Sands of the Solar Empire (The Belmont Saga)

by Ren Garcia

  He remembered Kaly’s warning: The Weed they use takes a toll on their bodies, wears them out, makes them old. He was expecting a proverbial “old crone” to come out—bent and withered, like in his picture books he and Lyra thrilled over when he was a child—the ones Virginia was too scared to look at. Old crones were monsters from fairytales—nobody got old in the League, except for the sick and the badly bred.

  Upon seeing her, he was a tad disappointed. Christiana certainly didn’t look old and worn out. She was tall, nearly six feet, and stood with practiced posture. Her skin was a pleasing pearly shade. Her brassy red hair was thick and full, held back with unseen pins and clips. Her face was pretty, heart-shaped, with well-formed cheekbones and a large pair of striking brown eyes, lost in the confusion of blindness. Her waist was very thin—he imagined she’d probably spent years suffocating in a laced-up corset.

  “Dunks, is that you?” she said tentatively, her voice accented in a brogue Planet Fall burr, opening the screen door.

  Stenstrom didn’t quite know what to do—Dunks hadn’t briefed him on how to interface with his wife. He hadn’t thought of that. The way Dunks described it, he figured he’d knock on the door, a gnarled hand would come out, accept the money, and go back in, shutting the door behind it with little or no interface.

  But, there she was, standing in the door.

  He tried to disguise his voice and sound like Dunks. “Uh, yeah, Christiana, it’s me.”

  She smiled and reached out. “Let me look at you.” Probing with her hands, she found his face and began feeling his chin with her fingers. Her hands found his hat.

  Her hands—they were the hands of a hag: bony, withered, and the skin, dull and parchment-like. So that’s what The Weed did to her.

  “Have you lost weight, Dunks?” she asked.

  “Umm, yeah, yeah. Stellar food, it’s terrible.”

  Her bent fingers found the fabric of his mask. “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Oh, I got hurt—just a bandage. It’s nothing.”

  Christiana pulled him forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ve made lunch for us. Please come in and share it with me.”

  His Holystone gave a rumble. Stenstrom looked down the street and clearly saw four figures in black standing in the distance, teetering about, sniffing the air. Here, with Christiana nearby and his mask, he should be safe. “Sure, sure,” he said, stepping in.

  The interior of the apartment was small and modest. Childrens’ toys lay scattered about. Piled up on the couch were sorted stacks of children’s clothing. In a small closet, a primitive manual wash-basin full of soapy water and an old air-oven were crammed in. A scratchy program played on her battered Aire-net receptor in the sunken living room.

  Christiana, holding his hand, led him to her tiny dinner table. Feeling her way about, she sat him down to a strange meal of meats and sauces he couldn’t identify. He watched her carefully serve the food—her hands so terribly withered and gnarled from the degenerative effects of prolonged contact with The Weed. She held her ladle with the hands of a dead woman.

  Standing there in her tiny, galley-style kitchen wearing an apron, he felt sorry for her as she put the finishing touches on the meal.

  Dunks said she was stupid, but she didn’t appear to be stupid; on the contrary, she seemed to be getting on and dealing with her blindness rather well.

  Dunks said she was broken down—an embarrassment, yet, except for her hands, she was beautiful.

  Dunks hoped she’d die, to spare him further expense.

  “I’ve been practicing, Dunks—my cooking. I think I’ve gotten much better at it.”

  She served the food, and it was good. He had no trouble finishing it. Christiana sat next to him, eating with polished manners and grace, all of her very beautiful, except for her horrid hands. She held her knife and fork court-style, taking tiny bites, chatting happily with Stenstrom whom she thought was her husband. He could imagine her sitting in some lavish castle or manor—a prim and proper lady of the house.

  And here she was, living in near squalor, married to a man that had collected her as a prize and probably didn’t know their children’s names.

  She pointed out a small trophy sitting on the mantle.

  “What’s that?” Stenstrom asked.

  “It’s a merit award. Our son was at the top of his class again.” She beamed with pride.

  “That’s wonderful. Um …which one?”

  “Nathan.”

  “Nathan, he’s the one who looks like his beautiful mother, yes?”

  She blushed. Christiana was clearly attention-starved. As she ate she was wincing a tiny bit.

  “Are you having trouble with your teeth, Christiana?” Stenstrom asked.

  She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

  “Let me have a look.” He leaned in, and she swallowed and wiped her mouth with her napkin. She opened her mouth. Several of her teeth were obviously rotten. “You need to see a Hospitaler for your teeth.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Stenstrom stood up. “Get dressed,” he said.

  She looked up at him. “What? Why?”

  “I saw a Hospitaler sanctum a short walk away. We’re going to walk there now, and you’re going to have your teeth looked at, this very afternoon. And then, do you know what we’re going to do?”

  “What, Dunks?”

  “We’re going to walk the town, arm in arm, and when we’ve worked up a healthy appetite, we’re going to eat at the finest restaurant we can find. I want to serve you, today, and show you off to the people, as a lady deserves. Go on, I’ll take care of the dishes here. Where are the children?”

  “I sent them away for the day. That sounds so expensive, Dunks,” she said. “My teeth, a fine meal? We don’t have the money for that.”

  “I … had a big score not long ago, and I’ve coin a-plenty. Come on—who better to spend it on than my beautiful wife?”

  She smiled at the compliment. She got up and made her way into the bedroom. He began cleaning up their lunch, and he could hear her clinking around in the bedroom as he worked. A short time later she emerged. She changed into a slender black dress with a pearl heart charm about her neck. In her dress, her corset-created, hour-glass figure was clear. She had put her hair up and was wearing a curved straw hat with a ribbon hanging from the back. Thankfully, she’d put on a pair of black gloves.

  She was still such a beautiful woman.

  Stenstrom took her arm and led her outside. After a short walk they arrived at the Hospitaler sanctum, and they admitted Christiana. Their assessment—six teeth needed replacement, and they wanted to see the color of his money before they began. Stenstrom got his money bag out and paid them: one hundred and four sesterces, equaling four hundred Planet Fall billets.

  As they worked on her, his Holystone rumbled again, warning him of danger. He went outside. Sure enough, four black-robed Maidens wandered down the lane, their noses in the air.

  He knew as long as Christiana was with him, her love, though misplaced, would protect him and mask his scent. It was a simple counter-charm he knew worked.

  The Maidens appeared different from how he remembered them—more covered up, more sinister. He could simply shoot them with his NTHs and be rid of them for now, but he didn’t want to shoot a Black Maiden; they were harmless and benign—and persistent and inconvenient as well. That, however, did not give him lease to kill them. He had made a promise to himself in Calvert not to harm the Black Maidens ever again.

  A short time later, Christiana emerged from the sanctum. She had a brand new smile and didn’t mind showing it off. What a face when she smiled—a classic beauty.

  Stenstrom took her arm and led her outside. He watched the Maidens disappear into the distance, his scent masked. He strolled the streets with her, people tipping their hats as they passed. He walked her to a market and bought her a modern fabric cleaning unit, to replace the ridiculous wash basin she’d been using, and arranged to ha
ve it delivered to her apartment. He bought some toys for the children—again having them delivered.

  He spent more money on her in one afternoon than Dunks probably had in their entire marriage. He wanted to do nice things for her because it felt good. He felt responsible for her somehow—that this afternoon she was his to care for, and he’d not spare a dime.

  They passed a bank. “Christiana, do you have a bank account?”

  “You know I don’t, Dunks. I’ve never learned to use one.”

  Stenstrom pulled her toward the bank. “Well, come on. We’re going to go inside, and I’m going to create an account for you, and I’m going to deposit money into it every month for you and the children. I’ll show you how to access your account from home when we get back.”

  They finished at the bank and continued their stroll. He could see the rusty bulk of the Sandwich sitting at the wharf. He took her to an expensive-looking restaurant and let her have whatever she wanted. Through the meal, he told her about all the places they had recently been, she closing her eyes and listening.

  As the gas-giant sky faded to a night-time brown, he walked her back to her apartment. There, using the Holo-net, he showed her how to access her new bank account. Using voice commands, she picked it up rather quickly. She wasn’t stupid at all.

  “That was a wonderful meal, what a delightful evening. And my teeth, to eat without pain. The children are gone, Dunks,” she said trying to pull him into their bedroom, but he talked his way out of it. He then led her back to her small sitting room, put her feet up, and tucked her in with a blanket. He put the moneybag Dunks had given him in a drawer and told her where it was.

  “Will you come back soon, Dunks?” she asked, looking at him with mostly blind eyes. “Please say you’ll come back.”

  “You bet. I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise.”

  He kissed her goodnight and took his leave, watching for the Black Maidens. He didn’t see any, his Holystone quiet.

  “Good night, Christiana,” he said.

  “I love you …” she returned.

  As he began walking down the street, his Holystone suddenly went wild.

  Four Black Maidens appeared all around him. They surrounded him, groping with their bony arms. They pawed at him, trying to see him.

  He had no place to go. He felt his soul churn. They fell upon him. They reached out, grasping with their fingers, acting in an aggressive, belligerent manner that was unusual for Black Maidens.

  They found his mask and tore it from his face along with his hat and his bolabung. They threw them aside.

  Stenstrom put his hands up. “All right, all right—you got me. I guess it’s time to go and see Mother.”

  “Mother.”

  One of them tore away the veil covering her face. She had no face—only a large smiling mouth and chattering teeth. “You are ours! We shall feast upon your soul …”

  Holy Creation!! What had his mother done? These weren’t Black Maidens—these were Soul Devourers! Mother had put a stain on his soul!! He was doomed!

  “YOUR SOUL!!”

  He drew his NTHs and fired, getting one in the chest. She bent over and disappeared.

  The rest pulled him down. He fired his other NTH and got another one. She disappeared too.

  They closed in, giving him no space, no room to aim his guns. They pawed and tore at him. He dropped one of his NTHs and fell to the street.

  A moment later the remaining two Soul Devourers seemed to recoil in pain and quickly retreated, covering their faces.

  Stenstrom cocked his NTH. He fired, hitting one in the back where she vanished in a gristly spray. He picked up the NTH he’d dropped and then got the last with a longer range shot, the green blasts lighting up the street as he fired.

  Something touched him from behind. He whirled around.

  It was Christiana. She had emerged from the apartment. She was holding his mask in her hand. She reached out, searching. “What’s going on? I thought I heard something. Did you drop your handkerchief? I can smell your cologne on it.”

  Her presence had driven them away, giving him a chance to be rid of them with his guns.

  “It’s nothing,” Stenstrom said, panting. He took his mask and put it back on. His thoughts spun in a panic.

  Soul Devourers. What had his mother done? He was doomed. They’d be back. They’d get him sooner or later.

  “It’s nothing. Let me take you back inside and tuck you in again,” he said, his voice shaking.

  Stenstrom helped her inside while figuring out his next move. At least, now that he knew they were Soul Devourers, he would feel empowered to shoot and kill them—he hadn’t wanted to treat a gentle Black Maiden in that fashion if he could help it.

  Suddenly, there was Christiana.

  She put her gloved hands on his face and kissed him with fire. “I was to question you today, to discover what you know,” she whispered, kissing him. “My husband thinks you know something. He thinks you’re a spy sent from the Fleet, and I was to uncover it. He wants to know who you’re working for. And here you are, such a fine young man who knocked on my door today. You’ve done much for me: you entertained me, listened to my stories, and told a few in return. You asked the name of my son—something my husband has never done. You walked at my side and held my arm, as a Lord does for his Lady, and I was proud to stand there with you. I’ve not been admired as I walked down the street in some time. You took away my pain, and mostly, you’ve helped restore a shred of my dignity that I’d long lost. During our afternoon today, I indulged myself. I pretended that you actually are my husband and that the two of us share a love seldom seen. Wouldn’t that be nice—to have a husband who actually loves me and our children? I am not a puppet, and I care not what my husband wants—you have earned my adoration. I invite you into my bedroom, not because of my husband, but because I want you. You’ve shared much with me today, and I want to share with you all I have to give.”

  He pulled away. “Please, Christiana.”

  “I’m blind, but I’m not dead, and I’m still a woman. You’re not my husband—you’re a good man, and I want to be with you.”

  She pulled him back into the apartment. He was feeling shaky from his encounter with the Soul Devourers. He didn’t have the strength to resist.

  And soon, he was in Christiana’s bedroom, she all around him. She was still using a lesser strain of The Weed, and it belted him into places he’d never been before, stabbing him with frenzied jolts.

  Making love to Lilly was a joy, a smooth scent of perfume.

  Making love to Alitrix was fragile and private, she unsure and remarkably in need of assurance and tenderness.

  Making love to Lady Miranda was weird and a little painful.

  Making love to Kaly was fun and carefree.

  But this? This was savagery. This was very nearly a fight to the death. This was top to bottom, skin and sweat, body against body. He could barely breathe, and he couldn’t think. Christiana used The Weed relentlessly, prolonging the act, taking him to unbearable stages, flawlessly playing the notes of a complex tune on his body, whipping up small pieces of him into a lather of ecstasy and moving on when he could take it no more.

  This was what it was like to experience an Eryne in action.

  He thought he could hear her speaking to him. Not with her mouth; somewhere she was making a lot of noise with her mouth, but he was only partially aware of it—he was making a lot of noise too.

  His heart pounded. He saw stars. He saw through time. He heard her voice.

  “I was a queen once, a dame respected and feared—all my needs doted on and cared for. I’ve enslaved many—I’ve even killed and wrung out secrets. I had only to ask, anything I desired was mine. Then, I grew old, my body beginning to fail me, and I was a queen no more—cast out, used up, with no skills other than my lexicon of the night. You’ve nothing to fear, and I’m not going to harm you. Let me worship you.”

  Kaly’s green eyes and pink hair band flas
hed into his thoughts. “Dunks has a thing for old Erynes—he collects them like discarded bottlecaps. I have no idea how many he’s married to—but it’s a lot. Watch out for the Erynes—even old, and used up, they can do things to you unholy. Man or woman, they can make you talk—no secret you have is beyond their reach. They can even kill you if they want—and that’s old and rotten, using a crap Weed. just imagine a fit one on a mission, with that Red-eye stuff they use!”

  They can kill you if they want.

  Christiana was a master—she certainly could kill him if she wanted, or extract secrets. He was hers to do with as she would. Christiana, who walked with him in his arm, basking in the attention and eating her dinner with perfect grace, was now a fierce warrior using her body and The Weed as a terror weapon and execution tool.

  She asked him no lengthy questions. The only secret she extracted from him: “What …w-what is your n-name …?”

  “Sten—Stenstrom …”

  In psychedelic jolts, he saw techno-color splashes of Lilly. In psychotropic mush, he saw Alitrix, devastated, crying for attention and Kaly, smiling, ready to try anything.

  And soon, when he thought he could endure no more, it was over, Christiana lying next to him, her lazy, gloved fingers dabbing away jewels of sweat from his chest, the both of them soon passing out.

  * * * * *

  “And you banged her?” Kaly’s green eyes were huge as she leaned over her lunch in the mess. They were back on the ship, both Planet Fall and Christiana far away.

  “Must you be so crude? But, yes, I didn’t have the strength to resist.”

  “You returned to her the next day, didn’t you?”

  “I did—but not for the sex. I returned for the company. I found her a lovely woman.”

  “But you still had sex the second time, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “See. Told you. They’re tough. So, how was it?”

  “Remarkable. It was remarkable.”

  “Youokay, you look a little tired.”

  “I’m exhausted.”

  Kaly took a bite from her sandwich. “Well, you better buck up, ‘cause I’m feeling it for tonight and I don’t want to hear any excuses.”