by P. J. Fox
Kisten couldn’t help a tremendous feeling of having failed her and it was this as much as anything else that gave him a sense of ownership over her—as well as a strong sense of responsibility. His first impulse had been to label it love, but he couldn’t be sure as he’d never been in love—and surely one couldn’t fall in love so quickly? He wanted to protect her because she was friendless and alone in the world and, right now, so was he.
When he’d seen her last night, he’d known that she was no child. She was like a sylph stolen from her woods, a radiant creature that couldn’t quite conform herself to the cheerless confines of human society. He’d been utterly and completely enchanted with her; she not so much with him. The look she’d given him, indeed, had been one of fear and—disgust.
He didn’t want her to hate him, but he also refused to let her go.
During their walk, her hand had been stiff and the set of her shoulders more so. She hadn’t tried to pull back but, at the same time, he knew she would not welcome his touch. Yet.
In inviting her to dinner he’d hoped to learn more about her and, perhaps lubricated by significant amounts of alcohol, coax her out of her shell. He knew, by now, some of her deepest and darkest secrets but he didn’t know how old she was—only that she was young. He himself was thirty-two and often felt twice that. Seeing how she shrank back from him once they’d returned to his cabin and were alone again, wide-eyed and trembling at the thought of what he might do to her, he’d felt even older.
She’d told him he wasn’t a nice man and then, abruptly, vomited.
He’d spent the next hour nursing his would-be lover through what he now knew was her first encounter with alcohol. The experience brought back his academy days. She, fortunately, had felt far too wretched to be embarrassed—a condition that, sadly, would not last.
And then, when he’d finally put her to bed, she’d looked him straight in the eye and told him once again that he wasn’t a nice man.
TEN
Aria was right. He wasn’t.
He’d left, kicked Aros out of his cabin and slept there. Aros, intelligently, had not asked questions.
A knock came at the door and the man himself appeared a moment later, seeming rather offensively refreshed from a night spent who knows where. He sat down opposite Kisten without being asked and helped himself—again uninvited—to Kisten’s coffee.
Kisten tapped his stylus against the pebbled leather surface of the desk and waited for Aros to get on with it.
“It’s Admiral Zamindari,” Aros said finally, and with some reluctance.
As Kisten hadn’t been laboring under the mistaken impression that it was a troupe of warm-hearted and warmer-bodied dancing girls, he took the news in stride. The ancient admiral had come aboard four days ago and, since then, had caused no end of trouble. He was, to Kisten’s mind, a perfect example of all that was currently wrong with his beloved empire.
Yes, still beloved, even now.
He reached for his cigarettes, remembered he’d quit and felt discouraged.
“What does the old buzzard want?” he asked.
“To convert us.”
Kisten spat a curse that made Aros’ eyebrows shoot up.
Five minutes later, Admiral Awadh Zamindari had ensconced himself in the same chair that Aros had lately occupied. Aros, meanwhile, had retreated to a smaller and less comfortable chair on Kisten’s left. The Admiral was a fat, ponderous lump of flesh with quivering jowls that reminded Kisten of a hunting dog’s. He was a hundred and fifty if he was a day and he regarded Kisten with rheumy, suspicious eyes. “Commander.” The greeting sounded like an accusation.
“Admiral.” Kisten waited.
“I hear distressing news,” began the Admiral, “that you’re still spreading alarmist nonsense.”
“If by alarmist nonsense,” replied Kisten, “you mean concern about the inevitable uprising on Tarsonis then yes. It has been, and continues to be my belief that unless we address the native population’s grievances that we’ll have another Charon II on our hands within the year.”
He sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the desk. “Whether we think them legitimate or not, these people do have grievances. Our refusal to address them makes said grievances look more legitimate, not less. They ask themselves, if it’s such a simple matter to put the record straight then why don’t they? Either we’re unwilling to, which proves in their minds our lack of interest in their wellbeing, or we’re unable to because we’re not the all-powerful empire we pretend to be. Either way—and you can be sure that this is what your so-called ‘troublemakers’ are telling their followers—we’re proving ourselves unfit to rule.”
“You forget your place,” hissed the Admiral, all jowls and outrage.
“You forget that I fought on Charon II,” Kisten countered, unmoved. “And since I’m resigning my commission in a matter of weeks, my place is no longer your concern.” He was a problem for the civil service, now.
“What you characterize as problems,” replied the Admiral, “have no more import than any of the other superstitious doggerel plaguing sailors and soldiers the world over. If they were properly converted to the True Faith, they’d realize that the wearing of some silly headdress is unimportant. I hope,” he added, “that once you become governor you’ll recognize this.”
Kisten sighed. Men like Awadh Zamindari were what ailed this empire. For most of the last five thousand years, the Alliance had taken a laissez-faire approach to matters of religion and culture on conquered planets. Recently, however, many on Brontes had begun to adopt the new and disturbing view that it was somehow their duty to civilize the so-called savages—the same men who were, at least in theory, now their brothers in arms and equals under the law.
As the Alliance itself had come into being as part of a quest for religious freedom, Kisten took a dim view. It didn’t matter, to him, what the people of Tarsonis believed so long as they behaved. And if worshipping their own gods encouraged them to do so, then so much the better. Tarsonis, like the eleven other colonies, drew recruits from the local population. There simply were not enough Bronte to go around and local men, with their far superior understanding of those serving under them, made far more effective officers regardless. And the system worked well, so long as there was respect and tolerance on both sides.
There hadn’t been, on Charon II.
The refusal by certain commanders to recognize their men’s religious beliefs had led to a small mutiny, which in turn led to reprisals so spectacularly vicious that rather than having the intended effect of instilling fear and discouraging disobedience had done the opposite.
A province-wide uprising had turned into a planet-wide uprising, with the Rebel Coalition—amoral apolitical thugs masquerading as freedom fighters—coming to their aid. What followed had been the bloodiest conflict since the Great War between the Alliance and the Union in Kisten’s great-grandfather’s time. That had been over the Union’s invasion of Caiphos.
The Alliance, Kisten thought, had done a great deal to earn its reputation during Charon II and none of it good. Tarsoni, too, had strong religious convictions; efforts to convert them could—and would—be all too easily manipulated by their enemies. But too many of the old guard were convinced, as the Admiral was, that these people secretly longed to embrace the True Faith with open arms and all they needed to do so was a little encouragement.
“The former governor—”
“The former governor,” Kisten cut in, “is dead.” The late and largely unlamented Governor Nan Jhansi had been a fiery bundle of religious zeal; the Admiral, predictably, had been a fan.
Jhansi had been tied to his bed and burned alive during a small mutiny within the local garrison. Along with the governor, the governor’s palace and half of the capital had been destroyed. Kisten had no intention of repeating his predecessor’s mistakes, and while he was governor he’d see to it that order was maintained—in his own fashion. If the Emperor didn’t like his meth
ods, then the Emperor could damn well remove him. In the meantime, the Admiral could perform fellatio on a pig.
He refrained from making the suggestion, but only with great effort.
“I hope I need not remind you,” continued the Admiral, a bit indelicately Kisten thought, “that your alarmist nonsense—oh, excuse me, prognostication—is the reason for your current, ah, predicament.” His piggy little eyes glittered like marbles, and he smiled unpleasantly.
Kisten didn’t respond. He, too, was well aware that his belief in the pressing need for colonial reform had precipitated the unmitigated disaster that had, ironically enough, finally put him in a position to actually do something about what he perceived as unconscionable injustice. But then again, if men like the Admiral had been able to work these things out for themselves, they’d all have a good deal less to keep them up at night.
The particular problem on Tarsonis was that most of its native population adhered to a religion that required the wearing of a specific head covering. However, in complete disregard of the warnings given by both locally culled officers and their Alliance-born counterparts, the empire had seen fit to issue a uniform with an alternate head covering. This seeming inability to understand that the natives’ religious convictions were no less serious to them than the Admiral’s religious convictions were, for example, to him, was frightening—and eerily reminiscent of the bitter, restive years leading up to the outbreak of war on Charon II.
Kisten had been at boarding school, then; he’d been three years into the academy when he and most of his class were graduated early, commissioned, and shipped off to be cannon fodder.
“You veterans are all the same,” muttered the Admiral. “A bunch of girls in skirts leaping at shadows.”
The Admiral, of course, had fought in no war.
“Thank you, Admiral, for your concern.” It was a dismissal, and the Admiral was wise enough to notice. The doddering fool might technically outrank him, but this was Kisten’s ship—at least for now. He’d run it as he saw fit, and that included not spending a second more than he had to listening to an overbred fool bloviate about things he didn’t understand.
Sailors and soldiers did have silly superstitions; but Kisten had seen firsthand the catastrophic effects of leading men into battle who’d lost confidence in their leaders or, worse, themselves. If it took bringing ten cats aboard ship, or a thousand, or throwing out every banana or God knew what other stupid thing then fine. Anything that kept the men happy was worth the price.
Still sniffing, the Admiral padded out.
Aros resumed his previous chair, complaining that it was now damp.
“Oh, fuck a toad,” said Kisten.
“A toad isn’t big enough,” Aros replied seriously.
Kisten arched an eyebrow. “Neither are you.”
Kisten poured them both a brandy and they drank it in silence.
“My uncle,” said Kisten finally, “is a great champion of that venerable institution known as buying offices. In this, he is of course supported by every scion of every noble house who can neither read nor write but who wishes, nonetheless, to pursue a glorious career in space.”
Ironic as it might seem, there had been nothing of serendipity in Kisten’s posting to the very planet that he believed was on the verge of revolt. His uncle, apart from being reminded by their discourses that Tarsonis was in the middle of nowhere and thus could not be accessed inside of three months’ travel, very much hoped that Kisten would meet the same fate as the last governor. Kisten was known to have unusual ideas, and some misbegotten native—or religious fanatic—might conceivably bring it on themselves to do him in. Or he might disappear while hunting. Or Tarsonis might, after all, explode into open rebellion.
“Too many people have been promoted for the wrong reasons: age, station in life, connections. Anything but merit. God forbid that we, a martial empire founded on the twin notions of survival of the fittest and Deus lo volt should reward people according to what they’ve earned.”
“You sound bitter,” Aros remarked.
“You sound overly familiar,” Kisten said darkly.
“I’m a peasant.” His second was offensively cheerful. “We’re like that.”
Kisten leaned his head back and closed his eyes, and found himself thinking about the woman living in his cabin. Aros hadn’t mentioned her and Kisten might kill him if he did. He was not an impetuous man; he didn’t know what had come over him that he was bringing her—a woman who loathed him and couldn’t wait to escape him—with him into a warzone.
With an effort, he put the problem out of his mind and forced himself instead to think about the far more immediate and pressing problems facing Atropos, her crew, and the colonists.
ELEVEN
Aria opened her eyes and immediately wished she hadn’t.
Even the pale, diffuse light of the cabin felt like daggers in her retinas. She groaned, and even that hurt. Moreover, she felt as nauseous as she ever had. And with that upsetting revelation came the even more upsetting memory of telling her captor how much she hated him and then vomiting onto his highly polished boots.
She’d been convinced, despite his generally courtly behavior, that Kisten was about to do something awful. There had been a certain light in his eye, when he looked at her. She couldn’t stomach the idea of his hands on her—literally, it seemed. She pulled the covers over her head. You’re not a nice man, she’d told him, but she hadn’t known too many people who’d hold her hair back out of her face while she was violently ill and make no comment.
He’d held her and, after she’d finally finished and it felt like her stomach had been turned inside out, he’d cleaned her up and put her to bed. She hadn’t known what she expected would happen next—and, to be honest, she’d been too miserable to care—but he’d just left. God knew where he’d spent the night or, come to think of it, the nights previous.
She briefly entertained the idea that she’d been wrong about him, and rejected it. If he was a nice man, he wouldn’t be holding her captive against her will. That a jailer treated an inmate pleasantly didn’t mean much. Moreover, it was only a matter of time before he dropped the act; he hadn’t brought her here to be entertained by her views on slavery—views he found stupid, anyway. He quite obviously found her stupid, too; his manner last night had been supercilious and amused, and the more upset she’d gotten the more she’d drunk.
She hadn’t meant to drink at all. She’d never had alcohol before, and the very last thing she’d wanted was to make a spectacle of herself in front of the man she regarded as her enemy. But too many days of privation, illness and despair followed by too many hours of formless dread turned stale and bitter by boredom had taken their toll. She had, she realized in retrospect, needed an outlet—any outlet, even one so pointless and self-destructive. And so the girl who’d meant to say nothing, to endure her captivity in stoic silence and thus teach high and mighty Prince Kisten a lesson in the futility of kidnapping unwilling women, had instead found herself lecturing him on the finer points of social justice.
She groaned again, burrowing further under the covers.
The door swished open. She peered out, expecting to see Kisten, but instead saw a short, pleasant-looking girl of about her own age. “Good morning!” she squealed.
No, thought Aria, it isn’t.
“We haven’t met before,” she continued, “but I’m Garja.” She announced this as though it were good news. “I’ve been bringing you your food and clothes and things,” she added.
Aria sat up, staring at her.
“I’m your maid,” Garja clarified, not in the least put out.
Annoyance at the intrusion became stupefaction at this latest in a series of bizarre revelations. “My what?”
At last, Garja’s smile began to falter. “If you want another….” She shrugged.
As impossible as it seemed, Garja actually seemed upset by the idea that someone else might be bestowed with the honor of bringing Aria
her meals.
“No,” said hurriedly, “I just…don’t understand.”
Garja stared at her blankly. “You’re the Prince’s companion, it’s not…fitting that you should….” She trailed off, confused. “I’m a member of his household,” she said, as if that explained everything.
“I most certainly am not his companion,” Aria replied tartly, immediately wishing she hadn’t. The effect of her words was immediate and totally unexpected: Garja began to cry.
“I will tell the steward that you wish someone else,” she said sadly.
She turned to go and Aria called her back. “No, wait—I, I didn’t mean that at all. If you’d like to be my maid then, um, I’m sure that would be lovely. We just…we don’t have maids on Solaris.”
Garja’s good humor returned. Clasping her hands in an oddly childish expression of delight, she perched on the edge of the bed. “No maids? Where is Solaris—is that on Caiphos? Well, no matter. We’re going to have so much fun together!” She leaned in, her tone becoming conspiratorial. “And first, we’re going to see your friends. I’ve been given instructions.”
She said instructions like they were a great treat and Aria supposed that, for her, they might be. Garja certainly seemed to regard her latest assignment as glamorous in the extreme—although Aria couldn’t think why. Waiting on some unwanted captive hardly sounded like her idea of a good time.
Then again, who knew what the poor, stupid thing had been doing before.
