by C M Weller
The oldest human Sahra had seen was a white-haired lady she found sharing the bed with the Majestrix. It took quick thinking and a lot of frantic sign language to get it through to the lady that Sahra was there to change the way things were without hurting anyone.
She said her name used to be Rizo. That Sahra should remember that. That nobody was alive now who did.
So Sahra told Simy, after she was done haunting the Majestrix. Because Simy would remember long after Sahra, the rebels, and everything else had been forgotten - win or fail. Moshikaan slime dogs lasted for very, very long times.
And, to make sure, she got one of the more literate members of the rat patrol to etch some words into a wall in their centre base.
Remember Rizo. They took her name. They killed her family. She spent her life caring for a child not her own. The masters took everything from her. This is why we fight back.
And the walls were going to remember, too. For as long as the station stood.
It wasn't much justice, but it was all the slice of it Sahra could get.
We need more justice, she thought. That's why we fight, too.
Justice was hard to get when you had nothing but your own wits.
Freedom would not help Rizo, with her family gone or dead. All her friends dead by decree. She was pretty much set on dying of old age in the Majestrix's care. And possibly being tortured by master medicine into surviving one more day because the Majestrix couldn't deal with life without her nanny.
Sahra didn't even try to entertain helping the old lady into heaven. That would be cruel. And maybe turn the Majestrix back the other way.
There was nothing more she could do. And there was little that felt worse about that.
Other business.
There had to be other things to do against the masters. Maybe other words to set the walls on fire with. Something else. Something special. Something that would make them run home and never come back again.
Stealing money out of closed stores did little good. Stealing food and merchandise did little good. Most stayed through fire, bugs, disease and all. Some were leaving, it was true. More and more shops on the concourse were going out of business. More and more civilians were leaving.
But not the military. The military stayed. The military got more military in - untrained, clumsy new recruits - to deal with the trouble Sahra and the rebels supplied.
She and her Mosquitoes could only put bombs on military vessels when they were docked. Which didn't do much for the return trip. And timers didn't like going through wormholes. Neither did receivers.
Maybe blowing up military ships counted, even if they blew up without too many militia on board.
It was something she'd have to talk about.
*
"It's plan B," said Ali. "We're making our own Mosquito-class vessels for our 'military escorts'." A nasty grin showed up white against his dark features. "Instead of draining fuel, they'll plant a bomb on the fuel lines and just... wait until they can't hear us any more." His hands mimed the results.
"That's downright nasty," Sahra opined. "You know t' stick to the military ones, right?"
"Damn straight," he said. "Once you hit the civilians, you invite a guerrilla war. I'd rather have them out in one go than having to wait until they die of old age."
"Nor have 'em go on like th' Hatfeelers an' Coys."
"Exactly. Short, sweet and decisive. Just like this one." Ali showed off a brown, plastic-wrapped package.
"Djaak? I thought we was all over that."
"This is a special blend, with three common allergens pulverized to powder and mixed generously in. To them, it'll seem like the hand of God has struck them down."
Sahra grinned. "That's gonna be right messy. All over the place. You should promote yo'self again."
Ali laughed. "Anything to keep you from sneaking up behind my 'throne'," he joked. "Any improvements? Critiques?"
"Just a li'l thought..."
"Do tell."
"Does ipecac work onna masters like it works on us?"
Ali's eyes widened and he reeled as if struck by a really slow giant. "Oooohhh... you are evil. I like that in an Admiral under my command." He kissed her forehead. "Angels bless you, I think we have ourselves another curse. Well done."
Sahra smiled on the outside. Was she really evil? Was going to hell the only way to reclaim Hevun? And how did that weigh up against one blessing from a man who liked to blow things up?
*
There were no words of fire for this curse. Just an astonishing array of disease. Rashes, closing windpipes, vomiting, mucous, fevers, dizziness and, in extreme cases, death. It was worse than decimation, and seemingly random. There was no way to tell who was going to fall over sick, next.
Which made every living hour a terror.
Graak muscled through it, doing his utmost to keep the fear from gnawing at him. Even though five out of eight subordinates he called on to perform a task would almost instantly fall from whatever it was.
Even the shopkeeps were prey to this plague. Every other pace along the concourse resulted in him assisting civilians, medics and his own soldiers alike. Even up to his elbows in small consecutive disasters, he noticed a few strange specifics about the mystery illness running riot on his station.
It did not hit any children below the age of sexual maturity. It did not hit any of the dedicated sobrietists. It did hit quite a lot of people he had arrested for carrying Djaak before the drug became so widespread that having some became little more than a misdemeanor.
He left his lessers to deal with the ensuing mess and loaded a list of the afflicted into his personal data reader. Then he gave himself a warrant to search all their residences. Given some of the afflicted's attitudes towards his heritage in relation to theirs... he performed those searches with added gusto.
Djaak.
In every last one he searched.
Graak did not wait for higher orders. He put out his own order for victims of the mystery ailment to be suspected of taking Djaak and their quarters were to be searched while they were occupying medical. It was a potential waste of resources and he would likely catch all colours of hell for it, but not if he was victorious. Thus, he assigned his most useless officers to victim cleanup and his most sharp-eyed to the search and seizure.
Then he found a dedicated sobrietist in sciences and asked politely that they test the Djaak under biohazard precautions for anything suspicious.
Heavens forfend that he accidentally got the sobrietist ill with the suspected vector. That would doubtless land him in even more trouble than he was already in.
But so far, his results were beyond synchronicitous.
Five hundred illnesses so far. Five hundred little packets of Djaak hidden away in the predictable places. And thousands to go.
He joined the search once he had finished with the sobrietist. His results kept climbing. One thousand. Two thousand. Three thousand.
Along with finds of an astonishing array of contraband. All seized pending the victims' survival for later prosecution. It was going to be interesting to see what profits he gained as a direct result. The payments to keep various scandals out of public notice, the attempted bribes to let the charges slipped by, the subsequent payments to avoid bribery charges... Some of the victims were from a very high bloodline, indeed.
Lots of it would go straight to the Holy Grace Charitable Orphanage. Graak did not fund his existence on confiscated moneys taken from attempted bribers. Contrary to rumour, he did not own a small resort-planet somewhere in the binary solar system of K'g'desh; bought with payments to avoid public charges.
He lived so frugally, the public would love for him to have a resort planet. Or otherwise secretly corrupt. All his spare money went directly to other charities dedicated to helping out abandoned male children. That funding would have to be divided again, now. Bribes were usually divided equally amongst his chosen charities. The payments were divided according to etiquette. A percentage to the stations overall
funding. A percentage to the Majestrix, long may she reign. And the rest according to his personal wants.
And what he wanted to do, was give it all to various charities.
Now that the Majestrix -long may she reign- publicly backed her own charity home, fifty percent of the remainder would go straight to the Holy Grace Charitable Orphanage. The other fifty percent would be distributed as evenly as he could manage.
A one-star Kuin turned up in his shadow.
"Yes?" he said.
"Kuin Tagri'idan wishes to see you at the utmost importance."
Having found his three thousand, two hundred and fifty-fourth baggie of Djaak, Graak submitted it for evidence and sent a Taan with it to his sobrietist scientist for further analysis. "I am always available for matters of utmost importance."
They took the fast transit to operations, where Tagri'idan was looking both somewhat ill and very ticked off. Her office smelled of vomit and excrement, the latter of the two wafted inconveniently from her office ensuite.
"I have informed you previously that possession of Djaak is a misdemeanor," she growled. "Yet you have thousands of arrest warrants based on possessing Djaak..." She sipped water. It smelled - albeit subtly - like slaves' water.
She, too, had noticed that the slaves did not get sick.
"Of all the collapsed victims of this... plague," said Graak, "One hundred percent have significant amounts of Djaak. As well as... quite a few interesting examples of contraband." He loaded his list-so-far into Tagri'idan's monitor.
"I do not want you arresting everyone who is ill," she said. Her innards gurgled.
"If everyone who is ill is taking D'jaak and has a collection of contraband, they are flouting the law. Anyone who flaunts the law is subject to charges. Regardless of their family... or their rank."
"You'd try to arrest the Majestrix herself, long may she reign."
"If she was flouting her own laws, and failed to heed my warning. Yes."
"Then I must report myself. I have been taking small amounts of Djaak in a medicinal capability. To help me sleep."
"But not in excessive amounts," noted Graak. "I will have to search your quarters for contraband."
"I'm aware."
"I must, therefore, respectfully ask that you remain in your office until the search is completed."
"...not that I'm capable of leaving it right now..." she breathed deep and gripped her belly as her innards gurgled dangerously. "Go on. Perform your duty."
Graak bowed in respect before he left. Tagri'idan was one of the few who knew the rules and followed them as best she could. Even the ones that contradicted themselves.
*
Once again, the slaves were celebrating. The masters were too sick or too few and too busy to bother with disciplining the humans. Sahra didn't share any of that joy. She hung back in corners and watched. Nobody here thought it was evil to poison the masters with the drug they loved the best. Most of them didn't even know it had happened that way.
Some were singing joyful hymns about the downfall of enemies.
Some were thanking God and his angels.
Some were just enjoying the moment. Eating stolen food and drinking from stolen bottles. Gemmas and Gempas slated to die that day were thanking the air for another day with their grandchildren.
One such Gempa found her hiding in a corner and watching the world over her arms while she hugged her knees.
"What's the matter, Little? It's steak for dinner. Well, for those who still have teeth to chew it."
Sahra bit her lip. Gempas and Gemmas had little to trade for, when it came to snitching. Could she trust this one?
Time to test. "What wouldja do if'n you knew someone'd done sump'in to make the masters sick?"
"Child, I would bless that someone beyond the end of my days. I would speak up for them in the halls of heaven, even if there were already twelve others to defend them."
"Even if someone said it were evil?"
"One voice in a choir can say something different, Little; that doesn't mean they're going to be heard."
"Some of th' masters are dyin'..." and it's all my fault.
"Sweet thing, they been makin' us die for hundreds of years."
Sahra stared at him. "That don't make killin' them right."
He had a funny smile. Sort of sad and amazed and happy at the same time. "You're -what- seven?"
"...yeah...?"
"You must be an old soul, to be so grown-up inside your head. Listen to another old soul." he leaned close and murmured in her ear. "God gave us rules, and the devil came up with situations in which we'd have to put those rules down fo' a while. The thing is, it's up to us to choose to pick 'em up again after we're done."
"Even 'Thou shalt not kill'?"
"Especially that one. Come on, Little. Some fellers up on the eastward side stole us all a master treat called 'ice cream'. I remember my Gemma telling me it used to be a human treat. We gotta hurry before all the good flavours get took."
Sahra took his hand as she got out of her nook. Ice cream may not solve her problems, but it sounded like it had the promise of making her feel better about things for a little while.
Someone close to the ice cream thieves was singing a new hymn. Not any tune Sahra had heard before.
"God bless the rebels," they sang, "Fighting to be free... Break our chains and bring the rains that make the masters see... We need our freedom... We need to make this fuss... We're not just fighting for this station, we fight for all of us..."
Another blessing from someone who knew the 'miracles' were rebel-made, at least.
Sahra got a scoop of something brown and cold with lumps in it. It tasted of nuts and sugar and cream and it got all over her hands because the thieves had stolen ice cream, but nothing to eat it out of or with.
Nobody cared. They had something usually made just for the masters. Even if it got all over them, like it got all over David and Mama too, they were going to enjoy every last drop. Because it was made by them, but they had never got close to getting any, before.
Slaves made this station. After a shell got put on by the masters, it was slaves who put in the floors and tunnels and ran cables and put up walls and carried all the heavy things for masters to install.
It was slaves who grew their food and killed it if they didn't want it alive and cooked it and served it and cleaned up after their mess, but never, ever, got to eat it. Sahra was glad in the case of some of the bugs, but the principal remained.
It was slaves who made the clothes, who cleaned and prepared, who did everything the masters didn't want to do.
They'd earned this.
Even if they had to steal it, first.
It still didn't make it right. It wasn't near halfway to fair. But what else was there? Submission got them slavery for so long that hardly anyone remembered that they owned the planet Hevun. People who fought back on their own got shot. Fighting back together may not be right, but it was the only way that seemed to be working at all.
All of her rat squad had overheard masters who thought they were talking alone. Of those masters, none wanted to stay. Some had to stay, some were forced to stay, but all of them would leave if they had a chance. Even some of the businesses were closing on the main concourse.
If there was a better way to help them along, Sahra had yet to find it.
And so had all the rebels and the rats and the surprise grownups who turned out to be real rebels at heart. Of everything they had tried, this was all they had left.
Sahra prayed that it was going to work out in the end.
*
Graak liked to stare out the windows nobody else bothered with. An ancient habit from a crueler past. The windows nobody bothered with, he reasoned, had no-one there to make his life a misery. The view was not important. It just gave his eyes something to do while his mind raked through the ashes of yesterday for glimmers of genius.
Words of fire were still turning up, but the incidents were random and not
precipitated by oracular utterances. Without the predictions, however briefly in advance of the event they were, the spectacular events were somehow more frightening.
At least the first seven had an inkling of preparation.
It was why a very younger Graak much preferred the adults who warned him before they hit him. He had a chance to brace for it, or even run away if he was lucky. He'd learned not to watch the treat in the claw, but rather the other claw, or their laughing friend.
Attack could come from any angle. Especially if there was bait.
So far, this human god had not offered bait. If it was a god and not some complicated trickery from someone after the Majestrix's throne. The humans could not possibly have cooked all this up on their own.
And, for that matter, there was a special breed of concerned citizen who felt they had to show the flaws in a system by exploiting them. Usually for their own profit.
So what flaws were there in the mighty Tu'atta empire and this station in particular?
He had to force himself to avoid the learned response of, Nothing. He had to make himself think. He knew humans were involved. Their scent was all over every curse/miracle that had happened. Add that to the fact that humans were literally almost everywhere, and he had his weak point.
The humans. Someone was using the humans and they were forbidden to disobey a Tu'atta.
And they had definitely been told not to say anything about it, too. Humans could lie on command if they were taught... and they could be taught earlier than anyone believed.
Right. Humans were the key. But who was turning them? How could he find the claw manipulating them? No. He was asking the wrong question.
Who was getting rewards from all this nonsense? What profit was there in driving all but the most determined out of the station?
His eyes kept drifting back to an anomaly on the hull of the warship in the window. Or, more correctly, the rear portion of the warship. A tiny little thing, looking too much like a kink in the fuel line.
How many engineers had missed something like that?
Was that the cause of the mysterious intermittent power drain? A kinked fuel line? The problem that had been plaguing them for the longest time was caused by some lazy engineer's incompetence...
And, just when he was beginning to compose an angry message to the engineering corps, the apparent kink broke off and drifted away. Fuel did not leak like that. A severe enough leak to break up pieces ended up breaking the entire ship.