Queen of Heaven

by Michael Orr

  “She’s jumped!” Tactical announced.

  It was the worst possible news. A ship like that wouldn’t run, which meant it was using close-in FTL to reposition itself without telegraphing its movements.

  “Fuck! Brace for attack!” Ohlins spat, taking control of steering to maneuver randomly. Anything was better than simply remaining where they were.

  “Bandit off our starboard flank!” Tac yelped.

  “Fire everything we have!” Ohlins cussed. The Hwarak’mogk had made the one move he couldn’t counter.

  Sheets of flak from the bandit’s railguns streamed in at hundreds of kilometers per second, tearing at Incisor’s flank. Her shields deflected the first few waves, but it was only a matter of time before they succumbed to the relentless impacts. At that point the engines would be shredded, leaving the frigate drifting in space and cornered like a wounded dog.

  “Negligible damage t’the bandit!”

  The exasperation in his XO’s voice triggered Ohlins’s instincts. He trained Incisor toward the enemy, personally targeting his plasma cannons at specific sections of the enemy’s hull.

  “Aim for my impacts!” He lit off barrages of plasma fire to weaken the Hwarak’mogk’s shields. A second later, Incisor’s railguns targeted the same sections, tearing holes in the enemy’s tough hide.

  “s’Working, sir!” Tac leaned in to his attack. “And drones’ve launched.”

  Trish shuddered beneath ever-worsening impacts as the crusader ship lurched in the midst of some terrible battle. Jolts whipped her to and fro on the pillar like a marionette, whacking grunts and sharp yelps out of her. With her limbs bracketed in place, her sockets were the only weak spots with give, and they couldn’t cope against the violence.

  She shrieked as her left shoulder dislocated, ripping its tendons. Mouthfuls of bile filled her throat as each new jolt brought searing pain like shards of glass.

  Still panting and choking from the mouthful, she screamed into the violence of another impact. Waited mid-pant for the ship to break apart, gasping and sick from pain. All hope of safety was gone. The pillar would hold her fast and here she would die, fastened to the ship like part of its structure.

  The door to her judgment room was open and she hoped for someone to acknowledge her. Anything would’ve been welcome — even just seeing someone run past. But they were all at battle stations fighting to keep the ship intact. She was forgotten...as far from anyone’s mind as could possibly be.

  A terrifying shudder rang Incisor like a gong when her engines erupted. Ohlins figured the shockwaves would damage the attacker as well, but his plasma-beam-and-railgun tactic had merely weakened small sections of the enemy’s hull. The majority of their ship would weather Incisor’s explosion with little problem.

  “That’s it, sir!” the XO called out above the mayhem. “We’re out of options.”

  “Everyone out,” Ohlins ordered, then opened shipwide address. “Abandon ship! Abandon ship! Abandon ship!”

  He touched off the evacuation alarm with the realization that his one and only line command had been an epic fail. He would probably never find out who beat him.

  Incisor’s explosion demolished Trish’s world. Her other shoulder ripped from its socket and forced a gurgling fountain of puke from her wailing mouth. Endless aftershocks flung her about like a wind-whipped flag and savage shrieks tore her throat. Like Ragnaroc, the jaws of violent darkness engulfed her.

  ANITA

  * * *

  COSTA MESA, CA – EARTH – MAY 30, 2004

  Towering heels clacked to the beat of a nearby stereo...some girl band’s crunchy, harmonic cover of Alice Cooper’s Clones. It was a gorgeous May day in Balboa, but Anita was on a mission.

  It was high time she owned her first bikini, and her eyes were everywhere. She even caught sight of the squids along the far stretch of parking lot, their colorful bikes flashing like ice cream wrappers carelessly blown into a gutter by the offshore breeze.

  The beach shops were in the other direction, but there’d never be a better chance to see how the squids would react to the new Anita. Would they even recognize her?

  Her heart tumbled all egg-wheel against her ribs as she studied them from behind, their hyena taunts still fresh in her mind. Would it be the same as before, now that she’d had a makeover? More yipping and yowling?

  She gathered her courage and moved in, hips rocking and shoulders countering beneath the yellow dress. She grinned at her matching da-glow heels just before the bikers snapped at her like alligators.

  “Oooooh...lookit this. We got some Fancy!”

  “Little overdressed, are we?”

  Her stormy eyes flashed out from behind oversized eyeglasses, but it only invited more taunts.

  “Maybe she’s got somewhere t’be.”

  “I’m on my way ta church,” one of them called out in falsetto.

  “Or a trick.” They chuckled, studying her like kids eyeing a box of Skittles. With her golden hair, pale white skin, yellow dress and yellower shoes, she looked just like the lemon ones.

  “What’s wrong, Skittle? Nothin’ t’say?”

  Anita recoiled. “Skittle?!”

  “It speaks!” Another jumped in, adding something about rainbows that got her to blush. It was the guy on the yellowjacket, and she summoned the ghosts of her daydreams for encouragement.

  “I’m not candy.”

  “Of co-o-ourse you ar-r-re,” the leader growled out his best Kurgan.

  Another grinned stupidly. “I think we’re makin’ it mad.”

  “Ya think?” another agreed. A big guy, like a sumo wrestler.

  Anita wrinkled her nose. “Stop calling me ‘it’!”

  “Ooooh, it’s got teeth!” Grinner pointed.

  “Knock it OFF!” She postured against the hyenas chortling over their own wit. Their voices droned into the background and the colors around her changed; faded into sepia like an old photo. She stood her ground against the five of them, but behind her the crash of waves was growing heavier and more insistent. It was all she could do not to look around.

  Leader guy settled down. “So whatchoo want, Skittle?”

  “Whaddya mean?” she fumed.

  “Must want sump’m. Otherwise ya wouldn’t be here. Right?”

  “I’m shopping.” She heard the whine in her voice.

  “Kinda the long way ’round, ain’t it?” This was the quiet guy. The group’s theta.

  “I dunno...” She shrugged. “I was just walkin’.”

  The waves grew louder.

  “Maybe ya dunno what ya want.”

  She found a small pocket of sass and opened it as wide as she dared. “Yeah, like I’d want anything from squids.”

  “Ouch!” they all cringed.

  “Hey, no need ta be nasty,” Yellowjacket protested.

  “She don’t get it, man,” the others muttered, shooting wounded glances at her.

  She had no idea what they were on about.

  “See,” Leader-guy stepped up, “squid ain’t a generic term for ‘biker’. When ya call someone a squid, you’re callin’ ’im an idiot. Kinda guy lasts about an hour on one’a these.” He gestured to the bikes they straddled. “Squids die quick. No one here qualifies.”

  “Sorry.” She couldn’t have cared less. “s’All I ever heard anyone call you. Besides, s’not like you were bein’ nice.”

  “She got us there, man,” Yellowjacket admitted.

  “Fair enough,” Leader-guy agreed.

  Anita watched their mouths move, but the roar of the waves drowned out their voices. She looked around as a towering wall of water eclipsed the sky. Turned her pale and limp as it crested over her.

  For the briefest of moments it teetered sickeningly like an axeman’s blade, then careened down... slammed her to the ground and washed everyone else away. The chaotic currents tumbled her along the bottom...no telling which way was up.

  Her lungs began to burn.

  “So, why you wearin’
so much?” Grinner challenged.

  She glanced down at herself in a lucid moment. “What? This’z normal.”

  “C’mon, girl...” He was all over it. “It’s the beach. Where’s yer bikini?”

  She scrunched up into a body frown.

  “Got sun, got sand...” His hands flew out at the surroundings.

  “D’you guys just not know how ta have a conversation?” She scowled, hands on hips.

  Leader-guy shook his head like everything was going terribly south. “Like I was tryin’ ta say before I got so rudely interrupted...” he threw shade at the others, “maybe we should start over. I’m Len. And you are...?”

  “Anita.”

  They introduced themselves: Leader-guy was Len, Grinner was Mikey, Sumo was Phat, Theta was Davis and Yellowjacket was Jay.

  “Z’at a letter or a word?” she quipped. The guy seemed to enjoy the glow of her eyes when they were trained on him. But then it was back into the flood...

  She kicked and clawed for the surface shimmering out of reach above her, but her flaming lungs gave out and she curled up like a pillbug.

  There was no swimming against the unhurried current as it took its goddamned time creeping slowly upward. The best she could do was try not to breathe the water. No matter how she stretched and strained, the surface remained just out of reach and her body was shutting down.

  Finally, as if her distress was nothing at all, the flood charitably allowed her head to break the surface. Fresh, sweet air filled her with renewed life, but she was cruelly dragged under again and whipped around.

  Whirlpool!

  She grasped blindly for anything within reach and her fingers laced into something strange. She gripped it with all the strength she had and they broke the surface together, Anita and the unicorn she clutched by the mane.

  “Can I get a ride?” she blurted out.

  “Shiiii...” the squids all balked.

  “What, ya don’t like girls?”

  One of them whistled at her slam.

  “Sure. Just not’n yer Sunday best,” Len countered.

  Anita was appalled. “I’m too fancy for ya?”

  “Sump’m like that.” Jay shrugged.

  “Dresses ’n bikes don’ mix,” Phat added.

  Anita lost her patience. “So, I can’t ride ’cuz I’m in a dress?”

  “Safety hazard,” they insisted, all straight faces.

  “Yer just teasin’ me.”

  “Seriously.” Len was up for it. “No skirts on a bike.”

  The others shook their heads in sober unison.

  There was no going home to change and getting back in time. Now she was back in the water, losing her grip on the unicorn. It swam away and left her to circle the whirlpool. She watched hopelessly as it reached the shore and stopped long enough to glance back at her before disappearing into the forest. She could’ve cried. This whole thing was falling apart. She’d risked Myra’s uncontrolled wrath with this expensive makeover, and all for nothing.

  “Jus’ take it off,” someone intruded on her thoughts.

  She glowered at Mikey. “z’If! Like I would... Right out here!”

  “Why not? s’The beach,” he lawyered. “No one’ll care if it’s skivvies or a swimsuit.”

  Anita bit off her breath. They had no way of knowing she’d left her underwear at home figuring it’d make easier to try on swimsuits. And she was through wearing the flattening bras Myra insisted on to keep her runaway chest under wraps. Never again.

  “Just...take it off...” She shook her head, all disbelievous.

  “Ya wanna ride?” Phat dangled the carrot.

  “Not naked!”

  Now Jay was talking over her: “Leave ’er alone. She just don’t want ya t’know she’s got nuthin’ worth showin’.”

  “WHAAAAAT!!! You think I’m–”

  “Think yer right, man,” Mikey stoked the fire. “Lookit how red she is! Check it...”

  “FUCK! YOU!!” She stormed off with the clack of her heels doing the cussing for her. The hum in her brain throbbed and spasmed like never before. It was so loud she couldn’t see. Had to navigate blindly as it built to a breaking point. The sound and vibration spread until it took her over. Became her.

  Something snapped.

  Everything looked different now. Colors changed and turned surreal. She was standing off to the side, watching herself storm away in anger...watching herself clomp across the parking lot.

  It was even worse looking on from the outside. Her Anita self didn’t deserve this treatment, and the impulse to act bristled within her. The usual fear and intimidation were gone and she no longer cared about anybody else’s reaction.

  There was no decision; just a simple turning around. What was she about to say? What was she gonna do? She had no idea, but this wasn’t over. Not even close.

  43

  * * *

  CRUSADER NINE – ALLIANCE SPACE – NOV 7, 2371

  Trish sagged broken in her brackets, shivering from the shock and agony of her injuries and from desperate dehydration. There was no telling how long she’d hung here, but her lips were split and her head throbbed worse than her shoulders. Humiliating odors wafted up from the floor where she stood, and this time, when she managed to open her gummy eyes there was a jury of white robes looking on in righteous silence.

  “Behold...”

  Ransacked as she was, Trish had no defenses against the formidable voice. She could only look on helplessly as the man swiped open a holo showing a stunning woman with stark white hair holding an infant seemingly made from the same rare template.

  Did she dare believe?

  Dr. Nazanin Sukho was the most famous human being of all time — the woman who single-handedly debunked all of Earth’s religions in one fell swoop. There wasn’t a child over eight anywhere on Earth who didn’t know all about her.

  “My mom?” Trish slurred, squirming against the damage to her body. Again and again she faded out, head drooping as dizziness and searing pain overwhelmed her. But she would come-to and see Nazanin’s face again. And that white hair...the same hair shared by the clone-like daughter.

  Trish had often plucked stray white hairs from her head, wondering if she was already going gray. But she could remember doing it all the way back to early childhood — all the way back to some kind of blockage in her mind where there were no memories at all. She guessed herself to be about two. Was this why?

  Again her blurry, aching eyes stared at the little girl in Nazanin’s arms. But the scene shifted and now Nazanin lay in a dark puddle on the ground, her body pierced by rifle bullets. She moved like death, crawling in cruel, pain-racked slow motion across the concrete toward a woman with spikey blonde hair.

  The daughter struggled in the other woman’s arms, clawing for her dying momma as mayhem unfolded around them: people screaming...sirens and flashing lights...onrushing ‘eyes’. But everything was from the wrong angle. Trish strained to see what needed to be seen, but the holo came from the side. She couldn’t make out Nazanin’s eyes.

  Did it matter anymore? She knew...

  The wounded eyes that haunted her dreams had never been Renée’s. They were the eyes of a young mother dying in front of her little girl. The eyes of absolute, unbearable despair.

  “Mom...”

  It all swept back in like the headwaters of a tsunami, adding itself to the pain that was breaking Trish’s will. She was ruined...shattered beyond recovery...so dehydrated that she had no tears to offer the mother she never knew. And it was her. It had always been her.

  “You defile heaven.”

  Trish feebly angled her head to look at the speaker. Not Captain Harlowe. She didn’t know the name Surryah, but this man was worse than Harlowe — especially with a glowing plasma torch in hand. A glance down revealed a mote of viscous fluid encircling her pillar. Whatever battle they’d waged was over and it was time for a victory bonfire.

  “You defile even your mother’s memory. You treat existenc
e like a brothel,” Surryah preached. “This is god’s creation, not a slum for sharing your squalid flesh with all comers.”

  “I don’ xhare. I danth,” she slurred, struggling to make her badly torn tongue work in an arid mouth. Her voice was no more than a croak.

  “Adam ’n Eve were alone in the world, but they knew modesty. Look at you.” He gestured at her exposed form in contempt.

  “I wazh drexhed when you foun’ me. Thixh ixh your hangdiwork.” She barely got the words out before the world spun into chaos. Voices and shapes melted into bizarre nightmare things and she tumbled out of control in her private elsewhere.

  The speaker smiled. “You mean to ignore your claim ta fame as if this’z your only moment of indecency. Hypocrisy’s the defense of the wicked.”

  The tumbling slowed. Settled. She found a foothold among the slips and skips of her consciousness. And someone was there with her. The white-haired girl? Anita? Whoever it was, she clung to the other like a lifeline. And then, a directive:

  Speak, Trisha

  She recognized the voice of her guides. Needed words. Her brain was running at half-speed, no idea what to say. But new strength was seeping into her battered body from somewhere else. Just enough.

  “Hypocrishy?” She heard conviction in her own wilted voice. Where did that come from? “Look how you’ve taken it upon yourshelvezh to police god’zh realm under your own authority, in your own fallible humanness with all your mishundershtandingzh an’ mishguided judgmentsh an’ shelf-righteoush pride.”

  The speaker halted at his victim’s sudden intensity and Trish seized the moment, pushing past the pain of her lacerated tongue scraping itself against the sandpaper of her palate.

  “You’re jusht azh human azh the resht of ush,” she reminded her jury. A surge of strength ignited her words. “But you think you have some special right ta speak for the Almighty? You think your creator endowed you with some special understanding that qualifies you to enforce his will for him? Who in damnation d’you think you are? You’re all that an’ a whole bag’a chips, too? Really?!”