by S. J. Madill
"Yeah," said Ken. He nodded. "Like Pentarch Yenaara. I was thinking about her, but still—"
On Zura's desk, one of her datapads chirped. Zura raised an eyebrow. "Excellent timing."
"Oh." Ken gestured toward the door behind him. "Should I go?"
"Absolutely not." Zura touched a gem on her desktop, and the office doors latched shut with a click. She slid the chirping datapad to the centre of her desk, and tapped it to answer the call. "This is Mahasa Varta," she said.
Pentarch Yenaara's melodic voice came through the datapad's speaker. "Aasal, Mahasa."
"Aasal, Honoured Pentarch." She motioned for Ken to sit down. "The room is secure. I have Admiral Amoroso with me."
"Ah," said the Pentarch. "Hello, Ken."
Zura saw the Admiral's face light up. "Hi, Amba. It's been a while. Looks like we're being painted with the same brush, eh?"
"So it seems. Four-Thirteen has investigated this matter. I doubt you will be surprised."
Zura huffed. "Yes, Honoured Pentarch?"
"The organization that did the research, as well as the journal in which it was published, are both owned by subsidiaries of the McLean-Irvine corporation."
"Of course they are. And the media organisations promoting this nonsense?"
"Yes, Mahasa. McLean-Irvine."
"Understood." Zura looked at Ken. "Admiral?"
"Okay," he began. "So… McLean-Irvine is working with, or for, someone with an axe to grind against Amba."
The musical voice from the datapad speaker had a note of exasperation in it. "And the head of the Temple is nowhere to be found. Has Pentarch Ivenna contacted you, Mahasa?"
Zura said nothing. She quietly picked up her teacup and took a sip.
"Mahasa?"
Out of the corner of her eye, Zura could see Ken staring at her. She kept her attention focused on her cup.
"She's still here, Amba. She heard you."
"Mahasa?" said Pentarch Yenaara. "Has Ivenna met with you?"
Zura took another sip, and paused to peer down into her cup.
A smirk curled the corner of Ken's mouth. "Still here, Amba."
"Oh, honestly," said the voice from the datapad. "Mahasa, did you meet with Ivenna and promise not to speak of it?"
Zura carefully returned her teacup to its saucer, and looked out the window at the sun-bathed city.
"Huh," said Ken. "I had no idea." He leaned forward in his chair, and spoke to the datapad. "Amba? How much d'you wanna bet—"
"Ken, the last person I made a bet with was Linda Black, and I'm not doing that again." An audible sigh came through the speaker. "Fine. Mahasa, please give me your current assessment of the Pentarch Ivenna."
Zura leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands together in her lap. "The Pentarch Ivenna lacks a coherent plan. She is greatly overestimating the public's support for the Temple. And…" she curled her lip, "…she apparently thinks a person's integrity can be used to manipulate them."
A moment's silence. Ken raised his eyebrows. "Well, then."
The Pentarch's voice came from the speaker. "Sounds like Ivenna."
"Okay," said Ken. "Just for the sake of argument, let's suppose that Ivenna recently met the Mahasa…" he held up a finger, "…allegedly, I mean. I'd say Ivenna has now come to a conclusion about where the Mahasa's loyalties lie."
"Indeed," said Pentarch Yenaara. "Loyalty to the Palani people doesn't matter to Ivenna. She demands loyalty to her personally. Anyone who hesitates to show her that loyalty is an enemy."
"What about McLean-Irvine?" asked Ken.
Zura shook her head. "That's not a question of loyalty. That's a business transaction."
"Agreed," said Yenaara. "And the Temple controls most of the empire's treasury. Unless I can convince the other Pentarch to constrain Ivenna, there's no limit to what the Temple and McLean-Irvine could do."
Ken made a face. "That doesn't sound good."
"I'll do what I can," said the Pentarch. "But I don't know if it will be enough."
Zura nudged her teacup toward the side of her desk, and unrolled a datasheet in front of her. With a few sweeps of her fingers, she added an item to her personal task list:
Have armour brought up from storage.
Chapter Twelve
Even when parked, there were dozens of things running on the ship. Ventilation fans. Water recyclers. A subtle chorus of pumps and motors. In the middle of the night, when she couldn't sleep, it all sounded so much louder.
Yaella lay on her side, sheets pulled up to her chin, and stared out at the darkness of her cabin. From the lights of the wall console, she could make out the rest of the room: the neatly-placed belongings on the shelf, her boots on the floor, and her clothes folded over the back of her chair. There was a single picture hanging on the wall across from her: a picture she'd taken at the cliffside plaza with Mom. It had been such a beautiful day: the distant headlands were visible in the distance, mottled red with the New Fraser heather.
Her mind started to wander, and it wandered right back to where it'd been going all night: the plan. Her plan. She was sure it was the dumbest plan anyone had ever come up with. When she'd told them about it two days ago, they'd looked stunned. Yesterday, they'd come together again, and fine-tuned a few details about who did what. A lot of it would hinge on the Handmaiden: she was the expert in this sort of thing. Yaella didn't know exactly what Artahel temple commandoes did, but she had a feeling it was a lot more 'commando' than 'temple'.
She'd spoken to her mother in the afternoon. Mom had been pleased that she had a plan. A bit surprised, maybe. They hadn't talked long; from the tone of her voice, she could tell that Mom was busy and stressed. Maybe she was lying awake right now, the way she usually did, worrying about her own plans. Maybe the two of them were doing the exact same thing, and the only difference was the scale of it.
Yaella closed her eyes and tried to will herself to sleep. Two nights without proper sleep; if this kept up, she'd wind up taking sleep meds like Mom did…
A single chirp from the wall console jolted her wide awake. She stretched her arm out and fumbled for the console buttons.
The door slid open, and light spilled into her cabin. Yaella squinted, shielding her eyes with her hand. "What?"
"It's me," said the Bucky-shaped silhouette in the doorway. "You up?"
"Oh, for the…" Yaella struggled to sit up. "No, dumbass. I'm in a coma."
She pushed herself upright, her pyjama-clad legs dangling over the side of the bed. Air from the passageway flowed into the room, blowing warm on her feet. "What's going on?"
With the passageway light behind him, it was hard to see Bucky's face. "A dust storm has started. It's getting pretty thick."
"Oh." According to the atmospheric sensors, there wasn't supposed to be a dust storm tonight. She thought it'd be another day or two. "Okay. Get everyone up, would you? I'll be out in a few."
"We're doing this?"
It was now or never, and it was up to her. "Yeah."
"Okay." Bucky's voice sounded subdued. "I'll get everyone up." He stepped away and the door closed, plunging the cabin back into darkness.
Maybe it was just as well they did it tonight. Another few nights' waiting would just mean another few nights worrying. Worrying, and not sleeping.
In the dark, Yaella reached out for the wall console again. She paused, braced herself, and poked it. The room lights flickered and came on, and it made her wince.
She stood up and started getting dressed. Off came the threadbare t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, and on went the clean clothes she'd set out. She realised she was moving mechanically, not really thinking of what she was doing. She tried to focus on the task at hand, but found it difficult to concentrate. It wasn't time to think about it anymore, it was time to do it. Was this what it was like for Mom? All her years of fighting, all the battles; did her mind just shut off, leaving her body to do the job on its own? Setting her emotions aside until later?
Yaella pulled o
n a knit cap, tucking her hair underneath, then turned toward her storage trunk. I thought I'd have more time to get organised. She opened it up.
Her hand reached to the bottom of the trunk and touched stiff composite plate. She pulled, lifting up the armoured breastplate and bringing everything else with it. She held up the breastplate and looked it over.
Mom's old breastplate: it had been through centuries of warfare. Every scratch, every jagged gouge, was a blow that would have killed her. A record of survival, written in composite. Yaella remembered when she'd been little, and had tried to clean the armour. She'd wanted to please Mahasa Varta, who wasn't even her mom yet. The fearsome Mahasa had come home, and found Yaella wearing her armour: a scrawny little kid, lost inside the giant breastplate. Mom hadn't been angry. If anything, she'd seemed sad.
Yaella put it on and clicked the latches shut one by one, punching at the left shoulder clasp until it snapped into place. Once impossible for her tiny hands, now she did it by herself. The armour almost fit her now. She was never going to have shoulders like Mom, but it was close. Close enough.
If she could see me now.
The door chirped again. As Yaella pulled on her leather jacket, she poked the button on the console. The door slid open.
Bucky stood in the passageway, a breathing mask in his hand. He wore a Palani breastplate as well; Mom had made sure they each had one. "Wow," he said, looking at her. "So, uh—"
"Yeah," she replied. They were really doing this. "Gun?" she asked. Just saying it made it more real. Holy shit. Guns.
Bucky nodded, and pointed to the carbine visible over his shoulder.
"Okay." Yaella took her own gun out of its lockbox. She'd already checked the antique powder-burning handgun a dozen times, to make sure it was safe. She checked again, before sliding the heavy lump of metal into the pocket of her jacket. Mom had tried to get her to use a proper holster, but that felt too… premeditated.
Scooping up the bullet-filled magazines, she stuffed them into the pockets on her legs. "Divines," she muttered. "It all weighs a ton."
"Y'know," said Bucky. "Pulse guns don't weigh so much—"
"Yeah, yeah." She grabbed the belt of her pants and cinched it tighter. "There. Don't want 'em falling down when I'm running." She picked up her breathing mask, and a datapad from the bed, and followed Bucky into the passageway. She didn't look back.
Onward, I guess.
* * *
The others were already assembled in the cargo bay when she arrived. Tal had given his breastplate to Dr. Munshaw, and the Handmaiden was helping the older man put it on. It fit the Doctor better than it had ever fit Tal.
A grim-faced Lanari was shutting the latches on the Doctor's armour. When he reached up to his collar, his hand was swatted away by a little white-gloved hand. That made the Doctor smirk; maybe the night's absurdity had begun to dawn on him.
"Okay," said Yaella. She held up her face mask. "Everyone got something to breathe with?"
All eyes turned to her. She still didn't like being the centre of attention. Bucky held up the mask he was carrying. Dr. Munshaw did, too. "I checked to see if it works," he said, then yelped as the Handmaiden pounded shut a clasp on his armour.
Lanari nodded at Yaella. "Ready."
Yaella's eyes sought out Ocean. He stood apart from everyone else, leaning against the bulkhead. He wore the same black clothes he always did, and his eyes were watching her. "Captain?"
"Ready to go, Ocean?"
He nodded. "I am."
Yaella gestured at him with the mask in her hand. "No mask? No armour?"
"No mask. I don't breathe."
"Right. Okay…" It was still pretty weird. "But no armour?"
"None."
She gestured at him again. "Are you sure?"
Ocean shook his head. "I can survive injuries that would kill anyone else, Captain." For once, his smile looked sincere. "Although I appreciate the concern."
"And you have what you need to undo locks?"
"It won't be a problem."
"Fine, then." There was a lot he wasn't telling her, but sometimes it was easier to just go with it.
Yaella surveyed the crew once more. Time to say something. "Okay," she began hesitantly. "We're going outside. Handmaiden Lanari—" she swung her mask toward the Palani woman— "has scouted out the little warehouse where they're keeping the droid. You've all seen the map. Our best bet is to go around to the west side. One locked door, with two Guild guards. The alleyway is clear and straight. Normally, the guards would see anyone coming, but in this storm they won't see shit. Of course," she said with a shrug, "neither will we."
She was surprised how calm they looked. She was feeling jittery; they needed to get going soon, or she was going to throw up. She swallowed. "We don't want to fight anyone; please remember that. We just want one minute. Long enough for Ocean to open the lock, and the Doctor to get in and get a scan of this droid thing. Then we're gone. That's it. One minute. If anyone wanders along that might see what we're doing, we distract them; we don't hurt them." She took a deep breath, the breastplate creaking as she inhaled. "Any last questions?"
No one spoke; she wished someone would. It was a terrible plan — there were so many things she probably hadn't thought of — but everyone seemed ready. "Let's go," she said. "Handmaiden, please lead the way."
Lanari nodded once, and headed for the hatch as the cargo bay began to open. Beyond the glittering blue containment field swirled a sea of rust. Yaella pulled on her breathing mask and followed the Handmaiden down the ramp.
She was swallowed up in a dark blizzard of rust. Grit stung her exposed skin and hissed against her mask, dust sliding down the visor. She could only see a few steps in any direction. The wall of the landing pad was a mere ten metres from the ship, but lost from view.
Dust was already trickling down her neck, under her armour and her shirt. When she looked behind her, she saw Bucky's silhouette backlit by the glow from the cargo bay, the others behind him. With each loud breath, condensation wafted up the inside of her visor before retreating again.
A hand reached out of the murk in front of her, becoming whiter as it grasped her arm. The vague shape of the Handmaiden's mask appeared. "This way, Captain." The arm pulled her forward.
"Okay, coming." Yaella turned halfway around. "C'mon," she called, her voice muffled by the mask and the hissing blizzard of grit. "Everyone stay together."
The Bucky-shaped silhouette nodded. "Will do."
Lanari had swept aside her cloak, and Yaella could see enough of the white form to follow through the murk. She was a little disoriented by the endless dust, especially once the glow from the cargo bay was swallowed by the darkness, but she was pretty sure this wasn't the way to the landing pad door. Lanari kept moving, following the service hoses that snaked along the ground.
The Handmaiden stopped at the edge of the landing pad, where the service hoses curled up to meet connections on the wall. "Wait," said Yaella. "What're you—"
Lanari didn't say a word. She set one foot on a hose connection, and climbed up the protruding pipes. After a moment, a white-gloved hand reached down from above. "Captain."
Checking that everyone else had kept up, Yaella approached the wall. She placed one boot on a sturdy-looking pipe and reached up toward the Handmaiden's hand.
Delicate fingers clamped around her wrist, and Yaella scrambled to keep her footing as she was heaved upward. Her feet slipped and she pitched forward, landing unceremoniously on the top of the wall. "Ow," she grunted. "Why didn't we just use the damn door?"
As she clambered to her feet, Lanari was already reaching back down for Bucky. "Artahel don't use doors," she said.
Chapter Thirteen
Atop the landing pad's curved walls, the whole world had turned to an endless stream of reddish-brown.
Her breath was loud in the mask, but nothing compared to the angry hiss of grit blasting the visor. She felt it trickling down under her armour and her clothes.
She stayed at a crouch, following Lanari. The Artahel's white suit shed the dust effortlessly; red-brown streams of it cascaded across the Handmaiden's back. That small, slim body in front of her moved with an almost hypnotic grace, cruising along the top of the walls that separated the landing pads.
Yaella glanced over her shoulder. Bucky's hulking silhouette was right behind her. Behind him, other forms kept pace, shadows that moved in the swirling murk.
She hurried to keep up with Lanari. The tops of the walls were wider than she'd expected; easily wide enough for someone to walk along.
I'm such a newbie. All the time they'd been coming to Canteen, she'd dutifully paid the extortionate fees to re-enter the starport. It hadn't occurred to her that she'd never seen anyone else paying the fees. It was obvious now: the fees were for idiots; everyone who knew anything about Canteen just went over the walls, bypassing Munro and his fees. No wonder Munro was always so nice. I'm a sucker, and he knew it the first time I held out my credit chip.
Up ahead, a new glow gave the sky a vague light: it was somewhere above them, and off to the left. Yaella tried to remember the layout of the starport, and where the light might be.
Lanari dropped onto her haunches and stopped, beckoning.
Yaella leaned in. "What?"
The Handmaiden's voice was surprisingly clear; she spoke in clean, precise tones. "Edge of the starport," she said. She raised one white arm, hand held like a knife blade, and pointed into the darkness. "The warehouse is this way. I will remain visible so you can follow me."
Yaella checked over her shoulder. Behind Bucky was the Doctor, and Ocean behind him. It took her a moment to spot him; he was covered head to toe in a layer of dust. It coated his clothes and his hair, and was caked on his face. Yaella turned back to Lanari.
The Handmaiden gave her a single nod, and jumped off the wall. She disappeared from view.
"What the—" Yaella shuffled closer to the edge, trying to see where Lanari had gone. Below her, the blowing dust traced the faint outline of a crate against the wall. How long had it been there? "For the love of…" she muttered to herself. She climbed down onto the crate, and saw another crate below it.
