Bringing Stella Home

by Joe Vasicek

  After nearly ten full minutes, she realized it was useless. She leaned against the wall and let her body go limp, her raw skin bleeding in places where she’d scrubbed too hard. She wanted to cry, but all she felt was emptiness.

  At least I was married, she tried to tell herself. It’s not a sin if you’re married. Though the argument placated her conscience somewhat, it did nothing to comfort her.

  Impulsively, she decided to turn the temperature down as low as it would go. In an instant, the water went from warm and relaxing to jarringly cold. Her muscles seized up, and her already tender skin burned under the frigid iciness. Like a drowner craving air, she felt an overwhelming urge to shut off the water. She forced herself to endure it, however, if only for no other reason than to see how long she could hold out. One second became two, two became five, and five became eight.

  That was all she could take. With a trembling hand, she reached out and activated the dry cycle. The water immediately shut off, leaving her unsteady and shivering.

  Hot air blasted her from all sides as the vacuum opened in the drain. Dribbles of water ran in streaks across her skin, dripping from her chin and elbows as she hugged her chest for warmth. She stood there in the heat until her body was as dry as the sun-baked surface of a waterless planet.

  After recovering some strength, Stella shut off the shower and stepped out into the narrow space of her bed-and-bathroom. Her new quarters were entirely private—no servants waiting to clothe her, no roommate eager to talk with her as she dressed. She felt surprisingly lonely, standing there naked in the middle of the empty room. A small, fold-out bed lay in the opposite corner next to a set of authentic wooden dressers, but the walls were bare and windowless, the white-tiled floor hard against her feet. The place felt sterile and un-lived in—empty.

  If this were the concubines’ quarters, the bead curtains would clatter and Narju would come rushing in, apologizing for his lateness. He would hand her a towel and wait patiently for her to dry herself before sitting her down to file her nails and do her hair. She missed his gentle, non-threatening company; the way that she could bare herself to him and know that he would never hurt her. Tears came to her eyes just thinking about it. Stars, how she wanted him with her right now. Instead, this was what she had to look forward to—all the privacy and loneliness she never knew she didn’t want.

  She dressed herself in one of the few sets of clothes she’d brought from the concubines’ level—the blue skirt and white blouse that she’d worn on her first day. How long ago that now seemed—and how strange her fears. Perhaps Tamu was right; perhaps she should have accepted her place as Qasar’s concubine. Either way, it was inevitable that she’d find herself in his bed—she saw that clearly now. Oh, well; it wasn’t wrong if you were forced against your will—

  Narju’s voice struck her like a missile. We do not choose the life that fate gives us, she remembered. We only choose how we live it—and how to give of ourselves before our time is over.

  The memory was too much for her. She collapsed to her knees on the hard tile floor and sobbed into her hands. I’m never going home again, she realized. I’m going to be with the Hameji for the rest of my life. The thought made her face pale and her arms go weak, but it was the truth.

  Ever since she’d come as a prisoner to the Lion of Tenguri, she’d held onto the hope that somehow, someday, she would escape. That hope, as naïve as it now seemed, had sometimes been the only thing keeping her sane. But now, she could no longer afford to think that way. With her marriage to Qasar, everything had changed. She was no longer a mere concubine—she had status and influence, and would eventually hold positions of responsibility on the ship. If escape had been next to impossible before, it was completely out of the question now.

  This is my new life, Stella told herself. If I don’t learn to accept it, it’s going to destroy me.

  She rose to her feet and turned to stare into a mirror against the wall. The image that stared back was surprisingly unfamiliar. Her eyes were more subdued, her expression more cautious and guarded. Without makeup, the rings under her eyes were clearly visible. She looked several years older than the girl she’d been before her capture.

  I can’t be Stella any longer, she thought to herself. I can’t go back to who I used to be. The Hameji were right to give her a new name, and Narju had been right to call her by it. Perhaps that was another gift he’d given her.

  She took in a deep breath and stared at her image in the mirror. “Sholpan,” she said aloud. That’s who I am from now on—Sholpan. The name still felt foreign to her ears, but she trusted that she’d get used to it in time.

  She’d have to, if she wanted to make her new life livable.

  * * * * *

  The door chime sounded, rousing Danica from her book. “Come in,” she said, laying it face-down on the armrest as she rose to her feet. The door hissed open, and Flight Lieutenant Vaclav Nicholson stepped inside.

  “Captain,” said Vaclav, nodding curtly, “I’ve been meaning to see you for some time.” The expression on his face was serious, more so than usual. Danica rested her hands behind her back and narrowed her eyes.

  “What is it, Nicholson?”

  “I wish to request an immediate discharge,”

  His words struck her like a punch to the gut.

  “For what reason?”

  “Do I need to give a reason? The terms of my contract say that I’m entitled to withdraw whenever I see fit.”

  “The terms of your contract say that you may only withdraw after we’ve completed our most recent contract.”

  “I was under the impression that we’d finished our last job.”

  “I have yet to negotiate that with our employer,” said Danica. “Besides, I can’t honor your request while we’re still in deep space.”

  “Regardless,” said Vaclav, “I request to be discharged as soon as we put into port.”

  Danica took in a breath and looked her flight lieutenant straight in the eye. The man was a career mercenary; he kept his voice and composure carefully controlled around his commanding officer. The damnable side effect was that his face was utterly unreadable.

  “Is this because of my failure during our last encounter with the Hameji?” she asked softly.

  “How was it a failure? We completed our primary and secondary objectives, didn’t we?”

  “Nearly half of my crew was killed or wounded. I’m not about to call that a success.”

  He shrugged. “If that’s how you want to see it—”

  “Dammit, Vaclav, what is this about?”

  Her sudden outburst barely raised an eyebrow. “Simply a career decision, Captain,” he said. “Nothing personal.”

  “How long have you been with us? Four, five years? Why quit now?”

  “I told you. I feel that I can better advance my career elsewhere.”

  Danica drew in a deep breath and took a moment to regain her composure. “What would it take to get you to change your mind?” she asked.

  “Well,” said Vaclav, “to be perfectly honest, I don’t think you’re paying me what I deserve. Considering that my remote piloting skills were a decisive factor in our recent victory, I think I should be making at least four times my current rate.”

  “You know I can’t afford to pay that much.”

  “Which is why I’m requesting a discharge.”

  This can’t be just be about pay, she thought quickly to herself. He’s been with us too long.

  It’s about my failures as a commander.

  “Come on. What else is going on here?”

  He gave her a funny look. “Does there have to be anything else? We’re mercenaries, Captain—I thought you of all people would understand.”

  Danica sighed and shook her head. “Vaclav, my friend, the way we defeated the Hameji in our last engagement, I fully expect we’ll be up to our ears in high-paying contracts from here on out. You’ll get your pay raise, but until we start to cash in on that, though, you’re
going to have to wait.”

  “With all due respect, Captain, I’ve already made my decision.”

  Neither of them said anything for a long while. Vaclav shifted and glanced off to the side, avoiding Danica’s eyes.

  “You’re a fine officer,” said Danica, breaking the silence. “I’d hate to lose you.”

  “You’ll give me my discharge, then?”

  “Yes, yes,” she said, waving her hand in the air. “We’ll put into port before the end of the week. After that, you’re free to go.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” After a quick salute, he turned and left. The door hissed shut, leaving her alone.

  I’m a failure to my crew, Danica thought to herself, and a disgrace to my family. She collapsed into her chair and rubbed her tired eyes.

  * * * * *

  The smell of chemical sanitizers and polished metal assaulted James’s nose as he half-walked, half-ran down the corridor. All the scrubbing of a thousand slavebots would never undo the blood that had been spilled on this ship—the blood that he had spilled. The bodies had been removed, the floors made spotless, but the walls still bore signs of combat, only lightly disguised by the patchy repairs.

  Flashbacks rose to the surface of his mind, haunting him. They had gotten better since the first few days, but he knew there would always be a dark place in his mind where they would never go away. It was all the worse because he was constantly surrounded by physical reminders of the battle. He wanted to leave, but of course that was impossible in deep space.

  Besides, the mission wasn’t over yet—Stella was still out there.

  And so he walked as quickly as he could, staring at the floor to avoid the inescapable signs of battle. After several moments, he came to the main entrance to the training room. He keyed the access panel and stepped through the door.

  The now-familiar smells of faded body odor and spent shells met him inside. A pair of privates lifted weights in the corner; they glanced up and nodded as he entered. James didn’t know their names, so he returned the gesture. They resumed their workout without a second thought.

  From the gun rack, James selected the smallest, most non-threatening pistol he could find and brought it to the shooting gallery. His hands shook and his mind reeled, but his fingers still knew how to load the weapon. He slipped a pair of earmuffs onto his head and faced the target some twenty yards away. The concentric circles converged on a black, faceless silhouette.

  James leveled his gun at the bullseye, but could not bring himself to pull the trigger. In his mind’s eye, the target became one of the Hameji soldiers, clad in black. Images of the people he’d killed flashed through his mind—he remembered with nightmarish lucidity how the soldiers had stood motionless even as white-hot plasma ate through their armored bodies. The smell of burning flesh burned once again in his nostrils, thick enough to taste.

  Those soldiers had all been prisoners of the Hameji, just as Ben had. Under every mask had been a face—a young face, like his brother’s. The Hameji had taken them from their families, brainwashed them, and turned them into soldiers. None of them were the monsters he had supposed them to be.

  And he had slaughtered them.

  James slowly lowered his gun. Sweat ran down the sides of his face, and his legs felt week. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the gymnasium’s stale air. He hadn’t realized that he’d stopped breathing.

  Danica’s words came to his mind. If you want to fight a wolf, you have to become one.

  He lifted the pistol again, gritted his teeth, and squeezed the trigger. The shot went wild, missing the target altogether. He fired three more times before lowering the gun, hand shaking beyond all possible control. Only the last shot hit the target, barely within the outer ring.

  It’s no good, he told himself, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath as he steadied himself against the wall. I can’t do this. I don’t want to be a killer. Even as the thought came to his mind, however, he remembered that Stella was still out there. She needed his help—no one else even knew where she was. How could he give up now, when he was so close?

  While he was torn in indecision, an image of the Hameji officer from the firefight came to his mind—the one with the razor-thin beard and red epaulets.

  The man who had killed his brother.

  James’s heart surged, and strength returned to his legs. He took in a deep breath and stepped forward, leveling his gun at the target. In his mind’s eye, the black silhouette was no longer faceless—it was his brother’s killer.

  The semi-automatic pistol fired in rapid succession—one, two, three, four, five. Shells clattered to the floor, while James’s hands kept the weapon steady. Ten seconds was all it took to unload every bullet in the magazine.

  When he was finished, James lowered his gun and peered at the target as it swayed in the air. Two bullet holes lay on the periphery, five on the inner circle. Two bullseyes, right in the center of the chest.

  I can do better than that, he told himself. Feeling much more confident, he punched the keypad to his right. The target swung away, and a new one replaced it at the end of the range.

  James reloaded his pistol and sighted the new target. This time, he aimed for the head.

  For Ben, you son of a bitch.

  Chapter 20

  “Nice place, honey,” said Tamu, glancing around the front room of Sholpan’s new apartment. “It still needs a little sprucing up, but you’ve done well with what you have.”

  “Thanks,” said Sholpan, smiling.

  “You really should get a good carpet though, dear,” Tamu continued, sitting sideways with her feet underneath her. “Even with slippers, that hard ceramic floor is going to get to you.”

  “I’ll bring it up with Qasar next time I—”

  “Oh, don’t bother. I’ve got just the thing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Tamu touched Sholpan’s arm and smiled. “Darling, of course I’m sure. Just let me take care of it.”

  Sholpan nodded. “Well, if you insist.”

  “I do.”

  Tamu paused and took another sip of her coffee; Sholpan did likewise. It was a delicious blend, made with authentic beans from one of Qasar’s raids in the New Pleiades. He made sure his wives had an ample supply, though Sholpan couldn’t help but wonder about the merchanters he had killed to get it.

  “So,” said Tamu, setting her cup on the floor for lack of a table, “have you met the other wives?”

  “Not yet,” said Sholpan, “but Lady Zeline invited me to meet with her tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it.”

  Tamu raised an eyebrow. “Lady Zeline?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Honey, Zeline is Qasar’s fourth wife—the youngest, next to you. Borta’s son has more clout with Qasar than she does.”

  “So? Why should that matter?”

  Tamu leaned forward and put her hand on Sholpan’s shoulder. “Because, darling, it means that the older wives are treating you with contempt. Goodness, it’s been nearly a week, and they haven’t so much as acknowledged you.”

  Sholpan frowned. “They haven’t?”

  “You tell me, dear. Frankly, I think they’re scared.”

  “Scared? Why would they be scared?”

  Tamu threw back her head and laughed. “Why? Only because your servant killed the last head wife. That makes you a force to be reckoned with.”

  “But I had nothing to do with her death!” said Sholpan, her cheeks reddening. “Don’t you believe me?”

  “Oh I believe you, dear, but don’t try to say you haven’t benefited from it. The way they see it, you’re one of the most dangerous women on this ship.”

  Sholpan swallowed. “What am I supposed to do?” she asked. “Is everyone waiting to stab me on the back?”

  “Of course they are, honey. Qasar doesn’t marry fools.”

  “But I’m not a threat!” she shouted. “I don’t want to be their enemy—I just want to get along.”

  Tamu c
lucked and shook her head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, darling.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if you show any sign of weakness now, the other wives are going to eat you alive. Don’t expect to make any friends or allies—not until you earn their respect.”

  “Then what do I do?”

  “Show them you can’t be pushed around,” said Tamu, lying down against the contours of the couch. “Don’t let them see your feelings. Put on a stern face when you’re in front of them. But be subtle about it—subtle is more dangerous.”

  Sholpan frowned. “But how am I supposed to make friends that way? How does that make peace?”

  Tamu sighed. “I’m sorry, dear. There’s no peace in this game.”

  * * * * *

  The next day, Sholpan stood in the hallway outside Lady Zeline’s apartment, hesitating in front of the door. Tamu is wrong, she told herself. I can do this. Still, now that the time had come to meet the woman, she wasn’t nearly so sure.

  Without warning, the door hissed open, making her jump. She glanced up and found herself face to face with a young woman.

  “Lady Zeline?” Sholpan stammered, completely caught off guard.

  The woman eyed her. She was tall and olive-skinned, with long black hair that stretched almost to her waist. Her face was clear of wrinkles, and she had a slim, attractive hourglass figure. Although she stood about half a head taller than Sholpan, she could not have been more than five years older.

  “You must be Sholpan,” she said. “Please come in.”

  With her legs still a little stiff, Sholpan stepped inside.

  Zeline’s apartment was much more attractive than her own. The walls were trimmed in white and blue tile, and a beautiful arabesque rug covered the hard ceramic floor. An inner door led to a short hallway, with several more rooms beyond. Off to the side, a small hydroponics unit sent creeper vines cascading down the wall. Grapes hung from a few of the vines, still green.