Kzine Issue 18

by Graeme Hurry

  “Where are we?” Myra asked, “and who are you?”

  “This is my home, and I am your host,” the pirate said, a corner of his mouth lifting into a sardonic smile. “You may call me Praveen.”

  “And what is your family name?” Myra lifted her chin and let her irritation colour her voice.

  “That is not important now,” he said, waving them to precede him through the gate. She stopped a few paces into the yard, her eyes flicking around to note the piped fountain in the crystal-clear pond, the glowing white of the freshly painted villa walls marred only by the black wrought metalwork barring the sealed windows, and—perhaps most importantly—the clunky old surveillance cameras mounted high into the stone walls. She couldn’t look away from them. This was like being delivered into the past. Who in the human settled galaxy built with stone? And those cameras looked like something belonging to an anachronistic enactment set.

  He passed her, striding to the door which opened before him. The rest of the party followed him in, and Myra blinked hard to adjust to the relative gloom after the bright sun. She whirled at the snick of the latch going home to see an old woman bowed over pressed palms. The crone scurried to the back of the house, tossed away by Praveen’s wave of dismissal. He led them deeper into the house, following the old woman past a lavishly appointed parlour, and into a grand dining room. The heavy, dark wood table dominated, its sixteen ornately carved chairs flanking its length. Praveen pulled out the chair closest to the door and gestured for her to sit. He gave no outward response to her momentary hesitation, just watched her impassively until she let him seat her. Only his fingertips squeezing her shoulder an acknowledgement of her rebellion.

  With a casual flick of his hand, he gestured the twins forward to sit with her while he rounded the table to sit opposite her. The scraping of the chair feet on the stone tiled floor wasn’t loud enough to cover the sound of a trolley coming down the hall, and Myra’s empty belly ground its impatience when the aroma of garam masala announced the trolley’s arrival. The old woman was back and unloading the trolley to serve them, ignoring the man who stood with his back to the wall. She set out bowls of rice, plates of naan, and a single large tureen of mutton curry, steam curling up to fill the room with its fragrance. Her mouth filled with water, and it took all of her discipline not to fall on the food like a starved dog. At long last, the woman produced the water bowl and laid the hand towels over their left shoulders. Myra wondered if Praveen could see that her hands were shaking just as badly as the children’s. No matter, she decided, he would assume it was just the after-effects of fold-sleep if she kept her bland mask fixed in place.

  Though she was tempted to submerge her whole hand in the warm water and scrub at her palms with the lemon slices to clear away the nervous sweat, she made herself go no deeper than the second knuckle. If she was slow wiping away the water that trickled down to her wrists on her shoulder towel, her host didn’t comment.

  Whether it was a concession to the steady grinding noises coming from their side of the table, or some remembered personal rebellion, Praveen insisted they serve themselves before he had washed his own hands. Just this once, Myra nodded her permission and the twins snatched at the naan and rice then presented their plates to her for the curry. Far more liberally than she usually would, she doused their plates. Who knew when they would get their next meal? Nadarshan closed his eyes with his first bite, his shoulders drooping as he chewed. Adara kept her back rigidly straight, but the girl’s relief was written in bright colours on her face.

  The meal passed in silence, the rich curry sauce thick in her mouth, leaving no room for words. She could feel his eyes on her, but she gave no sign she knew he was watching her. When the woman returned with a fresh water bowl, he finally spoke, startling her.

  “When they have washed, Bhakti will take the children to their rooms to bathe and change. They may then find amusement in their rooms until called for supper.” He held up a hand to forestall her protest. “Your rooms will be together, but there are business matters to be discussed between you and me.” He met her eyes, and held them while he went on, “Argument will not change anything except my temper, so it is best if you accept that I do not mean to harm any of you.”

  Myra jerked a nod, afraid that if she looked at her babies they’d see her doubt and create enough of a fuss that they’d get hurt. She hoped they hadn’t caught his slight emphasis on the word ‘any’. With luck, his preoccupation with washing his hands kept him from noticing her flinch at the soft thud of the dining room door closing, severing her from her children. She could hear their steps on the stone floor receding and she had to swallow the urge to scream at him, demanding to know what ‘business’ he could possibly need to discuss with his hostage. After all, she was in no position to bargain and for him to intimate that she might be was a cruel punishment.

  “It may surprise you to learn that it was a shock to me that you love your children,” Praveen said, wiping his fingers on his towel. His half-smile acknowledged her hanging jaw. Myra closed her mouth with a click. “That was not what I had been led to believe. In fact, I was led to believe that my first payment would arrive immediately after I’d taken the twins and let you ‘escape’ to Andhak’s rescue mission. It would be no trouble to separate you.” He poured himself another glass of wine, tipping the bottle in her direction and lifting his brow. Myra nodded, taking her time to sort through all the implications before she raised the thin crystal to her lips. The rich red wine filled her mouth and nose while rage filled her breast and brain. What was the old man planning? To take the children meant he planned to marry her off again unencumbered, but to who? It had to be someone he’d known she would not accept willingly. And what had he intended for the children after she’d accepted the marriage in exchange for their return?

  “And when was the second payment to have been made?” she asked.

  “There would be an annual payment after proof of life and health until they reached majority. The final payment would come upon their return to you.” He leaned forward, meeting her eyes levelly, “Provided, of course, that you had met his conditions. If you did not meet his conditions, then the final payment would only be half the original amount and I was to dispose of the children as I saw fit.” He shrugged and pressed his lips tight, eyes leaving hers to stare into the distance. “There was no clear instruction, but I got the feeling he would prefer them dead over sold if you were to fail. He wouldn’t say what your conditions would be.”

  Myra sat, unable to think over the buzzing in her ears. She knew she should be thinking hard, she should be using this man any way she could to secure her and the twins’ release but she couldn’t get a grip on her slithering thoughts. Each time she reached for a thought, fury would strike its venom into her and leave her paralysed again.

  “I can easily find a good home for children who are not wanted, but to take them from a mother who loves them? That is not so easy to do,” he said softly. She had to blink away sudden tears; they served no purpose now, and she had to think. Somehow she had to think. Where could she go? Knowing her father, all her assets would already be frozen. He would still have to wait the full term before he could declare her dead, but that wouldn’t be what he wanted. His dynasty would die with him unless he…

  “Why would you take a commission to steal children if you abhor it? You do not have a life devoid of comforts.”

  He regarded her, his face impassive, for long seconds. At last he shrugged, and said, “I am the last of my house, and I would prefer not to become the first.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He has taken my sister, and threatens to wed her and assume control of our holdings if I do not comply. If I do as he wants, he will return her and pay a handsome commission for the kidnap of the children.”

  Myra sat back and swallowed. The life of a sister for the lives of two strangers. She knew what she would do in his place. The silence between them stretched on, her spirit wilting further with each
passing moment. Blindly, she sipped at the wine until it was gone. He sat there, across from her, silent as the grave until his glass was as empty as hers.

  “You want your sister back, and I want my father dead,” she said at last.

  “How do you propose we achieve that?”

  “We continue with his plan. You jump me back, alone. I kill my father and leave the ship.” Myra looked up at him, her eyes pleading. “You pick me up and take me home. From there I take control of the estate and return your sister. Then you give me my children back.”

  He looked at her, searching for something in her face. He must have found it because he nodded slowly. “Agreed.”

  * * *

  Myra shuffled down the lock, panting under the hood for the benefit of Father’s security men at the far end, her bound hands gripped tightly together. The hand cupping her elbow gave a gentle squeeze and she stopped. In the days since their arrival on Prithvi, the touch of that hand had gone from instilling fear to giving hope. She turned her mind away from the other effects that hand was having on her, deliberately swallowing the butterflies that flitted in her heart.

  The air around her wooshed with the opening of a hatch, and the hand went away, leaving the skin—and her—exposed to the cool air coming from her father’s ship. He moved away and was gone, replaced by women who murmured false reassurances of her safety. The hood was whisked away and her bonds were cut. She stood, blinking furiously, sagging into the support of the arms that came around her to help her across the threshold and into her enemy’s keep.

  If they had known what she knew, they would have frisked her. They should have found the throwing blades tucked into her undershirt sleeves, but their complacency was a virus caught from her father. He knew she was hungry for his approval, and therefore his people all knew she would fall to her knees in gratitude to him for meeting the ransom demand.

  Each step taking her closer to the man who had dictated her life chased away wisps of any softness in her heart as if it were hardening under pressure loss. Perhaps it was. It was her children who were the breath of her life and he was seeking to dispose of them. The sheathed blades pressed to her skin had been a gift from Praveen; the venom that coated them from a snake native to Prithvi—a planet so far away from the economic center of the galaxy that its parent star appeared on charts only as a number—would do its work quickly. Not even her father’s enhanced immune system could protect against a poison cell programmers had never heard of.

  Both her father’s bodymen stood outside her father’s cabin, their eyes tracking her with as much emotion as the snake Praveen had milked. She hadn’t counted on two, but she kept her lashes down to keep them from seeing her dismay. She would not be leaving the ship through that door after Father’s biometric alert went off. One she could disable, but not two. Plan B, then.

  Her escorts brought her to the door and the Kshatriya on the left tapped the panel, announcing her arrival. The door slid open and Myra stepped through onto the painted tile floor, leaving her escort and Father’s bodymen behind. Her eyes flicked about the familiar cabin, not allowing her eyes to rest on anything, but relieved that everything remained where it had been for years.

  In his youth, her father had been a powerfully built man. Women had begged their fathers for a match to him, even knowing that most mysteriously died before they could give birth to the baby they carried. There had been times in her life when she had envied those unborn children and wished he hadn’t loved her mother. Her death had withered his soul, leaving nothing for his daughter or his grandchildren. Now the years and poison in his soul had withered his body away, leaving him stringy in his old age, as cold and hard as the ship’s outer shell.

  “Myra, I am relieved to see you well,” he said. He didn’t rise from his chair to rush to her despite her mother’s dying wish that he love and care for her. Why couldn’t he love her? “We must now turn our attention to the release of the children.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Myra said, rage rising unbidden and white hot. He really did believe her to be a tool! She had rehearsed this moment again and again, and always she had imagined there would be nothing inside when it arrived. She leaned forward into her bow, sliding her fingers into her sleeves, her spine stiff. Her breath coming fast, she pulled the finger-thin blades free, her thumbs pressed to the flattened ends. Careful not to scratch against the razored upper ends, she straightened up, her mind a confusing blend of fury and ultra-sharp focus. Without any conscious instruction, her arms went up and her wrists flicked, the blades flying true to their targets. The left blade embedded itself into his throat, and the right into his shoulder just below the clavicle. Myra whirled, her arm flashing out to grasp the bronze bust of Ravi Shankar and smash it into the hatch’s control panel. The screech of Father’s biometric alarm grated in her ear just as she stepped forward to spin the manual bolts firm into deck and ceiling, the mild electric shock from the bust still dancing through her nerves.

  Ignoring the shouts from the hall, Myra crossed to the desk. Sucking in a breath to steel herself, she gripped the fabric of her father’s shirt front and heaved him from the chair. His body fell to the floor, the blade ends pinging against the tiled floor. A sob wracked through her, and she reached a hand to him. All she had ever wanted was his love. That’s all any child wants from a parent. It wouldn’t have cost him anything to just love her. She snatched her hand back, cradling it to her heart.

  Dragging her eyes away from the slow creep of blood oozing away from the tip of the blade protruding from the back of his neck, she reached under his desk and tapped in the emergency override code. He’d known years ago when she’d figured it out, but had never changed it. Whether it was an acknowledgement of the promise to the one person in the universe they had both loved, or whether it had been his arrogance that she would never betray him no matter the provocation, didn’t matter anymore. Relief coursed through her when the desk lit up and she forced her trembling fingers through the security protocols that would blow the escape panel set into the forward third of the cabin when she triggered the timer. Another spate of command entries and the witnesses to her father’s murder would disappear into the heart of a sun, the pilot unaware that it wasn’t returning to dock as it thought it was.

  Glowing lines were appearing on the hatch when she triggered the timer for the escape panel. She strode to the panel and popped the casing. It wasn’t pressurized, but it would protect her from any debris that followed her out the hatch. After all, it wouldn’t do to have her father’s body or precious artwork hit her, tearing her away from the panel.

  Myra burrowed into the casing, sliding her legs and arms through the straps. She buckled the webbing across her torso and forehead and waited, doing her best not to think about how still the cabin looked. Peaceful, even. The calm before the storm. She drew in a deep breath, widened her eyes, and counted. On six, the panel blew and her father’s yacht was rushing away, odd bits and pieces chasing after her while her lung-liner took over her breathing and the outer liner protecting her from the effects of her high-g escape. Father’s body struck the edge of the opening and tumbled away. She yearned to chase after it, though what she would do with it if she caught it was as beyond her as his body was.

  On the count of fifty-six, the fold-field shimmered around the ship and between one heartbeat and the next it was gone, leaving her drifting away alone, the vibration of the hatch’s gravity beacon her only company. Minutes passed, and she chanted silently to keep the unwanted fear of abandonment from tricking her into a sob. At long last, a shimmer appeared in the distance and a familiar ship materialized where before there had been only vacuum and deadly radiation. Now she would begin the life her mother had wanted for her; a life filled with love.

  DIRECTOR’S CUT

  by Jessamy Dalton

  Harlin M. Elgar, the Emmy Award-winning creator, writer, and producer of the controversial hit show Lords of Vengeance, was found dead in his Hollywood Hills home on a fine Califor
nia morning in June. The dispatcher who took the call displayed a cool professionalism when she relayed the news to me and my partner Chano, on patrol up I-405: a DB, suspected homicide, caller hysterical, and btw, prelim ID on the vic—

  “Say who?” I blurted at the radio, while Chano choked on his coffee beside me. Real professionals, us.

  “Just get out there,” snapped Dispatch. “We need to contain this.”

  “Holy mother,” Chano muttered as I made an illegal U-turn and accelerated, running a full Code 3. “Why us?”

  I knew exactly how he felt. Lords of Vengeance just happened to be the hottest topic around the water cooler right about then. Love it, hate it, never even seen it, everybody had an opinion. Parents condemned it. Critics lauded it. Academics of the more liberal stripe referenced it in the classroom, usually in connection with U.S. foreign policy. Only a week before, SNL had spoofed the famous “garroting-wire-decapitation” episode using a coconut and a sofa bolster stuffed in a pantyhose. If Elgar was indeed dead, every outpost in the mediascape was going to light up like Christmas.