "Raise window," Dalin ordered.

  The thin sleeve over the window slid up. Once again Dalin was blinded, this time by outside illumination. He thought he was faced by the sun for a moment, but as his eyes adjusted he soon realized that the blinding object outside his window was the illumined face of Earth's Moon.

  "Repor—" Dalin began to say to the screen, but it suddenly came into life on its own.

  A man Dalin had never seen before faced him on the screen. He was tall and solemn, dressed as one of Dalin's governors, in tunic and white ceremonial sash, though the emblem of his governorship was unknown to the king. The symbol was circular, with a large white flower, with centered delicate-looking petals.

  "Who—" Dalin began, but the other cut him off. It was quickly apparent that this was not a live exchange, but that the other was represented by a recording.

  The governor bowed, then straightened.

  "Greetings, Sire, from your offworld provinces. I speak to you from the loyal colonies of Luna, who pledge eternal fidelity to your rule and to our planets, Earth and Moon."

  Dalin mumbled sarcastically, "Is this where your eternal fidelity put me?"

  The governor continued, "By now, you will be awake and, I trust, well rested. I apologize for the methods employed, but believe me, they were necessary for your safety. This will soon become apparent to you.

  "By now, you will be in the orbit of Venus .. ." For a few moments of shock Dalin did not listen to the governor's words; he swiveled his head to the window to make sure that the Moon was, indeed, outside.

  "Wrong world, my colonial friend," Dalin said.

  "... after a rendezvous near Earth's Luna, you were transferred to another cargo freighter bound for Venus. You may very well not be aware of the fact that the tiny colonies on the Moon have remained steadfastly loyal to Your Highness in the current crisis; I hope this provides some comfort to you. You will be transferred from Venus orbit in a matter of hours. If all goes to plan, you will spend the foreseeable future as the guest of our good friend Targon Ramir. When things have. . . quieted down on Earth, you will return to rule."

  The governor bowed again. "I hope to speak with you soon in person, Sire. May your days be filled with blessings and peace."

  The Screen blinked out to soothing amber once more.

  "Wonderful," Dalin Shar said—but barely had the sarcasm left his lips than the blinding white light of Luna was eclipsed.

  Dalin turned to the window.

  "There's the answer to my question," he mumbled.

  Close enough to touch, the blasted hulk of a freighter slid by. It had been hit repeatedly in the belly; gaping wounds showing torn metal, frayed cables, and burned innards speckled the ship's bottom, while the entire engine section floated separately near the freighter's stern, rotating in place as if about to dock. A seared black line marked where it had been cut by massive raser fire.

  Floating free, like fireflies circling near a flame, were hundreds of hexagonal containers.

  The dead freighter moved slowly past; before long it would slide out of sight, no doubt as Dalin's tiny orbit once again brought his enclosure between it and the Moon, which rose again hot and bright in the window.

  "Screen," Dalin ordered, "replay battle events."

  "That information is not available to me," Screen responded.

  "Why not?"

  "I have no recording capability," Screen said. Dalin said, "Status report, then. Oxygen. In Earth days."

  "There is approximately one point two days of usable oxygen," Screen responded.

  A cold feeling gripped Dalin. "Is that all? What about reserve?"

  "There is no reserve oxygen capability."

  "Food and water?"

  "There are rations for three meals; water capability is four liters."

  Dalin turned to the lockbox, pulled up its lid, and found three meal containers and a medium-sized container of water.

  "Screen," Dalin said, "what are rescue options?"

  "That information is not available to me," Screen responded.

  "Maneuverability?"

  "Enclosure is nonmaneuverable. Currently it is in an orbit of point twenty-four days around nearby object. Orbit will decay
in one point one days."

  "Decay? What do you mean, decay?"

  "Enclosure will come into contact with vertical area sixteen five three, horizontal area three six twelve, in one point one days."

  "What in damnation does that mean?"

  "It means—"

  "Never mind! Show it!"

  On the Screen, an exact model of the crippled ship outside appeared; a target area began to blink, outlined in red, and the view then closed in to show in detail how Dalin's enclosure would strike a sharply studded area just under the freighter's blackened nose in less than a day and a half—just before Dalin's oxygen was depleted and he began to choke on his own carbon dioxide emissions.

  "Screen, what is the possibility of enclosure surviving impact?"

  As the Screen answered, Dalin was given a visual clue; there was a flash in the window behind him, and as the Screen droned its answer, Dalin turned to see another hexagonal container hit an area near the freighter's broken tail. In a fraction of time, amid a blip of light, it was scattered into a thousand splinters. Almost instantly it was followed by another, which seemed to just brush up against the hull and immediately was torn to bits.

  "Shut up, Screen," Dalin said, and Screen instantly returned to warm, comforting amber.

  Outside, the dead freighter slipped out of sight. The Moon once more rose; huge, and Tycho slid into view, its crater walls massively shadowed at this near distance. Barely a hundred miles from Tycho lay one of Earth's two small Lunar colonies. Though he tried, Dalin could not for the life of him remember much of what they looked like. He had been no more than nine or ten when he had last even heard them mentioned by Faulkner. There had been sharply etched pictures of a sharply etched place: jagged, stark whites, grays and blacks under a looming clear dome that stretched halfway to the horizon. The panels were impressively large, framed in thick black octagons. The soil itself looked bleached brown; and, in his studies, Dalin recalled one picture of a man standing proudly beside a single timid row of flowers, thin olive stalks bearing brittle white petals, sad, ugly little things like the one Dalin had seen on the governor's emblem.