Harmony

by C. F. Bentley

  He dared not think of the disruption should a child born to a Worker woman bear the blue diamond mark of his Noble father. Or if a Noble family was disgraced when one of their daughters bore a child with the green triangle of the Professional caste. He touched his own purple circle on his left cheek as verification that his breeding held true. His sensitive fingers just barely registered the slightly smoother texture of his Temple caste mark above his midnight stubble.

  The castes had to maintain the divinely ordained structure of civilization. All else was chaos.

  “My Laud.” Guilliam touched his sleeve. “The graphs indicate we are very near the epicenter of the quake. We can’t stay here. The aftershocks could kill you.”

  “I can see that.” Gregor grabbed the sensor from his assistant and stared at the unusual graph in amazement. No wonder Lord Chauncey da Chauncey, who owned this factory, had called him out.

  “Only seven dead, you say? Had the Workers all left for the evening?” Something truly strange occurred at this factory if only seven died with this amount of destruction at the epicenter of the quake. And why was the tower still upright and intact?

  “No, My Laud. Most of the day shift were still in the building. Swing shift was arriving. The place was more crowded than usual. The seven who died were trampled by their coworkers trying to get down the too narrow staircases.”

  Gregor gulped. He remembered the horrible trapped feeling within the spacious Crystal Temple with only two hundred people to evacuate. The thought of thousands of Workers, crammed together on those fragile staircases made his lungs freeze.

  Guilliam slapped him on the back. “Breathe, sir.”

  Gregor drew in a large gulp of dust-tainted air and coughed it back out again.

  “Show me,” he ordered the Worker. “Show me the miracle that might end this nightmare.”

  The Worker gestured toward the nearest staircase. It hung crookedly, half its bolts shaken loose.

  “Is that safe?”

  “As safe as any.” The Worker shrugged and led the way up.

  The railing swayed a little under the man’s heavily muscled weight, but held. Perhaps the odd member of his family tree was Military rather than Noble. The Military caste with its red square mark tended toward broad shoulders and put on muscle more readily than the effete nobility. Worker and Military was an almost acceptable cross. Not that any cross was acceptable.

  Gregor waited for him to get halfway to the first landing before following. Distribute the weight. Slowly, they picked their way up seven stories. Three times the Worker had to reach back to help Gregor and Guilliam over broken steps. Twice they rode out aftershocks frozen in place.

  At last, panting and sweating, they reached the seventh floor. The worker ignited a battery torch and played it around the chaotic space. Workbenches lay on their sides; expensive equipment crushed beneath them. Clear Badger Metal support beams tilted drunkenly.

  Dark clouds of dust thickened the gloom.

  “Best use a filter, My Laud.” The Worker fished two cloth masks out of his pocket and handed them to Gregor and Guilliam. Primitive barriers compared to what the Spacers could produce, but all that the Workers had available.

  They covered their mouths and noses. Then Gregor breathed a little easier. He hadn’t realized that he had kept his inhales short and shallow.

  “What about you?” he asked the Worker.

  The man donned his own soiled mask and breathed as deeply as he could. Dust already clogged the layers of woven cloth. He’d been on site a long time. Then he led them deeper through the maze of destruction. His light picked out hints of the delicate computers assembled here. Fortunes in Spacer parts, industrial systems, hospital diagnostics. All ruined.

  Another major setback in the planetary economy. As if they needed another on top of the quake damage, after the out-of-season hurricane last month, and the erupting volcano on the Southern Continent the month before.

  Gregor envisioned disaster after disaster until the entire planet, the entire empire collapsed beneath Harmony’s fury. They needed a proper High Priestess, one who truly had the gift of Harmony, prophetic visions, then perhaps the planet would calm enough for them to recover.

  Not likely to happen. Prophecy was a thing of the past, dubious at best, confusing as Discord at worst.

  “Sir?” Guilliam gulped. He shoved an alien-looking gadget in Gregor’s face. The glowing screen displayed a new graph.

  Tight lines shooting to the extreme right and left of center showed a classic quake of high magnitude. Then the lines spread out. Wider on either side of center, but spaced broader, less intense. Abruptly, they shortened in frequency but did not return to the first magnitude.

  “What?”

  “The manual says that’s the epicenter, sir. Somehow, the energy spread out and went deeper. It started out shallow and very destructive, then dissipated.” Guilliam’s voice shook, muffled by the mask. “I’m out of my depth here, My Laud. You should have brought a scientist. May I fetch one for you?”

  “Later. I need you here and now to witness for me.”

  “Someone spread the energy, My Laud.” The Worker shone his light on the figure of a slim young woman braced against the tower.

  Her head and shoulders drooped in fatigue. She whispered a breathy and poignant tune.

  A young man of similar build and dark hair paced around her anxiously.

  “Sissy, it’s okay little’n. You can let go now.” The Worker who had led them here put his light on the floor to free his hands. Then he caught her shoulders. “I’ve got you now, Sissy. You can let go.”

  “She can’t,” the other young man whispered. “I think her hands have bonded with the pillars. I’ve tried over and over to free her, but she doesn’t even know I’m here. And I’m her brother!”

  Gregor stepped closer in alarm. The girl seemed so weak, she must be frightfully injured.

  She turned and stared at him. Her straight, jaw-length, dark hair swung away from her pale, olive-toned face and slight almond shape of her eyes, revealing a circle of seven caste marks neatly arranged on her right cheek. The Temple purple circle at the top was flanked by the Noble blue diamond and the Professional green triangle. The black bar of the Poor and the Worker brown X sat at the bottom flanked by the Military red square and the Spacer yellow star.

  Gregor gasped in fright and wonder. No one—absolutely no one— ever bore more than one caste mark. The marks always appeared on the left cheek. They were genetic, fixed in the DNA, symbols of Harmony’s order and organization of life. Everyone had their place, their niche to fill to make a complete and harmonious whole.

  Except that Harmony was no longer functioning in an orderly and organized manner.

  A quick check showed that the young woman’s brother bore only the normal brown X of a Worker on the proper cheek.

  In the diffuse light the young woman’s eyes shone an unnatural silver, like starshine on a moonless night.

  “You cannot find what you seek until you stop looking and accept,” she whispered.

  She swallowed as if the dust-permeated air clogged her throat. Then she turned her gaze upon her brother.

  “Stevie, if you follow your ambitions, you will marry late and not for love. You will never find Harmony. Marry your heart’s desire now and earn a better ambition,” she said aloud with an awesome echoey quality that filled the vast factory chamber with sound that sent fowlbumps up and down Gregor’s spine.

  She spoke with the authority of Harmony herself.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "EAT, DRINK, AND BE MERRY, for tomorrow I die!” Major Jake Hannigan lifted his shot of single malt to salute the noisy crowd in Willie’s Bar and Grill.

  “Ain’t that the friggin’ truth,” the drunk next to Jake slurred.

  None of the patrons were pilots. Jake had scouted and chosen a distinctly civilian bar. Still, on a closed space station, everyone knew everyone else’s business. These guys just weren’t as keen on detail as
his comrades.

  He sniffed the exotic fragrance of the drink, then savored varied flavors in a sip. He downed the shot, relishing the explosive burn all the way to his stomach that reminded him he still lived. Then he chased the fine liquor with a quaff of dark beer. Liquid bread. The best stout in three parsecs. It slid down his throat with soothing coolness after the fire wrapped in velvet of the scotch.

  “Uh, Jake, don’t you think you’d better slow down? You face a court-martial in the morning. You’ll need a clear head.” Willie, the owner and bartender, stayed Jake’s hand from taking a second long draught of beer.

  “Yeah, his ass is in deep doo doo with the admiral,” the man on the other side of Jake began to giggle at his supposed pun.

  “Why bother? They’re going to fry me, no matter what. Drinks for everyone in the house!” Jake called to the crowd at large.

  A cheer with applause surged around him.

  “Jake, this is going to cost you a lot of money,” Willie warned. He kept his hand on the green flag that signaled a free round to all patrons.

  “Can’t take it with you.” Jake slurred his words and crossed his eyes. “I really screwed up big time, Willie. Ain’t no tomorrow for me.” No one left to claim his “estate.” Sixty-five credits on his thumbprint and another two or three thousand stashed in an Earth bank. His entire family wiped out in one Maril raid on SB8. Close friends and lovers evaporated in space battles. Nothing. No one.

  “You said it, buddy,” the first drunk agreed, holding up his glass for a refill. “Nobody on this friggin’ base can screw up like you can.”

  Because everyone else on this friggin’ base had someone to care about. Jake had nothing left to lose.

  The friendly pub on the bright civilian side of the space station looked funny, blurry. Two of everything. Jake swayed and wished he hadn’t. His head had trouble keeping up with the movement. The room spun.

  God, he was going to hurt in the morning. He didn’t care anymore.

  “You’re pretty.” He smiled in adoration at a passing barmaid.

  “You’re pretty, too, Jake.” She pointedly removed his hand from her breast and moved on.

  Willie held up the green flag. The room erupted in noise.

  Jake’s head pounded. Breath whooshed out of him as three guys in suits pushed him aside to get their free drink.

  “Rude bastards,” Jake muttered. “Pretty bastards.” He careened into a tall stool in his effort to find a stable horizon. “Pretty bar stool.” He patted it affectionately. With one hand on the stool and the other on the table, he turned to face Willie with a stupid grin on his face.

  Willie also held up a red flag.

  Uh-oh. That was a call for security. Jake had known this afternoon when he stormed out of Admiral Telvino’s office he’d face the music in the morning. One last night of freedom. One last roaring drunk.

  No sense in throwing him in the brig. Only so many places to hide on a space station.

  He hadn’t the will to elude the goons any longer. Another day he might have drawn out the game of cat and mouse for a week or more. Maybe steal a vessel and run away to the fringe. Or the supposed Lost Colony that rumor claimed was making noises about being found again.

  There was always a colony getting lost from somewhere. Ghost ships and lost colonies, the stuff of space legends. The stories were almost as fantastic as rumors about Harmony and the loathsome fanatics that ran the place.

  “You’re pretty.” He lurched into a barmaid. The same one as before?

  “Hey, Willie, where’s the jakes?” he called over the din. Then he giggled at his pun. This wasn’t the first time he’d been likened to a public men’s room. Usually of the unsavory type.

  “We’ll take you there, sir,” an MP said in a deep somber tone. Both the man and his partner positively bristled with weapons. Jake counted a taser, a pellet pistol, a billy club, and something sharp stuck up their sleeves. His eyes crossed at that point, and he swayed again before he completed the inventory. “Pretty weapons.”

  He practically fell into the arms of the MPs.

  “Gonna hurl,” Jake mumbled, clenching his jaw. He puffed his cheeks out and let his eyes flit frantically about the crowded bar.

  The MPs each grabbed an elbow and frog-marched him out of the bar, down the evening-dimmed promenade, left into an even darker tunnel and then through the swinging door of the jakes.

  Jake landed facedown. He let the cool tile floor absorb some of his discomfort. A tiny morsel of relief washed through him. Maybe he wouldn’t throw up after all.

  How much had he drunk? More than he intended.

  “Crap.” He’d relaxed too soon. He almost made it to the urinal before his stomach turned itself inside out.

  Some time later the door swished open. “Time to go, Jake,” Pamela Marella called to him.

  “You are a sight for sore eyes, Pammy. Pretty Pammy.” Jake didn’t like the way he slurred his words.

  “You didn’t have to really drink that much, Jake. You were supposed to fake it,” Pamela admonished. She stood with her hands on her ample hips.

  “Never seen you in civvies before,” Jake said, admiring her long jean-clad legs, and how her boobs strained against her knit shirt. She might be pushing fifty, and thirty pounds overweight, but she was still one damned attractive woman. “Pretty tits, Pammy.” He reached up to grab them and missed.

  “On this base, I’m a civilian. I always wear civilian clothes.” She looked puzzled. “And keep your paws off my tits.” She slapped his hand away.

  “Ah, but you always dress as if your suits are uniforms. You stand so straight you’d put a drill sergeant to shame, pretty Pammy. But you’re prettier than any drill sergeant I’ve met. Smarter, too. Pretty tits.”

  “I have to be prettier and smarter to survive in this game.” She bent over and grabbed his ankles. “We can do this hard, or we can do this easy, Jake. Your choice.” She began dragging him out of the restroom.

  “Can’t make it easy. I’m gonna die tomorrow.”

  “Actually Major Jake Hannigan just gave up the ghost. He choked on his own vomit. When you wake up in the morning, you will be Jeremiah Devlin.”

  “But I’ll be Lieutenant Colonel Jeremiah Devlin. I get a promotion for dying. Should a’ thought of that years ago. Will you marry me, Pammy. You’re pretty.”

  Jake had to think hard about his next words as his head bumped over the sill to the dark tunnel outside the jakes. “Isn’t Lieutenant Colonel Jeremiah Devlin the spy I’m supposed to have killed? That Maril fighter was just a mock-up and a drone thrown together by your boys?”

  “That’s right. Two of my men had fun playing games with it while you chased it. And now you are going to become the man you killed. A man who never existed until this moment.” Pamela looked right and left before dragging Jake around the doorway to the left.

  “Ouch.” He rubbed his shoulder where he bumped against the doorjamb. It didn’t hurt as badly as his head did, though.

  “If you could walk, I wouldn’t have to drag you to my office.” Pamela dropped his feet abruptly. They bounced hard against the floor. Jake’s spine jolted and his head threatened to explode. Again.

  Jake stifled a groan and spewed a load of puke all over Pammy’s pretty tits.

  “Feel better, Jake?” Pam grunted in disgust and dashed back into the jakes.

  Jake knew time passed because he drifted in and out of consciousness several times before Pammy came back, somewhat cleaner and a whole lot wetter. Her nipples puckered beneath her knit shirt.

  Jake had sobered enough to realize this wasn’t the time to let the alcohol in his system do the talking. “I think I can walk now, if you’ll help me up.” A good excuse to wrap his arms around the delectable woman. Maybe he’d get to feel those pretty tits.

  Pamela knelt and got her shoulder under his, then hoisted him to his feet.

  “Strong as well as beautiful.”

  “I have to be. Only way I can keep a bunch
of randy spies in order.” Balance settled, she walked Jake through a back corridor, well away from Willie’s and the two MPs standing guard at the entrance to the promenade.

  “And what am I going to have to spy out for you as my first assignment, pretty Pammy? Gonna let me be the one to find the Lost Colony?”

  Pamela rolled her hazel eyes and sighed. She blew a stray wisp of straight brown hair out of her eyes before speaking. “I’ve already found Harmony’s Lost Colony. Came up empty. No formula for Badger Metal there. But we’ve found someone who swears he can make an insulation out of liquid metal ceramic alloy that can withstand hyperspace better than Badger Metal. If it works, you are to get the process from him any way you can, legal or not. Moral or not. We need that process.”

  “And if it doesn’t work?” Jake’s knees buckled and he nearly dragged Pam down with him. As he groped his way back to standing, he used her conveniently lumpy chest as handholds.

  She slapped his hands hard and shoved them into his pockets.

  “Then your next assignment will be to go to Harmony and steal their formula.”

  “Easier to invite them to join the CSS.” They both laughed at that preposterous idea.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  GUILLIAM DA BAILLIE PA CRYSTAL Temple shifted his weight anxiously as he faced John da John pa Harmony City Broadcasting, known as Little Johnny. A pest of a Media Professional if there ever was one.

  “What aren’t you telling the citizens of Harmony about the Worker taken away by ambulance to a Temple hospital,” Little Johnny demanded. His hover cam parked itself directly in front of Guilliam’s face.

  Guilliam had to school every muscle to show calm and confidence. “Temple caste is concerned for all citizens of Harmony. Worker hospitals are full to overflowing, their staffs overwhelmed with casualties of this horrible natural disaster. We merely wish to ease their burden where we can,” he said slowly, speaking each syllable clearly and distinctly. He couldn’t let on how deeply he wanted to run to the hospital. He had duties and responsibilities to many people there, including Laud Gregor and the injured Laudae Marilee.