by S. J. Madill
Zura leaned back in her chair. "Do what you can, Four-Thirteen." Which, she knew, was nothing. There was no way the Pentarch were going to approve a request to dig through the secure human financial system — especially not if the request had anything to do with her. "What of the girl Yaella?"
Even behind his veil, Zura could see Four-Thirteen's momentary grimace. "I regret I must once again disappoint you, Mahasa. We are still unable to locate any family members who are in a position to take the child. We are currently attempting to contact fourth-generation branches of the Russo family. Several of these are in refugee camps, and we have been unable to contact them. Of those we have contacted, none had ever heard of her or her branch of the family. We are likewise without success in terms of human charitable organisations. They already have several hundred million refugees in need of permanent homes. They lack the resources to deal with any case on an individual basis."
"I suppose not," said Zura. "Keep trying, Four-Thirteen."
"Of course, Mahasa. Was there anything else?"
Zura shook her head and leaned forward, her hand going to the gems on her desktop. "No. Thank you, Four-Thirteen. I will—"
The holographic Four-Thirteen held up a hand. "If I may, Mahasa? One last thing."
Zura's finger hovered over the gems on her desktop. "Go on."
Behind his veil Four-Thirteen smiled, lines pulling at the corners of his eyes. "Just a reminder, Mahasa. The latest version of the ten-day intelligence report is now available."
"Thank you, Four-Thirteen."
The holograph bowed deferentially. "The honour is to serve, Mahasa."
Four-Thirteen's glowing image collapsed into a fading point of light over the chair.
Zura sat back, reaching for her teacup. For centuries, the ten-day report had been provided regularly. Not once had Four-Thirteen ever reminded her about it. The report was far too big to read; she always skimmed it, looking for anything that might be relevant to her sector. There must be something in it this time. Something Four-Thirteen wanted her to see. Something he couldn't mention directly. But why couldn't he?
Putting down the teacup, Zura tapped several gems and picked up a datasheet. It unrolled in her hand, the first page of the ten-day report pushing itself to the datasheet's surface.
"Nsal 'neth," she whispered, as she saw the size of the file.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Zura had grown up in an arid land, far from the sea. People often talked about the appeal of the sea, and until she'd seen it for herself she hadn't really understood.
Now, she preferred it. Sitting here next to the ocean, the constant rhythmic sound of the crashing surf provided a backdrop for her thoughts. It allowed her mind to concentrate more sharply. Certainly better than she could in her office, with messages coming in, people stopping to see her, and whatever noises might be going on outside her window.
Zura lowered her datasheet, letting it slowly roll itself up as she laid it on the stone bench beside her.
This was a perfect spot, on the empty plaza down the stairs from the cliffside villa above.
She glanced down at the rolled-up datasheet beside her. Only another seven hundred sections to go. Once, she'd had a team of intelligence analysts to pore over the details and report back to her. Now, it was just her. Too much reading for one person. It would've been easier if she knew what in the Divines she was looking for.
Ahead of her, the plaza took two steps down to the railing that curled around the edge of the precipice. From the bench, the view was unobstructed. Below where she sat, the relentless surf crashed against the rocks. Far away to the left, a line of tree-covered cliffs curled out to sea before disappearing behind a headland. Off to the right and into the distance, the sea stretched on forever. Smooth, undulating waves of deepening blue, with no whitecaps in sight. The gentle onshore breeze barely stirred the water, and the midday sun made the ocean glitter like the stars in deep space. A long way from the dry, dusty plains of her childhood on Tal Minda, from the rocky foothills and occasional snows of home. Home as it was, with her parents and little Eanur. Eanur, who never grew old as she did.
Like the strumming of a great stringed bass, giant Irasa's voice broke the stillness. "Mahasa. Someone comes."
"Of course," sighed Zura. Over the past week, since the new refugee-colonists had arrived, she'd been meaning to get out here to the coast. To get away from her desk, to somewhere that felt private. "Who is it?" she asked.
More strumming from Irasa. "Jonathan Harrison, Mahasa. One of the refugees. He appears to be exploring. He is alone."
"Coming down the stairs?"
"Yes, Mahasa."
"Does he see me?"
"I think not, Mahasa."
She took a deep breath, and sighed again. "Let him come."
With Irasa's armour camouflaging her, the colonist wouldn't see the giant woman even if he bumped into her. If Zura stayed still, he probably wouldn't see her either, not until he was very close. She wondered if the human might satisfy his curiosity and depart, leaving her in peace.
Behind her, she heard the sounds of stones clattering as the human moved across the plaza. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him stepping carefully, head down, examining the mosaics underfoot. He pivoted his body this way and that, reorienting himself to the images on the ground, until he was only a few metres away from her. He looked young, barely older than an adolescent. What age did humans mature at? Twenty? Twenty-five? His skin was the same tone as Singh's, and his dark hair was short and neat.
Head still looking down at the mosaics, he froze. He looked up at her, brown eyes going wide. "Oh my god," he whispered, then found his voice. "I'm so sorry," he stammered, putting his hands up in front of himself and backing away. "I swear, I was just looking. I haven't touched anything. I'll go."
Zura hung her left elbow over the back of the bench. "Mister Harrison, is it?"
The human swallowed heavily, his mouth still slack. "Jesus," he stammered. "You know my name."
Zura gestured at the bench next to her. "Come. Sit."
Jonathan was hunched forward, his hands still hovering in front of his body. He took a few cautious steps forward. "Sit? Ma'am?"
Zura gestured at the bench again. "Don't call me that. Sit."
Hunched forward in a half-crouch, Jonathan Harrison crept around the far end of the bench. He sat at the very end, perched on the edge. He flashed her a mirthless smile that, she thought, bordered on panic. "Sorry," he said. "What, er, should I—"
"'General' will do."
He held his hands in his lap, his body curled slightly forward. "Okay. Yes, General. Thank you."
Zura, turned sideways on the bench, watched the human seated a couple metres away from her. She could see the way he wrung his hands together, the way he instinctively leaned away. His shoulders were tight, and even as he looked out to sea with a pained smile on his face, she could see the beads of sweat forming on his upper lip.
He kept glancing sideways at her. "I guess you're not as cold as me, huh, General?"
Harrison was dressed in several layers of frayed clothes: a sweater and a jacket, with sturdy pants and dirty boots. Her own boots were black and shone like mirrors; her blue breeches were immaculate. Without her uniform coat, she wore her white-and-grey undersuit top, leaving her arms and neck bare. "It is a warm day for me, Mister Harrison."
Unhooking her elbow from the back of the bench, she turned back to face the sea. "I'm not going to hurt you, Mister Harrison."
"I know you wouldn't, General," he said, almost a whisper. "I mean, I…" He turned his face toward her for a moment. "Thank you, General, for taking us in. I know we've been an imposition, and we shouldn't have done what we did, but—"
"You're welcome," said Zura.
"I mean," said the man with a nervous laugh, "You have a reputation, General. People say things." He hesitated before adding, "If I can say that…"
"You can. What do they say?"
"Uh," began H
arrison. She wondered if he regretted saying anything. "Well, General, they say you commanded the entire Palani fleet."
"I did," nodded Zura. "By your calendar, I commanded the Palani fleet for three hundred years." She looked up toward the sky, doing the math in her head. "Three hundred and twenty, I believe." Her eyes went back to Harrison. "What else do they say?"
He was making eye contact now, but still perched on the edge of the seat. He looked like he was ready to bolt, or throw himself over the railing, at any moment. "So, uh, a century ago… when your people and our people fought—"
Zura nodded. "Yes, Mister Harrison, I killed humans. Once in a while, I still have to. That's what I do."
"But…" he trailed off.
"But, Mister Harrison?"
"General… your own people too? They call you—"
"Vel-Yaal," sighed Zura, looking back out to sea. "The 'Killer of Worlds'. I know."
Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see Harrison looking at her, his brow furrowing. "It isn't true, though, is it? It can't be. I mean—"
Zura took a deep breath, smelling the sea air. "At the end of the First Horlan War, there was a plague. Or, I should say, the plague ended the war. It spread quickly, consuming the Horlan's living ships. But it broke out on Palani worlds, too. Everyone who caught it died within hours." She looked at Harrison; he was turned partly toward her, his face a combination of concentration and, perhaps, revulsion.
"The plague," she continued, "had to be stopped before it could spread to other worlds. Billions of lives were at stake. The job fell to me."
She shrugged. It was all a long time ago, and she'd long since made peace with it. "No one knew what the plague was, or how to cure it. I had to stop the spread. It had to be done." She remembered all the fear and chaos. All the angry voices. "A lot of people haven't forgiven me. I don't blame them."
Rising to her feet, Zura swept unseen dust from her breeches. "Stay, Mister Harrison. Enjoy the view. I must return to my work."
"Oh," said the human, shifting on the bench. "Okay. You don't—" He changed his mind about something, and offered her a tight-lipped smile. "I'm glad you're here, General."
"Thank you," said Zura, stepping around the bench and starting across the plaza. "Be well."
She climbed the steps at the back of the plaza, heading up toward the clifftop villa. Somewhere behind her, she heard the soft bootsteps of Irasa following her.
Whatever she'd told Jonathan Harrison, he'd soon tell the other colonists. It would determine their attitudes toward her in the days, weeks, and years ahead.
Even, she thought, the parts that weren't true. At the time, the Pentarch had known exactly what the plague was. They just hadn't told her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The ancient Palani highway sliced across the landscape like a blade. From cratered En-Insille in the north, it passed the coastal villa, taking a gentle curve through the valley behind the colony's turret. Thickets of trees provided shade, some growing right next to the road.
Even without any vehicles, the highway was the smoothest and fastest way to travel. Eight centuries after being abandoned, the composite-cement roadway remained largely intact. A few cracks had formed, through which plants had grown. Short, red-leafed plants — the humans had taken to calling it 'heather' — were working their millennia-long plan to colonise and reclaim the highway.
The sky was clear and clean. Far above, a few scattered clouds passed quickly by, hinting at stronger weather to come later in the evening. But for now, there was only a slight breeze and Zura, still without her uniform coat, had enjoyed the walk back from the coastal villa. Sea air wasn't something she'd ever expected to get used to. Dry, dusty air was what she'd been born into, and it still gave her feelings of long-lost home. But the ocean was different. It had a deep rhythm to it, a latent power held in abeyance. It was no wonder that so many cultures once worshipped the sea. Some still did. Like the sun and moon (or moons), the sea seemed an expression of vast power, against which individual people were tiny and helpless.
Nearing the back of the turret on the hill, Zura stepped off the road. Her boots dug into the jagged scree as she climbed, taking larger steps with her left leg than with her right. Even so, she was jolted with occasional stabs of pain that made her grimace. Her knee was getting worse. And taking medication for it — and then other drugs to counteract the side effects of the first drug — wasn't going to be a long-term solution. Reaching the top of the hill, she sighed. Soon, she'd have no choice but to trust the human doctor.
Hearing the invisible Irasa crunching to the top of the hill behind her, Zura set off toward the nearby turret. It looked as dilapidated as before, at least to the untrained eye. As she'd promised Roche, a damage-control team had come from Kahala Hila to correct the weapon's faults. Tidy new cabling wound around the barrel from the emitter to the focus array at the weapon's muzzle. She saw a hint of white under the edge of the soot-grimed targeting array, betraying the new Palani parts underneath.
Voices came from the front of the turret building, and Zura rounded the corner to investigate.
Councillors Miller and Lang were speaking to Major Roche. Judging by the crossed arms and the taut muscles in their red faces, they'd been busy irritating each other.
Miller was the first to see her. In the blink of an eye, Zura saw an entire spectrum of emotions flash across the human woman's face: irritation, then surprise, then back to irritation, before she gave her usual insincere smile. "Shin sa en-fedor," said Miller, giving a bow to Zura.
Lang raised an eyebrow while Roche, his face splitting into a wide smile, let out a single snort as he tried to suppress his laughter.
Miller must have seen the quizzical look on Zura's face, because her smile faltered, her face flushing red. "I'm sorry. Have I pronounced that wrong? I thought—"
"Oh, no," laughed Roche. "The pronunciation was great."
"Indeed," said Zura.
"So what—" began Miller. "Wait, isn't it a greeting? I thought it was a greeting. General? You say it all the time when someone talks to you."
"Nope," said Roche. "Not a greeting."
"Oh," said Miller, her face now fully red. "I'm sorry. What does it—"
Roche smiled. "It means, 'for fuck's sake, what is it now'."
Zura nodded. "Near enough, Major. I wasn't aware of how often I was saying it." She raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps I have been too impatient too often."
Lang had been watching her, his face pulled tight like he'd been chewing on something unpleasant. "'Please' and 'thank you' go a long way, General."
"Perhaps," said Zura.
Roche raised a hand, making a smoothing gesture. "It's a military thing, Councillor. Generals don't say 'please' and 'thank you' a lot. It's nothing personal."
The red was draining from Miller's face. "Well. I apologise, General, if that was rude."
"Not needed," said Zura. "It wasn't. If anything, it was deserved."
"Look," said Roche, his eyes going from person to person. "It's good you're here, General."
"I don't hear that often."
"Yeah, well, we've been discussing a couple things."
Lang hadn't taken his eyes off of Zura. "Cold," he said abruptly. "I feel cold just looking at you."
Zura just looked at him. "Councillor?"
Lang nodded toward her. "Look at you," he said. "Twelve degrees out, and you're in your undershirt." He pulled his coat tight around himself.
"Councillor," asked Zura, "would you feel warmer if I put my coat on?"
"Well…"
"Humans," muttered Zura, motioning to the unseen Irasa. "Very well. What were you discussing?"
"Two things," said Roche. He gestured at the turret building beside them. "The turret has been repaired by your people, and thanks to the new colonists' ship, we now have enough power to run it. Thank you for that."
"Yes," said Miller. "We appreciate that, General."
Lang just grunted, watching Zura as s
he took her coat from Irasa and put it on.
"The turret is working?" said Zura. "Good. Shut it off."
"Pardon?" asked a confused-looking Roche.
"Shut it off," repeated Zura. "Leave it off whenever a Palani ship is in orbit. When we're here, we'll defend the colony. Just because the turret is operational doesn't mean we need to tell everyone."
"Ah," nodded Roche. "Will do, General. Can I be notified when a Palani ship comes or goes?"
"Yes," said Zura. She was focused on fastening her gold chain. "What was the other thing?"
"Well…" began Roche.
Lang sucked at his lower lip. "People are scared."
A normal enough state for humans, thought Zura. She looked to Miller, who put her insincere smile back on her face. "It's the new colonists, General. The previous colonists call them the 'ship people'. They think—"
"Shut that down," said Zura.
Miller paused, looking confused. "Shut down what, General?"
"Social division. Sub-groups. Tribes. Call it what you want. It won't help."
Roche nodded. "We're all in this together, right?"
"Well," said Miller, "we'll do what we can. At any rate, I'm concerned about the feelings of the newcomers."
Humans and their feelings. "Go on."
"They're feeling unsafe, General. We need to remember that they come from a refugee camp. Some of them have lived in the camp their entire life. These camps are stressful places, full of social problems. Crime, and drug use, and worse. Many of these camps operate under a… less sophisticated sort of social—"
"Might makes right," muttered Lang.
"Well, yes," said Miller, glancing at Lang. "Through no fault of their own, they're used to a less tolerant society, where people routinely prey on each other. It's not systemic, not as such, but—"
"What do you need?" sighed Zura. "You told me I interfere too much."
"Guns," said Roche, looking at the two councillors before continuing. "People are feeling insecure. Strange as it sounds, they're used to having armed patrols keeping them safe. We're going to establish a militia — a police force, if you will. There are a few colonists with military experience. The ones with clean backgrounds — good people — will form a citizen's patrol."