Blue Guardian

by S. J. Madill

  The human seemed unfazed by the cold. He wore heavy clothing, including a fur-lined cap with flaps over his ears. He raised one hand to his brow, giving a lackadaisical rendition of a human-style salute. "Good day, ma'am."

  "Don't call me that," replied Zura. "I am General Varta. Is this your vessel?"

  The pilot had a small hint of a smirk in the corner of his mouth. "No, General, ma'am. It belongs to my employer, who—"

  "Where did you stop before coming here?"

  The pilot shook his head, his ear flaps moving in the wind. "Nowhere, ma'am. Straight line. New Portland to here."

  Zura frowned. "Don't lie to me, pilot. Thirty-three people for twenty-one days? This class of vessel isn't capable…"

  She trailed off, as the pilot's smile grew wider and he shook his head. "No, ma'am." He hooked one thumb over his shoulder, gesturing into the hatch behind him. "Brand new Collingwood 'LifeSpace' system. Recycles air, water, shit, everything. Provides 'food' and 'water', or so they call it." His smile widened even further, to Zura's annoyance. "Can I go now, General? Treaty says you can only murder people who stepped on a grave world a second time. And I haven't gotten off the ship, so—"

  "Landed," said Zura.

  A crack appeared in the pilot's smug smile. "Say which?"

  "Landed," repeated Zura. "Not 'stepped'. The treaty mandates death for those who land on a grave world a second time."

  "Uh, no," protested the pilot, though his smile had vanished. "That's not what I was told—"

  "I don't care what you were told," snapped Zura. This was taking long enough. "Open your stern ramp. I'm coming aboard."

  The unnerved pilot leaned back into the hatch, pulling his legs inside and clambering to his feet. Zura turned away, walking along the side of the freighter toward the stern. Even before she reached the back, she heard the sounds of motors starting and latches uncoupling. The stern ramp began to descend.

  When the edge of the stern ramp settled onto the snow, Zura stepped up onto it and walked up into the ship's cargo hold. It was larger than she expected: big enough for eight shipping containers stacked two high, and it was nearly empty. To the left, there were two rows of three-high bunk beds. To the right the area was open, apart from some tables and chairs. A ladder reached up to a catwalk that went to the cockpit up front. Beyond the tables and chairs, a half-size shipping module was on the deck farther forward. It had doors in its side, and numerous plumbing-like fittings.

  The escaping warm air wafted past Zura as she reached the top of the ramp, replaced by the gusts of freezing air bringing snow from outside.

  The pilot was waiting for her, the smile gone from his face. He held his fur-lined cap in his hands, his grey hair whipped around by the cold wind. "General, I'm sorry if—"

  "Shut up," said Zura, walking past him into the cargo hold.

  All the fittings looked new: the rows of identical bunk beds, the biomass recycler module, even the tables and chairs. Everything was recent, installed in the back of a battered old freighter.

  Zura pointed at the recycler module. "That is brand new."

  The pilot was wringing his hat in his hands. "Yes, General. 'LifeSpace' model. Brand new. Has bathrooms inside, and nozzles and things on the outside for fresh water and replicated food. Recycles the air, too."

  "Understood," said Zura, inspecting one of the bunk beds. "All of this is new. Who paid for this?"

  The pilot was following her around, his hat in his hands. "I don't rightly know, General."

  She flashed him a disapproving glance.

  "Honest, General. I was doing regular runs for a food distribution outfit. They had a contract with Refugee & Resettlement. Then I got told someone was paying for my ship to be taken off normal duties for a refit." He gestured at the bunkbeds. "Went to New Groton, and they did all this in one day."

  "Who did?"

  The pilot looked pained. "I'm sorry, General, really I am. I don't know. I'm just the pilot. I don't know who—"

  "Very well," said Zura. She opened one of the doors to the biorecycler module. Inside was a toilet, sink, and bathing stall. She shut the door again, and turned to face the pilot. "So, someone paid for this one ship to be taken off of its normal service, and refit it to carry a few dozen refugees to the far end of the Burnt Worlds."

  "I suppose so, General." He shrugged. "I guess they intended to make it a regular thing. You know, paying for the refit and all." The pilot's fingers worried the hat in his hands. "Please, General. I didn't mean any trouble. I'm just doing my job, and—"

  "And I'm just doing mine," sighed Zura.

  The pilot's face turned noticeably paler at that. "I'm sorry, ma'am—"

  "I told you not to call me that," said Zura. A thought was coming together in her head. "With this system, what's the farthest you could have taken them?"

  "General?" The pilot looked momentarily confused, then puffed his cheeks as he tried to think. "Pretty much anywhere, General. As long as they're careful, the 'LifeSpace' thing could provide them food and water for months. Years, I guess. Only limit would be the ship's power plant, and it's just been overhauled—"

  "Perfect," interrupted Zura. "Perfect."

  * * *

  When Zura walked back into the temple, the refugees had once again spread themselves into a circle around the heater. The wind outside was picking up, and streamers of snow were coming in through missing windows up near the temple's roof.

  When the refugees saw her coming they fell silent, once again parting and retreating around the heater, keeping their distance from her.

  "Turn that off," she said, gesturing at the heater. "Gather your things."

  The tall, bearded human was holding tight to the people on either side of him, including the young woman Ann. "General? What are you going to do with us? Please have mercy, we just want—"

  "Gather your things," repeated Zura. "You're all getting back on the ship."

  The humans groaned in collective disappointment. It sounded like one of the younger humans was going to cry. "But why?" asked the bearded man. "Why are you—"

  "Get moving," said Zura. "It's cold outside. Don't waste time."

  "Where are you sending us?"

  "Let's go," said Zura, trying to hide her growing irritation. "You're getting on the ship, and it's going to the New Fraser colony. You'll stay there, living on the ship."

  Young Ann made a surprised sound like a shriek. "We can stay?"

  "Yes," snapped Zura. "Let's go, before I change my mind."

  The humans' sounds of fear and desperation began to change into a noisy chorus of excitement. Several of them took hesitant steps toward her, hands outstretched to shake hers. Zura stepped back, pivoting on one foot and moving aside. "Let's go," she repeated, pointing toward the temple entrance with a hand held like a knife blade. "That way."

  Zura stepped further back, crossing her arms over her chest. The humans filed by like a procession of pilgrims who'd just seen a miracle. Perhaps to them they had. After a lifetime of despair, they might have a home.

  And now, thought Zura, the colony had the reactor it needed.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  As Zura had expected, one of the councillors was waiting for her when she arrived back at New Fraser.

  Councillor Lang stood at the edge of the landing pad, his hands on his hips, glaring at her as she descended from the shuttle's ramp. "Yes, Councillor?" she asked.

  His face was red. "It isn't right."

  Zura sighed. She might as well let the human say his piece. "Go on, Councillor."

  An accusing finger was pointed at her face. "Miller is trying to figure out this damned mess you've made. She's upset, and I'm mad as hell. You've been interfering with our progress ever since you got here, and now you've gone too far. I don't care who you are, General. We aren't part of the Palani military. You can't do this."

  "Are you done, Councillor?"

  He wasn't. "I'm going to take this up with the Colonial Office. We don't need you
, General." He jabbed his finger toward her. "We don't need anyone like you."

  Zura paused a moment, to see if Lang was finished. The older man's face was still bright red, and his chest heaved.

  Not hearing any further input from the Councillor, Zura took a deep breath. "Councillor," she said, as calmly as she could muster. "Get your hand away from my face."

  Lang was still glaring at her, but lowered his hand nonetheless. He folded his arms across his chest.

  "So," said Zura. "What progress?"

  Lang looked momentarily taken aback. "What?"

  Zura leaned a little closer, and spoke more clearly. "What progress, Councillor? You suggest that my presence is impeding progress. What progress? By your own schedule, this colony should have thousands of people by now. Where are they?"

  "You know perfectly well," spat Lang. "There have been problems. Wrong shipments, lost equipment—"

  "Which you've done nothing about. You fill out another form. You send another message."

  Lang put his hands on his hips, leaning forward toward her. "There are policies and procedures, General. There are rules. You of all people should understand."

  As Lang became more and more animated, Zura fought to remain calm. Even without looking, she could see colonists watching them. All they'd see would be body language, but — as was human custom — body language said a lot.

  She sighed. "You're hiding, Councillor. You and Miller. You're not following your rules, you're hiding behind them. Using them to shield yourselves from responsibility."

  "We are not hiding!" shouted Lang. "We are responsible for the success of the colony. We—"

  "Then act like it," said Zura. "Show the colonists that you care, Councillor. Show them they're worth more than just another form filled out, or another whining message sent to another bureaucrat."

  Lang had taken a small step back, his hands balled into fists. "Look. We can't handle more colonists, General."

  Zura rolled her eyes. In the back of her head, the first tremblings of a withdrawal headache were getting started. "Yes you can, Councillor. With the bio-recycler on the freighter, they're self-sufficient. More strong hands for the colony, with no drain on resources. And the freighter's reactor will provide power for the colony."

  "Oh," said Lang. He clearly hadn't thought about that. He turned his head to look past the shuttle, over to where the freighter had landed. It was in a clear space of ground, next to the colony's ancient reactor. Most of the refugees had exited the freighter, and some of the existing colonists had wandered across the field to meet them. "But," started Lang, then stopped to think. "But we can't just keep the ship. It belongs to someone—"

  "Yes, you can," said Zura. "Someone profited from bringing these refugees here. They'll want their ship back. When they come looking for it, tell them they can have it as soon as they've provided a permanent reactor and housing for these people."

  Lang looked genuinely confused. "That would cost a fortune."

  "Good. Because if word gets out that there's a profit to be made from bringing refugees out to the Burnt Worlds and abandoning them, thousands will follow."

  "Oh," breathed Lang. He looked back at Zura. A lot of the colour had drained from his face. "But—"

  "Enough, Councillor. I'm going to keep interfering, and you and Miller will learn to cope."

  A single stab of pain knifed into the back of Zura's head, making her wince. "Get to it, Councillor," she said, and turned to leave.

  To her surprise, Lang didn't follow her as she left the landing pad and started making her way uphill. The sun was coming out, and more of the colonists were emerging from their homes. No doubt word had spread of the new arrivals, and the colonists were going to see the ship and its passengers. Many would be driven by curiosity, Zura presumed. But, knowing humans, one or two might be driven by concern. Maybe even compassion. Humans could be petty and tribal — murderously so, in many cases — but there were always a tiny few who cared. Sometimes there were even enough to make a community work.

  Behind her, Nathal took up his post at the bottom of the steel stairs, and Zura began the climb to her front door. Her head was pounding, and her knee was screaming at her with every step, punishing her for every movement of her leg.

  Inside the residence, the fifteen steps up to the apartment waited for her. They might as well have been the Thousand Steps up the divine mountain on Resana. Pilgrims climbed the steps on their knees, chanting prayers of penance for each step.

  But there was no penance for her, no prayer to ease the burden of the fifteen stairs up to the apartment. By the time she got to the top, she was sweating from the pain.

  The door opened as she reached for it. Yaella stood there, and the young girl's broad smile quickly dissolved into a look of concern. "Mahasa? Are you okay?"

  "La," grunted Zura. "Fine." She took a heavy step into the apartment. Her bed seemed so far away.

  Young blue eyes looked up at her. "I'm glad you're home, Mahasa. Doctor Singh was here, and left something for you."

  Zura raised her eyebrows, despite the pain it caused. "Oh?"

  The bright, toothy grin returned to Yaella's face as she pulled something from her pocket and held it up.

  Zura looked down at the medication-injector in the child's tiny hands. "Saints and miracles," she sighed. "I might have to start praying again."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Zura lurched off the bottom step, cup and saucer in hand, and turned toward her office. Singh's medication had taken a few minutes to work its magic. It had been the most exquisite feeling as the migraine had faded away. Every muscle in her head had been clenched tight, and all of it had released as the medicine flooded her system. It was a deeply satisfying physical sensation, and had left her feeling drained and glowing. A warm shower — warm to her, anyway — and a crisp, clean uniform had done the rest: she felt alive again. The thoughtful child Yaella had brewed and cooled a cup of Darjeeling for her, which had been a surprise. As Zura had descended the steps from the apartment just now, she'd heard the sounds of Yaella going into the bedroom, followed by the clatter of her armour dropping to the floor. Despite her insistence, Yaella was determined to clean her armour again. The girl was so eager to please. Zura supposed it must be a sign of the child's insecurity, her uncertainty about her future. A future that, despite Zura's efforts, remained uncertain.

  Placing the cup and saucer down on her desk, Zura pushed a gem to activate the holoprojector. She lowered herself into her chair, sighing with contentment as Four-Thirteen's ghostly image appeared in the chair across the desk.

  "Mahasa Varta," said the veiled figure, giving a deferential bow. "You have been busy."

  "Four-Thirteen."

  As Zura brought her cup to her lips, Four-Thirteen's holographic eyes went to something off-screen. "Mahasa, we have received the scans. Thirty-two refugees, plus the pilot and the vessel. I assumed you would want the refugees' scans compared against available data."

  "Correct," said Zura, taking a sip. Yaella had sweetened the tea with something called 'honey'. She said it was made by insects, of all things. That seemed unlikely. "What have you found?"

  Four-Thirteen was reading off a display Zura couldn't see. "All the refugees are from Camp Seven on New Portland. For the most part, no significant mentions in any of the human databases. Several have been cautioned in relation to protests against food and living conditions, but nothing the humans considered serious. Several of them — I will forward their names — have gaps in their personal histories. Caution suggests that the new colonists be treated as potential security concerns."

  "Understood."

  "Medically, all of them show the typical human genetic damage we associate with long-term malnutrition and stress. Two of the females are currently pregnant. Three others have genetic conditions that will affect them later in life. I am forwarding the detailed results to you."

  "Good. The pilot and the vessel?"

  "Again, Mahasa, there is lit
tle of interest. The pilot was scanned two years ago on Tal Lissin, but we have had no further direct contact. According to the human databases, he has been flying as an employee of the 'Back to Earth' charitable organisation, running regular shipments of food to the same section of Camp Seven."

  Zura took a deep breath as the warmth of the tea settled in her stomach. "What of their trip to Corana?"

  Four-Thirteen glanced at Zura before his eyes returned to whatever he was reading. "Apparently, Mahasa, a corporation hired a ship from 'Back to Earth' and paid for it to be refitted. It was intended to start making regular trips to the Burnt Worlds as a profit-generating venture. They were to sell passage on the ship to refugees, then drop them off at a grave world." Four-Thirteen raised an eyebrow. "The human profit motive is as strong as ever, it seems."

  "Apparently so," said Zura. Amoral monsters taking shameless advantage of the frightened and desperate. "Tell me about the corporation that paid for this."

  "Ah," said Four-Thirteen, turning back toward her. "That is proving to be more of a challenge, Mahasa."

  "Go on."

  "The hiring was done by a numbered corporation that was established for the purpose. That corporation was, in turn, owned by seven other corporations and holding companies. Those corporations and holding companies are, in turn, owned by, or subsidiaries of, an exponentially-increasing web of corporate entities. The trail leads into the worst depths of the human financial system. With the humans allowing computers to serve as the directors of corporations, the web of complexity has exceeded comprehension."

  Zura sighed. With the humans, it always came back to money. "Very well, Four-Thirteen. What are we doing about it?"

  Four-Thirteen gave a smile Zura knew well: it told her not to put too much hope in things. "The Intelligence service has made a request for the supercomputer network to assist in analysis, but the Pentarch have yet to approve the request."