Archangel

by Marguerite Reed

  I looked up at the Beast, feeling the blood drain from my face, and my heart tolling in my chest like a hard little bell.

  I know the best person for the job.

  “Mohammad,” I said, not taking my gaze from the Beast. “I want you to do a quick search on global self-determination. The processes, both legal and illegal.” Before he could respond, I killed the link.

  If Ubastis had self-determination—if Ubastis was recognized as a sovereign state, there would be no more votes on colonization. No more votes on how Ubastis’s resources could better the rest of the Commonwealth.

  Self-determination of a planet—the declaration of autonomy from Commonwealth control was an act of supreme selfishness. Especially in the case of Ubastis. It would force the Commonwealth to recognize Ubastis as having an equal voice. It would require the Commonwealth to assign diplomats, a separate bureau—the Commonwealth would have to redefine every single modality, from Ubastis as a planet in the process of exploration and thus subject to those damn votes that cropped up so often, to a self-governing body that would handle its own immigration, shokrun very much.

  It was a possibility that I had longed for and had tried not to think about. I had never let myself consider how to advance the day of autonomy, never wondered about intrigue or scheming or plotting or how such a thing could be advanced ahead of schedule. Only plodded through with gritted teeth and hoped for the best.

  Lasse, obviously, had thought about it.

  “You knew I would have fought you tooth and nail, didn’t you?” I murmured out loud. I would’ve; I would have seen it as cheating and not worthy of us.

  And now here the decision seemed to be taken out of my hands.

  “O-389—”

  “Commander.”

  “Those men, waiting for—me? They would—” I swallowed hard. Made myself say the words. “They would follow me? They would let me lead them?”

  He put his hand over his heart in a salute I did not recognize. “They know that following you is their chance of having a home. They come from Hell to hope, Vashti.”

  “Ah, God—”

  “They’ll die for it, Commander. But you—you must live for them. Just as you do for everyone—everything else on this damn planet.”

  The temptation—so terrifying, so sweet. My mind raced on to practicalities: the formation of an economy. The formation of a government. Would we be able to trade, or would we be required to manufacture everything we needed? How much would the technology we enjoyed suffer? Would we slip back into barbarism? Would we be forced to pillage the land for sustenance? Would it be better to remain a scientific colony in return for all the benefits of health, wealth, and protection from our own nature?

  I stared at my laced fingers. I did not have the answers—only more and more questions. For a moment I found myself wishing I had worn the queen’s dress . . .

  “O-389, please ask Numair to come over here.”

  When Numair sat down—the two of them like a dark massif ranged against me—I did not dissemble.

  “Do the governors of all the other cities know?”

  He opened his mouth; the Beast forestalled him.

  “She knows, Governor.”

  Numair sighed; he had the grace to look abashed. “We didn’t hide it out of disrespect, Doctor.”

  “That’s Commander. And that doesn’t matter right now. Who knows?”

  “Melquiedes. At Enhed’na.”

  So, not just the terrain but also the city’s governor hid them. I wanted to tweak him just a bit about Moira, but it could wait. “That’s a relief. He can guide P&R away from that area. Anyone else? András? Mieu?”

  “No. They don’t know.”

  “And my last clients—the ever-so-charming General Zhádāo and Bearce? O-389 here says they were spies.” If we’d been on solid ground I’ve gotten up and started pacing.

  “People’s Party, but we don’t think they knew anything about it. Zhádāo got to Bearce after he landed here. Offered him more bank than we did. Their goal was to somehow discredit you in popular opinion. To catch some gaffe that would strip away whatever influence you have as Dr. Undset’s widow.” He threw me an anxious glance. “You know that didn’t happen.”

  I nodded, but my thoughts were hooked on that previous phrase. Dr. Undset’s widow. Student, wife, widow. How long I had been content in that role, as an adjunct, an auxiliary . . . The galactic community did not see the roles of partner and lover.

  What did I care how the galactic community saw me?

  “This was Dr. Undset’s wish, as you understand it, Numair? To give aid and succor to these . . . refugees? And then use them in their capacity as soldiers? Breaking away from our status as a scientific colony?” I drew a deep breath. “Asserting independence?”

  “You are not the only one who loves this place and wants to protect it.”

  “Is this the best way?” I looked from one face to the other, seeing in them the same expression. “Why ask me? Why look to me? Why am I so important in your scheme?” I narrowed my eyes. “O-389, if you were so worried I’d say no, you could’ve killed me out in the arboros and gone on with this plan.”

  “No Beast can kill his Natch,” he said. The lips pursed in the struggle to speak once more. “Wh . . . I’ve told you that.”

  “Vashti.” Numair leaned forward. “Let me tell you this: if you were hard against this, you would move heaven and earth to tear it down. You would rip us to pieces. You have a will of fire, and frankly, sometimes you’re damn scary. We would rather have you with us than against us.”

  I felt the smile thin on my face. “Not to mention Lasse’s spirit would come back to haunt you.”

  Their chuckles held no humor. I looked at the two of them coldly. “You realize this is against everything I’ve stood for.”

  “Is it, Commander? Wh . . . I accessed your records from Mustaine. Every time you’ve voted, it’s been against expansion, settlement. Interference.”

  “Until we can be sure there will be no exploitation of resources, yes.”

  “And this step would ensure that the issue is never brought up outside Ubastis again. No one else deciding our fate,” Numair said.

  “You’re letting me go up there in front of a jury from the courts of the Commonwealth with this knowledge. That’s ballsy. You trust me so much, then?”

  Numair’s gaze held me, utterly level and frank. “So much so that we’ve spliced into L5’s network and broadcast a one-way feed down planetside.”

  My hand clenched into a fist. “Jesus . . .” Could I punch him from a sitting position? “Any other massive responsibilities you’d like to put on my shoulders? How do you know I won’t fail? How do you know I won’t come off like an absolute crazy bitch who should be incarcerated?”

  Numair eased my hand open and held it. “You have never failed. It’s not in you to fail.”

  I tried to wrench my hand away, but he refused to relinquish it. “I fail every goddamn day!”

  “No, Vashti.” His voice resonated, beautiful with conviction. “We trust you. We know that you will do the right thing. You will do what Lasse would’ve done.”

  “No, gentlemen,” I said. Now came the true cliff. “I will do what I must do.”

  At the port, Meiu gave me a little bag of bean paste daifuku. “You don’t think you’re hungry now, but after a couple of hours in that box, you will be.”

  I hefted one of the little white cakes in my hand. Lovely rounded design, white and smooth—it looked all of a piece with the port around us, pale, no sharp edges. I pulled it open to reveal the dark red heart. Sweetened bean paste, and it looked like organ meat. I half expected blood to spill out over my hand.

  The Beast, as usual, stood at the perimeter of our little group. His gaze roved, taking in the walls of the port, the other citizens each in their groups, saying good-bye to friends, family. Not people-watching, but recon. Scanning for danger. I moved over to him and handed him a half of the daifuku.


  He started when I waved it in front of him. “Come back to ground, O-389,” I said.

  “There’s a lot of people going up,” he said, taking the bean cake. “A lot of people to protect you from—”

  “To protect me from . . . ?” I would not dismiss his vigilance as misplaced. “Don’t worry. It’s not a cargo hold. We have to allow some amenities for offworlders.”

  To my disgust, I felt calmer when I stood near him. The wire of adrenaline that had shuddered through my body all this day stilled to a shiver. Stupid oxytocin. And yet I should be furious; I should feel completely betrayed.

  I wanted to give my friends and comrades a sunny leave-taking, despite the reason for my visit to Lazarette 1. The calculations streaming in my head distracted me; the constant alignment and realignment of possible combinations, perturbations mazed me and made my responses distant.

  Mieu hugged me tightly: how would she, devoted to harmonious communication between Ubastis and outsiders, adjust to separation? András told me goodbye with a scowl that I knew staved off tears: as passionately anti-settlement as he was, would he push me to support this scheme? Z. Ismail held me in a sister’s embrace: would she see me as a traitor if I agreed to grant ten thousand strange men instant citizen status?

  As Numair took my hand and leaned in to give me a formal kiss on the cheek, I murmured, “I want proof.”

  “Proof?” He frowned.

  “That Lasse favored this plan.”

  His expression cleared. “Posthumous instructions had been left for this very situation.”

  Now they told me. “You think I’ve got the strength for this,” I said. “I’m just tired—tired to death.”

  And I had sought that, hadn’t I? Longing for my death as an animal longed for water, seeking it in the endless mansion of the arboros, where deep called to deep.

  There in the very public gate of the spaceport, where fellow citizens averted their eyes and offworlders stared, I put my hands over my face and wept. No. Not longing for my death. Longing for my husband.

  I had been looking for him all this time.

  Big hands on my shoulders: the Beast. They squeezed briefly and fell away. I wiped my eyes. Now not only Numair stood in front of me, but the others, all looking at me with patience, inquiry, affection.

  “I’m tired to death of being Lasse’s widow,” I said. “Lasse is dead.” Tears threatened again. I closed my eyes, took a breath. “Lasse is dead. I am alive.”

  András grabbed my wrist and held it, his eyes burning more than ever like an icon’s.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. My smile felt wobbly. “Never thought you’d hear me say that, huh?”

  They all stared at me, big-eyed. “People can’t judge me anymore by my relationship to Lasse. I don’t want influence any longer as Dr. Undset’s widow.”

  Numair started to speak. I held up a hand and went on. “I have to now be judged on my own merit.” Ah, to earn again. “I’m Dr. Loren, Commander in the 4th cohort of Patrol & Rescue. Third Minister in the Ubastis Congress. Citizens, I’m going up there to speak for my own actions—and to possibly address a declaration of autonomy.”

  “Vash—!” Numair barked.

  “Secrets are an enemy of the people, Governor,” I said. “Tell them.”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss—”

  I felt the Beast loom up behind me. Oh, Numair. “Would you rather I did it?”

  András, Ismail, and Mieu all turned their gaze to him. Come on, Citizen, salvage yourself, I thought. I should have felt guiltier about puncturing his authority in such a fashion. There was no time.

  He tried, though. With the pressure of our attention, he collected himself. “What Commander Loren said is true. Through a combination of fortuitous events—which I won’t go into right now—” he could not resist shooting me a dagger look “—we have an addition of ten thousand people to the population of Ubastis.”

  Mieu put a hand to her mouth. András’s jaw dropped. Ismail turned her gaze from Numair to me. I nodded. “And, Governor?”

  His lips compressed in a grimace of irritation. “And they have the capability of being formed into a standing army.”

  András began to swear. Z. Ismail returned my nod, the very smallest of smiles on her mouth. Mieu swing her attention between me and Numair. Her gaze lit on the Beast. “It’s him, isn’t it? He was the start of all this!”

  “According to Numair, this was conceived long before he showed up,” I said. “According to Numair, even our beloved dead Lasse was in on it.” I tried to tamp down the desperation I felt as I searched each face. “So, Citizens, what do you think? If the subject comes up, I can’t confirm or deny. I can’t let them know what we want. But—what do we want?”

  I grasped András’s hand as he had my grasped my wrist; I reached out to Mieu and took her hand as well. Z. Ismail came forward and took me in a brief hard embrace. “What do we do?” I asked.

  “We have to ask the people,” Mieu said.

  “We have to,” Ismail echoed.

  “It’s not a decision that can be made at the top,” András said.

  “Does Laila Kisanghani know?” I asked Numair. Laila, so kind and so steely. I could not begin to guess how she would see this. She had had me pegged from the beginning of all this.

  “She doesn’t.”

  “Then tell her.” I squeezed my friends’ hands and stepped back. “Think about this, Citizens. You all know what this would mean.”

  “No People’s Party interference,” said András.

  “We’d have to rely on our own resources, our own technology,” said Mieu.

  I looked to Ismail. I could not read the shine in her eyes, whether it was fervor or distress. “I know what it’ll mean,” she said. “It’ll mean war.”

  The spaceport served both New Albuquerque and Arzachel, a thousand kliks to the northeast. Offworld tourists were easy to pick out; my brothers and sisters of Ubastis equally so. A motley, brilliant group, as Bearce had first attempted to describe, in the unisex—but not sexless—salwar kamiz, all of them exuding purpose and cheer; the men regal, the women competent. The Beast fit in as well as he could, drawing a few admiring glances from the men and women of Ubastis—glances too from the offworlders, but those more of trepidation than appreciation.

  I tsked at him as we were shown to our berth on the craft. “If you covered your head, you’d draw less attention.”

  He grinned. “You think so, Nur?”

  The man keying the door open nodded. “She’s right, Citizen. Humility makes everyone lovelier in the eyes of the Cosmos; and God frowns on arrogance, subhanAllah.”

  “Alhamdulillah, Citizen,” I replied. We smiled at each other, and he ushered us in with a flourish.

  Sunlight from outside washed the compartment in brightness, showing us spare lines, spare color: gray carpet padded the floor, walls, and ceiling. A thick line of gray cushion framed the expanse of window. Large black D-rings hung from the ceiling and walls, studded the floor: handholds and footholds. Two surprisingly comfortable-looking seats reclined in the center of the room, facing the window, where we would strap ourselves in for take-off. If we liked, we could spend the next five hours there; some people preferred a sedative for the trip with the windows blacked out. Syringes for sedatives and space sickness—as well as the ubiquitous space sickness bags—were kept in the kit box bolted by the seats. A door in the same wall as our entrance indicated the toilet. It was all very private and a little claustrophobic.

  Had this been a conveyance for only Ubasti traveling to and from the Lazarettes, the spaceship would’ve have been designed more on the lines of the agora, a gathering place for all. Amenities such as private rooms meant less carrying capacity, less efficiency in the use of fuel. The offworlders appreciated such things, however; and for the tourist trade, Ubasti designers shrugged and acquiesced.

  The tourist trade. Where Ubastis made a lot of its bank. Would that be lost, if Ubastis declared self-governance? I tho
ught of the smiling Muslim who had just shown us to our room: my brother. I thought of all the Ubasti I had seen that morning. And I thought of Z. Ismail’s statement. It would mean war.

  I believed her.

  I dropped into the seat and laid back. Very comfortable. I could see how a sedative would be appealing. Sleep for five hours and not think about what was to come. I considered closing my eyes, but instead I watched the Beast prowl around the cabin, pushing his fingertips into the cushioned window rail, testing his weight against the D-rings.

  “A little different from your last accommodations,” I said.

  He shot me a look. “We don’t remember.”

  Ah, no more attempts at first person. “What do you remember?”

  “We were in the middle of a sleep cycle.” He kept ranging about, restless, constantly touching things. “The eyeslot in the door opening—that woke us up. Then a tranq dart. That’s how they get us, they have to wait until we’re in our cells and tranq us from a distance. Worst case, they gas the entire section and then wait for us to pass out, the gas to clear, and they go in and pull the one they want.”

  “A lot of effort.” I tried to keep my tone of voice noncommittal.

  “If they didn’t go to all that trouble, we’d kill them, and they know that.”

  “‘We’—just you, or all of you—all of you Beasts?”

  “All the prisoners at Mustaine. Not just Beasts. Someday we’ll tell you how bad it was. But not now.” On that he finally sat down next to me.

  Facing me across a table, or an aisle, I could handle—but his nearness right next to me disturbed me in a way I did not want to think about. I tried to cover it by strapping myself in, though we were a few minutes away from the call for ready. After a moment, he did the same—although I knew, just as in the medbay when we first spoke to each other, he could pop the straps as if they were hemp thread. Not that I would provoke him now.

  I closed my eyes and pushed away thoughts of what it would be like to be tranqed in my own room by someone who was deathly afraid of me. Pushed away thoughts of the ten thousand. Of the decision we all would have to make. Before any of that could be dealt with, I had this hearing and evaluation to get through.