Jeanne G'Fellers - No Sister of Mine

by Jeanne G'Fellers

  The crowd dispersed into small groups and drifted toward their respective homes. The remaining handful gathered at the tree line to wash away the evening chill with an oversized wine flask. Cance snatched the container and took a deep swig. “I see some of us are true to the Cause.” She looked around the group. “Let’s see what we have here. You!” Cance indicated the heavy man now holding the flask. “You ever in the Sarian ranks?”

  “Two passes,” he said with a boastful squaring of his shoulders.

  “Ever post on the base here?”

  “No.”

  Cance grabbed the flask from his hand. “Go home. We don’t need anyone who isn’t familiar with the layout of the base. Who has worked or posted there?” Four hands went up, the exact number for Cance’s purposes. “All but these four leave.” She turned to the quartet, casting their wives a scouring glare. She had little use for Autlach women besides occasional physical satisfaction, and none of these appeared adequate for that. “Send your women home. They’ve no place here.”

  “We have as much to do with this as anyone!” blared a slack-breasted mother of far too many, ignoring her husband’s embarrassed hushing. “These are our lands, too.”

  Our lands too? Cance suppressed her rising anger. Autlach women had no rights of ownership. They’d been taught their place, something some Taelachs, Cance believed, could learn from. She smiled lightly then addressed the women in a gentle tone. “I understand your wanting to participate, but the strength and mental stamina required for this demonstration is ill-fitting a woman. Return to your homes and children. The less you know the better. The Cause has no wish to confuse the delicate emotions of lovely ladies such as you.”

  This, accompanied by their husbands’ insistence, seemed to pacify the women’s concerns and they departed, chattering amongst themselves. Again, Cance drank deeply from the wine, refraining from speech until only her chosen remained. “Let’s get down to business. The Langus Cause has asked that the four of you effect a raid on the base.”

  “Raid?” The longhaired member of the foursome sneered. “Ta’ what purpose?”

  “A simple one. And one I’ll tell you in due time. For now, let’s discuss the layout of the base.” Cance knelt, motioning the others to do the same. From a hidden pocket she produced a small tube and popped its end, removing a scroll and two light sticks.

  “This”—Cance unrolled the scroll, securing its curling ends with the sticks—“this is the key to it all.” The lights sputtered to life, their dim, odd green glow spilling across the soil. The men, still squatted, gazed inquiringly at the scroll then their informant. “I presume everyone here has worked a boundary sentry station?”

  All four nodded.

  “So getting onto the base won’t pose a problem. The difficulty will be here.” Cance indicated the Main Center’s Assembly in the middle of the map.

  “Hold on,” lamented the man wearing an eye shroud. “That’s the most heavily guarded area on the base.”

  “On this entire blasted moon,” agreed the darkly tanned individual to his left. “Langus’s central weather, water, and power controls are there.”

  “Exactly.” Cance made a popping sound with her tongue, a habit obtained during lonely days spent in the prison colony’s isolation chambers. “So are the main controls to the security matrix. That’s what we’re after.”

  “Ah’ see,” said the longhaired Autlach. “If the main matrix goes down,” he said, rolling his R’s with the thick accent of the southern Langus farmland, “it goes down moonwide. Plus, we’ll have power over the other control centers.”

  “A drink to the winner!” Cance passed the flask. “When it goes down the Cause can make its move all across Langus.”

  “I sentried at the Center’s Assembly.” The fourth member of the group finally spoke, his black eyes squinting to focus in the fading light. “The Assembly is Taelach tech. The entryways are sealed and rigged to detonate if tampered with. You can’t get in there.”

  “They have to be opened for servicing don’t they?” Cance had little patience for such stupidity. “If it can be opened for that, then I can get you in there.”

  “How?” demanded the longhair, his questions clearly establishing him as the group’s leader.

  Cance pulled up a sleeve and moved into the light, revealing the plasma bow spanning her arm. “With scan decoders and a few of these.”

  “Whoa! Where did you get that?” The man with the eye shroud stumbled back a pace. “I lost my eye to one of those hair-triggered little bitches.”

  “And Autlach illegal outside military installations.” The tanned man spat, raising a suspicious brow. “How’d you get one?”

  “The Cause has their resources.” Cance rose to full height and cast the men a significant frown. “I have no problem using Taelach tech when needed. Do any of you?”

  Four heads shook adamantly. No one wished to challenge this odd Autlach, especially when he had a bow lashing his arm.

  “Very well.” Cance grunted. “Back to the bows.”

  “They’re effective but difficult to master,” admitted the quiet one. “The Sarian military rarely uses them because they take too long to train on.”

  “Not this one.” Cance waved the device under their noses. “It’s been modified to track and fire on a verbal command.” She flipped up the palm lever to reveal the blank underbelly. “There’s no trigger.”

  “And no manual aiming makes for a sure shot.” Longhair grinned. “Got one for each of us?”

  “The Cause has provided funding for four fully charged bows and two scan decoders.” Cance mentioned the Cause to remind all of the reasoning behind their actions. She disposed of the lighting sticks by cracking them in half, rolled the map scroll, and slid it into its tube. “Meet me at the Waterlead bar tomorrow evening. I expect to see each of you there, no excuses. You are sworn to this and to me. Failure to carry out your promise will be regarded as betrayal and dealt with accordingly by the Cause.” Cance gulped from the flask. “To Langus and her salvation!” The men shouted their concordance and took their own turns at the drink. Supportive or not, believing or otherwise, they knew there was no backing out.

  “Return to your homes,” Cance told them, adding this harsh warning: “Tell no one. One slip of the tongue could be the demise of us all.” With that, the four scattered and faded into the countryside.

  “Excellent work, my enterprising Taelach.” A voice buzzed from just inside the tree line.

  “It’s clear, Talmshone.” Cance’s mouth contorted in a wicked, loathsome smile. “Come have a drink to our success.”

  The field grasses rustled with footsteps and a heavily webbed, three-fingered hand wrapped around the wine flask. “The Commitment will be thrilled to hear their plans are developing so nicely.” Talmshone wiped the flask opening on his cuff then drained its contents in a single gulp. “Ahh, Sarian wine. ’Tis the only decent thing the Autlach produces, besides a few choice Taelachs such as yourself.” He gave Cance a vicious double-lidded wink.

  “Flattery, Talmshone, can get you everywhere.” But Cance stepped back, so as not to encourage an advance from the scaly Iralian.

  “Do not concern yourself with your personal safety.” Talmshone flung the empty flask to the wayside. “I fail to find Sarians enticing, Autlach or Taelach. You are both too delicately made and oddly arranged for my satisfaction. Even you guardians.”

  “Delicate?” Cance took four shots from her inhaler. “Iralians are not exactly my ideal date either. Where’s my pay?”

  Talmshone placed a band of rolled Autlach bills in Cance’s outstretched palm. He was well aware of her addiction and considered it the unstable link in their alliance. Prock, a native plant of Trimar, was liquefied to produce an inhalable spray. It was widely used among the inhabitants of the penal colony, more so by those escaped or slaved into the icy Junglelands surrounding the prison. Few served their sentence without becoming lifelong addicts.

  “This makes
us up to date plus expenses.” Talmshone waited for Cance to regain composure before he continued. “I would refrain from spending it all in one place, or on one thing.”

  Cance sniffed, more at the remark than to clear her satiated nasal passages. “Like I’d go anywhere without a generous supply. Remember, I’m due four billion in Iralian funds when the job is done.”

  “Four billion plus control of Langus. I am familiar with Commitment’s agreement. Just do your job.” Talmshone bared his pointed teeth in a crooked leer, the Iralian version of a polite smile. “And we shall do ours.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The braided Taelach guardian is a deadly enemy with no remorse for its actions. It will defend both post and family to the bitterest end.

  —Autlach saying

  The door alarm’s aggravating chirp awakened Trazar Laiman from a tantalizing dream. He shivered in his blankets, glanced up at the wall chimes, and yelled to whoever was on the hatchway’s reverse side.

  “Go away and come back in the morning. It’s too frigging late!” He jerked the blankets over his head and tried to recapture the moment. Maybe whoever it was would give up.

  A pounding fist brought him up a second time. Just as well; the temptress had faded. “This had better be good.” He stumbled into his leggings. “Stipall, you too drunk to remove your gloves to open the hatch again?” Trazar leaned wearily on the wall and hit the hatch release, imagining it was the face of the party on the other side.

  “Sentry Commander Laiman?” Krell Middle towered in the hatchway.

  “First Kimshee Middle!” Trazar attempted a salute but chose instead to save his dignity and grabbed the waist lacings of his sagging leggings.

  “You know who I am then, Commander?”

  “Of course I do, First Officer.” Trazar made a quick knot in his legging’s cording. “This is my second post here and there aren’t that many of your kind around.”

  “Taelachs do stick out in a crowd,” admitted Krell in a short laugh. “Apologies for the late hour, Commander, but I have pressing business to discuss with you. May I come in?”

  Trazar stepped back. “Pardon the mess. Quarters are becoming unusually tight. Four of us have to share a single’s space. Not that officers have such difficulties.”

  “Sentry, even officers are double bunking these days.” Krell removed a pile of clothing from a chair, pulled it into the center of the room, and took a seat, returning the startled glances of the room’s other half-awake inhabitants while Trazar pulled on a duty tunic. The others were members of the same squadron so Krell could speak in confidence. “I’ll be brief. Sentry Laiman, I need the services of your entire squadron. Their available evening hours, that is.”

  “Come again?” Trazar was positive lack of sleep was responsible for what he had heard, but it must have been correct because his roommates let sounds somewhere between a snicker and a gasp.

  “I know this is an unusual request. You probably won’t understand the logic of—”

  “Taelach Middle”—Trazar took quick insult when caught off guard in the presence of his men—“you suggesting I don’t have the ability to understand a proposal involving my squad?”

  “Nothing of the sort.” Krell’s voice and expression remained neutral. “I’m not entirely convinced of the proposal’s logic myself. Nonetheless, this is what I require.” She proceeded to explain the proposition in earnest, stopping several times to answer Trazar’s questions and clarify his misconceptions. He paced the room, twisting the end of his single battle braid around his index finger while he listened.

  “Let me get this straight. You want my men to go to this bar on the lower side every evening until you say otherwise?”

  “Correct.”

  “And I’m not to know why they are doing it?”

  “Why is not important,” said Krell with a bitter glare that sent Trazar’s subordinates diving under the blankets. “All you need to know is what I’ve told you. The fate of Langus may rely on it.”

  “Heavens help the day the fate of this moon comes down to a drunken sentry squadron.” The request amused him until his eyes gleamed defiantly.

  “Believe it or not, Sentry Laiman, it does, and I’ll order your men to do this, above your head if necessary.”

  “I have every intention of doing as you request, First Kimshee Middle!” Trazar bowed with what could easily have been a challenge. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was only concerned for my men’s safety. Kinship officers sometimes view Autlach sentries as a disposable commodity.”

  “I am not one of them. They will be at no risk. Now, do you understand what is to take place?” Krell detested being questioned under any situation, but this particularly addled her. She was tired and surrounded by the dank smell of male sweat. LaRenna’s gentle aroma was decidedly more satisfying.

  “Basically, you want my squadron to patron the Waterlead every night until further notice.” He sniffed. “One question.”

  “And what is that?” Krell sighed, anxious to leave.

  “Who foots the bill? Sentry pay isn’t much. Most of my men send home every bit they make so their families can live. I know officers can afford it”—Trazar glimpsed at Krell’s rank symbol— “but we enlisted grunts can’t.”

  “And where did you get this ripe bit of information?” retorted Krell. “Three quarters of Taelach officer pay goes to the Kinship’s coffers. I subsist on about half what you earn, so don’t accuse all officers of having overstuffed money pouches.” These Auts would serve their purpose then be gladly dismissed, free to slur her name and identity at leisure. “You’ll have the funding on your duty worktable every morning. Give each man enough for two or three drinks plus tips.”

  “I assume this is to be done out of uniform?” Trazar pushed his tone to the verge of insubordination.

  “Of course it is, sentry!” Krell spat. “What good would it do my investigation if they appeared at the Waterlead’s door in full dress?” She held a finger to his face. “Also, have them undo their braids or tuck them into a headband one. And lastly, make sure they stagger the times that they arrive and leave. I want the effect of a steady stream of customers, not a raid. Any other questions or comments you wish to make, called for or otherwise?”

  “No.”

  “I will leave you to your bed then. If there are any problems, notify me immediately.” Krell ignored the sputtering voices that rose as the door closed behind her. “Auts.” It was a Kimshee’s job to deal with them on behalf of the Taelach people and Krell generally enjoyed it. But occasionally, like tonight, it could tax the short limits of her patience. She paused in the compound courtyard. It was deserted this time of night and the light breeze between the buildings gave it a desirable, peaceful air. Meditating briefly, she focused away from the frustrating sentry commander and centered on the business at hand, a cross-planetary conference with Belsas Exzal, Taelach of All.

  Midmorning in the Taelach lands of Saria Three found Belsas in her sunlit workroom, waiting for Krell’s transmission. She stood at a window, watching a bandit beast herd amble by on the open grasslands below. It was calving season and the gawky newborns struggled to keep a stumbling pace with their mothers. Resembling bison, bandit beasts left a path of bare ground as they grazed, effectively robbing all plant life including seeds, fruit, and roots. Their kilometer-wide paths swathed across the northern plains in every direction. Reseeded and fertilized by their droppings, the land rejuvenated rapidly, the life cycle staying in complete balance.

  The door to the workroom opened, admitting Belsas’s gentle-natured life mate Chandrey. Her full skirts rustled as she joined her guardian at the window and she laughed lightheartedly at two calves that were engaged in a game of chase. “I never get tired of watching them play. Children are the same no matter the species.”

  “If life were only that simple for us.” Belsas drew Chandrey close to kiss her on her high forehead. “What have you been doing this beautiful morning?”

  “Pull
ing tuft snarls from the flowering beds.” Despite a thorough washing, she could still smell the muskiness the dandelion-like weeds had left on her hands. “No news yet?”

  “Not as yet. It’s late where she is on Langus. First Officer Middle may wait until morning her time to contact us.”

  “Surely not. Kimshee Middle knows you’re waiting for confirmation of LaRenna’s arrival.” Chandrey stood tiptoe to reward Belsas’s kiss with a passionate one to her mouth. Sensing the tension in her mate’s face, she frowned, her lips drawing in a similar fashion. “Relax, darling. We’ll hear something soon.”

  Appropriately timed, a plump face, cheeks pink with excitement, appeared in the doorway. “Pardon, Belsas, but a coded transmission is waiting for you.”

  “Thank you, Rona.”

  “See!” Chandrey grinned so merrily Belsas couldn’t help but chuckle. “I told you we’d hear.”

  “You’re correct as usual, love,” Belsas said, entering the access number into the adjacent computer panel and the view screen flared to life. “Well, First Kimshee, did she make it in one piece?” Krell’s image was dim on the screen. “Are you having transmission difficulties?”

  Krell whispered salutations. “Greetings, Grandmaster Belsas. Good day, Lady Chandrey. There’s no problem here. I have the lights low so they won’t wake your daughter. She’s travel exhausted, but otherwise fine.”

  “She near?” asked Chandrey, mindful of the overcrowding on Langus.

  “Look for yourself.” Krell turned the viewer so LaRenna’s outline was visible, her white mass of curls peeking from the blankets.

  “Poor baby,” fretted Chandrey in her melodious soprano. “She’s already asleep. The journey from the Training Grounds to Langus can be so hard.”

  “She’s no baby,” reminded Belsas. “LaRenna’s fully braided and at a post. But then again,” she added with a loving smile to Chandrey, “you always were one to worry over the young ones.”