Blood of Jackals

by Todd Marcelas Moreno

  Helena did not need a screen image to imagine what was happening. The NDB Temple rested on an outcropping of rock overlooking Carran, but it was still surrounded along its back by the remaining mountain. The Temple shields were strong, but enough weight would eventually buckle them and destroy the building.

  “Reconfigure the shields into a dividing wedge to divert the rock to either side of us,” Wyren ordered. “And get me through to First Advisor Sukain.”

  “Bishop, reconfiguring the shields would take—”

  “Do it,” Wyren growled. “And get Sukain. It is time to end this nonsense.”

  “Should I prepare the other temple workers for evacuation, Chais?” Helena asked, her voice calm and unhurried. Wyren snapped his head around and held her gaze in silence. She looked back at him with neither fear nor expectation.

  “Yes,” he said, finally relenting. “And see to our escapecraft.”

  “I will,” she replied before leaving. “All will be ready.”

  - - -

  “Many attackers are blending in and out of civilian traffic, First Advisor,” the officer reported over the viewscreen. “With all the signal jamming taking place, it’s hard to track which craft are combatants and which are bystanders.”

  One more crisis, Sukain thought, looking at her military and security advisors, and suddenly wishing that she had not let Lord Guishaun tag along with her to the conference room adjoining her office. He was staying quiet enough, but there was something in his stare that she found troubling. “And how fare the NDB forces?” she asked.

  “Carran is more defended than most cities its size, Ma’am. With the NDBs’ fortifications and military assets, they can hold their own for some time.”

  “How long?”

  “The situation has settled somewhat, Ma’am. My guess is that Consortium forces—and by our reports, that is what they are—have mostly gone to ground, waiting between sallies. They know we have the city surrounded. From the way the attack has progressed, I think that they are counting on us not to interfere.”

  Sukain nodded, thinking of the communiqué from Lord Ketrick sent shortly before the attack. The document made for an interesting piece of legal writing. With evidence of NDB involvement in the bombing of a private club that almost killed him and Anios Tenatte, Lord Ketrick was claiming the right of retribution. The basis was a novel one. As Carran’s royal charter gave city administration over to the NDB Church, it was argued that the city was technically a quasi-fief of the ranking NDB authority, in this case Bishop Chais Wyren. The bishop’s defacto “house” —the NDB Church on Legan— was thus accountable under the House Warfare Act, providing the basis for a declaration of Vindicta Cruentus or “vendetta,” and allowing Lord Ketrick an immediate counter-attack.

  The NDB called the argument rubbish, and even without Ketrick being but a front man for the Consortium, Sukain agreed. But Ketrick also claimed a right of retaliation against the Brotherhood’s new leadership as well, for the attempt on him as the former DuCideon grandmaster. To have government troops support the NDB, which now controlled the Brotherhood, would therefore arguably be taking sides in a “Hidden War” between the Brotherhood and the Consortium.

  This gave Sukain a legal way to allow the Consortium and NDB-DuCideons to destroy one another, but there were civilians in Carran. Yes, Carran was effectively quarantined, and the violence was confined within its boundaries, but was it right to sacrifice the innocents trapped within those borders just to keep the violence from worsening?

  And it would worsen. Tenatte had said as much, in a separate and private communiqué. If Sukain interfered, war would engulf the entire planet.

  “First Advisor?” one of the other advisors said, still with a com-link to his ear. “Lord Jordan wishes to know if troops will be sent into Carran.”

  “I am sure he does,” Sukain breathed, catching a look from Guishaun. “Tell him that,” Sukain searched for the words. Was she really that tired? “…we will not be sending troops.” Sensing Guishaun’s eyes on her, she cursed Jordan Possór. They both knew that she had given the answer he had wanted. Their political deathmatch was ending, and he had just scored on her again. “Inform Bishop Wyren as well,” she added. “If the NDB Church cannot maintain order within its domains, the government will revoke its sovereignty over Carran.”

  “That will get the bishop’s attention,” one of the junior advisors remarked with a snicker. Sukain looked at him sharply.

  Delay, she thought. Now I play only for delay.

  - - -

  Helena Valmont Wyren had never been to the underground levels of the Temple Complex. There had never been a need. The two women accompanying her however had, and it was they who guided her to where her son was being held.

  Entering the observation room, the other women took up stations at either side of her. She had come with an escort, wanting the men tormenting her son to be reminded of her standing as the wife of the NDB planetary authority.

  “My husband has ordered an evacuation,” she began, her poise and serenity adding to an air of command that she, as a woman, could not technically have by rank within the strictly patriarchal NDB Church. “You and the other four men however are to go help reconfiguring the Temple’s shields to prevent a collapse.”

  “Collapse?” the man in the first room asked, glancing through the transparent wall to his four comrades from the side. Helena did not appear to notice, giving no sign that she was even aware that it was her son currently being “ministered.”

  “Yes,” she replied. “You may also have to help clear the rock debris from the mountain on top of us.” The man was about to speak but Helena cut him off. “We will handle matters here,” she declared, nodding to the woman on her right.

  “How far are you into the atonement?” the woman asked. She and the other woman both knew the process for atonement. They had participated in it, as these four men did now. Each also had the distinction of having had a child subjected to the ritual cleansing. That was why Helena had chosen them to come with her.

  “There is still much to do,” the man replied uneasily. Women suddenly appearing like this was highly irregular. “Brother—” he stopped himself from saying Valmont’s name, as if not wanting to cause offense to Helena. “Our brother has... much to atone for.”

  As if emphasizing the man’s point, Valmont’s body began to fight against invisible bonds, his screams and howls silenced behind the thick transparent wall. None of the women appeared to notice.

  “Have them bring down his level of awareness,” the woman ordered, pointing to the four men with Valmont. “We will ready him from there.”

  “Ready him?” the man asked.

  “For evacuation,” Helena reminded him, staring and crossing her arms.

  “Perhaps I should—”

  “The Temple shields,” Helena said sternly, tapping the toe of her shoe. She could not risk letting the man verify her husband’s orders.

  Finally the man gave in and spoke through a microphone to the other men in the chamber. Helena suppressed a sigh. The Mirans are right, she thought as her wishes were carried out. It is wrong to forcibly alter the human mind like this.

  The NDB Church had purified countless fallen Believers. Some outside the Church might call it torture, but the process was sanctified, and atonement affected great change. But it was not enough for some, whose trouble with self-forgiveness could lead to suicide. For this reason, the ritual of absolution washed away the very memory of the sins, along with all thoughts and feelings that had occasioned them. To be free from sin’s burden, and bask once again in divine grace, made these rituals among the most sacred, and thus secret, of the Church.

  But there was a cost, as these two women with Helena could attest. Through the ritual cleansing, they both had seen their own children become strangers, forever changed, with personalities, views and desires indistinguishable from others similarly cleansed. To Helena, it would be like killing the son she knew, and so, she refus
ed to let happen.

  With the two women now monitoring her son’s vital signs and level of consciousness, Helena nodded silently to acknowledge the men as they left. Once they were gone, she entered the chamber with the other women. She would not have much time.

  “Wake him,” she said. The women obeyed.

  Valmont began to murmur as he slowly came to consciousness. Helena looked at the women, who then left without a word. It was the only way she could protect them from the consequences of what she was about to do. They had risked enough. The wrath of her husband would be on her alone.

  “Couri,” she said, “clear your thoughts.”

  At that simple command, Valmont used his training to bring himself to full awareness. “Mother!” he said, allowing her to pull him to his feet.

  “We have no time, Couri,” she said, guiding him from the chamber to the outer hall. “The Temple is under attack, and you must flee.”

  “But Father—”

  “You must flee from him as well. Now, do you know how to get to the escapecraft near the Temple’s landing bay?”

  Valmont nodded.

  “Then go, Courell. I will buy you as much time as I can.”

  Helena was about to leave but stopped in mid-turn. Valmont watched her in confused fascination, wondering what had changed for his mother to betray his father. Surely she knew what his father had intended for him when she led Church Security to capture him. Or did she? Just what had his father told her?

  In a rush, Helena pulled her son close. “I love you, Couri,” she said.

  “I love you too, Mother.” He returned her strong embrace.

  With one breath, Helena Wyren let her son go and straightened to her full height, composed once more. Valmont could only look on as his mother departed, her unhurried steps echoing down the hall, before beginning his run for freedom.

  - - -

  “You look tired,” Varian said, his eyes focused on some point in the air. Guishaun could not tell if his brother had gotten used to his new rooms, or was simply imagining that he was somewhere else. He envied him, if it were the latter.

  “I am,” Guishaun replied with a sigh. “This thing with Uncle Jordan is nowhere close to being over, but I already feel that I’m nearing an end.”

  “Your eyes are all red. And puffy. Maybe you should go to bed.”

  “I will. Later.” Guishaun undid the top button of his shirt. “They’re sure taking their time with our drinks,” he remarked.

  A light went on over Varian’s dumbwaiter.

  “I will get them,” Varian offered, standing from his seat.

  The blood drained from Guishaun’s face as his brother neared with two warmed mugs. Giving him one, Varian sat back down with the other.

  “Tell me how you will stop Uncle Jordan,” said Varian, looking at his drink.

  “I don’t know if I can stop him.” Guishaun looked down at his own drink. “Ultimately, I mean. But I can at least counter his current plans.” Guishaun still did not look up.

  Varian swirled the drink in his mug, his eyes still looking down. “Promise me you will stop him,” he said.

  “Varian,” Guishaun began with a languid smile, “I can’t just—”

  “Promise me,” Varian said, lifting his own suddenly red and puffy eyes to meet those of his brother. Guishaun swallowed in a dry throat.

  “I promise you,” he said, clearing away a tear from his face. “One way or another, Brother, I will stop him.”

  “It will be worth it then,” Varian said, drinking the contents of his mug in one, long swallow. He then licked his lips before wiping them with his hand.

  Guishaun had closed his eyes at his brother’s first movement. When he opened them, Varian had already set the mug down and was looking at him. Guishaun gave a soft cry as he reached for his brother, only to pull his hand back.

  “Will it hurt?” Varian asked.

  Guishaun cleared his throat. “They told me it might a little, at the end. It couldn’t be helped, given the... needs of the situation. You can go to sleep.”

  “Yes,” said Varian. “One effect is drowsiness.” Closing his eyes, he concentrated with the Mental Disciplines. “I do not recognize this one.”

  “You weren’t meant to. It’s a newly engineered poison. It would be a challenge even for someone in Holy Orders to neutralize it.”

  “It is blocking my use of the Disciplines. Sneaky.” Varian huffed a laugh. Guishaun grimaced. “I would not have noticed it,” Varian resumed, “if I did not know I drank it.”

  “It’s designed to be subtle,” Guishaun said finally. “By the time a person would think to use the Disciplines to neutralize it, it would be too late.”

  “Will it be by paralysis?”

  “Yes.”

  “That makes sense. What will you do?”

  “I’ll only drink some. Enough so that they will find me unconscious in the morning.”

  “Will you wait before you drink it? Will you...stay with me?”

  “Yes.”

  Varian sighed, relieved. “Who will be blamed?” he asked suddenly.

  “Father’s major domo.” Guishaun laughed without conviction. “He and I have had a few run-ins over you and, what with Father gone, he naturally feared for his continued employment. That will be the story anyway.”

  “I never liked him,” Varian said with a heavy breath. “Was always… mean.”

  “You’re having trouble breathing already?”

  “I accelerated its effects,” Varian wheezed.

  “Varian, you didn’t—”

  Varian lifted a silencing hand. “I want to thank you, Brother. Thank you for looking after me. And thank you for always telling me the truth.” Guishaun’s eyes watered as he gripped the armrest of his chair. “You are the only one who ever did,” Varian continued.

  Guishaun tore himself from his seat. “Here, let me help you,” he said, grabbing his brother’s hand. “We can neutralize it.”

  Varian shook his head. “It is too late for that.”

  “No, it’s not. Why won’t you at least try?”

  Varian looked up at his brother, his face calm and compassionate. “You do not know, Brother?” he asked, a frail smile touching his lips. His labored breaths were taking longer to draw. “It is strange. They taught us a lot. Our parents. Our teachers. Family.” Varian’s every breath now took conscious effort. “So many things.” He winced as he put a hand to his heart. “But they never taught us the most important thing.”

  “What... thing?”

  Varian did not acknowledge the question.

  “Guishaun,” Varian murmured, “do not think too harshly of Father.”

  Guishaun stiffened.

  “He was never taught either,” said Varian.

  “Taught what?”

  Varian closed his eyes.

  Guishaun became frantic. “Varian, what was Father never taught?”

  “How to...”

  “What, Varian?” Guishaun’s tears fell freely. “WHAT?”

  Guishaun shook his brother, only to embrace him as he collapsed into sobs, his question forever unanswered.

  - - -

  XVIII

  Dressed in a black silk negligee, Lilth Morays sat in a sunken lounge area in one of her private rooms at Crucidel, surrounded by pillows of various shapes all done in scarlet red. Reclining on several of them to give her an optimal view, the Voxny viscountess smiled as the group of young naked men floated above her in circular rotation. To her, this was exercise: psychically keeping the twelve men aloft in perfect formation as each either mimed different athletic activities, or simply performed mid-air gymnastics.

  At the height of one man’s routine, Lilth rotated him along his own artificial axis for a more favorable look, all while maintaining his position relative to the other men of her flesh-born carousel. To the man’s credit, knowing what was expected of him, he kept his pose in a feat of physical strength that matched Lilth’s psychic display. Lilth was about to f
ocus on another well-developed specimen when an image formed in her mind: a jackal in flames.

  The severe clarity of the vision startled her, forcing her to let the men all drop to the pillows as she maintained her connection to the source of her vision. Her awareness locked on the grim image, to her eyes, the now dead jackal appeared on the floor before the chamber’s two main doors. Dividing her psychic energies, Lilth lifted herself into the air and away from the flesh-draped pillows. From behind her, a heavy red brocade robe floated up and fitted itself through her sagging arms, and around her corpulent body.

  Hovering over the burned beast, Lilth opened herself to the knowledge that manifested in her thoughts. There were more. Opening the doors before her with her mind, Lilth floated to a balcony with twin staircases leading to an open foyer. The bodies of dead jackals lay strewn everywhere, blackened stains against the white marble. Lifting her gaze, the room’s ceiling and walls gave way to an image of fire and destruction, as if the palace had been reduced to a bombed-out shell in the middle of a city still in its death throes. Slowly the mistress of Crucidel descended the staircase to her left, the only one still intact, levitating over the charred bodies of felled jackals. The Jackals of House Possór, she thought.

  This was a vision of her House’s defeat.

  -

  Below, in the open foyer, Lilth’s genetically engineered pet reared its head as it sensed the approach of its dark mistress. Having seen her engaged in a vision many times before, the furred serpent slithered across the room’s thick carpet toward a servant dusting the furniture.

  Moving silently, and coming up on the servant from behind, the snake lifted its tail and reached out with its tip. The man gave a short cry and dropped his cleaning tools, shocked by the static electricity generated from the beast’s friction against the heavy carpet. Grumbling under his breath, the servant watched as the Viscountess’ favorite searched for another victim.

  The snake found that victim as it came around one of the balustrades and saw Melvinor playing alone with some toy figurines. Eagerly the wooly reptile began its calculated approach across the carpet to recharge its static buildup, and surprise the unsuspecting child.