The Blue-Spangled Blue (The Path Book 1)

by David Bowles

  The storm began to abate as Ben, acting on pure survival instinct and years of training, picked his way across the plain to the rocky wasteland to its west. No sooner had he reached the first looming boulders than a garbled transmission filtered through his cascom. It was Gamma Squad, arriving to provide backup.

  “Captain Wu, you’re on our screens. Hang loose. Where are the others?”

  The hail segued into a simple opaque downpour. Without replying, Ben deactivated his casque, which accordioned back into the collar of the flexsuit. He let the water stream over his head, soaking his queue, flooding his eyes and nose and mouth as he tilted it back in abandon.

  The face of each of his men drifted before him as the water stopped his breathing and he fell to his knees. He felt his will to live slacken for a second, a darkness not of the storm edging into his soul.

  Then, inexplicably, he smelled his wife’s perfume. Orange blossoms and lilac. He knew Qing was with him there at the brink of despair, her presence surrounding him. He could almost hear her voice murmur his name…

  Abruptly, he doubled over and vomited, expelling the liquid in a coughing fit. He’d shared as much of their death as he could.

  All he was permitted now, it seemed, was to avenge them.

  CHAPTER 27

  IT was the eve of the first day of classes at Ra-Koreji. Brando’s stomach kept churning, and not just because of the big launch. The massacre of Alpha Squad had caused a wave of fear and fury to spread across the continent. Deputies were about to vote on whether to put Station City and other major urban centers on lockdown.

  Tenshi poured them both a glass of marapu, palm wine from the Ebishi prefecture now available in Kinguyama’s new marketplace. “Any excuse to ruin the social and economic gains. So predictable, these bastards.”

  Brando downed the alcohol in a single draught. “I swear, if they shut the campus down before it even opens—fuck me. Ra-Koreji is more than just a school. I can see my newly aligned self so clearly now in its structure, educational philosophy, curricula. Satori feels so close right now.”

  His wife took his stubbly chin in her hand. “It won’t fade no matter what you do. You’ve put in the work, baby. Sopiya will keep guiding you.”

  The anchor discussing the vote on the holographic display touched their ear as if getting news from a producer. “Siblings, we go now to the Prefectural Management Complex in Juresh, where Arojin Santo Koroma is about to adress a small crowd.”

  Tenshi jerked her gaze back toward the projection. “What fresh new hell?”

  Santo’s sly smile flickered to life before them. “Fellow Jitsujin, citizens and deputies alike. I wanted to speak directly to you concerning our recent troubles. The proposal in the Chamber of Deputies must be—defeated.”

  Brando’s gut roiled even more. “Why is he suddenly on our side?”

  “He’s got some evil purpose, trust me.” Tenshi finished off her drink and poured them another.

  “In fact, I humbly accept responsibility for the failures of the ATS. The Oracle and Archon entrusted me with their stewardship, but I have not focused on that role. I’ve tried to be both prefect and protector. I now see I must choose. As a result, today I’m stepping down from my position with the great district of Mashkanu. I’ve submitted the name of my proposed replacement to the Archon—Meji Pishan. Their leadership in Kinguyama has proved a worthy example for other towns in the district. They should be in charge of guiding Mashkanu toward reform.”

  Brando almost spit marapu all over the table. “Wait, Meji-shi? Why would he turn the reins over to a Reporumatu giya?”

  “I’m telling you,” his wife repeated, “there’s a catch.”

  “Instead of prefect, I will assume the temporary position of Czar of Public Defense. Temporary because it is my intention to work hard to eliminate the need for such a job. We’ll be expanding the number squads, broadening their patrols. I promise you—I will make this planet safe again.”

  “And there you go. He’s throwing us a bone, but he’s going to have muscle in every prefecture. Something’s in the works.”

  “Doesn’t he still have to turn the ATS over to the legislature in two years, after the elections?” Brando asked.

  “A lot can happen in two years, love.”

  Reporting switched back to the Chamber of Deputies, where the proposed lockdown was defeated narrowly.

  Though he often felt Tenshi was more paranoid than needed where her uncle was concerned, Brando had to admit that his implied support of reform was suspicious.

  What does he have up his sleeve, then?

  The next day, Ra-Koreji flung wide its doors and received its first batch of students. Classes were for adults, given three times a week with subjects ranging from basic calculus to construction methods and literature. Tuition could be paid in a variety of ways, from CPCC credits to volunteer work or community vouchers. The latter were Tenshi’s idea: she convinced the growing secular economic sector to offer IOUs for services and goods in order to pay the increasing number of Pathwalkers who did work for them, thus circumventing the long-standing Dominatu practice of not earning money for labor. These vouchers, after being used to cover tuition, could in turn be converted to credits for instructors’ salaries, or used directly as part of those salaries themselves.

  The ultimate goal was to get the government of Jitsu to fund secular education for all its residents. But as the local saying went, One walks the Path step by gradual step.

  As the first semester drew to a close, Brando had to rethink his plans. No one was a better sounding board than Tenshi, so met with her at Izakiwo headquarters one afternoon.

  “The stop-gap system has worked well,” he told her. “And we have a huge waiting list. I need to accelerate my schedule.”

  “Ah, yes. Jitsujin have the right and the means to study now. Of course they’re lining up. What are you considering?”

  “Expanding to a full five-day week.”

  Tenshi nodded and stood from her desk, circling around to massage his shoulders. “Sounds good. Wow, you’re tense, baby.”

  Brando sighed, enjoying the feel of her fingers as they kneaded into his muscles.

  “We’ve been going at it for two years straight, Tenshi. How much longer can we keep up this pace?”

  She kissed the top of his head. “Can’t stop now. Too much momentum. But, then again, I’ve got my employees and fellow architects. You’re going to need more help, too.”

  “I’ve got some ideas. But first—let’s take a vacation.”

  She bent her head down to his eye level, blinking. “A what? Really?”

  “Yeah. We deserve it. Get one of your friends to watch Tana for a few days? I’ll handle the rest.”

  The northern coastal prefecture of Ebishi was known not only for its heady palm wine, but also for its beaches of pink sand. Reformers in Kampun, one of the district’s oldest villages, had recently constructed a series of cabins to encourage tourism under the auspices of the new laws.

  Brando booked them all for a week. Paid the three local eateries compensation for lost business.

  “So that it’s only you and me,” he explained to Tenshi as they stepped out of their cabin the first afternoon. He laced his fingers through hers and looked deep into her sunburst eyes. “Even if just for a little while, I want no one else around to distract me from loving you.”

  They walked along the strand, chatting and laughing, watching sea moths dive for floating krill, until the sun began to set. Then they had dinner at one of the restaurants, fresh sea food served over benachin with gourds of the marapu they’d both acquired a taste for.

  Walking back with his wife under the bejewelled night sky, Brando felt a need so intense it almost hurt. He stopped her, the waves lapping at their feet, and pressed his mouth to hers. The same fire was rising in her, he could tell. Getting back to the cabin was out of the question. So they pulled each other free of their light cotton clothes and fell together there on the sand, lost in
each other as the moon peered over the horizon, its light shimmering first upon the waves and then their entwined bodies.

  Brando came to relish the rhythm they fell into over the next few days. Waking to share a light breakfast and hot koro brew, often after making early morning love—without interruptions from a certain curious toddler. Then swimming for a bit before taking a boat out past the breakers so that Tenshi could teach him the fine art of fishing with a net.

  Afterwards, they’d cook up their catch and Brando would play guitar for his beloved, singing old songs and new.

  “Play the ones your uncle Jean Makomo taught you,” Tenshi would invariably ask. “The ones you sing to Tana.”

  Looking from the porch toward the sea, Brando would strike up “Olele, Moliba Makasi” as she pretending to row their boat against a current. Then, knowing what she really wanted, he’d switch to “Bilanga Na Ngai,” and she would start to dance, the brilliant colors of her skirt swirling, her long locs taking on a life of their own.

  He’d put down the guitar and dance with her for a while, their steps slowing until they were pressed against each other, eyes locked. Sometimes they’d make love again. Other times they’d go swimming, or climb trees in search of fruit.

  But every evening ended the same: the walk along the beach to one of the three restaurants, a hearty meal with lots of palm wine.

  A walk back beneath the stars.

  Eager sex, on the sand, in the waves, or ocassionally in their bed.

  The last night of their vacation, Brando could see a tension in his wife. Not an eagerness to return, but desperation. Almost fear of tarrying any longer.

  Rather than one bottle of marapu, they had two. Then a third.

  Tenshi kept downing gourd after gourd of palm wine. When it came time for the restaurant to close, she could hardly stand.

  “Sorry,” she rasped, eyes half-closed. “Nimuyo, newa. I’m drunk.”

  “It’s okay, umpenzi,” Brando said. “I’ll carry you home.”

  He swept her up in his arms and began to head back. Even after four years on Jitsu, his high-gravity strength lingered just enough that he managed to cross the half kilometer of sand and reach their cabin without getting too tired.

  Tenshi had fallen asleep along the way, so Brando laid her gently on their bed. As he pulled away, she woke up and grabbed his arm.

  “Where you going?” she managed to say.

  “Nowhere, baby. I’m right here with you. Why’d you drink so much?”

  She gestured weakly at the darkness. “Don’t wanna go back. Have to.”

  Brando cupped her cheek with his free hand. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want, umpenzi. We can stay a few more days.”

  “No, not a good idea. So much work. So little time.”

  Her eyes were closed again. Brando shook his head. “Other people can do the work. There’s no hurry.”

  “Yes,” she breathed. “There is. Could end. Any moment.”

  Brando narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “Tenshi na tenshi. Newa na tenshi.”

  “What about your spark?” he asked.

  “Told me.” Her voice was almost inaudible. “Young. Me. Translated. But dead.”

  He leaned closer, trying to understand. “Your spark told you what?”

  “I’ll die young, Brando.” Tears squeezed around her eyelids in the gloom. She whispered, her voice fading as she slipped into dreams, “Alone. You and Tana. Don’t mourn. Not too much. Don’t despair. Translated. I’ll watch. From Beyond.”

  Brando let her sleep. But he couldn’t. The idea of losing her had wormed its way into his mind, and it drove all joy away.

  He lay by her side in the darkness, trying to unhear her words.

  In the morning, he made her groundnut stew, his uncle’s cure for hangovers. She was feeling much better by noon, so they took one last walk along the pink strand before getting in her transport and heading back to Kinguyama.

  Brando never mentioned the secret she’d revealed.

  He was determined to forget it.

  As the new semester began, Brando sat down with two of the educators he most respected on Jitsu, Jina Chimari and Modupe Oduyoye. They sipped tea together in the small conference room beside his office.

  “Thanks for coming. So, yes, Ra-Koreji has been much more successful than I could’ve imagined. In fact, our investors—many of them expansionist Consortium businessmen who’re pushing for Jitsu to enter the CPCC—are offering additional funding to move the school into phase II earlier than planned.”

  Modupe patted Brando on the shoulder. “Congrats, mate! What’s phase II?”

  Before he could answer, Jina set her cup down and guessed. “Elementary schooling, am I right?”

  “Exactly. And here’s my dilemma. Instructors. With adults, I’ve had the help of University professors like this old gerrie,” Brando jerked his head at Modupe with a smile, “who’ve signed up to teach part-time. But with little ones, I’ve got to think of what the Path requires as well.”

  “Do you mean their religious education?” Modupe asked. “Shouldn’t that still be their parents’ and the community’s responsibility.”

  Jina tapped the table thoughtfully. “Not necessarily. Ra-Koreji is far enough from surrounding towns that parents who send their children will expect them to be there all day, which makes it hard to attend classes at the teyopan, too. Come to think of it, Brando-shi, there may be parents who want to have their children board at Ra-Koreji. Have you given that any thought?”

  Brando’s mouth went dry. He balked a little. “Oh. No, it hadn’t ocurred to me. There’s no reason we couldn’t set up dormitories, I guess, but we’d need satorjin supervisors to live on campus, too. Wow, Jina. I was barely going to ask you for help bringing Pathwalker instructors on board that could teach humanities, sciences and maths as well as provide guidance for meditation and study of the scriptures. But I clearly haven’t been thinking this through.”

  “That,” she said, smiling, “is why you have friends and colleagues.”

  Modupe looked back and forth at the two of them. “Brando, why don’t you just ask Arojin Chimari here to head the elementary education initiative? She’s the best on the planet.”

  Searching Jina’s eyes for clues to her feelings, Brando asked, “Would you be willing?”

  She sipped at her tea, thinking. “Maybe. Give me some time to mull it over, Brando-shi. Invite Meji and me over for dinner in a week or so. I’ll have an answer for you by then.”

  Ten days later, the two couples were sipping palm wine on the veranda after a hearty dinner. Jina let Brando know her decision as she looked out over the desert.

  “Okay, Brando-shi. I’m in. But tit for tat. Meji has something they want to propose. To Tenshi, specifically, but it’ll impact you.”

  Tenshi sat up a little straighter. “What is it, Prefect?”

  Meji put their hand lightly on hers. “The special election. For the new position as mayor of Kinguyama. I’d like you to stand for it.”

  Brando looked at his wife. He knew her distaste of politics. She’d repeatedly talked about how much more effective she was as a free agent.

  But Brando also knew how much she loved her people. How much their view of her as a leader filled her with joy.

  “But,” she countered, “there are already two solid candidates. Anshyano Nyota Irujunei served on the council for many years. Djoko Suharto was one of the first to move here from Station City. He’s at the forefront of economic expansion. Either would be good.”

  “I agree,” Meji said. “But we need better than good. We need the best. The whole planet, the whole of human space, is looking at our town, Tenshi-shi. At our district. And as the new prefect, I need you to take up this mantle. You’re the face of Reporumatudan, like it or not.”

  It took a few more weeks, but Tenshi finally made up her mind to do as Meji asked. The other two candidates dropped out immediately. But even running unoppose
d, Tenshi received thousands of votes, nearly every eligible voter in Kinguyama lining up to show their support for their beloved architect arojin.

  Not long after she was installed in her new office, Brando decided to drop by with some lunch.

  “Thanks, umpenzi,” she said as they sat at the conference table that dominated one end of the room. “I’m up to my eyeballs in data right now. Food is much appreciated.”

  Brando unpacked the food and served it. “Yeah, I’m running from data myself. I can’t believe how this school is exploding, Tenshi. We’re barely wrapping up the fourth quarter, but enrollment for next year stands at 700 adults and 321 children.”

  “Wow,” Tenshi said, sipping on the soup he’d poured into her bowl.

  “Yup. Studying the stats with Jina and Modupe, I can see those numbers doubling over the course of the next year.”

  His wife waved her hand at a datapad as she swallowed. “Maybe more. Despite everything we’ve done to prevent it, a huge wave of folks are migrating to Mashkanu from other, less tolerant prefectures.”

  Brando’s stomach flopped. “Great. So we’re concentrating reformers. Doesn’t bode well for the general elections in two years. Shit. Ra-Koreji is compounding the problem, isn’t it?”

  “Since the attacks have slacked off some,” Tenshi mused, “we might pull this one out. But concentrate more reformers here and in Arusha, and we’d better hope there’s no more major tragedies. We’ll be looking at a Dominian controlled legislature with Santo pulling the strings otherwise.”

  Brando picked at his rice and fermented vegetables. “I think I have a way to stave that possibility off. We create satellite campuses in three key prefectures: Shusaku, Kintana and Noparu.”

  Tenshi wiped at her mouth with a napkin. “The closest majority moderate districts?”

  Brando gestured with his fork. “Yeah. They’re the ones feeding us migrants. I can put Modupe in charge of the Shusaku campus. And I’ve got potential deans in mind for the other two. Can your firm build them within a year?”