Harmony

by C. F. Bentley

  Two erasures. He defied even Lady Marissa to detect his tampering. Harmony required he eliminate all interference from Her path.

  “Have you paid attention lately to the reality of politics on Harmony?” Penelope raised one sculpted eyebrow.

  “When was the last time we had a High Priestess who spoke with the authority of Harmony?” Gregor countered, forcing his voice and posture to remain calm. One wrong word, or betrayal of his near panic, and all his plans could go tumbling to dust.

  Discord would reign.

  “Faith and prophecy guide Temple, not politics.” He truly believed that. His faith showed him how to manipulate politics to Temple advantage.

  “You don’t actually believe in ‘visions of the future,’ do you?” Penelope scoffed. She straightened and relaxed her shoulders.

  The Laudaes behind her shuffled their feet and looked to each other, perplexed.

  “Have you actually read any of the ancient prophecies?”

  Penelope snorted. “Myth and legends. No basis in reality. You can find answers to any question in the past but never the future.”

  “I have heard Harmony speak through Miss Sissy. I recognize the message.”

  “Do I need to remind you that our late HPS was my mother. I should know if she had visions or not.” Penelope planted her fists on her hips and glared at him.

  Gregor almost laughed. Marilee’s only interest in her children was to make certain they didn’t bother her, and that their names reflected her glory as High Priestess. Every one of them had been raised entirely in the nursery from the moment of birth.

  “And I am most likely your father. We of the Temple have no need of marriage alliances, or familial ties. We are all one family, raised together, educated together. We all know each other intimately. I know that Marilee had no visions.”

  “Neither did the previous HPS, her mother, or her mother before her.” Penelope looked smug.

  Temple politics had become as inbred as civil politics. This had to stop lest humanity’s covenant with Harmony be shattered. He had the means and motivation to bring about change.

  Did he have the courage to see it through? Change was anathema to Harmony. The order of society and civilization was set in their DNA and recorded on stone tablets beneath the High Altar of the Crystal Temple.

  But Harmony had dictated this change by giving Miss Sissy prophetic visions. And those strange caste marks.

  “None of those women should have become High Priestess without the gift of prophecy,” he said quietly, with new conviction. “We have deviated from our Covenant with Harmony. Harmony demands a High Priestess who can speak for her. Harmony demands a High Priestess who believes in Her more than in politics. Harmony has given us Miss Sissy. It is our duty to bring her into the Temple,” Gregor proclaimed.

  Another shuffling among the Laudaes.

  “I ask one more time for a volunteer to aid Miss Sissy in her journey. Or must I assign one of you to serve her?”

  “You’d demote an ordained priestess to the rank of . . . servant?” Penelope sneered.

  “A volunteer would stand beside the new HPS. A respected mentor. A conscript would not fare so well.”

  The ranks of Laudaes shifted again, uneasily.

  “If any one of you even thinks about volunteering, I will make certain you are transferred to the most isolated silent retreat on the Southern Continent and shunned by every member of the Temple caste,” Penelope ordered. “You will be alone, unliked, uncared for. You will be cut off from all those you love and hold dear.”

  Family, Gregor thought. We are family of a sort. Sissy had her own family.

  And he had to cut her off from them.

  Necessary. Like amputating a rotting limb to save a life.

  The Laudaes shied away from Penelope’s vehemence, ordained priestess and acolyte alike.

  Except for one.

  Gregor looked hopefully toward the middle-aged woman in the corner. Early fifties, slightly plump but still fit and energetic. He didn’t recognize her. She wore the bright emerald green of an ordained priestess. But her caste mark lacked the sparkle peculiar to those born and bred in the Crystal Temple. A country woman, newly come to their ranks.

  Every five years or so the rotation of priests and priestesses brought an outsider to the Crystal Temple. A token acknowledgment that the Crystal Temple was subject to the same shuffle of personnel through all of the parishes. This avoided a cult of personality developing around any one member of the caste and also gave Gregor the chance to temporarily banish troublesome members of his staff.

  Guilliam had come to him from some farming community. He’d proved too valuable to rotate out.

  Penelope would be the next to go. He’d make certain she was cut off from her power base.

  Gregor looked to the country woman in expectation. “Step forward, Laudae.”

  She looked hesitantly toward Penelope, as if she might hurt her.

  “What is your name?” Gregor asked mildly.

  “Shanet du Maya pu Crystal Temple, my Laud,” she said, keeping her eyes on her feet. She came forward one step while sidling as far away from Penelope as she could get.

  “Will you work with Miss Sissy?” Gregor asked. He needed her to say it, out loud so there was no question where her loyalty lay.

  “Yes, My Laud. I would be honored.” At last she looked up. Something close to pride flashed across her eyes.

  “Never!” Penelope growled. “You are the lowest worm. None of us will speak to you again.”

  “No difference. You don’t speak to me now. You’re all just waiting for me to be rotated out, so you don’t have to put up with an outsider.”

  “Thank you, Laudae Shanet. You will move your things to the secondary suite beside Miss Sissy’s. Laudae Penelope will shift to your previous quarters. I will meet with you in the HPS’ office in two hours to go over what is necessary to welcome our new High Priestess.”

  “You will regret this, Gregor,” Penelope warned.

  Gregor shrugged. “You are all dismissed to your duties. We have a state funeral to prepare for. For your mother, Penelope, as you reminded me. We are in mourning. Black clothing is required. I have also scheduled meetings with civil officials to begin rebuilding Harmony City. We have our duties to all of Harmony as well as to the Crystal Temple.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  "ARE YOU SURE THIS IS the place?” Jake whispered to Billy. He rubbed his thigh idly with his gloved hand. The slight irritation of clothing and insulated ship suit rasping his skin soothed the lingering itch a little. A very little.

  Mickey was back on the ship, keeping pirates and port authorities— was there a difference on Prometheus XII?—from pillaging the cargo of frozen shrimp and caviar as well as the ship itself for spare parts.

  “This is the address our guy found in the public directories,” Billy said quietly, checking his handheld.

  They both stared at the broken pole lamps, the litter, and the gaping maw of the dark side street. Of course this was the one night of the year when all three moons chose to show their black backsides on this haven for thieves, confidence masters, pirates, and refugees from organized crime. A thick cloud cover prevented even starlight from aiding them in their search.

  Those clouds sent the humidity soaring on an already hot night. The ship suit strained to keep Jake’s body temperature controlled.

  “My questions is: why would a topflight scientist capable of producing a substitute for Badger Metal choose to live here?” Jake pulled a stylus light from his pocket.

  The thin beam reflected the red eyes of an ugly hairless rodent bigger than his boot with bigger teeth and an even bigger attitude.

  Jake bared his own teeth and growled at the beast. It scurried away, disappearing into the piles of refuse—organic and non—piled along the walls of the tall buildings.

  “Grecko’s here because he’s using techniques outlawed by any civilized government. Lot of medicos and engineers on Prometheus
who have only a nodding acquaintance with ethics. They are doing ‘pure’ research without constraint of law or concern for the lives of their human guinea pigs.” Billy played his own light over the stone walls looking for a doorway. No convenient and comfortable plas-form buildings here. The denizens of Prometheus used native materials for construction.

  Jake shuddered inside his insulated and air-conditioned ship suit. He liked living aboard ships and space bases where he had control over the climate and lighting. And the smell. Even the helmet on his suit couldn’t keep out the rotting garbage odors in this dead-end street.

  “Found it,” Jake let his light linger on the tarnished brass numbers above a narrow iron door. He searched further for a bell or intercom or other primitive device to request entrance from the owner.

  Blank. Not even a sensor for a key beam from a handheld.

  Billy stepped up and banged his fist on the door. “Haven’t spent much time dirtside, have you?” he chuckled.

  “As little as possible.”

  “Forgotten the primitive options. Not everyone relies on electronic control. Sensor locks can easily be hacked. Too easily. Iron locks take brute strength to break. Or a key.”

  “Or a good set of lockpicks.” Jake grinned at his companion. He had a set tucked into his back pocket. Pammy had spent hours teaching him how to use them. All the while he’d played along, not certain Pammy was sane in her assumption he’d need them.

  Apparently, he might. Along with the CSS illegal and totally forbidden projectile weapon. No blasters allowed on Prometheus XII. They liked their deaths messy and loud.

  How primitive could they get? All civilized worlds had outlawed bullets and missiles as soon as they ventured into space. Projectiles didn’t just kill an individual. If they penetrated a bulkhead, an entire sector of a ship or space station would lose air and pressure, endangering everyone aboard. Not a pretty way to die.

  Almost as ugly and painful as dying from a bullet to the gut.

  A shuffling sound behind the door sent Jake fumbling for his weapon. Some things were instinctive even if he hated and feared using the primitive gun.

  Billy stayed his hand. They waited several long moments in tense silence. Jake’s skin itched more furiously as his shoulders reached for his ears and his hand ached to hold a real blaster.

  At last they heard the protest of metal sliding against metal, without the aid of a lubricant. The door opened a crack. Dirty yellow light spilled into the street. Jake could just make out the shape of a human eye peering through the narrow opening.

  “Whasss you want?” a man slurred with a voice made raspy by smoke and liquor. Too much smoke and liquor by Jake’s estimation.

  “We need to talk to you,” Jake said. Before the person behind the eye could react, he shoved his shoulder against the iron door. It budged a few microns, then caught on a chain slung across the opening.

  “Heh, heh,” the raspy voice chuckled, then dissolved into a hacking cough.

  “Sir, my friend here is too impatient. He’s carrying . . .” Billy paused, looked around anxiously, then dropped his voice to a whisper. “Money. We heard you have something to sell. We have an interest in buying.”

  “Why dinn’t you shay so?” Mumbles and grumbles as the door closed slightly while he fumbled with the chain.

  “Need some help in there?” Jake asked. He kept his eyes moving and his hand on his loosened gun. Who knew what was listening? The promise of money in his belt could bring in any and every predator on a planet inhabited only by predators.

  “Nah, nah, I ghosht it.” A clank and a thunk and the door creaked open another few microns.

  Jake leaned forward, ready to force the door open.

  Billy held him back. “Remember your manners.”

  “Manners be damned. It’s dangerous standing out here.”

  “Let me see the color of your money,” the raspy voice demanded, less vague, less smoky.

  Jake hesitated, hand tightening on his belt.

  “Do it,” Billy whispered. “Or he’ll never let us in. Never let us see the formula.”

  Heaving a sigh and keeping his eyes warily searching for danger, Jake opened his belt pack with one hand, letting the pouch gape just enough to reveal a thick wad of CSS notes that had little use in the CSS. Physical money, not account transfers activated by thumbprints and retina scans. The CSS only printed the notes for transactions outside their borders.

  Worlds like Prometheus preferred the uncivilized, anonymous passage of bills. They could hide a lot of criminal activity behind bills. Only criminals demanded currency.

  “Welcome, friends.” The door opened just wide enough for Jake and Billy to squeeze through. Their host remained behind the door, using it as a shield against the outside.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Jeremiah Devlin, CSS,” Jake hissed the moment they were inside and the door closed again. The dirty yellow light came from a weak, unshielded incandescent bulb high up against the ceiling. He could see little beyond a long narrow corridor walled in stone, just like the outside construction.

  “Major D’billio.” Billy nodded his head and bowed slightly in a greeting typical of his people.

  As an afterthought, Jake bowed also, less gracefully.

  “Well, you know who I am, or you wouldn’t have come here,” the little man said. He stood barely as tall as Jake’s shoulder. He blinked uneasily behind thick old-fashioned spectacles. “Follow me to the laboratory. I gather you need a demonstration of my invention.”

  He padded on bare feet the length of the corridor. Like most residents of Prometheus, he wore short pants that cut off about mid-thigh, held up with suspenders and no shirt.

  Jake’s suit registered the interior temperature a comfortable twenty-four degrees Celsius. Outside, it was easily ten degrees hotter. And this was the dead of night in the depth of winter on Prometheus. He broke out in sweat along his spine and across his brow just thinking about what summer would be like. His suit immediately compensated, recycling the moisture.

  “Dr. Marcus Grecko, citizen of Zephron, educated Oxford, England, Earth. Worked for Tri-Chem, Inc. until ten years ago. Then you disappeared, only to surface here last month with reports that you had something of value to sell to the highest bidder,” Jake recited.

  “Got a delegation of Marils coming in tomorrow. You’re lucky you got here when you did,” Grecko chuckled.

  Only the pirates of Prometheus would dare sell to the avian predators from the Marillon Empire.

  “Your asking price seemed low,” Billy said. He too loosed his weapon.

  “Part of the deal is to take me with you back to Zephron. The Marils are likely to shoot me the moment they take possession of the formula.” Grecko opened a series of heavy locks with keys and twists and combinations on the laboratory door.

  Jake tried to memorize his actions. The man moved too quickly to follow. He wasn’t as drunk as he pretended.

  “Then why sell to the Marils?” Jake asked. “Why even talk to them?”

  “They picked up my signal to the CSS and made an offer. A spectacular offer.”

  Grecko pushed the door open slowly, letting lots of bright white light flood the corridor.

  Jake blinked several times before his helmet adjusted to the change.

  Grecko fairly bounced into the room, easily the width of the house, twice that in length, and two stories high. Arcane machines bubbled and churned and dripped all over the place. Only a narrow twisting path between them allowed Grecko access.

  “You might as well stay there. I can’t have you touching things and messing up my settings and calibrations,” the little man ordered.

  Jake eyed all of the huge machines skeptically. Then he edged farther into the room, keeping his hands close to his sides.

  “I said stay back,” Grecko ordered. Panic tinged his voice.

  “What are you hiding?” Jake asked. “I need to see the entire process, start to finish, to make sure the product is genuine, that you have
n’t substituted real Badger Metal.” Which was getting very scarce, and therefore very expensive. Could Grecko have bought even a little bit of it?

  He kept moving forward.

  Grecko shifted his feet uneasily. He looked all about him with too much haste. Jake couldn’t make eye contact with him, no matter how hard he tried.

  Billy blocked the door, the only visible exit. They had Grecko cornered. He had to produce.

  “But . . . but . . . the process takes days,” Grecko said. His eyes twitched.

  “You’re lying,” Jake said, keeping his relentless steps moving toward Grecko. “But I’ve got days. I’ve got as much time as you need to come up with the genuine article.”

  “The port will confiscate your ship if you stay more than one day.” Grecko looked a little too satisfied.

  “I’ll send my men into orbit until I call them back,” Jake pressed.

  “But . . . but . . . I really need the money to complete the experiment. It’s . . . it’s not quite finished. But it will work. I know it will. I just need the money.”

  “No.” Jake turned his back on the little man and reversed his steps.

  “You can’t leave me. Not yet. I’m just microns from completing the process. But if you don’t take me and my lab back to Zephron, the Marils . . .”

  A black burn hole appeared in the center of his chest, cutting his words short. Blood bubbled from his mouth. Slowly he crumpled, dropping to the floor like a boneless blob.

  CHAPTER TEN

  GUILLIAM STEELED HIMSELF FOR the onslaught of verbal abuse he expected the moment he walked into Laudae Penelope’s office. He should be used to this by now. He’d known Penelope for decades, since he first came to Crystal Temple as a young man and she was just approaching ordination.

  But he wasn’t ready. He’d never be comfortable with her in a temper.

  “Laudae.” He bowed respectfully.