Bringing Stella Home

by Joe Vasicek

  This isn’t going to work, Sholpan thought to herself, nervously tapping her feet. Gazan will never accept my mercy. The other wives will think I orchestrated the whole—

  She shook her head and snapped herself out of it. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she took a deep breath and calmed herself. This was going to work. It had to.

  Qasar rose slowly to his feet, eyes never leaving his son. “Is this true?”

  Gazan stared back in defiance, but his cheeks paled ever so slightly. “Yes, Father,” he said, his voice barely audible.

  “Why, my son? Why would you do this to me?”

  Gazan said nothing.

  Here it comes, Sholpan thought to herself. She gripped the armrests on her chair and leaned forward.

  “You know what I am required to do,” said Qasar, his voice as dead as a machine. “As supreme commander of the fleet, I—”

  “Milord,” Sholpan said, rising to her feet. “I demand that you stop this trial at once.”

  Every eye on the deck turned to stare at her. Several of the officers frowned in disapproval, while Zeline and the other wives reeled with bewilderment. A murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd like a shock wave. Sholpan drew in a sharp breath and tried very hard to look confident.

  “What is the meaning of this insolence?” snapped one of the officers—an overweight, gray-haired man with a balding head and scraggly beard. “How can this woman—”

  “Silence,” said Qasar, raising his hand. He turned to face her. “What do you have to say?”

  Here goes nothing.

  “I have a claim on this man,” she said, loud enough that everyone on the deck could hear. “It was not you he betrayed, but me. Do you see these wounds?” She pulled up her sleeves to show her bruised arms. “Your son came to me three days ago and beat me most savagely. For this I demand to judge him myself.”

  The rumble grew to a roar. Gazan narrowed his bloodshot eyes at her.

  Qasar silenced the crowd with a wave of his hand. “You wish to lay claim to my son?” he asked. “He has been proven guilty of mutiny.”

  “He is not guilty of mutiny,” said Sholpan, “but only of avoiding the punishment that is his proper due. Because his crime against me preceded his mutiny, and was the main cause behind his attempt to leave the fleet, I demand to pass judgment on him first.”

  “It is not the place of a woman to sit as judge,” barked the fat officer.

  Sholpan gripped the guardrail to the stand with white-knuckled fingers.

  “But as victim, it is my right by honor.”

  Qasar brought his hand to his chin. “I’ll decide that, my dear. But tell me—if you could judge him, what would your judgment be?”

  Sholpan knew that he could never be seen to bow to her. They had rehearsed this next part together very carefully—she must only push hard enough to allow him to make a graceful compromise.

  “It is not right for a son to beat his husband’s wife,” she said, glancing over the crowd to gauge their reaction. “Such behavior brings dishonor upon all parties involved. Therefore, the punishment must not only absolve the crime, but wipe the stain of dishonor from the family.”

  “If you strip me of my inheritance,” Gazan hissed, “I’ll—”

  “Silence!” boomed Qasar. The room grew deathly still.

  “Few things are more disgraceful than for a father to kill his own son,” Sholpan continued. “And as for stripping him of his rightful inheritance, that is not much better. Therefore, I propose that Gazan be made to join with the main forward fleet and fight in my name. By winning honor and glory for us both, I believe that his debts will be absolved.”

  The crowd murmured in approval—or what Sholpan desperately hoped was approval. The officers didn’t seem too convinced, and the wives still looked at her as if she were crazy.

  “And what of his act of treason?” Qasar asked.

  “I do not think he is guilty of treason so much as trying to escape his due punishment,” said Sholpan, reciting the practiced words. “Did he attempt to do anything more than run away? I think not.”

  “Milord,” said the fat officer, “may I remind you, the mutineers were caught in the act.”

  “Perhaps,” said Qasar. “Yet my Sholpan speaks the truth, after a fashion. Would you have me kill my own son?”

  “Forgive him!” shouted a lone voice from the crowd. Several others took up the cry, making the officer’s cheeks turn red.

  It’s working.

  Qasar rose to his feet, and the crowd drew silent. He turned to Gazan.

  “What do you think of this, my son? Is this acceptable?”

  Gazan scowled. “I don’t owe you anything,” he hissed at Sholpan in a voice too soft for most of the crowd to hear. Qasar frowned in disapproval.

  “I don’t want you to owe me,” Sholpan hastily whispered. “I just want you to live.”

  “Why?”

  “I already told you—because we don’t have to be enemies.”

  Gazan blinked. For several moments, he said nothing. Next to her, the wives stirred and glanced in puzzlement from one to another.

  “Very well,” said Gazan, turning to his father. “If these are the terms, I accept.”

  A mixed cheer rose from the crowd. For a split second, Sholpan saw Qasar smile.

  “We will send you with a security detachment on the next supply convoy,” he said. “When you arrive with the main fleet, you will deliver Tagatai my message. He will serve as your commanding officer, and you must follow his orders with exactness in all things. If you fight nobly, you will rise to positions of authority. Earn command of a ship, and I will accept you into my fleet once again.”

  “Yes, Father,” said Gazan, emotion rising in his voice. “Thank you.” They embraced, and the crowd cheered.

  It worked, Sholpan realized. It really worked!

  She turned to the other wives. Zeline’s face was still unreadable, but the others viewed her with a strange mix of confusion and admiration. They looked away as soon as she glanced at them, but Sholpan saw enough to notice the subtle change.

  The rest of the assembly passed quickly. Qasar condemned the other nine conspirators to death, and granted command of the Flame of Destiny to one of his distinguished officers. The soldiers led the prisoners off to the airlocks to be executed, pale-faced and frightened.

  “Excellent work, my dear,” said Qasar to her privately as the crowd began to disperse. “You have a gift for politics.”

  “Thank you.”

  “In fifteen hours, I am leaving for my court at Kardunash III. I had thought you would need some time to adjust, but judging from how well you played the mediator, I would be greatly honored if you would join me.”

  Sholpan swallowed. She glanced at Zeline and the others, but they were already on their way out.

  “Are you taking any of your other wives?” she asked.

  “Of course not,” said Qasar. “Their place is here on my ship.”

  And mine is not, Sholpan inwardly finished. She longed to stay—to finally get to know the other women—but she knew that Qasar’s request was not a question. It was a command.

  “Of course,” she told him. “I’ll start packing my things at once.”

  Chapter 24

  “Hmm, that’s interesting,” Ilya muttered.

  “What is it?” asked James.

  Ilya remained focused on the screen, ignoring him. “Yes,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, “this certainly changes things.”

  “What? Tell me.”

  “I found your sister. She’s not with the Hameji fleet.”

  James perked up immediately. “Not with the fleet?”

  “No. According to the network, she’s traveling with a small convoy to Kardunash III.”

  “What kind of a convoy?” asked Danica.

  “A diplomatic one.” Ilya squinted and scanned the data. “According to this, General Qasar himself is with them.”

  “Where are they
going?” asked Anya from her seat at the front.

  “They’re headed to some kind of former vacation center in orbit around the planet.”

  “A vacation center?” asked James. He sat up and read over Ilya’s shoulder.

  “Yeah. Some kind of upper-class spa-and-low-gravity-gardens kind of thing. Apparently, the Hameji are using it as an administrative center.”

  “How much military activity are you picking up in the area?” asked Danica.

  “Aside from the convoy escort? Not a lot, actually. Most of the traffic is civilian. I see a lot of envoys coming in from the outer worlds and moons. Yeah, this is definitely some kind of civil administration center for the occupation.”

  James could barely contain himself. Kardunash III was practically his second home; he knew the planet’s stations and moons better than any other place besides the Colony itself.

  “How soon can you get us on the station’s docking registry?” asked Danica.

  Ilya brought his hands together and cracked his knuckles. “Hacking into the network should be a piece of cake. Jumping us in without anyone noticing—that’s the tough part. Fortunately, a Hameji light cruiser is scheduled to relieve the current patrol in a few hours. With all the ships jumping in and out, we could easily sneak in then.”

  Danica nodded. “That sounds like a good plan.”

  Yes, James thought, tapping his foot excitedly against the floor. They could do this. They really could.

  * * * * *

  Sholpan stepped slowly down the illuminated walkway of the station’s lush, green gardens. Giant leafy vines surrounded the path, stretching and curling upward to the top of the glass dome high above her head. Local gravitic devices normalized the path where she walked, but in the gardens themselves the gravity was low enough to allow the plants to grow to monstrous sizes, with vines as thick as her legs and flowers as large as her head. At first, the monstrous foliage had frightened her, but now she found it beautiful. The air was steamy and fresh, so full of moisture that droplets formed on her skin as she walked. The smell of vegetation was thick enough to taste—a welcome change from the Lion of Tenguri’s stale, recycled air.

  Long ago, when she was a little girl, she had seen these gardens through the other side of that glass. She had been traveling with her father—or was it her uncle? It didn’t matter. They had come to Kardunash III for some sort of family gathering, though she couldn’t remember what the occasion had been. She only remembered seeing the thick foliage through the glass dome as they passed by in close parallel orbit. The sight of such a jungle against the blackness of space had entranced her, a fragile pocket of life floating through the starry void.

  She silently entered an observation gallery and sat down to watch the planetrise. As the station spun, the enormous mass of Kardunash III gradually rose in the window, the wide curvature of its horizon filling her view. She stared at the swirling bands of red and orange clouds, of world-sized hurricanes spinning in silence hundreds of kilometers below.

  Kardunash III was a planet of poisonous gas, with layers of hydrogen, helium, and ammonia stretching an impossible distance down to the central core. Staring down at it through the window, she felt as if the mammoth world were pulling her down into its swirling, churning mass. The monstrous plants swayed around her, whether from tidal stresses or an artificial breeze in the greenhouse, she didn’t know. Perhaps both.

  Footsteps on the walkway interrupted her thoughts. She turned just in time to see a Hameji eunuch in an immaculate white smock enter the observation bubble.

  “Lady Sholpan,” he said, giving her a short bow as she rose to her feet. “Your presence is required at court.”

  “Is it urgent?”

  “No, mistress,” he said, “but if you do not return at once, your absence will be noted.”

  She sighed. “Thank you. I’ll be there in a moment.”

  The eunuch bowed and walked briskly out the way he had come, sending leaves rustling in his wake. Sholpan waited until he was gone before leaving the gardens.

  A few moments later, she passed the soldiers guarding the entrance to the lobby where Qasar had established his court. The once-luxurious green and white marble walls now bore the extravagant kitschy silks of the Hameji. Rugs, chairs, and tables were spread out across the room, all ornately decorated with precious stones and gilded plating. Sholpan knew that the furnishings were supposed to instill a sense of awe and power, but they clashed with the original décor so ostentatiously that it instead reminded her of the concubines’ quarters on the Lion of Tenguri. The Hameji might be masters of war, but they certainly weren’t masters of interior design.

  Herds of petitioners crowded against the wall on the far side, waiting nervously for Qasar to receive them. Qasar himself sat on a stand at the head of the room, surrounded by officers, soldiers, and servants. Two crossed swords hung on the wall above his head, with another chunk of the space rock from the Tenguri system.

  That’s where the awe comes from, Sholpan thought to herself as she joined the other Hameji on the stand. Not the decorations. The weapons.

  She watched passively as the court secretary called on the petitioners to step forward, one by one. Before approaching Qasar’s throne, each petitioner prostrated himself three times under the watchful eye of the guard. Only after this act of extreme submission did Qasar permit them to approach him with their concerns or issues. Though earnest, they spoke through an older man, who served as translator even though it was clear he was hard of hearing.

  Sholpan bitterly noted the complete lack of democracy. Those who argued with Qasar, the soldiers forcibly removed from the room. Those who displeased him were lucky if he only ordered them to depart. Several petitioners left with faces paler than when they’d come.

  Sholpan couldn’t stand to watch for more than half an hour. Disgusted, she stepped down and walked to the other side of the room.

  As she mingled with the crowd that had gathered against the far wall, she soon found that not all the business was taking place at Qasar’s feet. Several of the lesser Hameji officers stood in circles, talking with each other. Most of the Kardunasians stood apart from the Hameji, discussing business and economics. Whenever she tried to join in, however, the group grew silent and slowly splintered off, leaving her to stand alone.

  It’s just like the Lion of Tenguri, she realized with dismay. She was as alone here as she was there—even among her own people.

  As she tried her best to mingle, she noticed someone staring at her. From the corner of her eye, she saw that he was a young man, probably in his twenties, with black hair and a clean shaven face. She waited a few moments, then casually turned to face him.

  Her eyes went wide, and she stifled a gasp. It was Lars Stewart.

  Instantly, she turned away. Her legs went weak, and her body started trembling, but even though her back was turned to him, she could feel him staring at her. Her cheeks blanched, and she felt an overwhelming need to get some fresh air.

  She slipped out the main door, staying within sight of the foyer so that Qasar knew she hadn’t gone too far. The fresh air of the gardens cleared her mind, and she took a deep, refreshing breath.

  The sound of footsteps behind her made her turn her head. Even before she saw him, she knew who it was.

  “Stella?” Lars asked, rushing up to her. “Is it you?”

  “Shh! What are you doing here?”

  A smile spread across his face. “It is you!”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s me.” After so much time speaking in Hameji, the soft, rounded sounds of her native Kardunasian tongue seemed strangely exotic.

  “Where have you been? What happened to you? How—”

  “Not here,” she hissed, glancing nervously over his shoulder. The guards betrayed no reaction, but eyes were certainly watching them.

  “Ah,” said Lars, composing himself. “Of course. In that case, perhaps we could meet somewhere else?”

  Sholpan’s heart pounded in her ch
est. Lars seemed a bit leaner than she remembered, but it was definitely him. The boyish smile, the clean-shaven face, the pleasant scent about him that reminded her so much of the Colony—of her home.

  “The common room in the woman’s quarters,” she blurted. “There are servants there, but they don’t speak Kardunasian, so we can—”

  “Yes. What time?”

  “Half an hour. And don’t go back inside with me—we can’t be seen together.”

  “No. Of course not.”

  For several awkward moments, they stood staring at each other, not sure what to say.

  Sholpan drew in a deep breath. “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye,” said Lars. Before she turned to leave, he took her hand and kissed it.

  Sholpan turned and hurriedly left the garden, her heart still racing. Not since her last conversation with Narju had she felt such an overwhelming flood of emotion.

  * * * * *

  “Ten seconds to jump,” said Anya. The floor hummed as the drive finished warming up. “Initiating in three, two, one…”

  Danica closed her eyes and held her breath. The humming reached a climax, and her stomach flipped in an all-too familiar way. For a split second, she felt that she was falling, but the feeling soon passed.

  She opened her eyes and stared out at the glowing red crescent of Kardunash III. The warm yellow sunlight from behind the curved horizon reflected off of several hundred ships parked in orbit, turning them into points of light. Against the black night side of the giant world, they looked like flecks of dust floating in a beam of light.

  Danica took a deep breath. “All stations, report.”

  “Initial locator estimates place us within one hundred k-clicks of target arrival point,” said Anya. “Area scan shows several ships arriving from jumpspace—must be the convoy.”

  “Picking up Hameji network signal,” said Ilya. “Connecting—and done.”

  “Transmit our authentication codes to the port authority,” ordered Danica.