by S. J. Madill
"Yeah?" Yaella leaned in closer, dust sliding off her hand as she pointed. "So those McLean-Irvine goons, d'you know them?"
Behind her, she heard Dr. Munshaw's voice. "Captain—"
She didn't hear him. All her fatigue and frustration was bubbling up at once. "Well?" Yaella demanded. "I asked if they were friends of yours. Are you working with M-I now?"
The Handmaiden's voice was like thin shards of ice. "Don't talk to me like that."
Yaella stopped. She realised she was pushing her luck, especially considering what she'd seen Lanari do half an hour before. "Okay," she said. "Fine. Maybe I'm being rude." She took a step back. "But what's going on? Why did you…" She didn't want it to sound like an accusation. "Why did the McLean-Irvine mercenaries react to you like that?"
The blue eyes never left hers. One eyebrow moved, showing a hint of irritation. "The Temple does not tell me everything, Captain."
At the sound of a snort from Dr. Munshaw, Lanari glared in his direction. After a moment she returned her eyes to Yaella. "I did not expect their reaction, but I took the opportunity to de-escalate the situation."
Yaella harrumphed. She thought of the mercenaries' weapons falling to pieces in front of them. "De-escalate, huh? I guess you had it under control…" She met Lanari's eyes again. "Sorry," she muttered, and turned away. Maybe she should believe the Handmaiden; the Doctor seemed to. And Mom always said the Temple never told anyone anything; maybe that included their own people.
She just wanted to have a shower and go to bed. From the looks of everyone else, they did too. She wondered about Ocean, and looked in his direction.
He was standing in the same place, arms still crossed over his chest. But the top half of him, down to his waist, was perfectly clean. Hair, skin, clothes; all clean and free from dust. A steady trickle of dust fell from his waist, gathering in a growing drift around his feet. Are his machines doing that? She wondered if it felt as good as a shower. A nice hot shower, before crawling into a clean bed…
She shook her head, rattling her thoughts back into motion. "Doctor?"
He was stroking his dirty beard with one hand. "Yes?"
"So…" she took a deep breath to cover a yawn. "We got you to the droid, and you did your scanning and stuff. What did you find?"
"It was a waste of time."
Yaella blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I'll be more specific: it was a goddamned waste of time."
"You're kidding me."
"It's not even a droid. It's just a super-hard alloy ball. It's hollow, which they would've known if they had a half-decent scanner. Instead, the savages were trying to cut it open. They're wasting their time with it, but they don't know it yet. They might spend weeks on it, at the rate they're going."
Bucky shook his head. "W-wait… you're saying we did all that for nothing? We could've been killed—"
Dr. Munshaw waved a hand. "Don't put words in my mouth. I didn't say that. We now know it's a waste of time. That's new information—"
Yaella rolled her eyes. "Well, that's a help."
The Doctor's voice had an edge to it. "Your sarcasm is probably charming to other people, but not to me. Find someone who—"
"O-kay," said Tal. He waved a hand to get everyone's attention. "It's past our bedtimes, don't you think? We don't want to get cranky."
Yaella shot him a withering glare that faded when she saw the benign smile on his face. She wondered if she should try what he was chewing all the time. "Fine. Let's deal with this tomorrow. Tal, could you lift us off, please? I think we've worn out our welcome on Canteen for the time being."
"Yeah," said Bucky. "The Guild people are going to be furious."
"Exactly. So let's… tell you what, just pick a random spot in interstellar space and park us there. We'll figure this all out in the morning."
Tal nodded. "Will do, Chief."
"Thanks." She looked around at the others. Bucky was still leaning forward, staring down at the floor. Dr. Munshaw was slowly stroking his beard, deep in thought. Ocean was clean down to his knees, the pile of rust-coloured dust growing around him.
Yaella held up her hand. "Captain's prerogative: I call dibs on the shower. I'll be quick."
When she moved, more dust fell from her hair and cascaded down to the floor. More of it slid under the collar of her jacket and down the skin of her back.
As she shuffled toward the hatch, she saw the Handmaiden approach the hunched-over Bucky and tap him on the shoulder. "Huh?" said Bucky, looking up at her. "What're—"
"You did well," said Lanari.
Yaella stepped through the hatch, trying to hide the surprise on her face. Poor Bucky. Now he won't sleep at all.
Chapter Seventeen
The sky over New Fraser was a beautiful shade of blue. Not the same blue as on the Palani home worlds — this was more indigo — but beautiful, nonetheless. These were her favourite days, when the clouds moved away and the sun glittered on the waves.
The surf washed over the rocks below where she sat. Not the headlong crashing of a stormy day, but the gentle lapping of a peaceful tide. There weren't enough days like this. Not nearly. And they were getting fewer and farther between.
Zura leaned back, looking straight up. Like a sword blade hanging in the haze, the dreadnought Kaha Ranila kept station at the edge of the atmosphere. Around it, trios of frigates — like little toys, next to the behemoth — moved serenely across the sky.
Kaha Ranila had arrived that morning, and settled into a low orbit. Low enough to be seen. The Temple filled the networks with their lies and propaganda, which made the human colonists nervous. She needed them to know that the rule of law would endure out here on the frontier.
The humans weren't the only audience for the theatre of military might. The Kaha Ranila's transponder was identifying it as the Kaha Devada instead. Let the Temple's spies report back to their masters that the Devada was not as destroyed as they believed. Maybe the Temple's spymasters would believe it, and maybe they wouldn't; the uncertainty was valuable in itself.
On the bench beside Zura, one of her datapads chirped. It was one of the human devices, altered with the addition of a Tunnel cell. Her small defence against the endless game of information: a rare opportunity to speak to someone without an unintended audience.
Zura picked up the datapad, thumbing the device's clumsy buttons before raising it to her ear. "This is Mahasa Varta."
Pentarch Yenaara's voice came through the speaker like a soft song. "Aasal, Mahasa. I hope you are well."
She could hear the note of fatigue in the Pentarch's voice: a missed note in her harmonics. "Aasal, Honoured Pentarch. I am well, thank you. Yourself?"
"Tired, Mahasa. You sound more well-rested than I am."
"Perhaps so, Honoured Pentarch. I slept well."
A chuckle from the Pentarch. "What is your secret, Mahasa?"
Zura thought back to the night before. Falling asleep with an exhausted Pari sprawled over her. "I have my secrets, Honoured Pentarch."
"Don't we all." A moment's pause. "What news, Mahasa?"
Zura's eyes went skyward again. "Kaha Ranila is here, posing as the Devada. We have begun a security review of all our personnel—"
"Can Palani Intelligence be trusted?"
"We are doing it ourselves, using people we trust completely. It will take some time. We are also tightening the security of our data and communications, which includes suppressing broadcasts from the Temple and Temple-controlled media."
"Censorship, Mahasa?"
Zura shrugged. "Is it censorship to silence lies? Then yes."
"I wish we didn't have to do that," said Yenaara.
"I try to avoid wishing, Honoured Pentarch."
"Well, I wish—" Yenaara stopped herself. "I would prefer that the Temple had not convinced Pentarch Eve-Anarja to go into seclusion."
Zura scoffed. "You mean house arrest? What is the difference?"
"Very little," said the Pentarch. "Eve-Anarja is a ki
nd woman, but not strong of will."
"And now the Pentarch Council is reduced to four."
"It is," sighed Yenaara. "I feel I must apologise, Mahasa. The Pentarch Council is… ineffective. It is Balhammis and I against Ivenna and her compliant friend Fennis. Without a majority, we can't compel Ivenna to do anything. She has always done as she wished, only stopping if the Council publicly voted against her. Now, we can't even do that. I admit I am fearful of the future."
Zura watched the ships moving far overhead. Once, centuries ago, there had been the Sana: the assembly of representatives who debated policy. But they were slow to act, and when Palani space was invaded by the swift-moving Horlan, power had been handed to the five-person Pentarch Council. She hadn't liked it at the time, but then — as now — she was a soldier. Such things were not for her to question. "Honoured Pentarch," she asked. "What is the situation on the home worlds? What do you hear?"
"People are concerned, Mahasa. They are wary of the Temple's increasingly stern interpretation of the Teachings. Temple attendance continues to decline; there are rumours that the Temple wishes to make attendance mandatory."
Zura raised an eyebrow. Mandatory faith.
"What is more," continued the Pentarch, "the Temple is publicly denouncing media coverage that questions the Temple's authority. Anything that doesn't support the Temple is branded a sin, or heresy, or a crime against the people." Yenaara sighed. "All in the name of the Divines, of course."
"Of course." How had they strayed so far from their Teachings? She had never been religious herself, but she supported the ideas of the Teachings — the notion of continuous self-improvement, individually and as a people. Was their faith so weak that it could only be moved forward with the punch of a fist? "Pentarch… do the people know the truth of the Temple's Hybrid breeding program?"
"No," the Pentarch said quietly. "They do not."
As if sensing Zura's thoughts, she continued. "We should not tell them, Mahasa. The Hybrid program has provided the first Palani children in centuries. It is the hope of our people. Our only path away from the abyss of extinction. Would we—"
"At what cost? The program is an atrocity. What price will we pay for our people's future?"
Pentarch Yenaara was quiet for a while. "Some would say that avoiding extinction is worth any price. Who decides that?"
"Not the Council, it seems."
The Pentarch fell silent again. It was a long time before she spoke. "Mahasa?"
"Yes, Honoured Pentarch."
"I admire you, Mahasa. You are always so certain; always ready to do, as you say, 'what is necessary'. But what now? How will you decide what is necessary?"
Zura sighed. "Honoured Pentarch, I'm just a soldier. I'm not supposed to decide that." She looked out across the sea, at the waves glittering in the sun. "But I will if I have to."
Chapter Eighteen
Bucky sat on the edge of his bunk, rubbing his eyes.
He hadn't slept. Not a wink. Once Tal had parked the ship in interstellar space, they'd all had showers to get rid of the dust. He'd insisted on going last, after Lanari.
As always, the shower — the entire head — had been clean and perfect after the Handmaiden had used it. Not a single drop of water clinging to the shower enclosure, no damp towels folded over towel rails, no condensation fogging up the mirror. It even smelled nice after she was done, though he couldn't place the scent. Probably some sort of Palani flower or something.
It had taken ages to get all the dust out of his hair and off his body, and even longer to clean the head afterward. He was determined to leave it as clean as Lanari did, but that was impossible. When he'd finally emerged, it was after six in the morning.
By the time he'd made it to his cabin and turned out the light, he'd been utterly exhausted. His body yearned for sleep; even a four-day hockey tournament had never left him so tired.
But his brain, it seemed, had other ideas. The moment his head hit the pillow, his mind started replaying the night's events. Again and again and again, like a datapad stuck in an endless loop.
In his mind, he was still huddled in that narrow gap between buildings, peeking around the corner into the alley. Somewhere in the distance, hidden in the rust, vague figures moved amid muzzle flashes. Rounds struck the building next to him and behind him — they hit hard — and pounded the ground with thuds he could feel in his feet. People were shooting at him. He'd leaned around the corner and fired a few shots back at them, but he hadn't aimed and knew he hadn't hit anything. At least, he hoped he hadn't.
They were trying to kill me. He didn't even know who they were. Never met them, never even saw their faces. And there he'd been, huddled and afraid, covered in dust, hoping not to die on some alien world in the middle of nowhere. Ocean had been behind him, but was silent. What was Ocean even doing back there? The weird alien hadn't made a sound.
And then those McLean-Irvine mercenaries had shown up out of the dust. Professionals. Hard people, with proper armour and weapons. Especially that one guy, with that terrifying cannon thing that filled the alley with light and noise and death. When the distant shapes had retreated in the face of that barrage, the MI mercs had turned their weapons — like that cannon — toward him. Not some figure in the dark, but a man, with a face he could see. Until Yaella had burst from the warehouse with her gun out, he'd been sure that he was going to die. Then Handmaiden Lanari had appeared — Jesus, she could move — and the next thing he knew they were all back here on the ship, arguing in the cargo hold. Lanari had said he'd done well. He had? He was pretty sure he'd just been cowering, scared to death and regretting every choice that had led him there.
Back when he played hockey, he'd been in plenty of fights on the ice. For some idiotic reason, he'd imagined that a 'real' fight would be the same. It wasn't. No team to clear the bench and help. No referees to step in and break it up; a few minutes in the penalty box, and they'd all be back on the ice. Not here. There was no coming back from this.
He looked wearily at the clock. Eleven thirty in the morning. He'd been lying here, running in circles in his mind like a hamster on a wheel, for five hours.
Standing up on aching legs, Bucky got dressed in the dark. Getting up this late in the morning felt wrong somehow.
Smoothing his hair back with his hands, he opened his cabin door and stepped out.
The ship was silent, save for the usual quiet chorus of ventilators and pumps. Everyone else's cabin doors were closed. Except Tal's, of course: his empty bed was barely even visible amid the tangle of plants and the posters for bands no one had ever heard of. And always that odd smell seeping out of Tal's cabin, that the ventilator filters couldn't quite deal with. An odd mixture of burnt incense and damp jungle.
At the end of the corridor, Bucky stopped at the intersection. No light or movement from the galley up ahead. He turned and headed toward the cockpit. His boots sounded loud on the deck, and he smacked his lips to get rid of the taste in his mouth. Should've started some coffee.
Before he reached the cockpit, Bucky could hear Tal's snoring. He checked the dash: everything was normal. He poked Tal's shoulder. "Hey."
Tal's snore became a snort as he twitched awake. "What? Oh. Hey." He twisted in the seat, extending his arms in a stretch. "Uhh… oh, wow. Almost noon. How you doing? Sleep well?"
"Nope." Bucky shook his head. "Not a wink."
Tal sniffled, and rubbed his eyes. "No kidding? You? You always sleep like a log."
"Yeah." Bucky leaned against the back of the pilot's seat. "Brain wouldn't let me."
"Ah," breathed Tal, raising his eyebrows. "Replaying yesterday?"
Bucky yawned. "Yeah. On repeat." He heard a sound from the passageway. Someone else was up.
"Uh huh," said Tal. "Turns out gunfights are scary, huh?"
"Yeah."
Tal nodded. "I hear you. After that fight on Burvid, I had nightmares for weeks."
Bucky blinked. "You? Nightmares?"
"Oh yeah." Tal
looked out the windows. "It's…" He shrugged. "I guess I put it out of my mind, you know? But I don't like it." He offered a tight-lipped smile. "I'm not cut out for violence."
"Yeah." Bucky nodded. "I don't think I am, either. It's a hard place out here."
"It is. And we're two soft and squishy guys. Delicate flowers in a harsh landscape—"
Bucky made a face. "Well, I don't know about 'delicate flower', but…" He shrugged. "Yeah. I just…"
Tal waggled his eyebrows. "Your friend seemed to think you did okay."
"What? My friend? Who—" He saw the grin on Tal's face. "Are you kidding? I mean—"
"C'mon," teased Tal. "What're you waiting for?"
Bucky checked the passageway. A light was on, coming from the galley. "There's no way," he hissed. Lanari was intimidating: the way she moved; the way she appeared out of nowhere. Still as a marble statue one moment, a burst of graceful power the next. Those blue eyes… and that white leather suit—
"C'mon back," said Tal. "I know what you're thinking."
Bucky shook his head. "There's just no way, Tal. I mean, her life is all violence and secrets. And she's gotta be centuries old." He lowered his voice. "I mean, we don't even know if she's on our side…"
Tal made a show of looking down the passageway. "Hey," he whispered. "You want my opinion?"
"Not really, but—"
"I don't think she's on our side."
Bucky recoiled. "What? But—"
Tal raised a finger to make his point. "I think she's on her own side, and right now her side is going in the same direction as us. Isn't that good enough for now?"
"I don't know. Is it?" Bucky gestured toward the passageway. "No one knows a damn thing. She's never told anyone what…" he waved his hand around, lost for words. "She's never told anyone anything."
"Has anyone asked her?"
"You were there," he hissed. "Yaella straight-up asked her what the hell is going on, and—"
Tal waggled his upraised finger. "There's a difference, you know, between an interrogation and showing genuine interest."
