Blue Guardian

by S. J. Madill

  Irasa was behind her, somewhere. She'd told the soldier to put her armour into camouflage mode. Constantly seeing the soldier behind her, even at a discreet distance, was distracting. Especially when she was having trouble concentrating.

  In a way, she envied the humans. With their short, finite lives, the nightmares of the past would fade away and disappear forever. At the same time, forgetting the past left them unable to benefit from its lessons. A few decades of relative calm, and they'd somehow decided that permanent galactic peace had been achieved. One would think that the near-total destruction of Earth would have given them an appreciation of being able to defend themselves. Forgetting things was one of the consequences of their brief lifespans, she supposed. No such problem for us.

  At the end of the cow field was a blocky modular building. Zura supposed it contained whatever equipment was needed to maintain the animals, and perhaps provided shelter for them in bad weather. A human man had exited the side of the building and was walking toward her.

  He was older than middle age, with greying hair, but it was difficult to estimate humans' ages. Exposure to sunlight caused their skin to wrinkle and crease, often making them look older than they actually were.

  "General Varta, ma'am?" said the human as he approached. Zura slowly turned to face him, her hands still clasped behind her back. "Don't call me ma'am." She hesitated. "Please."

  The human man came to a stop in front of her. His face spoke of either many years, or of years spent outside. He extended his hand in greeting, as humans did. "I'm Jacob. Jacob Ross."

  She looked down at his outstretched hand for a moment, and reminded herself that she needed to be 'making an effort'. Unclasping her hands, she gave his a single shake. "Mister Ross."

  Jacob gave a nervous-looking smile. "I didn't want to bother you, General—"

  "You aren't, Mister Ross."

  He paused a moment before continuing. "Yes, General. Thank you. Well…" Did humans not know what to do with their hands when speaking to her? "…there wasn't a service of remembrance today, and I think there should've been. I, uh, wanted you to know. Some of us don't agree with Jennifer and Charles — I mean, the Councillors — and their decision. It's not about glorifying war, you know?"

  "There isn't much about it to glorify, Mister Ross."

  "Exactly. I was on Earth, you know—"

  "I didn't know that." She wasn't sure how in the universe she could possibly have known that.

  "Yeah," continued Jacob. He ran one hand through his hair. "I was eleven. I grew up on New Labrador, but we'd been evacuated to Earth. We evacuated again when the battle started." He gestured toward her. "I saw the Palani dreadnoughts when they arrived. You were there, right? On the Kaha Devada?"

  "That was my command ship, yes." She remembered that day. The command centre of the dreadnought had been a busy place. She'd felt like the conductor of a choir of madness, struggling to maintain order amid the Palani ships, the chaotic human defenders, and the countless swarming Horlan. Even after the battle was clearly lost, the struggle continued. Sacrifices were made, so that civilian ships could evacuate. Most didn't.

  "Well ma'am, I remember all that your people did. A lot of humans and Palani lost their lives so we could get away. Whatever else people might say about you, you made a difference that day. I appreciate it, ma'am, and I'm not the only one. So…" Jacob trailed off, shrugging as he wrung his hands together. "So, I guess I wanted you to know that."

  He was still saying ma'am. Zura decided not to correct him; he was at least being courteous. And sincere. She gave a brief nod. "Thank you, Mister Ross. I appreciate you saying that."

  "You're welcome, ma'am— uh, General," said Jacob, taking a step back. He gestured over his shoulder, toward the farm building. "I should probably get going. But I wanted to, you know—"

  "I know," nodded Zura. "Thank you again."

  She watched as Jacob backed away, giving her a small wave and a tight-lipped smile as he retreated toward the building. In human counting, it was forty-one years since the end of the war. That was more than a third of a lifetime for most humans. She couldn't remember Ross's file. Was he only now getting his life restarted, here in this colony? Had he been in refugee camps the entire time?

  Zura shook her head, turning away from the cows. She headed down the path, toward the row of residence modules.

  Maybe some of the humans understood after all.

  * * *

  Zura started up the stairs to her apartment, moving slowly to favour her knee. It was cooler inside, and she was looking forward to pulling off the damned coldsuit. After that she'd check to see what issues awaited her, and maybe finally clean her armour. Perhaps read up on the histories of the colonists, to better understand their backgrounds. Forty years on, and humanity was still struggling to cope with its own refugees. A few colonies with a hundred people here or there would have no impact on a refugee population in the millions. There must be better solutions, she thought. She decided to look into the matter further.

  Almost everything in the apartment had been moved again. All of it tidied and rearranged, not that any of it had been dirty or untidy to start with. The floor in the kitchen looked like it had recently been wet. Perhaps the child had cleaned there too. Pulling off her gloves, Zura crossed the floor to her bedroom.

  Yaella yelped in surprise and turned around. She was wearing the blue breastplate of Zura's armour, and it rattled as she moved. "I'm sorry!" she cried, frantically trying to lift the armour off her shoulders. "I'm so sorry! I know I shouldn't have! I'm—"

  "Stop," said Zura.

  Yaella froze, her arms drooping to her sides. In addition to the embarrassment that coloured her cheeks violet, there was nervousness in her young eyes. Maybe even fear. The breastplate looked gigantic on her; the side collar came up above her ears, and she could barely see over the front. Her thin arms poked out from the broad shoulders. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

  Zura sighed, chewing at her lip while looking at this little girl lost in the giant armour. "Raise your arms straight out," she commanded.

  Yaella nodded, raising her stick-like arms straight out from her body. Zura reached down under Yaella's left arm, to where the front and back plates came together along the side. With a metallic click, the armour latched shut. "It fastens on the sides," she said, turning Yaella around to get at the other side. After the right-side latch clicked into place, Zura pushed at the shoulder plates until they clicked as well. The left plate was always difficult, and she had to give it a shove, which made Yaella stagger on her feet.

  Satisfied, Zura took Yaella by the shoulders and turned her to face the mirror. "Like that," she said.

  The young girl in the reflection, encased in the barrel-chested blue armour, had a lopsided grin. "Wow," she breathed. "You're not mad?"

  Zura saw the stern look on her own face in the mirror, and willed herself to relax. "No, child." In her mind, her scarred face and short hair were replaced by a younger face, with beautiful blue curls, wearing her own father's flight suit. "I'm not mad. I did the same thing, long ago."

  Yaella tilted her head to look up at Zura. "I cleaned it, Mahasa."

  "So you did," said Zura. The child had done a very careful job with the breastplate.

  Yaella looked back at her reflection in the mirror, her small hands going to the deep scratches across the armour's surface. "I couldn't clean these marks. Won't they give you a new one?"

  "We leave the scratches and dents," said Zura. "They remind us of the things that could have hurt us, but didn't."

  "Oh," said Yaella, deep in thought. She looked Zura in the eyes. "But your leg parts—" she pointed at the gleaming blue leg armour, still hanging on its frame, "—they don't have any scratches."

  "They were replaced."

  "Oh." She seemed to be studying Zura's eyes. "You sure you're not mad, Mahasa?"

  "I'm sure, child."

  "Okay," said Yaella. She was looking at herself in the mirror again, her ha
nds tracing the edges of the plates. "It's heavy."

  Zura patted her hands on the armoured shoulders. "More than you know."

  "Oh," said Yaella. "Mahasa?"

  "Yes, child?"

  "Did you always want to be a soldier?"

  "No," said Zura, shaking her head. "No, I did not." It was such a long time ago. "But something bad happened, and my mother and father died, and I had to leave." She mustered a hint of a smile for the child's sake.

  "You lost your mom and dad too?"

  Zura just nodded.

  "I'm sorry, Mahasa."

  Zura patted the shoulder plates again, her eyes meeting those of the child in the reflection. "It was a very long time ago. Now, let's get you out of this."

  As Zura started to undo the shoulder latches, Yaella tried prying at the latches on the sides. Her tiny hands had no effect on the heavy metal fasteners. "Thank you for not being mad, Mahasa. I promise not to touch your armour again."

  "I don't mind, child," said Zura. She lifted the breastplate over Yaella's head and carried it to the armour rack. "It can't hurt you. It protects you. But only your body."

  "I don't understand, Mahasa."

  Zura sighed. "I hope you never do."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Grey clouds scudded across the sky, pushed by strong winds coming off the sea. Sunlight crept through the gaps in the clouds, bright beams racing across the surface of the water, up the shore and toward the distant hills.

  The cool breeze flowed through the empty windows and doors of the abandoned seaside villa, rustling the trees, sweeping dust across the courtyard and swirling around Zura.

  She'd left her uniform coat with Irasa, and the crisp wind on her bare arms felt good; a touch of chill to remind her she was still alive.

  Zura looked around her, at the white shells of the villa buildings. Mottled patterns of shadows from the trees played across the walls. The holes of round-cornered windows gaped at the sky, their glassless frames testifying to the bombardment, centuries ago, that marked the end of Palani life on this planet. Now, the open doorways were an invitation, to visit the halls of the long gone, to witness all that had been lost.

  Through an archway at the edge of the courtyard, Zura glimpsed the sea. Her boots on the sand-strewn stones were the only sound, apart from the soft moaning of the wind and the distant crash of the sea.

  One day had merged seamlessly into the next. A few reports, one or two simple requests, and her daily work was often done before the sun had risen. A week had passed, in the life-consuming monotony of uninterrupted routine.

  Until this morning, at least. A message from the Directorate of Ship Construction: Kahala Mihia was to return to the home worlds at once, to begin a period of maintenance and refit.

  The work was long overdue, of course; the need was obvious. But without a replacement — none was scheduled, she was told — she'd only have two out of her three ships to patrol the entire sector.

  Two ships was supposed to be bad luck. Everything in Palani fleet doctrine was based around the three-ship formation. Only having two ships meant having to think about new ways to use them. Forcing people to think always met resistance, especially when they weren't used to it.

  She would adapt. The order had been given, and the Kahala Mihia had departed. Even Pentarch Threnia — when Zura finally reached her — wasn't able to change the order, or so she had claimed. Didn't want to; that was the more likely answer.

  Zura stepped through the archway and found herself on a ledge overlooking the sea. The sunlight played across the water, bathing patches of the sea in a brilliant golden glow. White tops emerged from the waves as they approached the shore far below. At the side of the ledge where she stood, a flight of stairs curled downward, hugging the cliff face, leading down to a small cluster of buildings.

  After the nonsense with Kahala Mihia, she'd taken a look at the weather. A sharp, cool day — by human standards, at least — with sun and clouds and a stiff onshore breeze. A day outside without the coldsuit; an easy enough decision. At last, she'd reached the abandoned seaside villa she'd seen before.

  Partway down the steps, a glint of reflected sunlight drew her attention out to sea. A ship had broken through a gap in the clouds, swooping in under the cloud cover, headed toward the colony. Its path brought it near Zura's location, and she could clearly see it as it passed. The sound of its decelerating engines, though distorted by the offshore wind, was distinctive: human freighter, 'FreightStar' class. She'd approved the landing two days ago: seeds, mostly. Special winter versions for the wheat, corn, and carrot fields; the humans had several versions of their plants. Yet more genetic manipulation they would come to regret, in time. The ship was also bringing more feed for the cows. The animals were ravenously hungry creatures, it seemed, and again she'd been assured these were the new 'breakthrough' breed. Better suited for human consumption and, apparently, human politics. Apparently — and this point had been made repeatedly — the cows on New Fraser were more 'morally suitable' for slaughter, though she couldn't imagine how. Had the cows all committed heinous crimes and been condemned? More likely, it was some insignificant genetic change; a sop to ease the constant human hand-wringing.

  The small freighter, its engines whining, flew over the cliff and out of sight toward the colony. Silently thankful for Doctor Singh's pills, Zura resumed walking down the steps, one hand on the carved stone railing. The bottom of the stairs emptied into a circular plaza. The outer edge of the plaza faced the sea, ringed by the same carved railing. The inner side of the plaza was faced by low, open-fronted buildings backed up against the cliff face.

  Coming off the bottom of the steps, Zura stepped into the plaza. The floor was a delicate mosaic of tiny hand-laid blue-and-white tiles, depicting ancient Palani legends about the sea. Most of it was covered by salt-caked sand, the result of centuries of ocean winds and spray.

  The whole thing was a dining area, she guessed. All the wood furniture and fixtures were long since gone, but a few bits of composite still remained, along with fragments of plates and cups, and shards of less-identifiable debris. Stone benches sat at the railing facing the sea, and Zura crossed the plaza toward them. She paused occasionally, looking at the characters in the mosaic underfoot. Entimma, the sea-harvester, who convinced the sea to spare his crew. Veyala, the name-speaker, who kept alive those lost at sea by speaking their names aloud, reminding the Divines to watch for them.

  Zura turned around to reorient herself with the pattern on the floor. She ignored the form of Irasa watching from the top of the stairs, and nudged the sand and debris with her boot. Underneath, she could see the familiar, stylised face of a favourite character from mythology: Yaella the Huntress, whose pursuit of her beloved took her over sea and land alike.

  Taking a few last steps, she used her bare hand to clear away some sand from a stone bench and sat down, facing the sea.

  She thought of the other Yaella, the young girl staying in her apartment. Every day, the girl put on a brave face, smiling as she scurried about, trying to keep herself useful. Trying too hard. Always friendly, always obedient and cheerful and grateful. Sadness in her young eyes, often on the verge of tears. Tears that came at night, the only sound in a silent apartment, heard only by a still-awake Zura.

  Zura had spent a lot of time trying to find the girl's next of kin. Four-Thirteen had helped as much as he'd been able; calls to human intelligence agencies had made some progress. After several attempts, Zura had reached an uncle of Yaella's dead adoptive mother. The man clearly hadn't been expecting to receive a call from a Palani sector commander. After he'd reclaimed his wits and his nerve, the old human man had explained that no, there were no other relatives, so far as he knew. The family had been decimated by the war; the middle-aged couple who had adopted Yaella had been the only kin the old man had left. As for him, he was in some sort of facility that cared for the elderly. One of those problems that other races still had.

  Zura looked out to sea, w
atching the sunlight sparkle off the wavetops. Watching it without seeing it. The girl still slept in the tiny storage room; it wasn't even big enough for her to stretch out her legs. Yaella felt safe there, and that was enough for now. Centuries had passed, but Zura still remembered the feeling, the overwhelming urge to stay hidden. Staying unseen was how she'd stayed alive while others hadn't.

  And now, without living relatives, the girl was destined for another orphanage. Zura slouched to one side, her elbow over the back of the bench. No doubt human orphanages were different from those the Palani once had, but the experience would be the same. She remembered the eyes of the other children: some broken, some despaired, some clinging to faint hope. The carers, some of whom tried in vain, day after day, to promote optimism and cheer. Other carers, who saw the children as a nuisance to be tolerated. Older children, counting the days until they could walk out as adults. Or, if they chose, they could leave earlier than that, as junior cadets joining the military. The promise of certainty, and structure, for children who sought that most of all. Children like her.

  Boots on the plaza stones behind her; Zura turned around to see Irasa approaching. The woman held a datasheet in one large armoured glove. "Mahasa," crackled her voice through the speaker in her helmet.

  Zura sighed. "Yes?"

  A bow from Irasa. "My apologies, Mahasa. An urgent request from Councillor Miller: shipping authorisation." She held out the datasheet.

  Zura twisted on the bench, taking the datasheet and reading it. The freighter that had just landed had brought the wrong shipment. Miller wished to send it back, and would be making a fresh request to the human Colonial Office for the correct shipment. The proper procedure, just as she'd followed last time.

  "Remarkable," muttered Zura, her fingers sliding across the datasheet. Each new day, the humans found another way to express their ineptitude. Like Roche had said, how they ever achieved spaceflight was still a mystery.