Harmony

by C. F. Bentley

  And obey. Without question or thought.

  He wanted more. He wanted his squad to follow him into hell and back because they respected and trusted him, not because they must.

  His foot slipped a bit in the wet. Catching his balance, he almost tripped over the sword banging against his leg.

  Always those long and lethally sharp swords at their hips.

  Swordplay was supposed to be for fun, with blunted or foiled weapons. A way of honing skills and sharpening reactions. At least that was why Jake had engaged in the sport back in civilization.

  God, how did these people ever improve if they didn’t push? That was just it. Improvement meant change and nothing changed on Harmony. Not ever. The only new tech came out of Spacer needs to protect the frontier from invasion. And they kept it all to themselves. Change might disrupt their archaic caste system, their bizarre sense of honor, and a stagnating economy.

  Few of these people could even grasp the concept of money. They still bartered and traded goods and services in the marketplace. All their money went to paying rent to the lord they worked for. An endless cycle of the rich getting richer and the poor running in place.

  And little feudal benevolence. Workers were as expendable as the Poor. Always a dozen more to replace anyone injured on the job or sick, or disgruntled.

  Jake couldn’t let these guys beat him. In his new identity as Sergeant Jacob da Jacob pa Law Enforcement H6—oops they’d changed that last bit with the move to Harmony City on H Prime, now they were pa Capital Law Enforcement H Prime. He had to be better than they were. He’d bring about change by hook or by crook just as soon as he found his way into a Badger Metal processing plant and stole the formula.

  In the meantime, he had a race to win. He wondered if winning would change the unspoken protocol of place in line at the urinals, or who got dessert and who didn’t, even who got to ride shotgun. He preferred that place as opposed to in the back and slightly elevated position in their lumbering version of a jeep, supposedly so he could survey the landscape better for ambushes. The bloke ahead of him always got the prime spot in the far corner of the restrooms—the cleanest and the most private.

  He breathed as deeply as his laboring lungs allowed and pushed his legs harder than he ever had before. Ten meters and he left the two closest men behind. Slowly he closed in on the leader.

  Five meters, he drew alongside his only competition in this sprint.

  One meter. He nosed ahead. The rain beat at him harder, drenching his clothes and his pack, adding weight, cooling the sweat on him. He pushed harder just to stay warm.

  He crossed the finish line half a stride in the lead. And continued going, letting his body slow gradually. His squad of twenty followed him.

  Everyone else just stopped in place the moment he finished the race first.

  Sheesh! What would they do in battle the first time one of them died. Just give up and let the enemy slaughter them?

  But then, none of these men had ever seen combat. None of them. Peace reigned in the Harmonite Empire. Except on the frontier near the jump points. The Spacer caste handled those skirmishes. They got to use energy weapons. Dishonorable weapons because they fought against dishonorable enemies.

  Maybe he should activate his emergency beacon and tell Pammy to launch a full-scale attack on the borders. That would shake them up.

  He guessed that rounding up the occasional thief or breaking up a bar brawl wasn’t really combat. Violent crime was rare here—even the bank robber with a gun had surrendered peacefully when discovered, execution just another alternative to starving to death. He’d been a skilled metal Worker thrown out and relegated to Poor caste when he lost a leg in an industrial accident.

  Violent tendencies were another trait weeded out from the initial colonists.

  A whistle shrilled behind Jake. He completed the lap in his warm down to come back to the platoon. His nearest competition, Sergeant Morrie da Hawk had shed his heavy pack and waited for him inside a circle scuffed into the dirt, sword drawn.

  His reward for winning the race: he got to fight for his life. In the pouring rain, with a slick surface beneath his feet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  BLEARY-EYED, SISSY TRUDGED into the small chapel the next morning for more lessons and drills in ritual. A kernel of anger formed a knot in her belly.

  After spending so many hours trying to read document after document, and feeling sick at signing things she did not understand, but too afraid to admit to Laud Gregor she didn’t, she’d slept fitfully. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw jumbles of letters spinning around. None of them made coherent patterns. And they taunted her with their randomness.

  And she still hadn’t been allowed to talk to her family.

  Too much. Temple asked too much of her.

  Laud Gregor appeared in the doorway looking rested and refreshed, as if he hadn’t sat up half the night. “Out. All of you out!” He banished Laudae Shanet and Laudae Penelope and all of their acolytes.

  “The rest of you,” he scowled at Sissy’s seven little girls, “go do some lessons or something, elsewhere.”

  Jilly led the girls in a rapid scuttle out the doorway. From tiny giggles, Sissy knew they’d gone no farther than just around the corner.

  “Now begin, Miss Sissy. Show me what you have learned.”

  “Which ritual?” she asked meekly, not daring to look at him. If she did, she just might let him see her bewilderment, her confusion, and her anger.

  “Begin with morning prayers and work your way through the day.” He settled into the chair Laudae Penelope usually occupied. Only, he relaxed into it rather than perching on the edge waiting to pounce the moment Sissy made a mistake, just like Cat waiting at a mousehole.

  One by one, Sissy followed the prescribed order of crystal tones and prayers. In less than an hour she had completed the daily rituals.

  “And now the ones for Holy Day,” Laud Gregor ordered. “You do know those, don’t you? You have to know them all before your ordination.”

  “Yes, I know them,” Sissy replied as she set down her favorite crystal wand. She made sure the delicate thing wouldn’t roll off the altar.

  The golden cat, curled at her feet, purred in a comforting rhythm in time with her tapping of the crystals. When the last chime died away, so did the deep rumble. Satisfaction.

  Dog drowsed by the doorway. His ears cocked to listen for changes in her mood or words.

  She loved working with the crystals. Not enough. She needed to go home.

  The ache deep inside her to go home grew by the minute until she thought there was nothing left of her. She needed to visit each room in the new flats, breathe the familiar scents of her family. Mama’s baking would make the air rich with cinnamon and sugar. Grandma’s skin left a sharp papery smell on everything she brushed against, and she did that a lot because of her screwed balance.

  Sissy needed to touch each threadbare piece of furniture, memorize the texture. Remember bouncing on Pop’s lap in one, climbing up the back with Stevie on another, curling up with a blanket and her youngest sister Ashel when the toddler was sick.

  Most of all, she needed to hug every one of her grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and especially her brothers and sisters. And Pop and Mama.

  A lump grew in her throat, making her feel emptier than ever.

  “I want to see my family,” she said softly into the silence that followed the last echoing chime. Cat’s ears pricked, but he did not open his eyes or lift his head from its rest atop his paws.

  Laud Gregor looked up sharply from the single chair. He didn’t miss much, she’d discovered in the last few weeks. They felt like years. Very lonely years. Except for Cat, Dog, and Godfrey the lizard. Without their undemanding presence she didn’t know if she could have continued at the Temple as long as she had.

  “I’m working on arrangements with Lord Chauncey and his liaison with the Worker caste,” Laud Gregor said with reassurance. “These things take t
ime. Now run through the Holy Day prayers with the appropriate chimes.”

  “No, these things don’t take time.” She forced herself to look him in the eye. “You make things happen in a hurry, when you want them to. You promised me access to my family. Now you are stalling.” She crossed her arms, keeping her hands away from the temptation of working with the wand and the crystals.

  Cat shifted in his sleep, mimicking her unease. Dog sat up from his post by the door.

  “Sissy, what you ask is unprecedented. I have to get the approval of the entire High Council . . .” he explained with extreme patience.

  “No, you don’t. All you have to do is give Pop a visitor’s pass and send a car for them, or a loxen cart, even a pedicar.”

  “You don’t know. You haven’t been here long enough . . .” A tinge of anger colored his voice. Patience and understanding evaporated.

  “I do know. I asked. No one of Temple will tell me anything. But if I ask questions of the Workers who serve you, they answer truthfully. Now I want to see my family.” Pointedly, she stepped away from the altar.

  “Sissy . . .” He stood, looming over her.

  Cat woke up and stretched front to back, then back to front. He sat upright and began washing a paw. Sissy knew from the angle of his ears that he listened for signs of upset.

  Dog whined a question and crept forward.

  A rustle of clothing told her that her girls listened avidly.

  Sissy stood her ground. “You broke your promise to me. I’m going back to my home and back to work in the factory where I’m needed. And wanted. And where I can get clothes that fit. In colors I like.” She stepped around Laud Gregor. Cat followed her, pointedly staying away from the High Priest.

  Dog took up his place at her left heel, ready to defend her to the death.

  “What’s wrong with your clothes?” Laud Gregor grabbed her arm and spun her around.

  Sissy examined his face for signs of trickery. He looked honestly puzzled.

  “What can I say? Can’t you see? Tell me who owned these dresses before me, and I’ll give ’em back. I’m used to hand-me-downs. I’ll take someone else’s castoffs if I can just give these back.” She plucked at the too tight skirt and the neckline that threatened to slip off her shoulders exposing her small clothes.

  “What do you mean, ‘hand-me-downs’? I ordered a dozen new gowns and pairs of shoes made to order for you.”

  “Then you got cheated. And I don’t like this green. It’s ugly.”

  “Yes, I see that it is not the most flattering.” He crossed his arms, then lifted his left hand to tap his caste mark. A habitual gesture she’d come to recognize. Why did he need to remind people of his superior caste? He was the highest of the high!

  “I sense Laudae Penelope’s hand in this,” he said at last. Five quick steps took him to the comm unit behind the altar. He pushed a button. “Guilliam, send the dressmaker to Miss Sissy’s quarters.”

  “Very good, sir. What color fabric should I tell her to bring?” Guilliam’s disembodied voice came through the tiny speaker. Was that a yawn behind the false briskness? Sissy had never known the man to be less than completely alert and aware of everything around him. He hadn’t had any more sleep than she. Why?

  Sissy shook her head, jarred into distrust at this instant communication within the Temple. At home, people ran back and forth between flats and shops. Nothing was very far away. Why waste money on expensive equipment, and the energy to run them, when talking face-to-face was so much nicer and gave you a chance to visit?

  Now all she had was remote conversations over those costly electronics.

  “Green, of course. We always wear green,” Laud Gregor said.

  “What shade of green?”

  “Um...”

  “Why do we have to wear green?” Sissy asked.

  “Green reminds us of Harmony’s bounty,” Gregor sighed. “Haven’t those women taught you anything?”

  “What about the blue of a summer sky, or the yellow of ripening corn, or the red of a love flower? Or . . . or why not purple to match our caste mark? I like purple. I want to wear purple.” Sissy grinned as she imagined wearing a simple gown in silky fabric the color of the mountains at sunset.

  Mama would love it. Her sisters would gasp with envy.

  “Sir,” Guilliam said. “There is a precedent. Our records indicate that one hundred years ago, Temple caste wore red and gold. It seems that at the time the choice of color was up to the current HPS.”

  Sissy’s smile deepened. “Then I want to wear purple. Everything in purple.”

  Gregor’s eyes widened in horror. “Do you realize the upset, the massive turnover, the waste of time, labor, money, and energy to change the wardrobe of every member of our caste!”

  “You all don’t have to change if you like green. But I like purple and I want to wear it. Mr. Guilliam just said I can.”

  “But . . . but this is unprecedented.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Sissy insisted. “He just said I could choose for myself. So why can’t everyone else? I know. I want each of the seven priestesses at Crystal Temple to wear a different color.”

  “In the name of the Seven, woman, you can’t overturn centuries of tradition on a whim.”

  “Yes, I can. You want me to be your High Priestess, you’ll do it. And you’ll let me see my family.”

  Cat stropped her ankles. He opened his mouth in a cat grin.

  Gregor frowned, then ignored her last statement. “But if we show different colors and styles in our formal robes, then the populace will be able to pick out favorites. A cult of personality will develop. We will lose the harmony of anonymity.”

  “Fine, then all the formal robes can be whatever color you like as long as it isn’t this vile vomit green.”

  “Your formal robes will be darker emerald green once you are ordained,” Gregor sighed in defeat.

  “That’s fine.”

  “But you must wear shoes. If you go barefoot, you will stand out in the formal rituals.”

  “Then find me a pair that fit.”

  “Fit? Shoes always fit.”

  “No, they don’t. Not unless they are made to fit.”

  He sighed again. “Laudae Penelope has a lot to answer for.”

  “Yeah, she does. So when do I get to see my family?”

  “I’ll arrange something.”

  “Guilliam will arrange it. That way it will get done. For tomorrow. Holy Day. After services.” Sissy returned to the altar and picked up her wand. A bit of warmth wiggled in her midsection. One win at a time.

  Now she just had to figure out why Gregor thought it so important to smile and pretend to give her what she asked for, without giving her anything.

  She bet it had something to do with all those forms he had her sign without reading.

  Tonight, when everyone was asleep, she’d go back and try to read the blamed things. Having a room to herself could be a blessing sometimes. In this convoluted world of the Temple, a bit of privacy might come in handy.

  Even if it was so terribly lonely.

  A bird chirruped outside the window. That gave Sissy an idea. For tomorrow. One battle at a time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  JAKE DREW HIS SWORD TWENTY paces from his opponent. Ten more paces and he dropped his pack. Behind him, he heard twenty swords clear their scabbards. His men readying to protect his back.

  Da Hawk’s men ranged behind him. Belatedly, they also drew their weapons when they saw Jake’s men do it.

  Curious. No time to think on that.

  Two paces from da Hawk, just barely inside the circle he lunged, without pausing for an honorable salute, letting the mud carry him farther forward than his legs could from that distance.

  About the only rule these guys observed was the boundary of the circle and one hand on the sword. Sort of like the Spanish Circle school of fencing. But that was the end of the resemblance. No rules, no right of way, no off target. Slash, jab, score a blo
ody touché any way you could, so long as you did it first, before the other guy scored on you.

  But his men would keep da Hawk from murdering him. Touché only, not a killing wound.

  Morrie da Hawk reacted, fast. Faster than Jake thought possible. Parry four, low and inside, riposte to his high six, the shoulder of his weapon hand.

  Jake parried and lunged for a low seven, the hip of Morrie’s off hand. Morrie sidestepped and brought his sword toward Jake’s partially exposed back.

  Not about to fall for that beginner’s mistake, Jake dropped to his knees and rolled to the edge of the circle three meters out. More than enough room to brace his feet and bounce back up.

  His feet kept moving. No traction.

  Was that a gentle hand on his belt, helping him up? He’d give that man an extra helping at dinner, even if it meant Jake went a little hungry.

  He kept his swing tight, parrying the next jab to his heart.

  Morrie breathed hard. Sweat poured from his face, a different color and texture from the rain that drenched them both.

  Jake felt the effects, too. But not as bad as his opponent. He had to end this quickly or Morrie, one of the best sergeants in the platoon, and a . . . a friend would be useless for a couple of days.

  With a flick of his wrist, Jake bound Morrie’s blade, keeping it angled away from his body.

  But Morrie was more determined. He gave in to the pressure, letting it carry his blade to the outside with just enough slack to disengage with an undercut and thrust toward Jake’s knee.

  Jake had seen Morrie do this before in drill. Anticipated it. Caught a circular parry exposing Morrie just enough to slice lightly along his belly.

  A gasp of surprise. A line of red following Jake’s blade tip. Morrie stepped back, clutching his wound.

  “Halt!” Lieutenant Charl da Martin called.

  Instantly a medic caught the wounded man beneath the shoulders and eased to him the ground.

  The rest of the platoon stepped away, sheathing their weapons. They gathered around the lieutenant, a man younger than Jake, younger than ninety percent of the platoon, but he’d inherited his rank and had an extra hash-mark beneath the red square of his caste mark indicating his officer status.