by Tess Sharpe
The president was running scared, and it was a sight to see.
Carol checked the clock. “Rhi and Hepzibah should be reaching the president’s office soon,” Carol said, nerves sparking, though she knew Rhi was in safe hands with Hepzibah.
She tugged at her tight, itchy cuffs. The long skirt was confining, not her normal style. She liked a good dress now and then, but hated all this fabric swishing around her ankles. Though she supposed she could use the excess to choke someone out if needed. She’d done that with her sash a few times. The thought cheered her slightly.
“Fundraiser started twenty minutes ago,” Scott said, gesturing to the clock. “So we’ll make a fashionably late entrance. That way the right people will notice the wealthy new donors.”
“You two got your backstories straight?” Carol asked Scott and Amadeus.
“Yep,” Scott said, grimacing as he ran a finger along the high neck of his starched shirt. “Old man died, leaving big bucks… and I’m looking for a fresh target to toss cash at.”
“Carol, here, take one of the EMP patches.” Amadeus handed it over, a small oval blue sticker.
“How does it turn on?” she asked, flipping it over.
“It’ll activate as soon as you put it over the girl’s implant,” Amadeus explained. “It took me forever to squish enough power into something this small, so I’ve only made these two so far. Make sure you stick it on directly over the implant on the first try. If you pull it off and try to slap it on again, it won’t work. It’s a one-shot thing.”
Carol nodded, taking the patch from him and digging in her purse to pull out the compact Mantis had given her. She popped it open, slipping the patch underneath the powder puff while Amadeus tucked the second patch into his pocket.
“We’re all agreed on the distraction?” Carol asked.
They nodded.
“And you’ve got the night-vision contacts in?” Amadeus checked.
“They feel like sewer grates on my eyes,”
Scott said grumpily. “Sorry,” Amadeus said. “I couldn’t make them as thin as regular contacts.”
“I’ll deal,” Scott said, straightening up and hooking his fingers in the door handle. “We ready?”
“Ready to roll,” Carol said, with more confidence than she felt.
Scott hopped out of the truck, and Carol followed him, smoothing her skirt and taking his arm when he offered it.
“Ready to play the submissive Damarian lady?” he asked, trying not to grimace.
“I’ll hold my tongue, but it’s gonna be a challenge.” She meant it as a joke, but Scott didn’t laugh; instead, he squeezed her arm lightly, reassuringly.
“The best thing about you, Carol, is that you never hold your tongue. You always speak up. Especially for the folks who can’t.”
She smiled, touched by the compliment.
“I’ve got your back in there,” he promised. “After all, that’s what a good ‘husband’ does.”
She laughed. “Luckily, our fake marriage is going to last only a few hours. I don’t think we’d be able to convince anyone for much longer than that.”
“Absolutely not. I could never land such a fabulous prize,” he said, his eyes sparkling in jest.
Carol smacked him lightly on the chest with her little purse and he staggered against the truck exaggeratedly, making Mantis laugh as she shut the truck door behind him, remaining in the cab.
“You’re okay?” Carol asked her.
“I will be fine,” the empath said, but her mouth was pinched and her eyes were glassy under the continued onslaught of Damaria’s emotions.
Carol hesitated, looking back at her, but the empath went on. “Get Jella and Umbra, so we can turn off that wretched weapon. Then we’ll all be fine.”
Carol pressed her lips together. “Stay safe.”
“You as well, all of you.”
Carol let Scott lead her out of the alley and onto the open streets of Edias, Amadeus bringing up the rear as they made their way three blocks down to the Damarian Museum of History.
Carol kept her gaze lowered as they walked, her arm tight in Scott’s as she concentrated on the rules Rhi had given her. Don’t raise your gaze. Don’t speak until spoken to. Defer to Scott in all things.
With every step she took, it grated like someone running a paring knife along her skin. The people on the street were almost all couples or the occasional lone man, but no women alone. Each one they passed had her head bowed like Carol’s, her hand tucked in her chaperone’s arm, meek and subservient. As they passed a domed building, the glass triangles lit up with advertisements, all directed at men—because, of course, a Damarian woman wouldn’t have access to money.
“You doing okay?” Scott muttered. “Because you’re digging your nails into my arm.”
“Sorry.” She loosened her grip, trying to focus on her feet instead of the people passing them. It was hard to do—against every instinct she had as a woman, as a person, as a soldier. Was it like this for them, the women she passed on the street? Or were they all so used to it that they accepted it as normal?
No. Oppression built resisters. Women and men and non-binary people who dared to stand up and say, “This is wrong.” She’d seen it on Earth and on countless other planets: Eventually the oppressed rise up under the fist that dared to grind them down.
Carol breathed in and out, drumming her fingers against Scott’s arm until he placed his other hand over it to calm her, shooting her a reassuring smile as they approached the elaborate iron gates of the Museum of History.
The building was a marvel of architecture—she had to give the Damarians that. The huge glass dome was set in the middle of a sprawling outdoor arboretum filled with a riot of alien trees and plants that would give the botanists at Alpha Flight Station the vapors—some literally. Suspended above the dome on cables so thin even Carol could barely see them were two smaller spheres made of the same red rock as the ravine where the team had crash-landed. The smaller domes spun constantly as they orbited around the large dome, symbols of the dual suns that the Damarians believed had blessed them with their powers.
“Spheres, spheres, everywhere,” Amadeus tutted like a cranky old man, and Carol had to duck her head even lower to hide her smile. “Though I will give them some credit: Geodesic domes, built from triangles…” he sketched the shape in the air, “…are the strongest structures. The fixed angles—”
“Okay, let’s get in character,” Scott interrupted as they stepped into the short line at the gates. In front of them stood a man in the standard Damarian black high-necked suit, grasping the shoulder of a young woman with long violet hair. The brilliant color and her slightly curled ears, like spiral seashells, were definitely not human. Carol stiffened, realizing she was seeing her first Keeper in person. She and Scott exchanged a brief, knowing glance. Her fingers itched. She could blast him right here, right now. His back was to her. He’d drop before he realized what was happening. But that would destroy their plan—which was a long shot, she admitted to herself, but it was all they had. She had to stick to it.
Without a word, Scott handed their invitations and ID cards to the guard at the gates, and he scanned them under the blue beam shining from the tip of his small light pen. “The president welcomes you, sirs,” he said, pointedly ignoring Carol and handing the cards back to the men as the gates swung open.
Scott nodded brusquely, and in they walked, just like they owned the place. The criminal in him shone here, she could see it. And they needed that tonight. Confidence was the universal essential ingredient to working undercover.
The gravel path through the grounds to the museum—more of the ubiquitous red stone—was lined with huge willow-like trees draped with mottled vines. Beneath them grew a variety of strange plants—from snake-like purple ground-covers to plump, spiky brown succulents—the entire grounds giving off pungent aromas reminiscent of cinnamon and vinegar. These assaulted their noses, and they held back sneezes as they made their w
ay up to the museum, the domed walls curving high above them, blotting out the light.
Entering through the huge marble doors, they craned their necks looking up at the walls. On just about any other planet, it would feel peaceful and inspiring to be in such a beautiful building.
But the grand entry hall’s showpiece in the center of the huge space was a pure-white marble statue, twenty feet tall. It was a woman engulfed in flames, her face twisted into an eternal scream of torment, with three men bent at her feet, feeding the fire. Carol stumbled when she caught sight of what was etched above the woman’s heart.
An eight-pointed star. Just like the one on Carol’s chest.
This was the woman who fell from the stars—the woman of myth that Rhi had told her about… the supposed reason why the Damarians hated powered women.
Carol chanced a glance to her left and caught sight of a long line of paintings suspended in midair in rows across the dome’s vast expanse. Then she realized they were all portraits of women in pain… of the “afflicted” who had to be “put down.” A monument to misogyny and torture, this was the history the Damarians displayed so proudly. This was their idea of art and beauty.
Carol turned away and lowered her gaze again, only to catch the inscription on the statue’s base: What the flame wants, the flame will have.
“This is sick,” she muttered, shaking her head as if to drive away the morbid images. “We need to get on the move. Ready, Amadeus?”
He nodded. “I’ll find the room with the solar generators and plant the charges to wipe out the power. I’ll be on the comm if you need me.”
He grabbed a glass of bright green liquid from a passing waiter and headed off. Scott took a glass as well, sipping it and then grimacing.
“A beautiful piece, isn’t it?” asked a voice as Amadeus disappeared into the crowd.
Carol had to fight every instinct she had not to turn around. She waited for Scott, then followed his lead, her hand still tucked in the crook of his arm, keeping her eyes lowered so all she could see was feet—a man’s and a woman’s.
“A tremendous depiction of our ancestors’ triumph,” Scott said, extending his free hand to grasp the other man’s forearm in the Damarian version of a handshake Rhi had taught him. “I am—”
“Davian Khal,” the man finished for him. “I was informed you had honored us with your presence. I must say, it’s a rare sight for one of the landowners from the Isle of Tuke to come inland.”
Scott nodded warmly in assent. “I thought it past time.”
“I am Security Secretary Marson, of course.”
Carol’s glance shifted—not to Marson, but to the woman standing next to him. Jella. She was right there, just inches away, her jet-black hair falling down her back, the telltale bump of the implant on her forearm, her eyes lowered. Carol stared just a beat too long, and Jella seemed to feel it—she looked up, her brilliantly violet eyes meeting Carol’s, and Carol found she couldn’t look away. How many times had a Damarian woman’s gaze just slid over Jella like she was nothing more than a lamp or a table in the room; an object to be used when needed, and nothing else? Carol fought down a sudden urge to grab her, then and there, and run. She had the ID discs tucked in the outer pocket of her little bag, ready to slip out and press into someone’s palm. She just had to do it without the security secretary noticing.
“Of course,” Scott said. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Secretary Marson.”
“I was sorry to hear about your father’s passing.”
Scott inclined his head in thanks. “I appreciate that. My father was a great man. But I must admit, he was a man anchored in the past. That’s one of the reasons I chose to make the journey here with my lovely wife. I’d like to strengthen Khal Mining’s relationship with the government—and ensure our president is able to lead our planet into its bright future.”
The security secretary nodded and turned to Carol. “It is a delight to meet such a lovely specimen of Damarian womanhood, Madame Khal,” Marson said, giving a little flourishing bow.
Carol barely held back the snarl as she inclined her head and then finally raised her eyes to meet his. “Thank you, Secretary Marson. And I must apologize for my appearance.” She touched the edges of her hair with a rueful smile. “When I was spending time with my nephew, I turned my back for a moment and the little rascal got hold of the scissors. The next thing I knew, my braid was in his hand!”
“She’s going to have to pay more attention when we have our own little ones,” Scott said, his voice laced with a fond condescension that made her want to slug him, even though she knew it was feigned.
“It took a dramatic chop to fix the mess,” Carol continued. “I didn’t want to come, afraid I might embarrass my dear husband…”
“Nonsense,” Marson assured her with a paternal smile. “A woman like you would look lovely even with all your hair shorn. And I know how young boys can be—full of mischief. It’s not a bad idea to indulge that boisterousness… leads to a strong man who won’t take no for an answer.”
“You are too kind,” Carol simpered, thinking about how beautiful the crunch of cartilage would sound as she broke his nose.
“What do you think of the statue, Madame Khal?”
She smiled, and it took considerable effort to make it sweet instead of sharp and smirky. “It makes one grateful for the safety and order that was ushered into our world afterward,” she said, her eyes sliding over to Jella.
“Have no fear,” the secretary said almost jovially. “She may be afflicted, but I’m in complete control.”
Not for long, Carol thought, smiling as a server swept by with a tray of the green drinks. Carol reached for a glass, and as she did, she fumbled the stem, letting it fall to the ground. It shattered, and the emerald liquid splashed onto the tile floor.
“Oh dear, I’m so clumsy!” Carol said, bending over and setting her purse on the floor as Marson barked, “Jella, help Madame Khal!”—just as Carol had hoped.
When the girl crouched down next to her and picked up a large shard of glass, Carol slipped the ID disc free of her bag’s outer pocket and palmed it. Reaching out, she took the shard from Jella’s hand and slipped the disc into it with the same smooth movement. The girl glanced down, confused; when she saw the disc, she almost dropped it, her eyes wide with shock.
“Be ready,” Carol whispered in her ear, closing Jella’s fingers around the disc. Then she raised her voice. “Careful! Silly thing, you’ll cut yourself!” she scolded, as if Jella were a naughty puppy. “They’re so childlike,” she commented, rising to her feet and handing the shard of glass to a server who had hurried to clean up the remaining mess.
“Part of the affliction, I suspect,” Marson agreed. “Their abilities eat away whatever sense they were born with. It’s really a blessing for them, that men like me are willing to take on their burdens.”
“Such a blessing,” Scott said, a muscle in his jaw twitching.
Someone called out Marson’s name, and he turned, raising a hand in the air before turning back to them. “Master Khal, Madame Khal, it’s been an absolute pleasure, and I anticipate a fruitful association in the future. I will be sure to let the president know you’re here.”
“Please do,” Scott said with a forced smile. “I hope to discuss how I can help his campaign.”
“I know he’ll be most interested,” Marson smiled enthusiastically before turning to go. “Come along, Jella.”
She hesitated. Just for a split second. But it was enough to make Marson frown and raise his fingers as if he was going to snap them. Jella sprang up at the gesture, hurrying to him, but he didn’t lower his hand until she was by his side.
“Did you give it to her?” Scott asked, as they watched them walk away, Jella’s shoulders stiff and hunched with fear.
Carol nodded, raising her hand to her ear to activate her comm. “Amadeus—status report?” she whispered.
“Found the generator room, right here under the rear of t
he dome,” Amadeus said. “Should be done in a few.”
“Good. We can get out of here soon,” Scott muttered. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“The paintings are making me sick, too,” Carol whispered as they ventured farther into the museum. The crowd was buzzing and jovial, with deep waves of men’s laughter and conversation echoing through the high-domed ceilings—punctuated only occasionally by a woman’s voice uttering some pleasantry. The overly sweet drinks were flowing freely, and Carol had a feeling that Ansel would be getting a lot of donations from tonight’s party. He’d picked the perfect place for it.
The paintings hung in rows throughout the dome created pathways. They stopped right in front of one as an elderly woman and her husband crossed the way, and Carol had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from punching a hole straight through the canvas. It depicted a woman on her knees in front of a man shown in profile. Blood was pouring from her face—and her eyes, which were sitting in her beseeching palms, held out to the man who glared down at her. The placard below gave its title: The Affliction of Prescience.
As Carol stared at it, another painting came to mind— Artemisia Gentileschi’s Judith Slaying Holofernes. She’d seen it in Florence once. It depicted Judith beheading Holofernes to save her city, with her maidservant’s assistance. It had been a bloody and brutal testament to sisterhood, to teamwork, and to survival. Carol had spent an entire day sitting in front of it, staring at lines of paint, at the story it told, absorbing it, as if she could draw Judith’s strength from it. And standing there in the Damarian museum, in that maze of painful monstrous history portrayed proudly, like badges of honor instead of shame, she found that strength again.
Everywhere she looked, when she dared, she saw silent Damarian women at their husbands’ sides, heads bowed, speaking only a word or two, rarely raising their eyes.
“Heading back up in a second,” Amadeus’s voice came over the comm.
“Jella knows we’re here for her,” Carol whispered to him as they moved forward. “But we still need to find Umbra.”
They stopped again, but the elderly couple had already made off. Scott had frozen, his eyes widening, every bit of color draining from his face.
