She paused, concentrating for a moment on Roche’s shoulder. Then: “Port Parvati was rebuilt—along with the installations in the Soul—and the entire project was turned over to OPUS, a mining consortium. The planet became a business venture, and the board of directors wouldn’t tolerate competition or interference from unruly neighbors. Ul-oemato became competition.”
Neva began to rub salve into Roche’s shoulder. It burned and stung, but she didn’t interrupt the woman’s narrative with complaint.
“Then DAOC, another mining company, took over the administration of the planet. Its prospectors exhausted low-lying deposits and decided they wanted the hills. They mounted a full-scale military campaign against Sciacca’s people. There are ruins all through these mountains where DAOC troops—mercenaries, most of them—razed entire communities to the ground, leaving nothing but rubble and ashes in their wake. Yet, despite being outgunned in almost every way, the defenses of Ul-oemato held while other towns fell around it. The fight went on for weeks, until Ul-oemato was teeming with injured and frightened refugees.
“Food and water were scarce. DAOC had destroyed irrigation and mist-collection plants. The siege of the city was in its seventh week when a lucky strike crippled one of only two fusion generators in the area. It all seemed hopeless until a gunrunner approached the defenders from out-system with a large supply of weapons.”
Neva paused to tie a bandage in place. “Word must have spread, and I guess it was only a matter of time before somebody tried to profit from the situation. But any chance of improving the odds had to be considered seriously. DAOC was well armed, whereas Ul-oemato was relying on technology centuries out of date. The Mbatan rifles, nearly five thousand in all, were high-frequency microwave weapons—designed to disable electronic equipment rather than to kill. They would be effective against the battle armor of the attacking troops. They were cheap, efficient, and honorable, and the gunrunner agreed to sell the weapons on credit.”
“Credit?” said Roche. “What sort of illegal—?”
Neva raised a hand to silence her. “He agreed to supply the weapons in exchange for a substantial down payment in underground currency. The deal was signed. With the weapons, the troops of Ul-oemato went into battle.
“And they did well, taking first one and then another DAOC squadron by surprise and forcing them back. As the squadrons retreated, Ul-oemato’s territory expanded to something like its original size. Anything with powered systems could not enter this area, or the peace guns would disable them, and the Ul-oemato fighters were so well trained at more primitive methods of combat—having practiced them for generations—that DAOC was reluctant to send troops in unarmored. Orbital bombardment was ruled out, because that method of fighting would be frowned upon by the interstellar community. For the first time in several months, it seemed that DAOC would have to capitulate and allow the original owners of the planet their small territory.”
Having finished ministering to Roche’s shoulder—as well as changing her makeshift bandages—Neva strapped the injured arm into a more comfortable position, leaving the valise free. She sat back upon the gritty floor, facing Roche.
“Then, for no obvious reason, Ul-oemato’s troops began to weaken. A tiredness afflicted them: a terrible malaise that sapped both strength and will. It caused bleeding, skin damage, and occasional loss of hair; in the long term, it led to death. No physical cause could be found. The popular theory was that a biological agent had been unleashed by DAOC to quash the town’s resistance.
“The strange thing about it, though, was that the disease only affected those who fought in battle, never noncombatants. And as the battle continued, the weakened fighters were replaced by others, who in turn fell to the mysterious illness. Lacking an advanced medical center the colonists had no means of determining the illness’s cause until it was far too late. And even then, it was only by chance. By that time, nearly three quarters of the town had fallen prey to the disease.”
“The rifles,” said Cane softly.
Neva nodded. “One of the town’s elders, a woman named Madra Hazeal, returned from the front with one of the Mbatan peace guns. Its batteries were dead, and she intended to recharge them the following day. Legend has it that, feeling tired and sick with the disease, she retired to bed and absently left the weapon near a tub of water. Somehow the weapon slipped and fell into the water and remained immersed for a number of hours. When she retrieved it the following morning, she discovered something very peculiar: despite the chill of the desert night, the water in the tub was distinctly warm.”
“Beta decay,” said Roche, echoing the voice of the Box in her skull.
Neva nodded again. “The rifles were radioactive—so contaminated that only a few doses resulted in debilitating sickness. The gunrunner had deliberately sold them, knowing the harm they would do. This left the people of Ul-oemato in a bind: continuing the defense of the town with the weapons meant slow death by radiation sickness, while surrender meant that they would be invaded.” She lowered her eyes to the floor. “So the town fell to DAOC without a fight, killed by the rifles that had almost liberated it.”
Roche waited for her to continue, but Emmerik picked up the tale.
“Shortly after taking the town,” he said, “the DAOC troops learned what had happened. Naturally, they were appalled. Along with orbital bombardment, the use of radiation weapons was forbidden. Breaking the Warfare Protocol carried a heavy penalty. If conciliatory measures were not taken immediately to demonstrate their innocence, word would spread that the DAOC troops had planted the weapons themselves.”
“So,” Cane guessed, “as a gesture of goodwill, DAOC allowed the few remaining survivors to keep the town?”
Neva glanced back to him in the shadows. “Yes,” she said. “Although they took the mountains around it, the security forces vowed to leave the town and its inhabitants alone.” Again she faced Roche. “In the weeks remaining to them, the dying townsfolk buried the dead in a ring around the town, using the poisoned rifles as gravestones.”
Roche remembered the endless field of rifles pointing at the sky, and shivered. “And the gunrunner?” she asked.
Emmerik snorted. “You’ve seen what happened to him,” he said.
Roche nodded slowly. “The Eckandi.”
“Lazaro Houghton,” said Neva, her voice cold, “was eventually captured by the Dominion with the help of the COE—in a further gesture of goodwill. After his trial, he was sent to Sciacca’s World as a convict. He only lasted a year before the inhabitants hunted him down and meted out their own justice.”
“Thus ‘Houghton’s Cross,’“ muttered Cane.
“That’s right.” Emmerik stared at him in the half-light, the glow from the heater catching his intense expression. “Only a handful of children survived the radiation sickness, but DAOC’s promise still holds. They won’t attack us here. The Cross, the old city, has become a symbol of everything we strive for: justice for past wrongs, freedom to live as we wish—”
“And it’s safe,” said Cane, cutting through the Mbatan’s rhetoric with hard-edged pragmatism.
“That too.” Emmerik glanced at Neva, and Roche noted the look that passed between them. “We do not seek a bloodbath, and we are not interested in leaving the planet. Our cause does not belong with the convicts, or the wardens. We were born here, all of us. This is where we want to live, in peace, for the rest of our lives. In order to do so, we will attempt diplomacy, but not open rebellion.”
“Except as a last resort,” added Neva. “Our reluctance to trust off-worlders is ingrained, you see. Sciacca’s World has been betrayed at various times by the Ataman Theocracy, the Dato Bloc, the Commonwealth of Empires, and even by the Dominion, who abandoned it to its fate eight hundred years ago. Any treaty would be regarded as suspect until proved by time.”
“Patience is what we should be embracing, Neva,” said the Mbatan wearily, as though they had had this disagreement many times. “There has been enough deat
h here.”
“But not enough, it seems, to convince the wardens to agree to our terms.” Neva returned her attention to Roche. “Haid seeks a hearing with the High Equity Court of the COE to discuss our claim of sovereignty. To do this we need a hyperspace communicator. But our requests to use the MiCom facilities at the landing field have been denied, and Warden Delcasalle refuses to negotiate.”
“So you fight,” said Roche, finally feeling that she understood the nature of the rebels. The why of their actions, if not the how.
“No, we resist.” Emmerik leaned forward to accentuate the word. “We will never give up hope of finding a peaceful solution.”
“Even if it means using a stranded Armada officer as a bargaining point?”
“Perhaps,” said Neva. “It might come to that.”
“But it won’t.” Emmerik gave the woman a warning look. “We have other plans, plans that don’t involve betrayal.”
“But do they involve Veden?” said Roche. Neva glanced at Emmerik, and the Mbatan looked away. “It’s important that you understand us,” said the woman, “to enable you to decide where you stand. But until you make that decision, we will tell you nothing more.”
Roche took the hint, although she was more curious than ever about how Veden intended to help. She looked into the adjacent room to see what Veden was doing, but the Eckandi and Maii, along with the other rebels, had gone.
Until you make that decision... Neva’s sentiment bothered her. Although she could sympathize with the rebels’ plight, she wasn’t sure she should take a stand at all. It wasn’t her job to get involved—unless that was the only way she could get off-world.
Roche lay back on the bed that Neva had prepared for her and closed her eyes.
Roche tried to find a comfortable position.
Roche absorbed this disquieting thought in silence. Her fate rested in the Eckandi’s hands: if he chose not to help the rebels because of her involvement, then she could hardly blame them for turning her in. What did she have to offer them in return for their help? All she had done so far was bring the Dato with her into the system, and increased Enforcement’s presence in the mountain range—neither of which was likely to sit well with the rebels.
* * *
In defiance of sheer physical exhaustion, her mind wouldn’t let her rest. She lay for two hours on the camp mattress—staring at the orange, unflickering glow the heater cast across the ceiling, and thinking about everything Neva had said—before finally giving in to restlessness.
The atmosphere of the room was thick and heavy with sleep. The floor was carpeted with a dense, aging fabric that might once have been a vibrant red, although the years had faded it to a musty brown. Roche tried to imagine the room filled with people—dignitaries, diplomats, soldiers, partisans—but failed. The town’s oppressive stillness had penetrated every building, every room, robbing it of even ghosts of memory.
No one stirred as she climbed out of the bunk and donned her survival suit. Cane’s eyes were open, but he neither moved nor made a sound to disturb the others. Grasping the valise by its handle, she eased out of the room and into the hallway, where she waited a moment, listening. Still no sounds of alarm. When she felt certain she would not be followed, she swiftly and silently retraced the steps that had led to the room from the street below.
The wind had picked up in the hours she had been sheltered. It blustered around the base of the tower, snatching at her cropped scalp and stealing her warmth. Not yet certain where she was headed, she put down the valise for a moment to tug the hood of her suit over her head. As she did so, she happened to glance upward and glimpsed the Eckandi gunrunner, Lazaro Houghton, his twisted body silhouetted against the Soul.
She shivered, picked up the valise, and walked away, heading into the darkness of the city.
How long it took her to reach the town’s outer wall she had no way of knowing, but when she arrived, the eastern span of the Soul had grown perceptibly brighter. Dawn was approaching. Randomly choosing a walkway, she climbed the network of ladders and platforms up the inside of the wall until she stood on its lip, thereby gaining an unobstructed view of both the town behind her and the crater around it. The wind moaned incessantly, seeking to tug her from her ancient perch. She gripped a brass rail with her one good hand and watched patiently, her mind empty of all thought, as the orange sun rose over the horizon.
Below her, still in shadow but growing more distinct with every second, was the field of graves encircling the town—rifle after rifle in an endless procession. So many graves, she thought. So much—
“You are restless,” said a voice from behind her.
She turned, startled. It was Emmerik. She let herself relax. “Yes.”
“Everyone has a still point, a focus, a place where one can find peace.” Emmerik tipped his head to the sunrise, at the stain of blood spreading over the crater lip. “Mine is here. Houghton’s Cross at dawn.”
“You didn’t follow me here, then?”
“Oh, I followed you. I was watching the tower from across the street. When you left, I chose not to stop you, thinking you might be headed here. Hoping.” The burly Mbatan sighed deeply, the deep crinkles in the thick skin of his face smoothing slightly. “A moment of stillness is all I desire of every day. It’s a shame you can’t partake fully of it.”
Roche turned back to the sunrise. “I have such a place also, but it’s far away from here.”
“Further than I can imagine, most likely. I have never traveled through space, even to a place so near as the Soul. Leaving my planet seems impossible, sometimes, although I hope to one day.”
“How?”
“That will be up to Haid to tell you. It is not my place to discuss such matters.”
“But Veden is essential to your plan?” Roche asked, and noted the contempt in her tone.
Emmerik heard it also, and smiled. “Don’t let him worry you so.”
“Worry me...?” She stopped and sighed. “I guess he does a little. I can’t help thinking that he will betray us to Enforcement the first opportunity he gets.”
“He is simply afraid,” said Emmerik.
“Afraid of what?”
“Of what you represent.”
Roche studied the Mbatan’s bearded face closely. “What about you? Ar
e you afraid? Do I frighten you?”
Emmerik laughed, the thick sound rolling out across a sudden gust of wind. “No,” he said. “You don’t frighten me.” He paused. “Your companion, however—Cane—he chills me to the bone.”
“Why?”
Emmerik shook his head and folded his beefy arms against the wind. “When we halted in the mountain pass last night, while you and Maii and Veden waited in the rocks, Cane and I found a recon team up on the far side of the rift. They were waiting for us to come up. We’d doubled back another way and come on them from behind. They were scanning the path with infrared, waiting for us to appear.”
“An ambush.”
He nodded. “They were armed. We couldn’t wait for them to lose interest and move elsewhere. We needed to get past them, and they had to be dealt with swiftly, but there were six of them and only two of us. I could see no easy way to approach them, or to overpower them without raising an alarm. I turned to Cane to suggest we return to your hiding place, but he wasn’t there.” Emmerik winced as the memory returned to him. “They didn’t see him coming, or hear him. It was... unbelievable. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast. He killed them with his bare hands, soundlessly and efficiently. One of them, the last, had time to gasp for mercy, but Cane simply reached out and snapped his neck.” Emmerik gestured with his right hand, imitating Cane’s killing blow.
His eyes stayed on Roche. “What is he, Commander?”
“I don’t know,” she said, and recognized the doubt in his expression. “It’s the truth. I wish I did know something more about him, but—” She looked out across the expanse of impromptu headstones. “You can always ask Maii if you don’t believe me.”
“I have. She says only that he is good at what he does, as are all of you, in your own ways.”
“And that’s all we can ever hope to be,” she replied. “To fight ourselves is pointless. We must use what we have to the best of our ability and do as we see fit.”
The Prodigal Sun Page 15