Bounty Hunted

by Ian Cannon

  She wore a deep navy, button-up pencil uniform. It was a utilitarian knee-length hip-hugger with kimono sleeves and a crew neck. Large, silvery buttons studded its left flank. It was a vintage style dress of the female soldierette used by the Cabal as their formal dress cut from two generations back. Military styling had since moved on. Now it was all fold-over lapels and breast panels. This was much sleeker. As much as she hated having to wear one, she wanted to represent the Dash name, not to mention the N’halo deliverer, in style for the court’s “decision day.” So she picked one up at a high-end Sarcon classics shop.

  Now she sat eyeing the court pensively as its personnel arrived. This was not Benjar Dash’s first “decision day.” There had been many others, each bringing with it the promise of Benjar’s fate, as well as a clamorous, riotous collision of clashing objectives on his behalf. The ordeal had begun with eight different groups wanting a piece of the man called criminal. But the bloated argumentation during litigation and lack of decision-making on the court’s part had dwindled that number to three. It seemed to Tawny that that was how Sarcon law worked. Each group bludgeoned the others into submission with obtuse toiling and verbal brawling until only one was left standing. And the court was in no short supply of larger-than-life characters. Their diatribing and filibustering had become arduous and infuriating. She was getting sick of the process.

  In the meantime, her husband sat rotting in a prison cell, probably getting his narsicles pounded every week by gods-only-knew how many different species of inmates. Tawny liked her husband’s narsicles, didn’t want to see them get pounded.

  She watched the N’hana leadership entourage enter from the far doorway and parade across the floor. In the lead was the Most Reverend Allenon wearing a hoodless, long-sleeve cape designed to flow behind him. He was a soft-eyed man, but who hid the shadow of malignance, speaking softly with hard words and harder truths. The V-and-Cross symbol of their faith was etched across his chest, signifying Sarcon’s primary world religion. Allenon was a man with high position, though one wouldn’t know it by reading the eyes of their opposition, the N’hana Dark, as they strode passed.

  N’hana Dark, as Tawny had crassly discovered, was an offshoot of the N’hana religion, both sides believing in a variable religious text with deeply nuanced differences. The two parties were at odds, their disdain for one another coming from different interpretations of the Nu’mata. Both had staked claims on the life of Benjar Dash. The N’hana had claimed him as criminal in accordance with Nu’mata teachings. N’hana Dark saw him as a religious miscreant and blasphemer. Their leader, Monk Montral, followed them across the floor with his eyes, wearing a belted black robe and hooded cowl.

  Thirdly, Ambassador Tien of the Confederation embassy on Sarcon sat across the aisle with his flanking legal council and military officer contingent around him. Tien had his own reasons for vying for Benjar’s life, not the least of which was the fact that Benjar’s wife was a traitor to the Cabal. Tien’s sharkish eyes occasionally drifted up toward Tawny with a merciless glare.

  The large hall was overcrowded. Seating was raked and members of every sector of Sarconan society were present, all eager to see the outcome of today’s “decision day.” It made Tawny uncomfortable. She sat in a tank of bloodthirsty mongrels, like a Portaxian gladiator ring, watching her husband’s fate unfold to a clamorous sea of onlookers.

  At the head of the chamber, Prime Arbiter Milak thrashed his gavel with a single swing from his high dais. The bang echoed through the chamber, but hardly affected the court goers. The sounds of sharp argumentation slathered from the throes and down to the floor from pockets of heated debate sparked by the goings on. Milak smashed harder, yelling into the aural device, “Order! Order in the court!” His resonant voice boomed over the arena bringing the people to attention.

  Tawny groaned, rubbing her face. This was going to be another pointless harangue of legal councilman and religious zealots shaking fists and yelling. Councilor Cillious Cronum sat next to her, his bladed lapels folded sharply down, his blue-tinted skin showing pale in the light of the courtroom. He was half Orbin, and half something else. Humanoid, but with the slightly elongated features of the Orbin homeworld. And he was very good at what he did. Or so Tawny had heard. She’d hired him to represent her case on Benji’s behalf. So far, he hadn’t had the chance to do much. He turned his head to her and gave her a weary look through those large, golden-brown eyes.

  Below, Prime Arbiter Milak opened the proceedings. “We convene to continue stating qualms and grievances concerning court study number one-B-one-A-zero-zero-one …” A bigger-than-life hologram sprang up from the court’s floor in a wavering cone of light—Benji’s big mugshot. “… and to determine henceforth the adjudication of sentences against the one named Benjar Dash of Golot Major—member of the Imperium war state, formerly, current member of the interplanetary relief expedition Guild, and operator of Dash Cargo Ops.”

  The place erupted in a chorus of boos and hisses.

  Prime Arbiter Milak smashed the gavel, angrily. “Hold!” The place quieted. He continued, “His crimes will be stated—”

  Cillious blared across the space getting to his feet, “Alleged crimes, if it pleases the court!”

  The arena burst out with a bombastic calling of “It does not,” and “Cillious the fink!” and “Imperium lover scum!”

  “The chamber will hold!” Arbiter Milak shouted, his voice booming over the crowd, “or will reconvene when tongues are held and tempers are soft!” He took a breath allowing the hall to quiet down.

  Tawny nodded her approval of Cillious’ defense.

  Milak went on, “Now, to continue stating the crimes of—”

  “We will address the accused’s crimes,” a voice blared. All eyes went down as Monk Montral strode across the pit and around the holoBen. His cowl concealed his face in shadow allowing only its highlights to register. “It is simple,” he said. “He is an imposter of the most divine sense, a blasphemy of the highest order. This man—this malcontent—comes to our sovereign world—”

  Milak cried from his dais, “You will address the court correctly, Monk Montral, or not at all.”

  Montral’s breast lifted as he inhaled patiently, a grin splitting the lower portion of his dark face. “As stated, and needing no introduction, if I may, I am Montral, superior monksman and leader of the N’hana Dark of the N’hana tribe, heavens be to the Nu’mata word. The true Nu’mata word.”

  “We are …” a pause, “of the same faith, brother,” Most Reverend Allenon called from the floor rows, his voice gentle and hard in a miraculous show of theological seasoning.

  Montral swiveled over, met his gaze. “There are nuances,” he said lowly. “Deep … nuances.”

  “Continue, monksman,” Milak said.

  Montral presented the holoBen with a flare of his hand. “This man—this malcontent—comes to our sovereign world the bringer of the one called N’halo, the sacred of sacreds. And he dares bring us but a child!”

  The Most Reverend called under another outbreak of disgruntled patrons, “N’halo is the direct descendant of Sulan. She will be the one to unite our planet and bring our neighbors into the fold.” Calls of accord came from the N’hana bench challenging the jeers from across the floor.

  Ambassador Tien of the Confederation embassy called with a blithe attitude, flipping his wrist, “Yes, yes, we’ve all heard the stories. A bunch of noise. Sarcon and her neighbors are already united …” he yelled sharply, “in the Confederation!”

  A quick verse came from the crowd, “Noise.” “Scoffer!”

  Monk Montral diverted from the Most Reverend to face the ambassador who gleamed forward from his bench. “The Confederation is a displaced and confused collection of power mongering aristocrats too starved by pride to unite their peoples against the Imperium, aptly named the Cabal by that very same enemy. Underworld Cabal to boot.” His own words made him laugh.

  Ambassador Tien got to his feet, ira
te. “We bear the name Confederation proudly. And if our enemies shrink under the title, then so be it.”

  Allenon’s softer, angelic voice fluttered through the havoc, “The N’hana prophecy is no mere noise, General. It is the guiding light to our peoples and the unifying name that will see us to victory. Not the Confederation.”

  Tien returned with a vicious, “That is tantamount to heresy, sir!”

  Montral yelled, “This is Sarcon! Not your beloved Omicron! Your word means nothing in these courts.”

  Tien found himself in a crossfire of words.

  Tawny shook her head. The monksman and the Most Reverend had traded punches five seconds ago. Now they teamed against the ambassador. Next, she knew, they’d be at each other’s throats again. This Sarcon version of justice was a mess. Her eyes went to the exit across the way and she shook her head, tight lipped.

  Tien shouted for all to hear, a finger thrust at Monk Montral, “I am the embassy overlord representing Omicron and the Confederation at Sarcon. And I will show you otherwise!”

  The crowd grew to a boil. The litigators were moments from blows. Prime Arbiter Milak smashed the gavel, sparks flying. “Gentlemen! We are united under the Confederation banner as one united front. Let us not forget that.” The place calmed, all eyes went to the arbiter. “We needn’t squabble amongst ourselves. Until we have determined the true identity of the one called N’halo, it will remain that way. But that is not why we are here. Now, may we move on?”

  Monk Montral butted in before the others could respond, “Yes your Highest Honor. We should determine the fate of this blasphemy.” He presented the holoBen again. Tawny pinched her lips between her teeth. Every time that madman showed such disdain for her husband, she felt herself grow closer to leaping over the rail, storming past the arbiter’s dais and beating him to a little Sarconan pulp.

  Most Reverend Allenon said, “This man is as the Nu’mata claims. He is the one called criminal, passed down from faith immemorial.”

  “Of course,” Montral rebutted emphatically, “Criminal. Heathen. Wrecker. What have you. But he does not claim it as the Nu’mata claims it. It was not N’halo in his cargo hold. It is not N’halo whom he delivered. And it is not N’halo that you keep in your citadel of the N’hana now.”

  Allenon’s next words were despondent enough to insult the monk. He said, “Your faith is not a requisite, Monk, for determining the identity of N’halo.”

  “No. But the Nu’mata is. And this child-thing does not come as the Nu’mata prophesized,” Montral said, strutting in a circle taking a pause for drama. He shouted loud and clear above the entire court, “For the N’halo will come as a man!” Members of the N’hana Dark shouted their agreement with fists in the air, while the N’hana Tribe met them with jeers. Montral continued over the noise, “He will come as a hero—a man among men, a king among kings! And he will unite that which the Nu’mata claims shall be united. This child-thing—this female—is a blight on our greatest of greats. And therefore, this man,” presenting the holoBen again, “should be put in the charge of the N’hana Dark!”

  More gavel smashing, more silencing. When calm returned, Milak said, “For what reason?”

  Montral faced the dais and said, “Spiritual cleansing, your Highest Honor … followed by eradication.” His face cut into a grin.

  Allenon got to his feet, hands clenching the rail. “He belongs as he is—imprisoned by the N’hana of the Light. Scripture dictates this.”

  Arbiter Milak said, “And what would the N’hana of the Light do to him?”

  Allenon made his way to the pit, stepping out on to the floor. “First, Highest Honor, allow me to apologize for our darker kin. Their direction is pure and clear. But they follow an abridged Nu’mata which does not clarify the N’halo’s nature, and therefor allows for theological assumption. Their fundamentalism is the stuff of fear mongering and near-sightedness.”

  Montral hissed as Allenon came near, “Watch your tongue, priest!”

  Allenon rebutted very simply, “As you will not, I will not.”

  “The Nu’mata Dark is the true text.”

  “The Nu’mata Light is such, as we all know.”

  “Not in accordance with Nu’mata abrogation.”

  Allenon withheld a pathetic chuckle, said, “Abrogation is an abomination.”

  Montral sneered, “Nu’mata abrogation is relevant in accordance to—”

  BANG BANG—the gavel. All eyes went to the dais. Milak said, “We are not here to argue religious texts.”

  Allenon offered a seasoned smile and approached. “Your Highest Honor, this man—this criminal—is clearly and unarguably the criminal mentioned in the original Nu’mata scrolls and should be left in our hands. We are its followers. It is a clear-cut case of that which has been written for millennia.”

  “Yet law must intercede, millennia or no.” Everyone looked over. Ambassador Tien had taken the floor, moved toward the arguers.

  Milak said, “You may speak, Ambassador.”

  Tien held the entire court’s attention. He smiled satisfied, and began, “We are at war. We have devised a war machine to counteract the thuggery and invasion of the Imperium. Sarcon is a part of that war machine. This war is everlasting. It has raged, as we all know, for an untold thousand years. More, perhaps. And will do so for another if we do not hold to law—the law of war.” He paced before the benches more like a professor than an ambassador, and presented the question with a finger, “So, what is law, and how is it dealt? Law is that which cannot, and must not be superseded by a nation, a group or an individual. It must be arbitrated immediately and upon—”

  Sudden and violently, the arena erupted with, “Oh shut up, Confederation weenie!” “Sit down, you Molosian peacock!” “Words, words, words—it’s all you’re good at, you and your war machine!”

  The gavel sounded. “Order! We will hear out all aggrieved parties.” Milak addressed the ambassador. “Continue.”

  Tien went quickly, getting right to the point. “This man is a member of the Imperium and a criminal to the Confederation state. Direct action suggests he should be turned over as such and be prosecuted as a spy … and executed with dishonor and shame.” More converging roars of scoff and delight rose to the ceiling. He continued, “It is his partner that the Confederation casts a more interested eye upon. The one that has escaped incarceration.”

  Tawny heard his words from the throes, clenched up.

  Tien continued, “As a former soldier of our very Confederation battle front, and now a deserter, she is a traitor and criminal against the state of the highest order. She has proven to be bereft of loyalty and a breaker of the oath she has taken. An agitator and heretic, she is the one called …” his eyes went across the distance and swallowed her in their fiery gaze as a finger pointed directly at her. “Group Zero of Raylon.”

  Cillious’ angry reply was buried by the ensuing outburst, “My client, your Highest Honor, is not on trial.”

  “Traitor!” “Dog!” “Spy!”

  Every eye in the arena was on her. Angry faces. Bitter, malicious voices. She was the eye of a sudden storm. It calmed her, made her grin at her thousand accusers.

  Tien cried, “As a facilitator of the accused and a conspirator in this case, she is very much on trial! Let her stand! Let. Her. Stand!”

  “Stand! Stand! Stand!” The arena thundered. Debris began fluttering down from the upper balconies. The gavel slammed. It had no effect.

  Tawny got to her feet, brow down, grinning her devilish smile at the pandemonium raising their voices to a crescendo.

  Cillious yelled with impunity, “Her case does not belong here, Ambassador, as she has breached no Sarconan law.”

  “Sarconan law is subject to Confederation law.”

  “Then let her stand before a Confederation tribunal, not this High Court of the Sarconan.”

  “So be it!”

  Allenon broke in, yelling over the commotion, “She will not stand. As deliverer
to N’halo and sacred mother of the Nu’mata, she holds a place of highest regard amongst our people.”

  Tien yelled back, “Then a Confederation tribunal will find her so.” A lie.

  Allenon argued back, “She will find the protection of the N’hana tribe first.”

  “That is treason!”

  “It is covenant!”

  Montral said, “Not among the N’hana Dark! She is as much a blasphemer as he!”

  They continued yelling at each other. Debris continued crashing down from above. The gavel smashed and smashed. Amongst it all, Tawny stood very quietly, very peacefully, awaiting her retribution.

  ***

  “If they had any wisdom at all, we’d already be off this rock,” Tawny barked storming down the corridor, leaving the riot behind. Her blood boiled. She needed to beat something up.

  Cillious was a pace behind, even his much longer strides having to hurry to keep up. He said, “Be glad the only thing that runs as deeply as their ideological sway is their penchant for chaos.”

  “Whatever that means,” she shot back. “Look, all I want is my husband back. He didn’t do anything. He’s a teddy bear. All he did was bring back their N’halo, for crying out loud.” She came to a sudden halt and spun around saying with an edge of betrayal in her voice, “And where is she? Why doesn’t she make an appearance, huh?”

  Cillious gave her a look of sympathy, said, “Would it make a difference?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt,” she barked, turned and stormed down the corridor.

  “I cannot speak for this N’halo of theirs,” he said, following.

  She stopped again, spun around, this time leading with a finger. “When are you going to start speaking for my husband?”

  He huffed patiently.

  “Awe,” she spat waving a hand at him and started walking again.