The Queen of Sidonia

by Richard Fox

  Cosima stepped to the side, and the image of the battle changed with her new viewpoint. The three-dimensional view morphed with each turn of her head, as if she was looking at a holo capture of the battle and not a two-dimensional plane.

  “My lady,” said a heavyset man with a gray beard spilling onto his chest. A wire lattice covered his right hand; his left hovered over a color palette floating next to him. A slate rested on a stool between him and Cosima.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she asked.

  “It’s art, my lady. You have to decide what it means,” the artist replied.

  “Don’t get smart with me,” Cosima said. “What makes you so special that you can work in private, and where is your Stahlium? I get lectured to about how important that is, yet you seem to be above that requirement, why?”

  “Your father commissioned this work for King Rasczak. This will hang in the palace—no need to squander Stahlium when the authenticity is a matter between friends,” the artist said.

  “Wait, you I recognize. You’re a wanted criminal from Stygia; I’ve seen you on their video imports,” Cosima said, backing away from him. She thumped into Remi and pointed at the artist. “Go on, arrest him. Aren’t you afraid he’ll hurt me?”

  “Wilson is guilty of being a cantankerous old…man, but he is no criminal,” Blake said.

  Wilson grunted and touched the color palette. His right hand swayed inside the lattice, and a small portion of the painting morphed with his motions.

  “Stygia has strict emigration laws, which Wilson violated when he was smuggled off world and found his way here. But Sidonia doesn’t have an extradition treaty with Stygia, so we’re under no obligation to return him,” Remi said.

  “Why did you sneak off your planet? Such a strange thing to criminalize,” Cosima said.

  “I couldn’t make any damn money,” Wilson said. “My paintings would be copied and sold before I could even get them to a gallery. I was in debt to the planet’s corporate boss. Couldn’t pay him in credits, and I had the choice of doing prints of his ugly kids or getting smuggled off world to come work here.”

  Wilson pressed a finger against the tapestry and slowly ran his finger down the side of a soldier lying in the dirt. A path of blood followed his touch.

  “This one’s free,” he said.

  “You must have owed a lot of money for them to make you a wanted man across settled space,” Cosima said, unconvinced with Wilson’s explanation.

  “When you owe money to Aquitaine, you owe your life. They didn’t get so big being nice to people,” Wilson said.

  Remi stepped away from Cosima and took in the whole tapestry. His eyes darted across it, soaking up details.

  “Ah, I’m glad you’re here,” Wilson said to the bodyguard. “Would you sit for me?”

  Remi didn’t answer. He raised a hand and pointed to a soldier sprawled against a patch of rock, head lying against his shoulder at a painful angle.

  “That is—was—Jeremiah, not Sullivan,” Remi said. He touched his breast where the dead soldier’s mislabeled name tag was.

  “I know, the family came and asked me for the change,” Wilson said. He picked up the slate from the stool. “Would you?”

  “Here I thought you were supposed to be protecting me, not being immortalized,” Cosima said with a snort.

  “I’m sure we’ll be safe for the next few seconds,” Lana said, using a motherly don’t-push-it tone.

  Cosima waved a dismissive hand in the air and stood against the back wall. She shifted her head from side to side, fascinated with how the image changed ever so slightly with her movements.

  Remi sat on the stool and held stone still. Wilson waved his framed hand around Remi’s face slowly, a composite picture of the bodyguard’s hairless head appeared on the color palette.

  “You’re young, no need to take a few years off for this piece,” Wilson murmured.

  Cosima huffed with annoyance and stepped over to a large gray spot on the image.

  “Who’s supposed to go here?” she asked.

  “Prince Quinn, rest his soul. He led the assault on the Jutland corsairs’ fortress. The vid capture I’m working from doesn’t have him at…the best angles,” Wilson said.

  Cosima leaned closer, the holographic lattice composing the image appeared to her, interlocking white grid lines within a haze of color. She walked along the mural and did a double take at a group of three soldiers. One, a plain gray placeholder for a head, supported a badly wounded soldier. The wounded soldier’s face was hidden beneath a helmet, blood pouring from a rent in the side of his armor. In front of the two was someone she recognized, his force shield active and held between them and their foes in the fortress.

  “Is that Prince Francis?” she asked.

  Remi chuckled but quickly stifled the laugh.

  “No, my lady. That’s his brother, Prince Vincent. They used to look a lot alike. Less so, now,” Remi said.

  “Hmm, interesting,” Cosima said. The longer she looked at the mural, the more it appealed to her. The assault on Jutland had been a major event for Sidonia—its first military expedition beyond the solar system. The corsairs—pirates really—had seized a merchant ship from House Wilhelminer and tried to ransom back the crew and cargo to Sidonia. King Rasczak responded by attacking the pirates’ stronghold. Casualties had been high, but much of the stolen cargo was recovered. There hadn’t been another pirate attack on a Sidonian ship since. For all the news of the event, Cosima had never seen a vid recording of the battle.

  “What will you call this?” she asked. She wandered past Wilson and passed her hand over the data slate tucked into his belt. The data storage device built into a bracelet soaked up all the data from the slate. She glanced at the holo panel on her forearm and saw the new volume of data stream onto her bracelet.

  “Should be called Thirty Seconds before Everything Goes Wrong,” Remi said.

  “I’ll go with Charge of the First Expedition, perhaps,” Wilson said. The artist tapped at his palette and hovered his palm over the blank face of the soldier guarded by Prince Vincent. Remi’s face morphed onto the mural, his expression blank and even.

  Remi turned away from the mural and Cosima, wiping his sleeve across his eyes.

  Blake, waiting in the wings, glanced at Remi’s face, then walked toward Cosima. He clapped his hands twice.

  “My lady,” the curator said, “why don’t we move on to the gardens? I’ll have tea and sandwiches waiting for us.”

  Blake entwined his elbow with hers and led her away. Remi followed, his eyes turned from the battle scene.

  CHAPTER 5

  Remi stepped into the sparring ring, sunk deep into the floor and surrounded by empty bleachers. He rolled his shoulders and slid his guard helmet over his head, one with a loose grill to protect the bottom half of his face.

  He touched his gauntlet, and his armor tightened against his body.

  The memory of an alien desert, the copper smell of spilled blood and burning air came to him as the familiar press of armor brought him back to that terrible day on Jutland. He could rationalize the emotions, his physiological response to the memories. Sidonia had gone to great lengths to care for the soldiers injured in body and mind during the expedition, and Remi knew the beast of post traumatic stress disorder would scratch at his mind for years to come.

  Too many men and women turned to substance abuse or pharmacology for solace. Remi turned his anger outward, to something he could fight with blade and fist.

  “Training scenario: riot,” he said. The lights surrounding the sparring ring went amber. Three panels slid aside from the floor, and elevators lifted three androids onto the ring to face Remi. The androids had no faces, only blank shovels with black sensor dots for eyes. Remi knew the androids’ well-built physiques under plain overalls were a ruse; each opponent relied on hydraulic actuators in their joints for strength, not muscles. The rubbery layer over their bodies was a self-healing polymer but approximated
the feel and function of human flesh. These soft-bots were the standard sparring partners for Guardsmen who preferred living assailants.

  Two soft-bots held baseball bats; the third had a crowbar.

  “Set aggression level,” a feminine voice said.

  “Aggression level: maximum. Authorization: Remi, Paul H.” The computer acknowledged with a pleasant chime.

  The soft-bots charged. A bat whiffed past his face. Remi activated his gauntlet shield and brought it up in time to absorb the second soft-bot’s strike that would have shattered bone if it had impacted against his ribs.

  Remi slammed his shield against the first soft-bot and sent it sprawling to the ground. He kept the standing bat wielder between him and the soft-bot with the crowbar. An overhead smash from the bat sizzled against the shield.

  Remi’s shield took another blow, driving him down to a knee. He drew his sword and stabbed it into the soft-bot’s chest. The blade sank into “flesh,” catching against metal within the android.

  The bot fell to its knees, hands grasping at the blade stuck in its chest, just like a human opponent would have.

  Remi tugged at the blade, which refused to budge from its artificial scabbard. He smashed a boot into the soft-bot, freeing his blade with an audible pop. The dead opponent collided with the android carrying the crowbar, sending both to the floor.

  He caught a blur of movement from the corner of his eye and brought his shield up just in time to deflect a strike from a bat. The bat bounced off the top of his shield and ricocheted against his helmet.

  Unimpeded, the blow would have knocked him unconscious. It still hit him hard enough to turn his head and send his vision swaying. Remi gambled the android would remain rooted to the ground for the return swing. He shifted his weight and bull-charged where the android had been standing. His shield impacted with the android’s solar plexus and knocked it to the ground.

  Remi kept his momentum going—which saved him from the claw end of the crowbar that missed the back of his neck by inches and stepped over the fallen android. He raised his knee to his chest and slammed his heel into the android’s head.

  Remi spun around and deflected a stab from the final opponent. He reversed the grip on his sword and swung the tip of the weapon in an arc across the soft-bot’s throat. The blade slid through its neck, exposing the metal spine within. The android clutched at its throat and fell to the ground, the crowbar clattering as it entangled with its knees and feet.

  Remi glanced up at the timer against the wall, which was still ticking away. It should have stopped with the last android being incapacitated.

  Arms wrapped around Remi from behind and crushed him in a bear hug. The new assailant lifted him off the ground, its vise grip so tight Remi couldn’t breathe, much less call out an end to the exercise.

  Remi lowered his chin against his chest and thrust his head back. His helmet smacked against the soft-bot’s face. Even wearing his padded helmet, the blow hurt Remi. The grip lessened and Remi found footing again. He stuck his foot behind the soft-bot’s ankle and stepped back.

  The android fell, tripped up by Remi’s maneuver, but it held on to Remi all the way down.

  Remi fell against the bot and managed to pull his sword arm free, running the blade against the android’s forearm. The blade split the android’s overalls and pseudo flesh like a steak knife against a rib-eye. The grip finally broke as the android registered severed tendons and arteries in its arm.

  Remi rolled to a knee and slammed the edge of his shield into the android’s head. Its head bounced against floor. Remi hit it again. And again. He lifted his shield arm high and laid in a final blow with a roar.

  The android’s head split in two. The upper half of its skull bounced away and sizzled as wires burned out.

  Remi sprang to his feet and whirled around. Nothing else threatened him. The timer on the wall had stopped. He’d completed the exercise in less than a minute.

  He fought to control his breathing, bring down the adrenaline surge that coursed through his veins. In the field, his mission was always to protect his charge, not go on a rampage.

  A slow clap came from the darkness.

  “Bravo, Mr. Remi. Bravo.” The man’s voice was imperfect, a slight metallic tinge to the words.

  Remi wiped sweat from his brow and brought his blade up in salute.

  “Prince Vincent,” Remi said. “Did you change the riot scenario?”

  Prince Vincent stepped from the shadows, dressed in the same training armor as Remi. He was tall with a willowy build. Remi’s gaze lingered on the black patch where the prince’s right eye should have been and the black glove over his right hand. Vincent’s battle scars always brought a tinge of guilt into Remi’s heart.

  “Caught you by surprise?” Vincent tried to laugh, but his prosthetic larynx garbled the sound, making it sound evil and forced. The prince rubbed his ungloved hand against his throat and shifted his jaw.

  “Can’t expect just three rioters; there’s always someone else ready to jump in,” Vincent said. He nudged a foot against a fallen android. “Reset training area,” he said loudly enough for the computer to hear.

  The four soft-bots got back to their feet as if they’d been playing possum, picked up their weapons, and stepped onto the elevator platforms. They sank back into the floor, split flesh reknitting without a sound or complaint.

  “You seem well since your injuries from saving my future sister-in-law. You are well?” Vincent asked.

  “A bit stiff, nothing to keep me from my duties,” Remi said. He deactivated his shield and sheathed his sword.

  “Better than being a bit rusty,” Vincent said. “Let’s have a go. Beating on droids is never as challenging as a real opponent. Computer, training blades.” A wooden box rose from the floor. Circuits inlaid onto the blade would count hits and send injury stimuli through the training armor. The blades wouldn’t pierce flesh, but any strikes that landed would trigger a mild shock to the recipient.

  “Sire, are you sure? Your cybernetics…” Remi said. He unbuckled his sword belt and set it outside the ring.

  “Did I ask to be coddled?” Vincent tossed a training blade to Remi, who caught it by the hilt with ease. “Defend yourself!”

  Vincent tapped a jewel hanging from his neck, and a shield shimmered against his body. Full-body shields were common among the royal family, but Vincent’s was designed for sustained combat.

  The prince struck at Remi with a fencer’s lunge. Remi barely managed a parry, and the prince’s blade tugged at his gauntlet as it slid past him. Remi brought his sword down in a quick strike against Vincent’s exposed forearm. His blade bounced off the body shield. A surge of electricity spiked up the blade and into Remi’s arm.

  Remi gritted his teeth as his arm numbed from the shock. He activated his shield and used it to turn a strike from the prince that would have pierced his throat.

  Remi swung the flat of his blade toward the prince’s head. If the prince still had his right eye, he might have seen the strike coming. The blade careened off his forehead, the energy shield rippling like a still pond disturbed by a stone, and smacked the prince’s head to the side.

  Vincent responded with an angry growl and punched at Remi with his gloved hand.

  Remi brought his shield up to take the blow and wasn’t ready when the gloved hand fought through the shield and clasped on to his gauntlet.

  Vincent jerked Remi off his feet and threw him to the ground. Remi rolled with the impact and once more rose to his feet. He swung his blade around in a wild blow, forcing the charging Vincent to block the strike with his own weapon.

  Remi leaned away from another grab by Vincent and caught a glimpse of his sword resting against the raised edge of the ring. He backpedaled from another slash by the prince and kept going until his heel hit the edge.

  He brought his foot down on the handle of his weapon lying on the floor and used the ring’s edge as a fulcrum to catapult the blade, sheath, belt, and all at
Vincent.

  Vincent brought his arms up to block the ungainly attack. The sword belt fell over his arm and sent his shield into a riot of ripples and sparks as he wrestled with it.

  Remi grabbed the hilt of his sheathed sword and drew it. He jammed the hilt of the true blade against Vincent’s chest. A flash of energy arced into Remi’s hand, and he dropped the weapon.

  With his other arm, he jammed the tip of his training blade into Vincent’s shield. It passed through the weakened shield, and the blade collapsed in on itself.

  “Mortal strike. Match ended,” the computer intoned.

  Vincent looked at Remi’s collapsed blade and flung the sword belt away from him. His chest heaving, he stumbled toward Remi.

  Remi caught Vincent under his arms and guided him to the bleachers.

  “Even when I cheat I can’t beat you,” Vincent said between heaves.

  “Do you need a medic?”

  Vincent waved his good hand and shook his head quickly.

  “New lung. Not used to this,” Vincent said. The prince’s gloved hand twitched and spasmed like a fish caught on a line. The prince tore the black glove away, revealing a bare metal prosthetic, the fingers jittering of their own accord.

  “Damn thing, never works right to begin with,” Vincent said. “I had an energy modulator installed so I could break through shields. It’ll work, but then it’ll send my parts,” he spat out the last word, “into a frenzy. Good thing there’s some flesh between my hand and the rest of the metal, eh?”

  Remi sat beside the prince, his hand on the prince’s quivering forearm. He felt the metal beneath the mail armor, cold and alien.

  “I’m sorry,” Remi said. “This is my fault.”

  “It’s not your fault. I’ve told you that a hundred times already. I forgot to duck, you’re the one who got me out of there.” Vincent turned his good eye to Remi. “I made it home thanks to you. Not everyone was so lucky.”