He looked at Rumaya, now only discernable as a woman by the modest swell at her chest and lack of bulge between her legs. Their sacrifice of flesh had left her a mere silhouette of a woman, and he the silhouette of a man. Otherwise identical. Silver and black distillations of warfare—human weapons. If not for the unit numbers stenciled on the front and back of their heads and each shoulder, as well as the ShadowVision recognition system that identified each transapien in one’s field of view, Maxwell wouldn’t be able to tell one from another. Such was the life of a soldier.
“Do you feel fear?” Maxwell asked Rumaya, out loud so he could hear his own voice. The words sounded strange—robotic. It prompted him to rephrase. “Are you afraid?”
Rumaya studied him with the uniform blue rings in her black eyes. “No,” she said. “Are you?”
Maxwell thought about it, searched himself. “No.” He wasn’t certain he remembered what it felt like to be afraid, but that realization did make him feel . . . something. “What do you feel right now?”
A breeze picked up in the silence, the air warm and dry.
“Nothing,” she replied. “I’m just thinking.” It took some time before it apparently occurred to her to ask: “Are you good, Max?”
“Yes. Of course.” Across the canyon, herds of Upraadis gathered on the far side of the Skyshield carrying mechanical drills and hauling carts of gravel bags. “Go oversee the trench construction.”
Rumaya sent an affirmative dispatch through NeuroNet without giving an audible reply, then turned and strode away.
The realization struck soon after she had gone, as if the solitude had granted his humanity permission to re-emerge. He understood now what he felt—that dull, melancholy sensation.
Regret.
He had felt it since the final surgery, he realized. A distant wistfulness. The transformation had changed him, as he knew it would, but in ways he had not anticipated. He missed things that never mattered to him when he was flesh and blood. The touch of someone else’s skin against his. Someone’s eyes—real eyes—looking at him. Especially a woman’s. The flavors of food. The indescribable joy of chewing, of laughing from the gut, of scratching an itch, even the sting of tears in his eyes, that biological stopcock for releasing emotion.
These were dangerous thoughts. A virus in his brain. But they could not destroy anything not already bound for destruction. Maxwell stood on the planet where he would most likely die. He could let his mental discipline slack a bit. A man, even a soldier, should be allowed to think a few dismal thoughts before his end.
Maxwell, Andrews dispatched through NeuroNet. Abelard wants to discuss troop placements. Should I bring him to you?
Maxwell turned and saw Andrews staring at him from across the platform, by the palace entrance. Between them, two small spaceplanes sat on the tarmac, side by side, wings folded upward, all gray with no markings. Several of his troops still hung from the back of the fuselage, rolling stencil panes over the vertical stabilizers. They had not finished, but the symbol was recognizable.
No, Maxwell replied through NeuroNet. Take him to the throne room. I will meet him there.
Affirmative. Andrews turned and went back into the palace.
Maxwell watched his troops carefully apply the specially designed paint roller to both spaceplanes, both sides of the vertical stabilizers. They hung in harnesses from straps hooked in to the top of the fuselage, using their bodies to shield their work from onlookers. With everyone in sight of the platform busy with their own preparations, it seemed unlikely anyone would notice until his troops had finished the stencil. And by then, it would not matter.
A different kind of regret pushed its way into Maxwell’s head. He never assumed he would die on a planet like this, fighting alongside foreigners against an enemy toward which he held no hostility, under these circumstances, with this singular goal in mind.
Was this the right way to die? Would this do all for Carina that Sorensen had said it would?
It did not matter. Not anymore. Here he stood. Here he would fight. Here he would likely perish. All that mattered was his mission, and he would see it through. Whatever happened, Maxwell hoped his fellow Carinians—the ones who cared enough about the intricacies of history to read about him—would be inspired by his service. His sacrifice.
The Executive
Chapter Fifty-Five
Orion Arm, on the planet God’s Eye . . .
The undulating resonance of neo-jazz played in the quiet, upscale bar. Unpredictable swells of notes from an electric saxophone. Probably written by a computer. Emma always liked the songs written by humans better; there was something inexplicably emotionless about music conjured by a machine.
Emma picked up her tumbler of Vieux Carre, swirled it, set it back down. Only a handful of patrons populated the small tables and booths. Middle-aged businessmen, mostly. Some offworlders here to meet with the DDF. The rest locals. Sitting alone or in pairs. Talking in hushed voices. Sometimes laughing as quietly. Twenty-seven hours had passed since the last sunrise, nineteen more would pass before the next. It was hell trying to acclimate to this sleep schedule.
A solitary bartender washed glasses behind the polished wood counter, trimmed with a lip of darker-stained wood. The bartender, a youngish woman with short, styled hair, wore a black shirt and black vest with a white tie tucked inside. Her dispassionate eyes flicked up once, then again, directed at Emma. She nodded toward the door. “You waiting for him?”
Emma turned to find Heydar Samara, still as slick as before, exuding an aura of wealth in his glossy, caramel-brown suit, but less animated. Eyes more tired. Posture less erect. Two thick-necked Arab men in dark suits followed him. Heydar pointed at a booth by the entrance. His bodyguards sat while he made his way to Emma.
She stood and offered her hand. Heydar grasped it and flashed a worn smile.
“These God’s Eye days are impossible, are they not?”
Emma let out a short, professional laugh. “Indeed. Especially for you Earthers. Agora’s day is twenty-nine hours, but yours is, what—twenty-five?”
“Twenty-four,” Heydar said, unbuttoning his jacket and propping himself onto a barstool. “And not an hour too much.”
Emma sat and instinctively moved her Vieux Carre a few inches away from Heydar. “If you’d like a drink, the bill is on me. I looked at the menu; they have some non-alcoholic options.”
The bartender came by and made eye contact with Heydar. “Brandy sour,” the Confed spokesman said quietly.
Emma felt her eyebrows bounce. She forced herself not to show surprise, cleared her throat. “I’m sorry about that, I was under the impression—”
He waved it off. “It’s alright. I understand. I am Muslim, but I don’t practice all the customs.” He raised a finger mindfully. “Not even the Prophet did, by the way. If the Prophet can drink, so can I.”
Emma smiled, relaxing a little. This man wasn’t so alien as she had imagined. “Sounds fair.” She sipped her Vieux Carre. Intricate flavors followed the initial, pungent burst. “Thank you for meeting me.”
“Of course.” He closed his eyes and lips in a moment of self-chastisement. “Forgive me. I didn’t give a proper introduction. I am Heydar Samara.”
“Emma Scarlet.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Scarlet. Although I feel like I already know you with how much research we’ve done on the DDF.”
“Oh?” Emma said with a surprised smile. “You did your due diligence on me, too, huh?”
“Of course,” Heydar replied. The bartender set down his drink, and Heydar took a sip, then lifted it with a nod as a show of gratitude. “Believe it or not, we’d been expecting you Voluntarists to do something like this for a long time. Since the first rumblings of inter-arm war.”
Emma swirled her tumbler. “And you were hoping Halcyon would be a part of it?”
Heydar shrugged. “We knew the Carinians had contacted you. Anything would be better than Halcyon throwing support to
them. And the only alternative to working for Carina’s war machine would be working for your own.”
“Hmm . . .” Emma drank and pondered. “Help me understand why you don’t like Carina.”
Heydar leaned back and spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture. “We love Carina. They bring us millions of pilgrims each year. We want that relationship to stay strong.”
“But?”
“But . . .” Heydar took in a breath and shook his head ominously. “Their power players want to eliminate the Confed. They want us out of the picture.”
“Why?”
“They’re afraid we wield too much power over them, since we control the Sacred Planet.” Heydar picked up on Emma’s scrunched brow. “Earth. And its shrines.” He took a sip of his brandy cocktail. “They think we make too many demands on them. That we’re taking advantage of them.”
Emma smirked. “Aren’t you?”
“Of course we are,” Heydar replied. “Anyone would. But Carina is big enough to think they can push us around. They’re tired of being our equal. They want to be our superior.” He gestured at Emma. “That’s why we want to be part of your DDF. The combined forces of the VN and the Confed are nothing to brush aside. A united Orion could stand up to Carina.”
“And you’re sure it won’t backfire?” Emma asked. “The blowback from this could be worse than whatever Carina demands.”
Heydar shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, Miss Scarlet, but you don’t understand what it’s like to be from Earth. I grew up in the dusty streets of Riyadh, surrounded on every side by three hundred kilometers of barren desert, all our natural resources gone. The situation is the same in Beijing, and Berlin, and London, and Washington, and every other nation I represent. Our wealth does not come from factories anymore, Miss Scarlet. It doesn’t come from mines or farms or trade. It comes from Carina’s pilgrims.” He rested an elbow on the glossy wood counter and leaned toward Emma. “If they cut off our income from the pilgrims, the Confed will be nothing. It will crumble the moment the wind blows.”
“And the Confed is bigger than just the Levant,” Emma said, comprehending.
Heydar gave a slow nod. “Yes. The Confed is Earth and its stellar region. If we fall, nothing stops Carina from penetrating the rest of Orion.” With one tilt, he downed half his drink. “That’s why you will accept our membership.”
“We’ll see if the board thinks your way,” Emma said.
“They will,” Heydar replied, “if they’re serious about forming a galaxy-class military force to—” He paused as his eyes focused on something over Emma’s shoulder, above the bar. A banner screen spanning the top of the glass shelves showed a spiky, snow-white-haired man in a flamboyant coat speaking with intensity at the camera. The headline read, “Sagittarian Lord Makes Galaxy-wide Broadcast.”
Heydar hailed the bartender as she passed. “Excuse me, could you please turn up the volume of the banner screen?”
The Prima Filia
Chapter Fifty-Six
Orion Arm, Nexus GR 176, near Terran Confederacy space . . .
Sierra clicked herself into Davin’s worn, cushioned chair—the “lazyboy,” as he called it. A body-shaped indentation welcomed her. The fabric smelled better than she expected, a mixture of cologne and masculine musk. She still felt woozy and weak. Lethargic. Drained.
Davin sat sideways on a firm, leatherette couch beside her, legs stretched out under the straps holding him down, tossing a stress ball back and forth between his hands. It produced a semblance of gravity if Sierra didn’t look away from him.
He’d been probing her with questions about Earth and pilgrimage for a while now—long enough for Sierra to be fatigued from talking. He quieted, apparently out of questions, staring off at something and giving Sierra a moment to glance around.
Sydney drifted aimlessly across the common room, reading on her tablet, occasionally twitching her fingers across the touchscreen. Sierra wondered about the odd symbol patched onto her backwards cap: a pair of red socks. She also wondered if the pilot ever wore clothes more befitting her job, like the jumpsuits Carinian pilots invariably donned. Jai Lin hovered in the small kitchenette, alternating between bites of pre-cooked tofu from a plastic package and squirts of soy sauce into his mouth. Some drops missed and bounced off his cheeks. He had to lurch his head forward to capture them before they escaped. Sierra found it entertaining to watch.
“So . . . ships are constantly going back and forth on the TransCarina Highway?” Davin asked.
“Of course,” Sierra said. “At any point in the year, there could be hundreds of thousands or millions of Carinians on Earth for pilgrimage. A little more for Ramadan or Christmas. Or Easter. Or Vesakha. Or the Jewish festivals.”
Davin let out a rumbling laugh. “Pretty smart of you guys. Only so many holidays in one religion, so just put ‘em all together. Holidays all year long.”
Sierra looked down and bit her tongue to prevent a quick retort. She could forgive an outsider for such a simplistic thought. He was an Orionite; he didn’t know any better.
“Sorry,” Davin said, sounding sheepish. “Stupid joke.”
Sierra felt a loosening in her shoulder and neck muscles. “It’s alright. I understand why you’d say that. But I hope you know we don’t embrace all faith traditions just for their holidays.”
“Why not just boil it down to three or four a year, then?”
She felt a smile creep onto her lips. “Because they all have such good food.”
“A-ha! I knew it!”
Davin laughed, and she laughed with him. It felt liberating to vocalize such a vain thought. She could never say something like that around her people. Everyone thought it—at least everyone outside the House of Justice—but no one said it. Not in polite company, anyway, where Sierra usually found herself. It soothed her in surprising ways to speak openly without fear of her conversation being overheard or reported to someone. The tabloids always welcomed a decent prime family scandal, but Sierra doubted Davin had any interest in talking to Carinian tabloids.
She composed herself. “Anyway, cruisers are constantly shuttling people in and out of Carina. If I can get past the checks on Earth and into one of those ships, I can get back to ‘Runa.”
“There aren’t any checks at the Carinian border?” Davin asked.
Sierra shook her head. “It’s non-stop to the core of Carina. Once I get that far, I’ll be able to find someone who will help me. I know I will.”
Davin nodded, still locked in solemn thought. “Guess that’ll be goodbye then.”
Sierra felt her heart swell and her throat tighten at the same time. She instinctively glanced at Sydney and then Jai Lin. They didn’t seem to notice, or maybe they simply didn’t attribute the same significance to the statement as Sierra did.
She tilted her head to half-shield her eyes with strands of delicate brown hair. “Sorry you didn’t get to make a little money off me.”
Davin snorted. “A little? Sweetheart, we woulda made a shitload of money off you.” He waved his hand as if the imagined shitload of money meant nothing. “Doesn’t matter. That’s what wrecked ships are for.” His gaze lingered, sobering, eyes like gleaming jasper. “Why did you take that stunner shot for me?”
The question came so suddenly, so unexpectedly. Her throat tightened again. “It’s our way. It’s written in my DNA. Etched in my brain. ‘Oh servant of Baha, be self-sacrificing on the path of God.’”
“Is that from your holy book?”
“One of them.”
Davin pulled something from his pocket. Sierra blushed when she recognized her tiny Izowood knife. “What about this?” he asked. “What were you planning to do with this?”
“It was . . . a moment of weakness. I took it because I was afraid. I didn’t trust you.”
“Do you trust me now?” Simple words, a simple question—but with so much meaning laced into them. He twiddled the knife between his fingers and waited for an answer.
“M
ore than I did then.”
“Well, whatever made you do what you did . . . Thank you.” After a sincere pause, his face changed. “But next time, let me take the hit.” He twisted the knife so that the handle faced Sierra, then nudged it through the weightless air toward her.
A smile broke across her face as she caught the hilt between fingertips.
“Oh shit,” Sydney’s voice cut across the common room. “Wow.”
Sierra twisted herself to see the pilot push away from the wall toward them, gaping at her tablet.
“Cap, check this out.” Sydney somersaulted over the couch, ending in a sitting position beside him. She buckled herself in to stay in place. Davin maneuvered himself closer, and Jai Lin soared over from the kitchenette. Sierra leaned in to see. Sydney tapped her tab screen, and a man’s deep voice began speaking mid-sentence.
“—short time ago by a rebellious and unruly people. May his glory live forever in the memory of the Regnum.”
A man with smooth skin and styled hair, white as a sheet, gesticulated from the inside of a ship. An ornate, gold-trimmed coat hugged his shoulders and chest. Behind him, blurry figures in white uniforms worked at stations of concave glass. At the bottom of the screen, the Orionite media outlet had put a banner overlay that read: “Sagittarian Lord Broadcasts from Command Deck of Battleship.” On either side of the video, newsfeeds showed lists of mini-articles from the outlet’s contributors about the event. Headlines and brief descriptions shifted down with each new arrival, and they shifted rapidly.
“Broadcast Dominates Media Across the Galaxy”
“Swan Lord Speaks Favorably of Deposed Lagoon Lord”
“It is true that Lord Radovan and I did not see eye to eye. A fire burned in his belly for independence, whereas I am and will always be loyal to the Regnum. But I respected my neighboring lord. He ruled his people with an exceptional grace. Yet his commonage grew complacent and greedy. Laziness and vanity overtook them. They listened to the voices of hubris, preaching a gospel of hatred and Marxism and anarchy. That is why they rebelled. That is why they slayed their ruler—along with my Lord General’s heir, who fought to defend him. Guarin’s memory will live forever in the Region of Swan.”
Sacred Planet: Book One of the Dominion Series Page 29