Vicious Circle

by Elle E. Ire

  The two consciousnesses fought for control over her gun hand, one trying to pull the trigger, the other resisting with all its strength. The weapon wavered, aim varying wildly, but at this close range, if it fired, it would find its target.

  In her mind, Kila thought shock controlled her, emotional trauma over the life she’d taken. She could imagine no other reason for pointing a ripper at Cor. She pictured every moment they’d shared—Cor rescuing her from the slaver, then later, the pirate captain, and finally Yesenia, the two of them sunning themselves on the deck of the Triumph, their lovemaking so intense and bittersweet, knowing how little time they might have together.

  Infused with her thoughts, the entity watched the images flow from one to the next, and it knew fear.

  Kila gave one final wrenching scream that cut through the desert night and the distant sounds of skirmishes, causing everyone to fall still and silent. The ephem flew from between her gaping lips, mingling with the smoke of the assassins’ fire and the steam geysers erupting nearby. Combined with so many other elements, it could not maintain its cohesion, and its atoms separated, scattering themselves into the darkened sky—a less-painful fate than its punishment for failure would have been.

  Its last sentient view was of Kila as she drew back both hands high over her head and hurled the illegal, torturous weapon as far across the dunes as her slight muscles would allow.

  I stumbled toward Kila, my boots heavier than granite. I caught her as she collapsed, and fell with her until we huddled together in the sand.

  New movement from the rock outcropping drew my eye as assassins emerged from the hidden tunnel, weapons flashing in the morning sunlight. They swarmed the invaders, taking hit after hit and recovering almost instantaneously while they drove our enemies to their ships. Engines barely cooled from landing fired up again.

  Jaren had found his undefeatable army.

  The looks on the faces of the mercs, mouths agape as fatally wounded assassins stood up and retaliated, would have made me laugh if I hadn’t been holding a shattered Kila in my arms. I smoothed her long hair, mumbled soothing noises, and tried to ease her violent shaking to no avail. Behind her, hardened men and battle-worn women screamed in terror, running from the immortals who pursued them.

  She turned her tearstained face to me, her skin white as plaster in the dawning sun. “This one’s really dead, isn’t he?”

  I glanced across the sand at the fallen merc, his brains spilled on the sand, blood staining the pale particles dark. There’d be carrion activity already if it weren’t for all the humans and their struggles. “Very.” Okay, that could have been said better. Sardonen krick beetles adored dead flesh, and the beaks and talons of a local species of hawk would render the body indistinguishable by midday. Having seen more than my fair share of death, this one was particularly gruesome.

  Kila fixed me with a stare so intense I couldn’t turn away. “So was that slaver, the one who tried to take me back on Deluge.” It wasn’t a question. I answered it anyway.

  “Yes.” Better to hit her with the full reality so she could absorb and recover from it all at once. Pain given in doses lingers too long.

  She swallowed, and I wondered if she would be ill. “Thank you for sparing me until now.”

  My eyebrows rose. “Thank you for lying?”

  She managed a sad smile. “Sometimes there are good reasons to lie.” Meanings behind meanings.

  I nodded acknowledgment of that statement.

  BY THE end of the day, the Assassins Guild stemmed the flow of mercenaries, military personnel, and bounty hunters determined to capture Jaren to use for themselves or turn over to some employer for private benefit. Every time the power ebbed, the failing assassin would dash into the assembly room for a recharge. Jaren never tired, except in the amount expected at the end of a long, trying day. Within the temple walls, he was invincible. At last I understood the fears he’d had. In the wrong hands, especially if those hands discovered this seat of power, Jaren could have altered the fates of millions.

  By the Generational’s decree, with Jaren safely returned to the temple under protection of his unbeatable army, the Believers no longer needed to beat the rest of the universe into peaceful submission. Around sunset, the Believers’ Peacemakers force arrived in their Annihilator ships. Jaren sent a broadcast via the Guild’s comm system informing them of his status and instructing them to set up regular patrols around the temple area, turning the space above it into a no-fly zone. Others used ground transports brought in from Weathered Palms to sweep the desert in the vicinity of the sacred structure, discouraging any approach by land. Ships and transports not on watch duty parked outside the cavern entrance, and we housed the pilots while they rested and waited for their shifts, trying to ignore their fawning over Jaren T’ral, their Chosen.

  The preacher—Speaker, I was informed, was the official title—from Lissex arrived on one of the Annihilators. He took on a sort of lieutenant’s role, coordinating everything while Jaren caught a few rest periods. Self-serving or not, he was a natural leader, already had the respect of the Believers, and did a good job at organizing and scheduling, so I didn’t argue his appointment.

  Once we took stock of everyone and everything, we totaled our additional casualties at three: an apprentice who waited too long for a power boost and took a knife to the gut, a master who had his head severed from his body—no way to heal that—and Benn. We’d need to learn our new limitations better if this practice were to become policy.

  At first we didn’t even realize the charred figure belonged to our Guild Leader. And yes, he was our Guild Leader. My Guild Leader. I’d internalized my reinstatement when Benn sent me to kill Yesenia. Apparently, one of the mercs decided the only way to eliminate the seemingly immortal assassin was to douse him in engine oil and light him on fire. Gruesome and effective. We identified him by his knives and a metal armband he always wore. Witnesses later informed me it took him a long time to die while he burned and healed and continued to burn, staggering about blindly, searching for the tunnel entrance and his path back to Jaren. He never found it.

  I shed tears for the short-term Guild Leader, and Jaren performed a service for his remains. He was a good man, willing to admit to mistakes and learn from them. He would have done well for the Guild.

  Several of the assassins showed symptoms of the same apathy I’d experienced when the enhancements wore off. They moved on autopilot from task to task, their faces devoid of emotion or enthusiasm. A good night’s rest erased those side effects, but only time would reveal the long-term damage that kind of power usage could do.

  We located Benn’s choice of successor on the computer in his office. Alek. With Alek already dead, by our laws, the present assassins voted, and we sent messages to those off-world on assignment. The results came in faster than I would have imagined possible.

  I never considered myself much of a leader. Until I met Kila, I preferred to work alone. But the Guild had spoken. Guess when you help save all their lives, they feel a little beholden.

  Big changes were in order for me and the Guild. Jaren had been right about religions and organizations like ours. It was time for us to evolve.

  I began the very next day, using Speaker D’post as a historical resource and calling in teams of archaeologists and engineers from Sardonen and beyond. They brought heavy equipment to clear away the concealing rock and unearth the temple. The course of events revealed our secret. We might as well return the religious center of the Givers of Life to its original splendor, and splendor it was. The exterior proved to be constructed of the same marble as the altar in the assembly room. It gleamed in the bright Sardonen sun.

  I doubled the size of the Guild, recruiting new apprentices and increasing the number of daily training sessions. If we were to continue to carry out our primary function while leaving a significant force behind to watch over Jaren, we’d need more trained assassins. I did, however, raise the entry age for apprentices. Children deser
ved childhoods, no matter how easy the young were to teach.

  Jaren opened the temple to anyone who sought healing, holding daily services in the audience chamber while Speaker D’post moved among them seeking converts. Each applicant to enter had to pass through an extensive weapons screening prior to admittance. The Givers of Life charged no fees but encouraged donations. It didn’t take long to discover healed people were generous people. With Jaren’s permission, I hired several recuperated, loyal accountants to handle the wealth—and keep a quiet eye on D’post, though I kept that part of their job description a secret between me and the accountants. When he tried to order Therix candles, the requisition managed to somehow become lost. Three times. He gave up.

  Most of the collected funds went to a variety of charities—mostly hospitals and medical research facilities. Jaren couldn’t heal the universe. I also asked that a portion go to the group home where I’d spent several years as a child. The rest we used to fortify the Guild and the Believers. With the return of religious services, our eating, sleeping, and training areas needed replacement. Over the next many weeks, a dining hall and modern practice facility were constructed.

  Gone was the idea of communal sleeping. We annexed dormitory housing for the apprentices and small apartment structures for the masters. The Guild still frowned upon relationships between its members, but Kila didn’t belong to the Guild, and I planned to put that to a vote. Assassins, more than many occupations, needed outlets for tension and frustration.

  Considering how little I saw of Kila, the distinction between Guild and not Guild didn’t much matter, though.

  The largest two apartments belonged to Jaren and me, as Guild Leader. My few possessions, along with Kila’s shipped in from Lissex, were installed in the rather luxurious one-bedroom unit complete with a kitchen, living area, and sanitary facility. Well, compared to sleeping on a rolled-out mat on the temple floor, everything is luxurious. How the Guild managed to remain in the dark ages so long was a mystery to me. Maybe it was some kind of self-punishment for our deeds.

  We had hardly shared that bed since the morning she shot the merc. Kila conspired to be up at odd hours, researching her antiquated copy of the Generational brought in with her belongings. My own schedule of overseeing construction, recruitment, and training left me little time for anything else. I missed her, despite her constant presence within comm’s reach.

  I knew she suffered horrible guilt over what she’d done to save my life. The few times we slept together she awoke drenched in cold sweat, trembling from nightmares.

  “When does it stop?” she asked on one of those dark nights.

  I lay beside her, willing my own heart to cease its pounding after her scream awakened me. An old-fashioned clock imported from Lissex ticked on the wall. That and our harsh breathing were the only sounds in the room.

  I wished I had an answer for her. I knew exactly what she experienced. I’d been there. Still was. After my first kill, I saw that face again and again in my dreams. All my targets haunted me. A person would have to be a sadist not to be affected by killing. And she knew I fought my own late-night demons. She’d seen the results.

  “It doesn’t, does it?” Kila whispered, interpreting my thoughts.

  “No,” I murmured into her hair. “But time helps.” Unless you keep doing it, like me. Then the nightmares mix and mingle. But that wouldn’t be Kila’s concern, just mine. I knew what she felt and hated that rescuing me had been the cause. Nothing I could say or do would take her pain, though I tried. That night I held and rocked her for hours.

  I STOOD to the side of the altar, on Jaren’s right, hands folded in front of me. Speaker D’post occupied the space to Jaren’s left, a frown drawing his lips down along with the dark mustache adorning them. He hadn’t approved of this ceremony. I didn’t give a fuck what he thought.

  Before the marble slab, Kila knelt, her lithe frame swathed in a single, simple sheet of white linen wrapped in intricate twists to cover her. The Generational lay open on the flat surface before us, though my angle of sight prevented me from reading the words within.

  The rest of the assembly room waited in empty silence, the Guild dismissed after a long day of practice and a hearty meal. Torches in sconces lined the walls. I’d switched off the electrical lighting at Jaren’s request.

  Very surreal.

  Outside, the wind howled. The newly excavated walls let in the sounds of desert storms much more loudly than they had while buried. The moans of each gust and the tapping of granules against the recently installed duraglass windows resembled night terrors seeking entrance.

  Very pointless.

  I could see from the set of Kila’s jaw and the hardness in her eyes she didn’t accept this ritual as cleansing her sins any more than D’post did. In private, he’d agreed she shouldn’t be punished but didn’t feel forgiveness was merited. I knew Kila would think the same. Amazing how well I’d come to know her in such a short time.

  Jaren spoke the words from the text, some in Standard, others in ancient Sardonen. He’d grown fond of the ancient language over the past days, using it more and more and teaching common phrases to anyone who’d listen.

  I didn’t understand a word of it, and I’d grown up here.

  “Kila T’ral,” he intoned, and each syllable carried to the farthest corners, “you have taken two lives, the worst offense one may give under our religious laws. Is this true?”

  A formality. Jaren and I discussed the circumstances surrounding the deaths in detail, searching for Kila’s own loopholes so she might be forgiven in the eyes of the Believers, or at least most of them.

  “Yes.” So much weight in a single word.

  “However, both were taken in defense of she who later became my Guardian, my savior. Is this not also true?”

  Kila looked from her brother to me, carefully avoiding Speaker D’post’s harsh gaze. I resisted the urge to reach around Jaren and smack him in the back of the head.

  Kila sighed. “Yes.” No belief there. She humored Jaren with her response, well aware of what he was trying to do. Justification. Understanding. Acceptance. Only Kila didn’t feel she deserved any of it.

  I knew, because in the dark, when I held her, she told me.

  “Under Believers’ law, the taking of lives in defense of the Chosen is permitted, encouraged even. By saving the Guardian, you saved me. I would not stand here today, in this place, to heal the sick and injured, if Cor had died on either occurrence.”

  Kila opened her mouth to argue, but Jaren stopped her with an upraised hand and a soft smile. “The decision of the Chosen is final.” He turned a quick, intense glare on D’post, who would not meet his eyes, then returned his attention to his sister. “I absolve you of your guilt. The Givers of Life find you cleansed.” He crossed in front of the altar, took Kila’s hands, and raised her to stand before him. Then he hugged her. “May you find the strength within to forgive yourself,” he whispered into her hair.

  None of that mattered to Kila. She’d taken two lives, and she abhorred herself for it.

  I had one idea of how I might reach her, but it would involve the biggest stretch of my life.

  Chapter 26

  GODS, THIS made me nervous. Good thing I skipped the last two meals.

  I steeled myself and headed for the antechamber off the temple’s grand assembly hall, boots echoing in the stone corridors. The workers unblocked access to the small room shortly after they began excavations around the structure. Jaren guessed the ancients used it for quiet meditation. Traces of wax and ash indicated the burning of candles. A stone alcove held chemically preserved books Jaren removed for his perusal. Kila claimed the space for her spiritual studies and solitude.

  The late hour ensured privacy. Even the skeletons had been removed for proper burial outside the temple. New leadership, new era, new traditions. My fingers slipped into my jacket pocket, running over the velvet-covered container within, checking its presence, though I’d placed it there mys
elf only minutes before.

  Calm down, Cor. You’re making yourself crazier than you already are.

  Turning a corner, I saw flickering light spilling from the open doorway. We’d installed electricity in all the new areas, along with additional generators, but Kila preferred candles, said they put her in closer touch with her ancestors and the gods.

  I slowed and softened my steps, not wanting to disturb or frighten her. In the entrance I paused, locating her on the far side of the room, seated at the single table in the solitary chair. It was a familiar scene, Kila hunched over the Generational, dried tears on her cheeks, one finger tracing the words within the book. Before, she’d cried for what she thought she had to do to Jaren. Now she cried for herself. The candlelight created a halo effect, lighting her gently in waves and shadows.

  My heart ached for her. How could someone so beautiful be so sad?

  “I think it’s me,” she said so softly I almost missed her words. I needed to work on my silent movement skills. My administrative duties took a toll on my practice schedule.

  “What?” I stepped fully into the room, coming to stand beside the table. The light cast from the candles illuminated the pages of the ancient text, making the black-inked words seem to dance on the parchment.

  She read from the scripture. “And one amongst them, an aberration in the blood, shall become a bringer of death. And unhindered, that aberration shall bring about the destruction of them all.” Kila looked up at me, her expression painful to witness. “I think it’s me.” The simple sentence tore from her soul.

  I couldn’t breathe. Her words froze me in place. I’d referred to myself once as a “bringer of death” when I first discussed with Jaren my plans to lead him to the temple. “Maybe it’s me.” A few months ago, I would have scoffed at prophecy and mysticism. Now I took nothing for granted, especially if it was written in that book.