Orphans In the Black: A Space Opera Anthology

by Amy J. Murphy

  In the cool mornings before the early meal in the common hall, Mahir insisted that Luc accompany him on his walks around the compound. He complied since the alternative meant throwing himself awkwardly around the small room and staring out at the town far below.

  They were well-matched in their speed as they navigated the labyrinth of pathways: the priest’s rickety shuffle and Luc’s lurching stride. The Temple of Miseries and all its outbuildings had no real plan, covering the crest of the hilltop like a growth. Mahir often fell into wandering narratives that drifted into a searching silence as if he had lost his next words.

  For a man whose order frowned on pride, Mahir’s shoulders broadened as he pointed out the frescos, the dusty history of fallen martyrs. He explained that the temple was the site of no fewer than two miracles, and that of all the shrines to Brilta, theirs was the oldest. Luc nodded in the right spots and made noises of feigned interest.

  This morning’s excursion found them in a small garden plot. Fluttering mesh tarps strung from the sloped roof of the priests’ dormitory provided sparse shade. A low wall of mud and rock cordoned off the garden from a courtyard filled with a gaggle of children. There was no real purpose to their play, with its mindless calls and laughter.

  Luc had only a vague recollection of moving with such abandon, such complete lack of self-consciousness.

  “They live here?” Luc asked.

  “Orphaned, all. The Fates have sent them to us to watch over. We are pleased to give them a home.” Mahir gestured at a hunched outbuilding in the opposite corner of the yard. “War has shown them much cruelty. We try to give them comfort.”

  A mural of bright paint, applied by inexpert hands, decorated the outbuilding’s exterior. Flowers. Faces. Birds. And a rather ambitious attempt at a velo-class star freighter. “We created a school where they learn the parables of the Fates and basic maths. How to read and speak the Common tongue. For some, like poor Balish, it is hard to forget their native languages and ways of life. But we are giving them tools to rebuild their lives.”

  The children, despite their disheveled appearance, seemed physically acceptable for conscription.

  “Certainly, the Regime would have conscripted many of them. Why not?”

  Mahir shook his head. “Many of these children, the Regime would deem…unsuitable. As wards of my order, they are immune to their barbaric genetic culling.”

  Barbaric? Luc fought the urge to scowl at the shabby building with its sagging roof. And living in such grimy poverty and existing at the whim of disease was not?

  He looked at Mahir, waiting for him to say more. But the priest fell silent, seemingly lost in grim thought. Even a life of conscription was better than a life of want and disease. In his order’s mission to dispense mercy, Mahir sentenced these children to the dismal. Could he not see that?

  “Come.” Mahir shuffled away from the wall. “Perhaps you can offer your expert opinion on the misting systems for the vines. A simple thing for a man of your talents.”

  Luc sighed and fell in behind him, realizing this was yet another chore disguised as a favor. Mahir pointed out the irrigation network and its corroded housing. Would he at least look at the condensation sensors? Perhaps he could see a way to mend them? The misters were leaking as well, he explained.

  Soon the morning had burned away, and Luc found himself sweating despite the shade of the tarp. Nearby, two silent monks armed with hand tools worked the earth into deep furrows. A third followed behind to plant small sprigs—a chore that an agri-bot would have completed in half the time.

  The irrigation system lay dissected on the ground before him, a hopeless mess. Luc settled onto a creaking wooden bench and drank tepid water from a large earthen pitcher. The gritty water was miraculously delicious. Luc found a stillness in the work. Oddly, he liked it.

  A jangled laughter brought him out of it. He sidled over to the wall. The children had returned to the yard. A beleaguered looking matron, most likely their minder, dozed in the shade of the schoolhouse’s open doorway. Luc suspected that this time in the yard was meant to give the woman a break from the constant, directionless energy of the children as much as to provide them with a means to disperse it.

  He found himself watching in frank curiosity, amazed by their lack of coordination. By the age of ten, he and his kennel mates were being led in hand-to-hand drills and basic weapon training. These children appeared to play at a barely organized game that involved throwing toy rockets at each other.

  Luc spotted Balish slouching in the shade of a sparse sand-willow, watching his classmates. His eyes met the boy’s.

  Balish looked away, stiffened.

  Luc saw why. A compact, dark-haired boy approached Balish with two other children in his wake—a red haired girl with scabby knees and a slender, pale boy. They moved in unspoken concert, tactically blocking off a means of escape and obscuring the matron’s line of sight.

  These were the moves of a pack like Gia and her brothers. He was too far away to hear their words, but it wasn’t necessary. It was plain in the primitive body language that existed between predator and target.

  You are different. You do not belong.

  Before he realized it, Luc lurched up with the aid of his crutch. He maneuvered over the hummocks of turned earth to the waist-high wall that separated the garden from the courtyard.

  There was a shove directed at Balish. Some floundering. A fist, inexpertly thrown. All of it noiseless and unwitnessed by the matron. The trio of children left. Balish was folded under the limbs of the sorry-looking tree, his shoulders hitching.

  Mid-act in pulling himself across the wall, Luc lost grip on the crutch. It slid down to the dust of the play yard. Committed now, he pulled himself the rest of the way, winded by the simple act. Steeling himself against the pain in his knee, he shambled toward the boy.

  Balish noted his approach, eyes wet. It evoked a spur of hot scorn in Luc, but its subject was not clear… the boy, or the trio of children that had left him this way.

  “Why do you let them do that?” Luc asked without preamble.

  Balish shrugged. It was surly, defiant. Anger baked the air around him. “Don’t matter. Why should you care?”

  True enough. Who is this boy to me? I am a soldier of the Regime.

  Instead, he said, “I can show you how to defend yourself. Fight back. Stand up to them, and they’ll never do that to you again.”

  Balish looked down at his own shriveled arm, then jerked his chin at Luc’s damaged leg. It was a gesture that said: who are you to make this offer? You’re only a water broker, a lame one at that.

  The matron reappeared in the doorway of the schoolroom, calling out for the children to return indoors. The activity in the yard fragmented.

  Balish rose, swiping at his face with a sleeve. “Besides. Fighting back didn’t work for my father. Regime got him all the same.”

  The boy stalked to the schoolroom, the last to head inside.

  “You’re welcome,” Luc muttered. He reclaimed his fallen crutch from the dirt, suddenly sore from his activity, and flung his body back over the wall. The prayer call for early afternoon services was a stir of echoes on the warm air. Mahir and his brothers would be preoccupied with prayer for now. Luc trundled back through the garden, headed for the sleeping quarters. He refused to think of the bedroom as his. It claimed ownership that made his bones itch.

  A staccato chug grew louder, seeming to rattle the very walls to either side of him. Luc turned the corner and cursed. The narrow passage along the breezeway had been transformed into an ankle-high stream.

  The pump! The Fates-damned pump had malfunctioned again. This time it’d set the well to overflowing. He muttered a string of curses under his breath in a mix of Common and Regimental, although under less stressful circumstances he might question why a simple pump system might have a prostitute for a mother.

  He flung open the shed door hard enough for it to come free on the top hinge. Blue-white smoke billowed
out of the space.

  The pump sat at the center of a fountain of water, chugging with idiot glee: “Thank you for choosing Hydrolux! Thank you for choosing quality!”

  With the end of his crutch, he jabbed the power off. The interface cracked under the force of it. The flow of water quieted.

  “Your days are over, my friend!” he railed at the machine.

  Luc slammed the door closed. From within came the muffled manic response: “Request unavailable. Please consult your local Hydrolux retailer for assistance.”

  Mahir guided the rickety solar-cart with glacial care down the hillside, following a switchback carved in antiquity. Luc and Balish swayed in their seats. On the floor of the cart’s cargo bed lay the gutted Hydrolux like the corpse of a fallen enemy.

  Luc tried not to gloat. Glory all. He smirked.

  The boy was a sullen, huddled shape under his cloak in the pre-dawn light. Mahir had tried everything short of blackmail to get Balish to accompany them on the trip to procure a replacement pump, but the boy had been reluctant to the point of paranoia, choosing to hide in his solitary bedroom. When he did finally agree to join them, he reappeared with the heavy garment to hide his shrunken arm, the hood pulled over his head. “Don’t like people looking at me. They stare at my arm.”

  “What’re you going to do when the suns come up?” Luc asked across the rocking bed of the cart. “And it gets too hot for that thing?”

  Balish responded with a surly mutter. “Sweat, I guess.”

  Luc snorted but did not antagonize the boy further. In fact, he understood the desire to remain invisible. He doubted Haro or his minions would be looking for him; they likely assumed him dead. But still, doubt lurked. If word got back to Haro that he’d survived, would they try to finish the job?

  One complication at a time. Don’t get ahead of yourself.

  Luc’s plan was tenuous, at best. The pump dealer’s shop was near his former rented room. His odds of survival improved if he were free of infected wounds and better able to avoid Haro and his crew. That meant reclaiming his med kit from its hiding spot.

  From there, he needed to find a Regime officer that could contact Gia—a tricky prospect. Officers assigned to such openly hostile places like Macula would be difficult to approach. They were highly valued targets for rebel retaliation and seldom traveled without security details. Even if he spotted one, would he get close enough to ask for help, looking as he did?

  By the time they reached their destination and Mahir navigated the cart to the curb, Luc was grateful for a chance to stretch his aching leg. He scanned the crowd, the buildings. A familiar edginess inserted itself like an unwelcome acquaintance. It was the notion of feeling watched. As a soldier, that sharpness kept you in one piece. But in his current state, he felt anxious and vulnerable. His closest allies were an old man and boy. What good could any of them do if trouble appeared?

  “Here.” Mahir’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “The shopkeeper’s father donated the pump to us. Perhaps his son can be persuaded to do the same.”

  Luc looked where the old man gestured. It was one of the better-maintained shops along the street. A standard above the entrance showed a sun-faded image of a water nymph. Water Guild.

  “Great,” he said, with no real enthusiasm. He made to follow but stopped short of entering. “You go ahead. My rented room is near here. I need to see if my things are still there.”

  “Oh?” The shaggy gray eyebrows drew up on Mahir’s forehead. He clapped Balish on the shoulder. “Then we will send Balish. He must practice his use of Tasmarin.”

  Balish’s eyes widened. “Father Mahir, please. I can’t—”

  “I can do this. I’ll be right back,” Luc said, waving off Mahir’s offer. The relief on the boy’s face was almost tragic.

  Worried that Mahir would argue further, he quickly set off down the crooked street.

  As Luc had imagined, all his clothes and gear were gone from the room, but that did not lessen the surge of anger he felt at the violation. Even Gia and her brothers had left his personal effects alone.

  He shut the door, thankful to the god of hangovers that kept the denizens of this shabby district in bed at this early hour. Not even his former landlady had been awake to spot him entering the building.

  The floorboard over his hiding spot was still in place. He reached into the dark space below. A momentary sense of panic skittered over him before his fingers encountered the slick plastic sides of the med kit. It was still sealed. He released a pent breath.

  Carefully, he seated himself on the floor and opened the med kit. The bone knitter was a rubbery beige appliance with six spider-like appendages that molded to his malformed knee. He blundered through the command prompts until he found the setting for musculoskeletal correctives. Warmth spread from the knitter and into his knee, growing in intensity until his skin felt as though it was boiling. This was nothing compared to the maddening itch that grew from within the joint. Then, abruptly, the knitter beeped once and fell from his skin, folding in upon itself like a dead insect.

  With an effusive sigh of relief, he pulled himself up, then tested his weight. He grinned at the dingy walls as he walked in a circle in the tiny room.

  In his head, Luc practiced what he would say to sway an officer to believing his story.

  His stride faltered. The intersection that lead back to Mahir and his water pump merchant lay ahead. Something was wrong. A knot of shopping patrons milled at the corner, gawking up the hill and whispering.

  Just keep walking. You have a plan.

  Yet he stopped and looked in the direction of what captivated the crowd.

  Two SSD troopers, their faces obscured by the dark scrims of their helmets, towered over Mahir. One of the men held Balish by the collar. Even from half a block away, Luc could see that the boy was rigid with fear.

  You don’t owe the old man or the boy anything. In fact, you’re doing them a favor. No telling what Haro would do to them, if he knew you were still alive.

  The priest stepped between the two soldiers, his hands stroking the air in a calming gesture. He must have said something particularly uncalming, for one of the troopers placed a flattened palm on the old man’s chest and shoved. Mahir’s feet tangled with the curb and he fell. Balish tried to wrestle free.

  Luc fell into a sprint, his limp forgotten.

  At his approach Mr. Shove, a sergeant by the insignia at his throat, drew his rifle up. “This is official business. Move on.”

  “This is my business,” Luc replied. “These two are with me.”

  The trooper’s eyes widened slightly. He was likely more accustomed to meeker reactions. “Really? Hardly a family resemblance, but you skew all look the same to me.”

  Balish’s captor laughed as if it was the greatest joke ever told. He shook his grip on Balish. “You got your med-screen passes for your skew one-armed boy and your deaf old man then?”

  “We’re from the temple. Exempt from the genetics screening.”

  We. The word slipped out, unbidden.

  “Oh!” The sergeant rocked back on his heels. “We have an expert in our midst, Trav.”

  “Expert,” Trav parroted. He released his grip on Balish, who immediately went to Mahir’s aid. “You don’t look like a priest.”

  Luc ignored him and went to Mahir’s other side. The old man’s trousers were torn at the knee, blood seeping through the fabric. Otherwise, he seemed unharmed.

  “My friends,” Mahir panted. “We have committed no crime. Just let us be.”

  Trav leaned down into Mahir’s face. “I’m not your friend, skew-lover.”

  “Leave Father Mahir alone.” Balish’s voice was reedy with fear. His chin tucked low as he glared at the troopers. In one white-knuckled hand he held Mahir’s walking stick. Luc could tell that he meant to do something that would likely get them all killed.

  The boy lifted the cane. Luc stepped in his way, blocking it. Trav made the first move, but his heavy armor slowed h
im. It was easy to sidestep the swing of his rifle as he brought the butt around. Luc ducked, hooking him behind the knee in the weak spot in the armor. Using the falling Trav as a screen, he snaked behind the sergeant, his forearm digging in under the vulnerable spot on his neck between the helmet and chest armor.

  Luc leaned close and hissed in Regimental: “I am a Seeker on a mission. Do not keep me from it. Or your commander will hear of it.”

  Just as quickly, Luc released his hold. The trooper stumbled back. He caught Trav’s arm as he drew the rifle up. His wide-eyed stare remained on Luc. “They can go.”

  Trav began to protest. “Sergeant—”

  “You heard me.” The sergeant pointed back at their rust-scaled cart with the muzzle of his rifle. “I’m sure they know better than to come back.”

  Balish and Mahir were already climbing onto the cart as Luc backed away, hands out by his sides. The sergeant gave a shallow nod before turning to address the small crowd that had assembled. “Go about your business. Now.”

  It was early afternoon by the time their cart reached the perimeter of the temple compound. To Luc it felt as if it should be far later than it was. He was aware of Mahir’s weary stillness and felt Balish’s glare at the back of his head. The boy had been a bundle of seething silence under the shadow of his cloak.

  Luc guided the cart to merge into the progress of foot traffic winding into the courtyard. Now they were going no faster than the pedestrians winding their way to and from the Temple of Miseries.

  “What did you tell the soldier?” Balish’s question was like sudden ice water in the thick heat.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Luc did not turn from his view through the chipped and dusty windscreen. His hands tightened on the control yoke.

  “I saw you. You told him something.” The boy’s voice surged with anger. “You’re a liar.”

  “Do not speak to our friend so,” Mahir chided. “Be calm. We have all had a trying day.”

  “What happened to your crutch? Why aren’t you limping anymore?” Balish persisted. “Or was that a lie too?”