The Gallant (Star Legend Book 3)

by J. J. Green

  Kala had often had the impression that Morgan suspected her of reading the old stories where she appeared, and resented her for it. Or perhaps she feared Kala would stumble upon something she didn’t want her to know.

  “I prefer to spend my time learning high esoteric concepts,” she replied haughtily, “not the mundane pontificating of scientists. They never raise their eyes from their research findings. Besides, you’ve shown me many times that their understanding is narrow and small-minded. Some things you can do, they say are impossible. Telepathy, for instance.”

  “Telepathy is impossible for most humans, or, at least, very difficult.”

  “So I can only do it because I’m related to you?”

  “I think saying you can ‘do it’ is an exaggeration of your capabilities...”

  Beneath the table they were sitting at, Kala clenched her hands into fists so tightly her nails dug painfully into her palms. Morgan’s insults were outrageous and intolerable. Whenever she threw out one of her cutting remarks, Kala’s resolution to kill her grew stronger. If only she knew how to do it. Morgan had arrived at the Belladonna under her own steam, not requiring a shuttle to bring her, so putting her out an airlock would be useless. That didn’t stop Kala from imagining watching the woman gasping for air as her blood tried to force its way out of her body.

  “... practice will help you retain your current level,” Morgan was saying. Kala had missed her intervening words, but it had probably been more disrespect and obfuscation. As usual, her direct question hadn’t received a direct answer. “Perran, on the other hand—”

  “Perran is still very young,” Kala interrupted, steering the focus away from her son. “Speaking of age, I noticed that you don’t. Age, I mean. You haven’t changed at all, not from the moment I first set eyes on you over thirty years ago. I was wondering, thinking over what you were saying about time, is that because its passage doesn’t affect you? I ask you again, do you exist outside of time?”

  Morgan’s face took on a distinctly surprised look. Kala felt as though she was catching her off guard for the first time.

  “What an extraordinary question!” she retorted. “Exist outside of time? How could I do that?”

  The illusion faded. Morgan was not surprised at all. She was teasing her.

  Kala’s fingernails bit so deeply they broke skin. Before her fury burst out and she did or said something she would later regret, she rose stiffly to her feet and excused herself. Feeling Morgan’s amused gaze on her back, she stalked from the room.

  She would not tolerate the woman’s disrespect any longer! She had to do something to put an end to her. Learning new skills and knowledge be damned. Nothing was worth the suffering Morgan inflicted on her or the threat she posed. She was always niggardly with her teachings anyway. A little telepathy here, some insight into the workings of the universe there. Never enough, every session unsatisfying. Kala suspected that what she’d interpreted as Morgan’s short attention span was actually a deliberate ploy. She had never wanted her to learn anything properly. Rather, she was going behind her back to teach Perran everything thoroughly, shaping him to lead the Crusade. A young man would be easier to manipulate than herself.

  As soon as Perran was ready, Morgan would find a way of getting rid of her. She was not entirely invulnerable. Arthur and Taylan Ellis could kill her. That was it. That was how she would do it. Morgan would engineer a scenario where Arthur or Ellis could reach her.

  Well, Morgan had enemies too. She’d mentioned someone, though not his name. The person who had given Arthur and Taylan—by descent—the power to hurt her. Morgan feared him. Kala was sure of it. Was he the one who had imprisoned her thousands of years ago? Had he survived all this time as well?

  She had to find out who it was and if he was still alive. Then, she would find him and persuade him to murder Morgan. Most likely, he wouldn’t need much persuasion. Did he know she’d escaped her prison? He might be seeking her out right now, wanting to recapture her and return her to her lonely, cold, underground chambers.

  Kala had more research to do, and for that she needed her books.

  Chapter Twenty

  Suitable places in which to hold a meeting of Alliance and Jamaican representatives were few and far between. Every substantial building still standing in Kingston after the battle for control of the city was internally wrecked. The Ambassador’s Residence stank of human waste, infected wounds, and death; the former seat of the temporary Parliament had been partially destroyed in the coup, even before Dwyr Orr’s forces attacked; and the Crusaders had defiled the stately home they had commandeered for their seat of operations.

  Hans had proposed they use the university. The EAC’s distrust and dislike of conventional education had meant that, after capturing and killing any academics or students they could find, they’d left the place alone. The halls and lecture rooms had contained little in the way of food or regular, everyday items to attract looters.

  How different the assembly was from the last General Council meeting before everything had gone to pot. The ranks of military officers in their uniforms, the MPs in their smart suits, poor Queen Alice in her regalia...they seemed dream-like to Hans, not actual memories of real people. And the splendid, ornate wooden hall where the meeting had been held was a fantasy compared to the stark, plain walls of the university’s auditorium.

  The new BA military heads, Chief of Defence Staff Evans and Sea Lord Fox, looked somewhat disheveled. Hans couldn’t imagine Hennessy or Montague ever appearing less than perfectly dressed. He knew the fight for the Caribbean had been hard, but that was no excuse to allow standards to slip.

  Other Alliance representatives, including the BA’s Foreign Secretary and Defence Secretary looked smarter, but even their outfits were crumpled and seemed cheap, as if created by printer rather than human hands.

  The Resistance leaders had more reason to appear rough and ready. Hans didn’t know much about Devon’s or Charles’s or the other leaders’ backgrounds, but he doubted any had held positions of power. They were good men and women—honest, brave, and principled—but they were not at ease with the etiquette of higher social echelons.

  That was where he came in.

  “Welcome to the first of what I hope will be many, and fruitful, discussions on the future of Jamaica,” Hans said to the assembly. He’d persuaded the Resistance to allow him to guide the talks.

  “Not too many, Jonte,” joked the Foreign Secretary, Blake. “I think we don’t have too much to discuss here, do we?”

  Hans had thought all the BA Government reps were new to him, but he suddenly realized he knew Blake from his time as Head of SIS. He’d thought none of the government members living on the island had survived the invasion, but she clearly had.

  What had been her role? He had a vague idea she’d been a junior minister in the Health Department. How on Earth had she risen to her current position so quickly? He guessed the sudden vacuum in the highest positions had sucked in all kinds of detritus from the lower ranks.

  “I would say we have a great deal to discuss, Foreign Secretary,” Hans replied.

  He had a tricky course to steer. The Jamaicans thought he was entirely on their side, desiring complete self-governance for the island, while the BA knew he was playing a double game, that he would pretend to push for autonomy but in fact he supported the Alliance.

  “I don’t see why,” said Blake. “We had a clear structure for the government of Jamaica and the rest of the Caribbean not so long ago. All we have to do is to return to the way things were. It’s actually the rebuilding effort and other support the Alliance is prepared to offer that we’re here to discuss, isn’t it?”

  “Exactly,” said Defence Secretary Michaels, a man Hans didn’t recognize at all. “As you might imagine,” he went on, addressing the Resistance leaders, “our resources are extremely stretched at the moment. Naturally, we’ll do everything in our power to help all we can. It’s in all our best interests, after all. But
it would be wise to prepare your followers for things to take much longer to return to normal than they might expect.”

  “Well,” said Hans, pleased that Blake and Michaels were playing their parts effectively, “it’s only fair that the Alliance should help Jamaica get to its feet again after so many years of exploitation of its people and siphoning off its most valuable assets, but perhaps it would also be wise to prepare yourselves for things to not return to how they were before the EAC invasion.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” said Blake, in a low, menacing tone.

  What a good actress she was.

  “I mean, the cataclysmic disaster Jamaica has suffered is at least in part due to the Alliance’s interference in its affairs. If the BA Government hadn’t transferred here, the island would not have been so attractive to the Crusaders. A continued Alliance presence here is something we Jamaicans must think about carefully.”

  Sea Lord Fox snorted and said, “So ‘you Jamaicans’...” making fun of Hans for ascribing the nationality to himself “...want to have your cake and eat it. You want us to front the cost of all the repair work and then hand over control of the territory to you, receiving nothing in return. This isn’t the first hint I’ve heard in that vein, but it’s the first time I’ve heard it proposed formally.”

  “How is it any different from what you did to us?” Charles growled. “How many of us fronted the cost of the Alliance with cheap labor and unfair trade practices? How long have you been draining the Caribbean in order to fund your royal palaces and dinner parties?”

  “If you think the Alliance spends any more than a tiny percentage of its budget on the Royal Family,” said Blake, “you’re mistaken. Please educate yourself if you wish your opinions to be respected.”

  This attack caused an almost palpable shockwave of anger to pass through the Jamaicans. Hans heard the enraged murmurs and mentally scrambled to think of something to say that would calm the rising tensions.

  “Before we can talk about budgets,” he said, “we should figure out what’s needed here. The Alliance has already restored the net, which is great, but many areas are still without power or running water. It’s safe to say, if we don’t have these basic necessities restored, we’ll see a massive outbreak of disease within the next few weeks.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Michaels irritably. “The Chief of Defence Staff has already allocated significant numbers of troops and sappers to repair power lines and water pipes. But we’re stretched thinner than we’ve ever been. You can’t expect miracles. And you can’t expect the Alliance to devote precious resources to these projects without the resumption of control, which seems to be the sticking point. I’ll have to speak directly to the Prime Minister about the matter, but after what I’ve heard today, I’ll be pushing for legally binding assurances that Jamaica will return to being within the Alliance and the seat of the BA’s temporary Parliament, until such time as it can return to the Britannic Isles. I think that’s reasonable?”

  He turned to the Alliance representatives for their support. Blake nodded vigorously and the military chiefs grunted their assent.

  What was Michaels doing? The Jamaicans would never sign anything that would give up their country to the BA again.

  “Let’s not be hasty,” said Hans. “The last few months have been devastating for the Caribbean and the Alliance. We all need time to reflect, take stock, and, after careful consideration, figure out a mutually agreeable way forward. Resorting to legal agreements is heavy-handed and unnecessary at this early stage. We need to focus on the people of the islands and averting the impending humanitarian crisis.”

  Didn’t they understand from his message he had a handle on the situation and that he was going to work from within to bring Jamaica back into the fold? Surely these officials weren’t so stupid they thought they could bully the locals into submission? He hadn’t lived among them for long, but even he knew this was exactly the wrong tactic to employ. If they were pushed, they would push back, hard. Resentment and the desire for independence was strong.

  “My men and women gave their lives for this country!” Evans burst out, speaking aloud for the first time. “I’ll be damned if I see it leave the Alliance.”

  “Indeed,” echoed Fox, leaning forward and glaring at the Jamaicans. “I’d advise you all to think carefully about biting the hand that’s fed you up until now. It would be very unwise for a small, poor country to leave the protection of its benefactor. You would also be weakening what’s currently the only force for good in the world. How long do you think it would take Dwyr Orr to swoop in and finish you off after you boot us out, eh? How long will you survive your second dose of Crusader zeal?”

  “Benefactor?” muttered Devon. Then, louder, he repeated, “Benefactor?! My parents slaved twelve hours a day in Alliance munitions plants that poisoned the air they breathed, the soil my grandparents farmed, and the seas we fish in. For what reward? Wages barely high enough to pay the rent and put food in our bellies. Do not talk to me about how we benefited from the Alliance. I’m done here!”

  He stormed out. The other Resistance leaders were not slow to follow him. Within half a minute, only Hans was left, facing the stunned members of the Alliance.

  “That went well,” a junior official quipped.

  “It went very badly,” said Hans quietly, gritting his teeth. “Don’t any of you understand this process has to be undertaken carefully?”

  “What process?” asked Blake. “Moving Jamaica toward independence?”

  “No! Returning the country to the Alliance.”

  “What are you blathering about?” asked Michaels. “What happened to our exploitation of the Jamaican people and siphoning off the country’s resources?”

  “I had to say that,” Hans hissed, checking over his shoulder and hoping no Resistance leaders lingered outside the closed door to eavesdrop. “I have to—”

  “Make up your mind, Jonte,” said Blake dryly. “A moment ago you were Jamaican. When you decide which side you’re on, let us know. For now, I think we need to step away, halt all work on rebuilding projects, and wait for legal assurances that Jamaica will remain an Alliance territory. Are we agreed?” She looked to her colleagues for their agreement.

  “No, you mustn’t do that,” said Hans. “You’ll ruin everything I’ve been working toward. Didn’t you get my message?”

  “I think you might have spent a little too much time in the sun, sir,” said the junior minister, not unkindly. “Maybe you should get yourself checked over.”

  “Do it quickly, though,” added Michaels. “Alliance medical support will be gone in a day or so. Now, who’s for an early lunch? I’m famished.”

  Ignoring Hans’s protests, the delegation filed out of the auditorium.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Things were changing on the Bres, as Hale had warned, but not in the way Lorcan had feared. The arrival of Camilla and Anders had injected a breath of fresh air into the place. He hadn’t realized it until he noticed the change, but the atmosphere had grown monotonous and stale over the years.

  He’d thought Hale’s presence would encourage slacking off and insubordination. It would be hard for her to rein in her resentment of his earlier treatment of her. But she and her scientist friends were consummate professionals once they got their heads down, and their attitude prompted new vigor and attention to detail in Kekoa, Jurrah, Steadman, and the rest of the heads of departments.

  He had a feeling the effect wasn’t what Hale had meant, however, and he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  In the meantime, he was enjoying the better working environment. He was particularly enjoying the presence of Camilla Lebedev. He’d made a habit of visiting her and Anders in their respective laboratories every day, learning about their disciplines and their ideas on how to solve the potential problems colonists might encounter on their new planet.

  Camilla was trying to develop a drug that would suppress the human immune response to ext
ernal stimuli but not affect the body’s ability to detect and destroy anomalous cells of its own, that is, cancerous cells. Many treatments already existed, but she was working on one that could be easily synthesized from common, readily available substances.

  Anders’ work was more innovative. He was trying to create a protocell, a cell containing the basic components for self-sustaining life that could be genetically engineered into any number of different life forms. If the conditions on the colony planet were not suitable for farming any Earth plant or animal species, the protocell could be programmed to survive and reproduce in the existing conditions, perhaps as an algae, cereal crop, or even livestock. Because it wasn’t native to the new world, the new life form would also be unlikely to provoke an allergic reaction in humans.

  Though Anders work was more interesting to Lorcan, he found Camilla more interesting as a person. He’d chided himself for his foolishness over and over again, but he couldn’t shake the impression of her similarity to Grace. What was even more affecting was the fact she was around the same age his wife had been when she’d died. That had been decades ago, and now, in comparison to her, he was an old man. And yet...

  “Penny for them,” said Camilla pleasantly, peering at figures on a screen.

  “I’m sorry, what?” Lorcan replied, startled out of his reverie. He’d been hanging about in Camilla’s lab for an hour or so, checking her latest results. He’d offered up his own blood and bone marrow for her to use, so he felt a personal involvement in her experiments. That was his excuse for being there, anyway, and he was sticking to it.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” she said. “Haven’t you heard of that saying?”

  “Only a penny? I suppose that seems a fair price for what passes through my head these days.”

  “What? Don’t put yourself down. I’m sure the musings of the founder of the Antarctic Project must be worth a little more than that. Maybe a whole cred?”