Blue Guardian

by S. J. Madill

  Her lungs were burning, and her heartbeat was pounding in her head, by the time the soldiers were inside and the airlock had started to cycle. She took a deep breath of the thickening air; it was cold and stale, but it was air.

  When Zura looked up from the helmet in her hands, the four soldiers were staring at her. "Mahasa?" asked Pelaa, his voice distorted by his helmet's speaker. "Your helmet failed again? You were in danger, Mahasa—"

  "No I wasn't," she replied. "I can hold my breath longer than that, and so can you." She looked around the inside of the airlock. "Though I will be speaking to Sadan when we return to the ship." The armourer wouldn't be pleased to hear about this. He'd be even less pleased after she spoke to him about it.

  She pointed to the inner door of the airlock. "Go. Start your investigation."

  The four soldiers nodded in unison, filing past her toward the opening inner door.

  * * *

  The interior of the mining facility was barely larger than her apartment back on the colony. There was just enough space for a team of technicians to access the station's systems. Or, in this case, for a squad of armoured soldiers to investigate the intrusion detected by the station's sensors. And enough room for a sector governor to stand and wait, fiddling with her misbehaving helmet. The soldiers knew their jobs; the last thing they needed was to have her hovering over their shoulders, watching their every move. Instead, she stood quietly, only mildly interested in the machinery all around her. It was centuries old, and still running smoothly with very little maintenance. A triumph, she supposed, for whatever engineers and designers had come together to make an atmospheric harvester with no moving parts.

  "Mahasa," said Pelaa. The squad leader was standing in front of a terminal, his helmet on the floor at his feet. "I have access to the logs."

  "Go on," said Zura, stepping closer.

  Pelaa was poking at the display with a gloved hand, his orange-dusted armour creaking as he moved. "Here is the initial proximity alarm," he said, pointing at a line of text. "Three hours and eleven minutes ago. Here is the door alarm, and here is the alarm for the bag detaching."

  Zura said nothing; she just kept watching over Pelaa's shoulder. Hovering, just the way she'd wanted to avoid.

  "Here," said Pelaa, poking a finger at the display. "Alarm messages were rerouted to a secondary transmission circuit… and here's the alarms generated by us, when we arrived in the system just now—."

  "Alternate transmission circuit?" asked Zura. "It's still transmitting?"

  "Yes, Mahasa. But—" Pelaa moved his fingertip around on the display, prompting additional lines of text to appear. "Yes, Mahasa. The station is still transmitting its alarms and updates, through the secondary circuit."

  It was beginning to look to Zura like more than just some bandits stealing some helium. "Check the Tunnel cells."

  "Yes, Mahasa." Pelaa motioned to one of the other soldiers. The soldier — Antur — started opening a series of access panels on one wall of the compartment. The young soldier, his hair cut even shorter than Zura's, seemed unsure where to look. He opened another panel. "Ah," he said with some satisfaction. "Found the Tunnel cells, Squad Leader. A second cell has been added. It's not one of ours."

  Zura stepped back to let Pelaa move past her, going to see for himself. He didn't touch anything inside the access panel, but stooped a little to peer into it.

  "Mahasa, there is a second Tunnel cell in here. Not Palani manufacture. Human, perhaps, or Uta."

  Zura chewed at her lower lip while she tried to think. Whoever had installed the new Tunnel cell was now receiving all the station's data traffic. Every Tunnel cell had a twin, and the twin to this one could be quite literally anywhere. There was no way to detect its location, or to intercept the data stream between the paired cells.

  "Nsal 'neth," she spat. The thieves — whoever they were — now knew the Kahala Hila had arrived. They'd watched them come down to the station in the shuttle, and were probably listening or watching right now. "Destroy it."

  "Yes, Mahasa," said Pelaa. He reached into the access panel and grabbed the thin tubular cell, ripping it out in a brief shower of sparks. Taking the cell in both hands, he snapped it in half. Fragments of broken ceramic fell to the floor. Somewhere in there, a single entangled antiproton had escaped, and been quickly annihilated on contact with the air.

  Pelaa looked up at her. "Perhaps they wanted to know if it was safe for them to come back?"

  Zura turned up her nose at that. If they'd stayed here to empty the bag into a freighter, they would've been vulnerable. But stealing a kilometre-wide bag made even less sense. It didn't leave a lot of believable options.

  "Squad Leader," she said. "I need someone to contact the Kahala Hila. Tell them to scan this planet's atmosphere. I want to know if the bag is here somewhere."

  "Yes, Mahasa," said Pelaa. He turned and pointed at Antur. The soldier nodded, tapping his fingers on the console on his left wrist.

  Zura sighed, resigning herself to waiting. A freighter full of thieves wasn't just going to steal a kilometre-wide bag of pressurised gas. She clasped her hands behind her back, her helmet loosely held in her fingers.

  Antur raised his hand. "Squad Leader," said the soldier. "Kahala Hila reports detecting fragments of the bag deeper in the planet's atmosphere. They determine the bag to have descended and been torn apart by violent winds down below."

  "Nsal 'neth," muttered Zura. There was no escaping the conclusion. "The thieves didn't want the bag. They wanted to get our attention. They were timing our response."

  She looked down at the time display on her wrist console. From the moment of receiving the first alarm, the Kahala Hila had made it here in one hour and fifty-four minutes. Considering the frigate's speed, they were unlikely to improve on that time. It was partly her own fault, for letting her enthusiasm get the better of her. It was just an automated station; there were no lives at risk. They needn't have rushed.

  "Very well," said Zura. "Reset the communications circuit and close everything up. We're done here."

  "Yes, Mahasa."

  Zura stepped back, moving closer to the airlock and out of the way of the squad.

  If she sent a ship to respond to every alarm, she'd be conceding control to thieves and bandits. By causing alarms at remote sites, they could force her ships to move. They'd have a say in where her ships were — and where they weren't. She wondered if it might be more than mere banditry.

  Or, she thought, she might just be imagining things. Too long spent doing too little, letting her imagination get the better of her.

  Holding her helmet behind her back, Zura stood and patiently waited for the squad to finish.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Zura stepped down off the shuttle's ramp onto the colony's landing pad. The crunch of New Fraser's scree-like gravel was becoming familiar to her; a sound as real as the cold echo of her boots in a ship's antiseptic corridors.

  The air had a pleasant chill to it. The snap of the flags on nearby poles told of the gathering breezes pushing clouds across the sky.

  A headache had been developing behind her eyes. Considering how her knee was once again protesting at her movement, she assumed that the medication — Fuckitall? — was wearing off. She didn't want to become dependent on the pills to relieve pain, but the discomfort was starting to get in the way.

  She started the long trudge uphill between the rows of residence modules. A few steps behind her a soldier matched her pace, providing an echo for her footsteps.

  Sadan had been beside himself with embarrassment when she'd thrown her malfunctioning helmet to him upon returning to the Kahala Hila. She must have looked quite an angry mess, her face and hair dirty with the orange dust of the planet's atmosphere. Sadan's profuse apologies had been met with a dismissive wave of her hand, and he'd retreated to fix the helmet, returning it before they arrived back at New Fraser.

  She'd spent most of the trip sitting in the ready room, in front of her rack, not even
bothering to take off her armour. It was less than a two hour flight; she figured she'd just take it off when she got back to her apartment at the colony. Cleaning the armour would at least give her something to do. After that, a shower, then something to eat, then back to her desk for the evening.

  Zura realised she'd been walking with her head down, her eyes half-shut against the light and the throbbing pain in her head. When she glanced up she saw the two human councillors standing at the bottom of the stairs to her apartment, waiting for her. Councillor Miller was holding a human-style datapad; Councillor Lang was just glaring at her.

  "Shin sa en-fedor," mumbled Zura, as she came to a stop.

  "General," said Miller, giving a short bow. Lang just stared at her, working his jaw like he was chewing something. It resembled something she'd seen the cows do while they watched her from their fields.

  "Councillor Miller," said Zura, nodding in acknowledgment. "Councillor Lang."

  Miller was wearing that smile again: the smile of a politician being pleasant on demand. "We heard you were returning from your mission, General. We wanted to speak to you in person." Her eyes glanced at Zura's armour. "Nothing was said to us when you left. Do we have any cause for concern?"

  "No," said Zura without hesitation. "Nothing relevant to the colony, Councillor. We went to check a remote mining installation." It was best not to mention the thieves, or any speculation she might have. It wasn't enough basis to justify worrying the humans; they worried enough as it was. She didn't even look over at Lang. In her peripheral vision, she saw his expression change, and knew it would be a look of skepticism. Skepticism was healthy, most of the time. "What do you need, Councillor?"

  Miller handed her the human-style datapad. The text on it was entirely in the trade language — English — and Zura squinted at it, trying to translate it while she read. "What is this, Councillor? I need this in Palani."

  "Oh," said Miller, accepting the datapad back. "I'm sorry, General, I shouldn't have assumed." She gave a hint of a tight-lipped smile, probably a gesture of contrition. "We'd like to ask for authorisation for a ship to land, and transport the orphan girl."

  "Good. So her next of kin…?"

  Miller grimaced, then returned to the tight-lipped smile. She made a sound like she was sucking air in between her teeth. Humans and their body language.

  Zura sighed. "Yes, Councillor?"

  "We haven't actually found her next of kin, General."

  Lang's chewing curled his mouth into a frown. "None that'd take the girl, anyway."

  Miller looked at Lang, then back to Zura. "Yes. Unfortunately. And our Colonial Office has made it clear than she cannot stay here. There is a ship nearby that they're going to divert. It'll pick her up tonight, and—"

  "Where is she being taken?" asked Zura.

  Miller hesitated.

  "Orphanage camp," said Lang.

  "Not a camp," Miller quickly corrected. "Those are closed. This is a proper orphanage, with food and medical care…"

  Zura had seen pictures of the human conditions after the war. With Earth and other planets evacuated, a hundred million refugees had been housed in squalid continent-wide camps on distant worlds. Forty years later, some of the camps were still in use. "Then what, Councillor? The girl stays in the orphanage until she reaches adulthood?"

  "I…I don't know," stammered Miller, caught off guard. "I suppose so. Unless there's a foster family that would…" She shook her head. "I don't know."

  "Your request is denied," said Zura. "The girl stays on the colony."

  Miller started to protest, but Zura raised her hand to silence the councillor. Her headache was getting worse, and the last thing she wanted was to argue with some humans. She started walking toward the clinic.

  The two humans were behind her, trying to keep up. She ignored what they were saying. "The problem with the galaxy," she muttered, "is that there are too many administrators, and not enough leaders."

  "But the Colonial Office said—"

  "Shut up," snarled Zura, as she climbed the steps to the clinic's front door. Her knee stabbed her with pain on every step.

  "But—"

  Zura spun around to face them; they recoiled at the look on her face. "Leadership," she said, "is responsibility. Responsibility for the people entrusted to you." She walked in through the front door of the clinic.

  The bottom floor of the module was set up as a four-bed ward. Folding beds sat along the walls, with neatly-organised shelves of supplies and equipment. Stairs led up, presumably to Singh's apartment.

  Sitting on the farthest bed, at the back of the clinic, the blue-haired hybrid girl was reading a datapad. Several small crates were stacked next to the bed.

  The girl's eyes went wide as Zura marched into the clinic, followed by the human councillors. Dropping her datapad, the girl scrambled to get off the bed, standing on the floor in bare feet. "Mahasa?" she asked, a tremble in her voice.

  Zura looked around. "Where is the Doctor?"

  The girl pointed hesitantly toward the front windows. "Someone got hurt in the machine bay. She went to…" the girl lowered her hand, some of the colour draining from her face. "Is this about me? Am I being sent away?"

  "No," said Zura. "You're staying on the colony until some of your kin come forward."

  Lang cleared his throat behind Zura. "No room in residences—"

  "I know that," spat Zura over her shoulder. She looked back at the nervous-looking girl. "What's your name again?"

  The child's voice sounded tiny. "Yaella Russo, Mahasa."

  "Gather your things, child. Come. You're staying with me for now."

  Yaella's mouth fell open. "Ma'am? With you?"

  Zura made a quick beckoning motion. "Don't call me that. Let's go. The boxes can wait." She turned on one heel.

  The human councillors were right behind her, blocking the door. "General," sputtered Miller, "You can't possibly—"

  "I did," she said, as they stepped aside to let her pass. "Send whatever documentation I need to sign to please your bureaucrats. Send it in Palani."

  Leaving the humans in her wake, Zura marched out the door of the clinic and down the stairs. She was still holding her helmet in one hand, and traces of orange dust fell from her armour as she painfully descended the steps. Turning to look behind her, she saw the girl trying to keep up, half-dragging a satchel that was nearly as big as she was.

  When Zura got to her own front door, she paused on the threshold, letting the girl catch up. It took a few moments for the girl to reach the door, panting and dragging her satchel.

  "Bottom floor," said Zura, motioning with her helmet. "My office. Stay out."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Zura raised an eyebrow at the girl.

  "Yes, Mahasa," corrected Yaella. "Sorry."

  "Good. Follow me upstairs."

  She started up the stairs. With each step her knee flared again, her head throbbed in pain, and the energy seemed to drain from her body. By the time she reached the top and entered the apartment, her head was pounding.

  Looking behind her, she saw Yaella a few steps behind, clearly struggling with her satchel. She reached out a hand. "Give me that."

  "No," said the puffing Yaella, shaking her head. "I've got it." The girl seemed to have thought of something, because she suddenly raised her head to look at Zura, a sheepish look coming to her face. "Sorry. I mean, no thank you, Mahasa."

  "Very well," said Zura, waiting just inside the apartment door. After a few moments, the girl joined her.

  Zura pointed at things with her helmet. "Living area. Couch. You sleep on that. Over here, the kitchen. Food is in the cold storage. The door over there is the toilet and bathing room. That other door is my room. When my door is closed, you stay out. Understood?"

  "Yes, Mahasa," came the small voice at her side. "Mahasa, thank you for—"

  "You'll be here until something better for you comes along. I expect you to stay out of my way." Zura crossed the floor toward her b
edroom door.

  "I won't get in the way, Mahasa. I promise!" Yaella sounded like she was pleading. "I can clean, and cook a little, and—"

  "Do as you will," said Zura, entering her bedroom. "Now be quiet. I need to sleep."

  No sooner had she closed the bedroom door than she had unfastened her armour and let it clatter to the floor. Her head was pounding so hard she was seeing stars in the edges of her vision. Every beat of her heart was like a hammer against the inside of her skull, and she felt like she was running on willpower alone.

  "Lights," she said carefully, "Off." She kicked off her boots. Taking the last few steps to her bed, she let herself fall onto it. As the room darkened, she closed her eyes.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Zura opened her eyes. The room was dark, save for the dim glow of the console on the wall. She was on her side, arms and legs curled in. Still in her underarmour suit, the rusty smell of the gas giant's orange dust still in her nose.

  "Lights," she croaked. "On. Low."

  Her armour was still on the floor, lying scattered where she'd dropped it, and she felt a moment's disapproval. She should never leave her gear in such a state.

  Unfurling her arms and legs, Zura sat up, putting her feet on the floor. She rose slowly, testing her knee. No worse than before.

  A teacher once told her that a person couldn't organise others unless they could organise themselves. Zura picked up her armour from the floor, hanging the pieces in the storage frame. There was still orange dust on it, particularly in the corners and the deep gouges. Cleaning it by hand would be a relaxing way to spend her evening. It would be something she could look forward to. Picking up a datasheet from the bedside shelf, she walked through the door into the bathroom.

  She paused inside the door. Things had been moved. The towels were at the left end of the counter, not the right. Neatly folded and carefully placed, but not the way she'd left them. The combs and hairbrushes — they'd come with the place, and she'd never used them — were on the counter, precisely arranged. The mirror was very clean, without streaks; she ignored the orange-smeared white face, greying blue hair and tired-looking eyes that tried to meet her gaze.