Harmony

by C. F. Bentley

  “Turn around, Bertie.”

  “Sorry, My Laud. Laudae Harmony’s authority is higher than yours.” The driver closed the partition between them and kept driving.

  Gregor sat with his mouth agape. Never in all the sixteen years he had presided over the Crystal Temple had anyone, anyone, of any caste offered such insubordination.

  How should he react?

  Dammit, the man was right. Sissy did outrank him. As decreed in the original Covenant of Harmony.

  He seethed while he considered appropriate punishments.

  Within moments they drove down an increasingly narrow and dirty alley. Gregor kept his eyes moving constantly, starting at every movement, every misshapen shadow. Who knew what violent criminals and what dregs of society lurked here, where order had disappeared?

  “Laudae Estella, this venture is a very bad idea.”

  “Only if you make it so.”

  The car stopped and she hopped out before Gregor could react. He contemplated sitting here while the inmates killed her. But that would look bad.

  Discord! A hover cam sat just above the doorway, watching him. Who had told the media the HPS would be here today, at this time?

  He had to follow her. And she knew it.

  “All seven of you girls sit right here. Do not move. Lock all the doors and windows.” The automatic cooling system should take care of the midsummer sunshine. “You, Bertie, come with us. I order you to protect Laudae Estella with your life.”

  “Who is going to protect you, My Laud?”

  “I intend to run at the first sign of trouble.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE SMELL OF RANCID SWEAT, FEAR, urine, and other unmentionable things assailed Sissy the moment she crossed the threshold of the asylum. Worse than the school. Worse than the streets of the Poor district.

  Her hands shook, her knees trembled, and chills filled her with dread.

  This was her fate.

  And all of Harmony was probably watching.

  As she had arranged, a physician met her at the door. The same physician who had tended her when she fainted at the ordination. The same physician who had asked to serve where he was most needed rather than where he was most praised. His caste mark looked raw and angry where the purple circle had been removed.

  He guided her down a long, narrow, and dimly lit hallway to an office. The hover cam followed at a wary distance.

  Stark white walls enclosed her in an imitation of light and joy. By the time Sissy sank into a stiff wooden chair, she could barely breathe. Her heart pounded so loudly the physician’s words sounded as if he whispered them from outside the closed and barred window.

  Above her, she heard pitiful moans. Wails without hope. No exit. No escape from this place.

  Death would be kinder. Even the merciless execution dictated by the gods. Alone, chained to a block, waiting for the unpredictable robotic machine to sever your head on its own timing. Never knowing when. It could come in five seconds or an hour.

  Never knowing when. Only that it must. And no one would remember or mourn you.

  “Laudae, how may I serve you?” the physician asked. He sounded kind and caring.

  “Tell me what you are doing for these people,” she croaked out.

  Laud Gregor stomped into the office. He glared at the hover cam. “Remove yourself,” he sneered. He swatted at the device until it flew into the hallway. Then he slammed the door on it and took a second chair, as straight and uncomfortable as her own.

  “We try to keep them calm and comfortable and feed them when they will eat.”

  Sissy wrinkled her nose. So did Laud Gregor.

  “Are they allowed to bathe, have clean clothing?”

  “That is more difficult. I don’t have the staff to supervise and assist. Our funds are very limited.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” the physician echoed. “Because—because that is how it has always been. The castoffs and leftovers get the castoffs and leftovers.”

  “Is bathing so difficult a chore that they cannot manage it themselves?” Anger boiled inside Sissy. If she stayed angry, she wouldn’t fall into despair.

  “Laudae, this is not necessary, nor your concern. Let others . . .” Laud Gregor said.

  “It is most definitely my concern. The helpless and the hopeless have no one else to turn to but me. Surely, Physician, the inmates can bathe themselves and keep their quarters clean. Why are they not allowed to do this?”

  “You have to understand, Laudae, these are not normal people. Training them is useless. I doubt they’d know how to mop a floor or wash clothing. They can barely wipe themselves,” the physician said. He hadn’t offered her a name, as if he were too good to give it to a Lood such as she.

  Sissy stared at him aghast. And continued to stare long after he could reasonably expect a comment.

  He began to squirm.

  “Laudae, we must leave,” Gregor urged.

  Sissy continued to sit and stare at the physician.

  “I quote accepted wisdom rather than the truth,” the physician finally admitted. “This place is filthy because the rest of Harmony expects it to be filthy. They do not wish to admit that my patients are anything more than animals.” Perhaps he hadn’t offered her a name because he presumed she knew it. Everyone at Crystal Temple probably did. Except her. She hadn’t been there long enough to know him.

  “My dog takes better care of himself, keeps himself cleaner than you allow these patients to be cared for.”

  “Laudae, we must leave. Your acolytes await you in the car.” Gregor stood and placed his hand beneath her elbow.

  Sissy wanted to comply. She wanted to run away to safety and blind acceptance of the asylum and its filth. She wanted to run to the haven of her family and bury her tears in her mother’s apron.

  A particularly loud wail from above set her teeth to chattering. The patients couldn’t run away.

  “Who do I talk to to get more money into this place so they can at least get cleaning supplies and take care of the stench?” She turned her hardest glare upon Gregor.

  “You have but to say the word, and the money will be found. But we have to leave now.”

  “Laudae, money will do little good. Each person in a long chain of administration will take a percentage as their due. Little or none of it will actually reach the asylum.” The physician hung his head in shame.

  “That is not acceptable.”

  “It is reality.”

  “I will do something to help these people!” Sissy insisted.

  “They aren’t people,” Gregor retorted as he took a firmer grip on her arm and dragged her back the way they had come.

  “If they are not people, then neither am I,” Sissy insisted. She tried digging in her heels. Gregor merely nodded to the Bertie, the driver who awaited them outside the office. He added his strength and determination to removing her from the premises.

  “You are a person because I have decreed it,” Gregor replied through clenched teeth. “Never forget that. You owe me your loyalty, your obedience, and your life.”

  The hover cam recorded it all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  JAKE RAISED HIS HAND TO signal the local barmaid for a refill of his light ale. Light being relative. Back on SB3 this brew qualified as liquid bread.

  The woman ignored him, keeping her eyes on the floor while she limped from table to table.

  Every caste mark in the place was a red square. Even the bartender and her servers. They’d all gathered on Rest Day, the first chance available after the ordination, to celebrate the new reign of the Laudae Estella as HPS. The frail young woman had filled the newscasts for the last two weeks. She visited the sick and the impoverished in the worst parts of the city. She played with children in the park.

  And she gathered stray animals every time she flashed that engaging smile. Dogs, cats, birds, a ferretlike creature native to the planet before human colonizers terraformed it. At last count her menag
erie had grown to fourteen. Double the sacred seven. Everyone called that a good omen.

  The city remained quiet. But Jake sensed an air of caution. Not everyone approved of Laudae Estella and her seven caste marks.

  While he waited for the barmaid to acknowledge him, he took his turn at the dart board. The rules here differed somewhat from back home. Instead of a complicated point system marked off in different segments of a circle, he faced a male silhouette and had to take out different target points in order.

  Jake tuned out the raucous music in the background, lined up his dart, and threw, hoping his eye-hand coordination held true. That’s what it was all about, honing skills so one didn’t have to think on the battlefield. These guys seemed to like drills, endless repetitious, boring drills. Often set to music to help them find their inner rhythm, like a dance.

  Worse than flight drills at SB3.

  Only these guys played for keeps. No blunted or foiled blades for them. Every man in Jake’s squad had spent at least a few hours with the medics since he’d arrived. He even had a couple of scars himself now. Superficial wounds to arms and legs, nothing as potentially dangerous as the belly swipe he’d given da Hawk—his friend.

  Jake’s dart embedded itself in the left thigh of the outline. It wobbled a bit, not truly secure; still, he got the points.

  “Disabled the left leg, seven points,” da Hawk called out.

  Corporal Camden da Chester tallied the score.

  Meticulously, Jake worked his way around the target—he wouldn’t think of it as a human silhouette. Another seven points for the right thigh. Same for upper arms, hands, and belly.

  Seven times seven. He’d started to dream about sevens.

  “Now for the kill shot,” da Hawk breathed. “You’re in the lead. No one else has got a full seven points on every target.”

  Jake closed his eyes and told himself this was just a game. Just another game. It had nothing to do with killing people.

  He let the dart fly, almost hoping he missed.

  “Woo hoo! Dead center on the caste mark. You made him a Lood. Double points for that,” the corporal chortled.

  Jake felt sick to his stomach.

  He really needed a drink.

  He heard the word Lood whispered a lot. Sometimes in disgust. Most times in fear. And sometimes right after Laudae Sissy made an appearance on a newscast. Not often, but enough to make him wary.

  No sign of the barmaid. He tried to catch the eye of the middle-aged matron who ran the place. She didn’t seem inclined to flirt or refill his pewter tankard.

  Jake studied the dregs in his mug. Flirting was definitely not a good idea if he wanted to maintain his cover. A man with a broken heart wasn’t likely to flirt with the motherly types, or the buxom lass with a limp who actually served the drinks. Jacob da Jacob supposedly ached so much he ran extra laps and pumped iron in the middle of the night.

  What he really did was search the city for traces of a Badger Metal factory. He wanted out of Harmony. He’d take a court-martial and a demotion any day over the constant watchfulness of being a spy.

  Where was the damn barmaid?

  She swung around a corner from the back room and worked her way closer to Jake’s dart board, still keeping her eyes down. That lady might have an artificial limb—probably hacked off in a training exercise. Everyone served active duty until they couldn’t. Then they took support roles, like bartenders or admin jobs.

  The bartender and her helpers had come with the regiment to H Prime. Military caste closed ranks and kept themselves separate within their divisions as badly as each caste did.

  Finally the barmaid filled a pitcher and limped over to Jake. She plopped it on the table in front of the scorekeeper. A little of the precious liquid slopped over the edge. She hastily whipped a cloth and spray bottle of cleanser out of her apron pocket. Her hands made quick work of mopping up the mess. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she whispered with each swipe. When the table was cleaner than before she had spilled a little ale, she walked away without making eye contact.

  “Pity she’s not worth looking at anymore,” da Hawk said. But his eyes followed her across the room.

  Jake raised his eyebrow in question rather than protest that the barmaid was one mighty fine looking woman.

  “Not quite a Lood, but now that she’s maimed, she’s useless to us,” da Hawk continued. Bitterness tinged his voice and his countenance. He took a long quaff of the thick ale.

  Jake edged da Hawk away from the dart board. A young private moved into Jake’s place, eager to best his sergeant’s score.

  “You were close to her before . . .” Jake prodded, uncertain he wanted to know more. But he had to. For the friendship building between them.

  His REM implant flashed him the information that he and da Hawk had only begun that friendship about a year before, about the time da Hawk took on widowed status and Jacob da Jacob met the love of his life—an out-of-caste woman. The hopelessness of their relationships had drawn them together.

  “We were married. Applying for leave to have babies,” da Hawk said so quietly Jake almost missed it.

  Jake grunted. Were married. Da Hawk was officially widowed, and yet his wife still lived.

  “Yeah, that stump of a leg is hideous. Deep sword cut didn’t get treated in time. Went gangrenous and had to lop it off. The general dissolved our marriage instantly. Gave me leave to find another mate. Haven’t had the heart for it yet.”

  “She’s still useful as a barmaid. She can still listen and talk. Still hold your hand when you’re hurting. Still have your babies.”

  “Shush.” Da Hawk looked around anxiously. “Don’t let an officer hear you say that. She can’t serve anymore. She’s useless to us. Not allowed to breed.”

  “She was injured . . . not born a mutant. Her kids won’t have missing limbs.”

  “You can’t know that!”

  Want to make a bet on that? Jake buried his protest in his mug. Stupid, ignorant, mind blind, inbred . . . Undereducated. That was the key to control in this empire. No one got more education than they absolutely had to have to function in their designated jobs. Science and genetics didn’t belong in an army that still used swords.

  The media couldn’t be allowed separate caste status, uncontrolled by Noble and Temple because they might inform and educate the populace to the truth.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  "HEADS UP AND BEERS DOWN!” Lieutenant Charl da Martin shouted from the doorway, interrupting Jake’s litany of disgust.

  Instantly the entire platoon stood in rapt attention to their officer’s orders.

  “Weapons at the ready! We’ve got a riot at Low Port Asylum.”

  Murmurs of surprise rippled across the bar. The private at the dart board blanched, his freckles standing out on his cheeks like—like mutant caste marks.

  “Seems the HPS visited there this morning and was told there was nothing she could do to make the plight of the inmates better,” da Martin continued, barely breathing between sentences. Like he had to spill all the information at once before he lost his nerve.

  “The inmates have decided to do something about it themselves. They’ve taken hostages. We’ve drawn the lot to quell it. The lives of the hostages are optional to suppressing the inmates.”

  Every soldier in the bar loosened daggers, checked boot knives and drew their swords. Then they all jog-trotted in Charl da Martin’s wake with their blades resting on their shoulders.

  Jake suppressed his questions. Nowhere in his briefing had he heard about an asylum. So, not something these people talked about. Not something they bothered with on an everyday basis. But, from the grim looks on the faces of his company, an asylum was something they all knew about. Possibly dreaded.

  He positioned the freckle-faced private in the middle of his squad to keep him from bolting, or fainting.

  The men and women running beside him looked straight forward, following their lieutenant. A frisson of alarm climbed Jake’s spine.
They should be wary, alert to possible dangers around them. Riots had a way of spilling outward from their source, infecting all in the path.

  The scrubbed street looked deserted. Unusual at this time of day, shift change from day to evening. Workers should spill from the factories and docks toward home, family, and dinner. Instead, the few people he spotted cowered in shop doorways and apartment block entrances.

  Another platoon joined his at the next intersection. All grim-faced. Determined. Looking straight ahead. Swords naked on their shoulders.

  Two hundred ninety-four weapons ready to kill.

  A huge stone building loomed ahead at the end of the narrowing street. Warehouses crowded closer and closer. Little space separated them. Down those narrow, litter-filled alleys, barely wide enough for one person to walk, he caught glimpses of vast oceangoing vessels docked in the deepwater bay at the river’s mouth. Dirt encrusted the gutters and crumbling mortar.

  An ugly rancid smell permeated the air. More than fish and brine. Worse than filth.

  Neglect.

  Fear.

  Despair.

  This sector smelled of hatred. The people outside hated what was inside. The people inside hated those who were free.

  Low Port. Just beyond the end of civilization, cleanliness, and caring lay the asylum.

  With dread, Jake knew that this place held the castoffs of society. A place to hide what Harmony didn’t want to admit existed. A vast place. How many people called it home? Hundreds? Thousands?

  He shuddered and suppressed the hot bile churning in the back of his throat.

  Unnatural silence felt like a thick, hovering presence holding its breath. Waiting, ready to pounce.

  A crossbar on the outside held the double doors closed.

  “Workers evacuated and left the inmates locked inside, along with their hostages,” da Hawk said with a shudder.

  Lieutenant da Martin stepped aside from his lead position. The first two privates awkwardly lifted the heavy bar and set it aside. The next five took a guarded stance and held their swords in both hands en garde. All of the soldiers around Jake took similar poses, those in front kneeling so the blades of the men behind came over their shoulders.