by TS Hottle
“Jefivah is a core world,” said Best. “Humanity’s oldest interstellar settlement.”
“With a low population and factional tensions that keep it from becoming… How shall I put this?”
“A real world?”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”
But you’re thinking it, thought Best. He’d heard the jokes. Even Earth people made fun of the planet. “The Appalachia of the Stars” they called it. How low was your standing with Earthers made fun of your world?
The tracker descended the mountainside into the settlement below. The town still consisted largely of “tuna can” landers and quickly extruded buildings. However, one building in particular caught Best’s eye, a white structure of concrete and imported wood. It had to be imported. Best had seen the surveys of this planet. Not a single tree existed here, not even near the poles. However, it wasn’t really the building itself that caught Best’s eye.
Out front, a headless statue rose thirty feet into the air. Ceramic and painted, it depicted a curvaceous woman struggling to keep her white dress from billowing up in some phantom wind. A crane stood just to the left of the statue and was hoisting the head into place, that of a blonde with the most orgasmic look on her face.
“What are they doing here?” said Best.
“We have to have colonists to run this place Best,” said Luxhomme. “You have a religious faction you want to keep happy if you want peace on Jefivah. So I recruited some Marilynists to be the vanguard settlers. All you have to do is sign off on making this planet their own, and you’ll be their hero.”
Great. Luxhomme had just made Best a hero in the tackiest religion in the Compact.
Episode 2: The Marilynists
6
The humorless men in their dark suits showed up at Best’s office on Jefivah six months after he witnessed the missiles’ removal. They made no appointment, nor did any of Best’s staff announce them. They simply strode into his office as if they owned the place.
“Agent Rostov,” said the first one, a light-skinned Euro like Best. “Compact Security. This is a Major Liu of Naval Intelligence.”
“How did you get in here?” asked Best. “And who is that behind you?” He pointed to a short, mousy woman standing behind Rostov and Liu making little effort to be seen. “Interstellar Revenue? Where’s my refund?”
“We’ll be asking the questions,” said Liu, a stocky Asian whose accent betrayed an Earth upbringing. “Where are our warheads, Minister?”
“I’m sorry?” said Best. “What warheads?”
Rostov leaned on his fists over Best’s desk. “The last seven warheads you had removed from the planet now known as Marilyn so that full colonization could proceed.”
“Oh,” said Best. “Forgot all about them. JunoCorp, the company that’s customizing grain for our new colonies, contracted a firm to transport them to…” Best had assumed the warheads had gone to Tian, humanity’s largest world and the real hub of the Compact. “I assumed Naval Command took custody of them.”
“We did not,” said Liu, an edge creeping into his voice. He circled the desk so that, despite his short stature, he towered over the sitting Best. “In fact, the Zeus Arsenal has no record of any warheads scheduled to be transported from Marilyn, much less any receipt of them.”
“They tend to notice things like that,” said Rostov. “It’s their job.”
“What we do know is that there was some sort of mishap with the last torpedo to be extracted from the planet then called 978-0765309402d.” Liu leaned in, crowding Best. “And now that world has been renamed ‘Marilyn’, in honor of the goddess of a Jefivan cult.”
“You knew the Marilynists are on Compact Security’s watch list,” said Rostov. “And now you’re giving them an entire colony.”
Best laughed. “Can you think of a better way to get rid of a nuisance faction?”
“I can’t think of a better way to give a terrorist group a base away from the supervision of their world’s constituent authority,” said Liu. “And with those warheads missing, I have to question whether they even left Marilyn.”
Best stood, forcing Liu to back away. “Gentlemen, JunoCorp arranged to disarm Marilyn. And Gallifrey, which makes a much better colony in my opinion.” Turning to Liu, he realized he could now look down on the man in black for a change. “The Navy never responded to our requests for the disarmament of the three worlds we accepted. Not until our delegates to the Compact demanded it during a Security Council meeting. Mr. Luxhomme, JunoCorp’s agent, arranged for a private company to transport the weapons. Please tell me you received all the other warheads we shipped you.”
“We did,” said Rostov.
“Then I suggest you ask the shipping company about the remaining seven,” said Best.
Rostov turned to the woman who had entered with him and Liu. “We did, Minister. This is Magna Piori of Dasarius Interstellar.”
The mousy woman finally stepped forward and offered her hand. She looked like an accountant, which made her livelier than Rostov and Liu in Best’s mind. “I’m the asset loss investigator for Dasarius’s colonial operations. Mr. Best, your last warheads were scheduled to leave… You really called the planet ‘Marilyn’?”
Best smiled. “The colonists did. We wanted to call it ‘Sahara,’ but we don’t live there, do we?”
“Sounds like someone’s aunt,” said Piori. “Anyway, we sent the ship Etrusca Explorer to transport the warheads to a location to be determined later. Tian we assume, from what you told us.”
“Great,” said Best. “So question the captain and find out what he did with his cargo.”
“They can’t, Best,” said Rostov.
Not “Minister.” Just “Best.” Best felt his guts begin to turn.
“We can’t find the Etrusca Explorer,” said Piori. “It’s missing.”
Best went numb as Liu cuffed him and Rostov explained his rights under the Compact.
*****
Marq returned Essenar only to find himself arrested as soon as he stepped off the Laputan transport. Kai went to the landing field personally to apprehend him. The guards had to use native rope to bind him as Marq’s hands could easily squeeze through the metal bindings Kai’s people normally used. It gave Kai some pleasure to notice the rope immediately gave his guest a rash where it touched his skin.
“I feed your people,” said Marq, “for free, I might add, and this is the thanks I get?”
“No.” Kai punched him in the face, his own hand clad a ceremonial gauntlet from his military uniform. He noted Marq bled crimson like Kai’s people, a slightly different shade but red blood just the same. “That is the thanks you get.”
The guards crammed Marq into the back of Kai’s personal transport, surrounded on all sides by one-man rides that floated inches above the ground. Kai slipped in beside Marq and said, “Through the town square.”
The driver turned, the eye shield on his helmet doing little to hide his dismay. “Sire?”
Kai waved forward. “Go on. Have the escorts run their sirens and fire warning shots ahead of themselves so the crowds disperse.”
The driver turned and set the transport moving.
“Your original shipment did feed this settlement,” said Kai. “The first harvest we got from the skins fed most of the other settlements. Then we tried to pollinate the plants themselves.” He reached beneath his great coat and produced something wrapped in cloth. When Kai unrolled it, something dark and mushy went splat in Marq’s lap. “This is our latest crop. We have riots, Mr. Marq.”
“Just Marq,” said the alien. “I never gave you my match-ro-nimik.”
That last word did not match the mother tongue. “Your what?”
“It’s a type of family name. Your people have family names, do you not? At least the High Borns and your indentured servants.”
“I know what a surname is. And don’t change the subject. Within one season, my people became dependent on your magic root. When
the fungus that infests the soil here turned our last crop into mush, the riots started again.”
The transport and its escorts pushed into the main settlement, the riders firing heat beams into the air. Had Kai and Marq been outside, they would have heard the air sizzle and crack from the energy. As it was, they still heard the people screaming in terror through the sealed windows.
The square, the same Kai and Marq had watched people pull together and rebuild, now burned. The statue of the Sovereign lay in pieces on the ground below its pedestal. Several shops smoldered, and people swiped at each other with whatever blunt instruments they could lay their hands on. The fine drizzle that passed for dry weather these last two turns did little to staunch the fires or discourage the rioters from killing each other.
“I’ve lost this planet because of you,” said Kai. “Tell me why I shouldn’t have you executed.”
Marq smiled that strange little smile of his, and it occurred to Kai that he had seen that smile before. As a child, Kai had known the son of another High Born, one who always seemed to have one scheme or another, who could manipulate the other children and quite a few adults into doing his bidding. He never really lied to anyone, but he omitted quite a bit. When he did, he had a smile that resembled Marq’s.
“I believe that would greatly disappoint General Lanar.”
The name made Kai’s blood run cold. “Excuse me?”
“He never told you? He’s meeting me here to look over your crops. He may have a solution to your food supply problem, one involving…”
“Grain?” said Kai. “Tell me it’s grain.”
*****
The riots began the moment Best’s suspension became news. They began slowly, Marilynists all over Jefivah gathering outside their temples to sing hymns to the Blessed Diva, praying for Best’s release. In the capital Tyson, however, the prayer vigils turned to marches within half an hour. The marches then converged on the primitive jail that, after centuries, still served as Tyson’s central holding facility. They began throwing rocks at police and any civilian employees stepping out of the building. There were shouts, barricades, eventually stun gas.
Things came to a head when police shot two protestors. The First Minister might have called out the Planetary Guard for Tyson, only Marilynists made up the bulk of troops in the Federal Province, which meant that the two-thirds of the soldiers activated to pacify the rioters would be rioters themselves.
That was when the Grand Dimaj stepped in.
Among Marilynists, male priests represented the one true love of the Blessed Mother’s life and derived their title, Dimaj, from his name. The female priests represented the Blessed Mother herself and derived their title, Normaj, from her temporal birth name. So when a thin, gaunt man in a white robe carrying a pocket amplifier called for his faithful to calm down and stop attacking the police, they listened.
So did the police. After all, troops from other regions had been called out, and those troops, be they Abrahamists, atheists or the more common “don’t-give-a-shitters,” tended to be overwhelmingly secular in most matters. For both sides, listening to the strange man in the long white robe would end better than black-armored Planetary Guards stomping Tyson into submission.
The Dimaj managed to calm the crowd and asked the authorities to see Minister Best in his cell. After all, the man was a prophet of the Blessed Mother, whether he knew it or not.
Best watched warily as the Dimaj approached the archaic jail cell where he was being held – a three-sided alcove measuring no more than three by four meters, with a metal toilet and two thin bunks, all walled off by plexiglass. The Dimaj frowned when he ran a hand over the plexiglass. Modern cells used force fields and afforded inmates some degree of privacy.
“No wonder our world is a backwater,” he said without preamble as he was escorted to the clear walls of Best’s cell. “They treat child molesters better on other worlds.”
“Child molesters,” said Best, not bothering to rise from the bottom bunk where he lay, “are considered mentally deficient and assigned nano-therapy to cure their urges.” He sat up and glared at the Dimaj. “And isn’t it a bit hypocritical that a man whose duties include relieving young Marilynists of their virginity is talking about child molesters in prison?”
“The young faithful are of legal age when they make love to the Blessed Mother through me and my brother and sister acolytes. It is a rite of passage in our faith.”
Best lay back down and closed his eyes. “Yeah, well, the sooner you lead your faithful to their new colony, the sooner Jefivah can modernize.”
“If you mean that dust ball 402d,” said the Dimaj, referring to the planet now called Marilyn by its shortened catalog name, “bear in mind that your government picked out two more temperate worlds as colonies. Giving us the least desirable planet of the three is hardly incentive to leave.”
“At least we didn’t name them after an ancient actress some cult employs as a sexbot.”
“No, you named one after the home of a time travelling crackpot and another after a literary prank.”
“Gallifrey and Baritaria,” said Best. “The last one was my idea.”
“Why?”
“Because, You Horniness… I mean, Your Holiness. Over the course of my career, I’ve come to believe that Jefivah was originally settled as a prank. Even Earth is more forward-thinking and modern than this mudhole, and Jefivah has more resources.”
The Dimaj smiled. “If the general populace would only accept the love of the Blessed Mother, we would be unified, and this world would take its place among the other founding worlds of the Compact.”
“Well, until then, I’m going to simply plead guilty and ask for exile to someplace like Metis or Belsham. Maybe I can get a teaching position.”
“No one wants to learn law and government from an exiled hick.” The Dimaj stepped closer to the partition. “Besides, Minister Best, your arraignment and trial have been postponed.”
Best sat up. “I beg your pardon?”
“You are being given a reprieve of sorts,” said the Dimaj. “As you are a prophet of our faith, the First Minister has agreed to release you into my custody.”
Best jumped to his feet and came up to the partition. “I’m not a Marilynist. I’m secular. And how does taking your faith help me?”
“It doesn’t. And I don’t expect you to accept the Blessed Mother. But because it was your initiative that allowed the new colony Marilyn to come into existence, my people see you as a prophet.”
“What exactly does that mean, anyway?”
“Well, since we are a relatively new faith, anything you want. I suggest you take advantage of it while you can.” The Dimaj favored Best with a thin smile. “But among other things, it means you are the best man, no pun intended, to search for the one person who threatens to shut down our new world and strand us among you on this Mother-forsaken rock.”
“And who would that be?”
“I believe you know him as ‘Luxhomme’?”
7
“The Council gave you this world,” said Laral, “to build an army for the Realm. Did we make a mistake?”
They sat in the palace’s main dining hall. Naturally, General Laral Jorl had brought a sumptuous feast with him, along with a team of indentured chefs. All of whom, no doubt, would have their own kitchens and teams of indentured staff below them when their terms came to an end. Though protocol demanded that Warriors show deference to the local governors (even on a backwater like Essenar), Laral took the head of the table. The smarmy general even came dressed in ceremonial armor like any other member of the Warrior Caste. They would wear that archaic metal armor in an electrical storm, so long as it put their rank and caste on display.
Kai suppressed a laugh at the thought. “You did. You gave me this world to build an army out of criminals. The place is a soup kettle.”
Laral scoffed, stroking his reddish beard. “What criminals? Thieving merchants, cub buggerers, and the odd serf rebel
who has no clue what he’s rebelling against. These aren’t criminals. They’re nuisances. Even Marq’s degenerate society deals with their like.”
Marq sat off to one side. His posture, standing with his head down, suggested one of respect. The eyes, those alien blue eyes, told of amusement with a hint of predatory waiting. Marq had an agenda, all right. But did Laral know that?
“My point,” said Kai, “is that an army needs food, the kind of food we can grow here. Rations are fine when you send them into combat. They’re eventually coming back. When they are home, especially if we are to train them here, they need food that is produced locally. Lots of it. The best we can do is grow these tubers this alien brought to us. Only…” He tossed the one Tishla had given him in her lab just before the meeting. It landed not with a solid thud but with a sickening splat. The tuber was a greenish mush. “This planet fights every attempt we make to grow food. Did anyone bother to see if this world was good for anything except robotic mining?”
Laral stretched and laced his fingers behind his head, looking more like a father amused by his boy’s insistence of monsters in the cellar than a High Born of the Warrior Cast and a member of Council. “Kai, believe it or not, I’m not unsympathetic. The fact is, your friend Marq here has made a compelling case to me. Seems his people have a problem with… What did you call them again?”
“Rogue colonies, Your Eminence,” said Marq, bowing his head as he gave Laral the wrong honorific. Only relatives of the Sovereign’s family were called “Eminence.” At best, Laral was “Sire,” maybe “Excellency” if his rank were more than honorary.
“Rogue colonies,” Laral continued. “Three in all. One of them was this desert world called Baah Zun.”
Kai knew the name must be something slightly different. It would be an incredible coincidence if the Tianese had named their world for his people’s mythical land of the ancient gods. “What of it?”
