Widows of the Sun-Moon

by Barbara Ann Wright

  She landed on her neck, nearly doing a backward somersault. The air rushed out of her, but the pain went with it. As she fell over, she marveled that she felt nothing at all. The plains dwellers stared at Kora in shock before they took off at a run. Natalya tried to turn and watch them, but her body wouldn’t obey. Her limbs were like stone.

  She heard footsteps, and then Kora stood over her, gazing down with one blue eye and one brown, but she didn’t glow or smirk. As she knelt at Natalya’s side, her expression seemed apologetic. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, sorry. It’s all a little fuzzy.”

  Natalya tried to respond, but her voice wouldn’t work. Everything was going gray around the edges. What had happened to Kora?

  “She’s gone,” this new person said, the other Naos. “You’ll be dead soon. I could heal you, but I think that would complicate things, and something tells me you’re ready to go, so I won’t make you stay.”

  Natalya’s world faded to a narrow pinprick before going black. Kora was dead. Maybe that was all right. And Natalya wouldn’t have to live with the knowledge that she’d helped kill the one person who’d really loved her, despite the fact that Naos had forced them together. Her own breath stuttered in her ears, faltering, and then stopped.

  *

  Naos went still, gaping at nothing, her face a mask of disbelief.

  “It’s done,” Simon said in Cordelia’s mind.

  Cordelia floated away. She’d never felt so tired. Moving was a chore; existence itself had become painful. “I’m…tattered.”

  “We’ll fix you,” Simon said. “Come home.”

  Cordelia began a slow drift out of the room.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Naos stared, still with her sense of menace even if she’d lost the fight. “Your friends cut the link, but you’re still here, and I seem to have a vacancy.”

  “Simon,” Cordelia said. “Can I get a little help?”

  “Paging Dr. Lazlo, Dr. Simon Lazlo.” Naos cupped a hand to her ear. “He must not be in the building.” A pang of effort crossed her face, and her empty socket seemed to flare.

  Cordelia tried to drift faster. “Simon, are you fucking shitting me? Please, say something!”

  Naos held out a hand, and Cordelia’s progress halted. Slowly, as if moved by the smallest of air currents, she drifted toward the center of the room. She struggled, but it felt like wearing armor in a bog.

  “I’m a little hurt,” Naos said, “so this is going to be slow and painful. I know I gave you a choice before, but now, well, beggars and choosers.”

  Cordelia readied herself, not knowing how she would fight but wanting to go down swinging. “If you trap me in your head, you’re going to have one angry passenger.”

  Naos smirked.

  “Cordelia?” Simon’s voice said.

  “It’s about fucking time!”

  “Sorry, but since the delicate work is over, I had to gather some brute force.”

  Cordelia gasped as power filled her anew. This wasn’t the work of telepaths and healers. It was the crushers, the hurlers, the macro-psychokinetics like Samira and the Moon, and on top of that, Cordelia felt the electric punch of the Storm Lord and the burning power of the Sun.

  It made her giddy, dizzy. “I’m kind of hurt,” she said, “so this is going to be short and painful.” Simon showed her how to guide the power, and with a roar, she threw it at Naos, the waves of force, the charged lightning, fire, everything. It left her so quickly, it dragged her spirit forward as it blew Naos against the wall.

  Naos howled, her mouth open, skin rippling and blackening. She bounced off the wall and began to drift into the room, limp and lifeless.

  “No!” Simon cried. “She’s not dead. Get out of there before she recovers.”

  Naos grasped at her blackened, dented flesh, but even as Cordelia watched, the dents healed, and pink skin began to show through the blackened spots. Cordelia fled as quickly as she could, moving from the station into space. As she drew near the atmosphere, she felt Simon’s power helping her along, giving her a boost.

  “I can’t wait for you,” he said. “There’s still Dillon to deal with.”

  She’d wanted to be there, to see that, but now… “Believe it or not, I’ve had my fill of fighting today. Just make sure he knows part of his death is for my uncle Paul.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Simon told Reach about the fight with Naos as it was happening, and she relayed what she knew to the other drushka so he wouldn’t have to speak through her. It was almost as good as having comms.

  Now though, with Cordelia safely on her way back, Simon straightened his borrowed drushkan clothing and marched toward Dillon again. The plains dwellers fled around him, but he let them go, keeping his thoughts on his true target.

  “Are you well, shawness?” Reach asked.

  “Very.” He thought he’d be tired, but he’d let others do the bulk of the work for once. “You might want to hide. If he thinks he can get at me through you…”

  “Ahya.” When they finally saw Dillon, she ducked into a nearby ditch. “I will be watching.”

  He nodded, barely hearing her. Dillon was bent double, breathing hard. He’d taken his helmet off and wiped his mouth as if he’d recently thrown up. All the yafanai lay in the field, either unconscious or dead, and the paladins milled around, many of them clustered about Dillon or barking orders at the servants to help the yafanai. Simon kept walking, not bothering to hide, but he kept his power close to the surface, ready to do whatever he needed.

  “Storm Lord,” one paladin said, “the enemy ran off, sir. Who do we fight?”

  Dillon shook his head, probably too tired after Simon borrowed his power, but Simon didn’t help him, not one little bit. “It’s like…someone pulled me out of my body.” Dillon looked up, and when their gazes met, the bastard smiled.

  The other paladins turned to look, and Simon put them to sleep. Those without powered armor fell. The servants either ran or ducked. Dillon opened his mouth, and Simon shut it for him, interrupting him as he had the paladins at Pool’s tree. Should he just do it? Just like that?

  No, he wanted Dillon awake.

  Simon let Dillon’s mind and face go free. Dillon blinked stupidly before that smile crept over him again. “You’re alive! Ah, Laz, I’m so glad! What happened?”

  And that was almost enough to make Simon tear him limb from limb. “Well, for a start, I’m not anyone’s slave at the moment.”

  “Laz—”

  “You know, even dogs get to pick who they care for.”

  “I needed you.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t know why I’m even letting you talk. There is no possible excuse I’d accept. Not one!”

  Dillon sighed. “So? You going to kill me?”

  “All I have to do is decide on a method.”

  He felt Dillon’s skepticism, and he knew it was well deserved. Even now, with rage like a bright spark inside him, doubt climbed up from the depths. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t kill Dillon.

  Yes, he fucking could! He damned himself to hell and back and told himself to get on with it, to kill the man quickly and be done. He’d be safe; Horace would be safe. He tried to summon the memory of all the people who would be safer with Dillon dead, every goddamned human and alien on Calamity.

  And Dillon’s children would grow up without a father.

  One of the servants stood. Simon turned in his direction, poised to knock him out, but the man’s face was an intense mask, his eyes fixed on Dillon’s back. He slipped a little knife out of his sleeve, and his lips climbed into a snarl. A disgruntled Galean come to steal the kill?

  It was the coward’s way out, but Simon breathed easier. After all, Dillon had fucked up his own people as much as everyone else, and a knife was as good an instrument as any other. And, a cowardly voice inside Simon’s head whispered, if he was just holding Dillon still, the murder wouldn’t be on his hands.

  Dillon wouldn’t even see it comin
g.

  “It’s not murder,” he said softly. “It’s an execution.” He looked into Dillon’s eyes, those that had so often haunted his dreams. “Cordelia Ross wanted you to know that this is partly for her uncle Paul.”

  Dillon’s eyes widened. “You’re actually going to do it?”

  “You’ve hurt everyone for the last time.”

  His mouth opened and closed. “Will you…take care of my son?”

  Simon didn’t know if this was a ploy to be saved, didn’t know if he could care for a child, but the man with the knife was drawing closer. “I will.” And now there were tears in his eyes, but it wasn’t for the man in front of him. He mourned the friendship they could have had. “Good-bye, Dillon.”

  “Laz, I want you to know—”

  Simon watched on every level as the knife entered Dillon’s neck, as his face went from surprise to a sort of wonder. Simon shut his eyes as the sliver of bone slipped between the vertebrae, as Dillon’s armor held him up as his eyes rolled back. As his heart beat its last, Simon drew back into himself, happy Dillon hadn’t been allowed to try whatever trick he’d thought of there at the end. He wiped away the few tears that had managed to escape.

  The assassin stared at Simon before turning, grabbing some water skins from a fallen yafanai and fleeing into the plains. Simon didn’t know his story and didn’t care. He stepped to Dillon’s still standing form and yanked the battery free so Dillon could fall in a heap. It seemed more appropriate that way.

  As he walked away, he sought out a new rhythm, Horace’s heart, and headed for it like an arrow.

  *

  Patricia held her breath and waited until Simon Lazlo and his drushka had departed. Whether from her own efforts to remain unseen or from his preoccupation, he hadn’t noticed her, and she wanted to keep it that way.

  She ran to Dillon. His heart had stopped, and his brain was almost dead, but there was something she could do about that. She wrapped her hand around the knife and pulled it free. Blood gushed after it, but Patricia capped that off, using the power she’d brought with her down the broken link. It was easy enough to heal the spine, too.

  She rolled him over using macro power and surveyed his handsome face. With a caress, she closed his eyes. Maybe she should leave well enough alone and let the dead stay dead? No, she couldn’t spend eternity by herself. Alone in her head, yes, but she’d never been good at being alone in body. She restarted his heart, keeping his brain alive, but kept him asleep as she went to work.

  “No more tyrant colonel, I’m afraid,” she whispered. “Can’t have you running off on a tear all the time.”

  She skimmed through his mind, used to dealing with inner psyches after hundreds of years as one. She siphoned all of Dillon’s memories and implanted them in her own head for safekeeping. In their place, she inserted his near worship of Patricia Dué, chafa’s daughter, from a plains dwelling tribe who were all dead but her and her loyal servant, Jonah. She smiled, liking the name; it suited him.

  She studied his brain, saw how his power worked, and copied it in her own brain, too; that might come in handy. She didn’t want electrokinesis to perish from Calamity. With a few flicks of power, she unbuckled the armor and cast it away. Little by little, she worked on his appearance, turning his hair silver but leaving the eyes gray. She cut a jagged scar into his cheek and healed it, leaving an attractive, pale line.

  She shook him awake with her power. “Wake up, Jonah. Time to leave.”

  He blinked sleepily. “Mistress? What happened?”

  She helped him to his feet, supporting him with power and leading him to the north. “It’s not safe here.”

  With a last jolt of power, she implanted memories into the soldiers and yafanai that still slept in the grass. There had been a mighty boom of thunder, she told them, and the Storm Lord rode away on a bolt of lightning to battle Naos in heaven. They wouldn’t look for him, not after that. The thought made her laugh.

  *

  The tree was hard to miss, but Simon didn’t spare it a glance. He reserved his gaze for Horace, whose determination shone like a beacon. Simon grinned and watched the mirror of his expression flash across Horace’s face. All of their senses were wide open, and Simon felt every emotion Horace had for him, not Dillon’s want but genuine caring.

  “I want every part of you,” Horace said in his mind. “More than just your power, though that is nice.” He winked.

  Simon picked up the pace. “I love you, too. Know that.”

  “I do.” They reached one another at last, and Simon opened his arms, drawing Horace in, and their lips came together as their power embraced, reuniting them in every way. Healing energy spiraled outward, mending injured drushka, Naos’s army, the Sun-Moon worshipers, and the Galeans alike. Everyone it touched it rejuvenated, even the Sun-Moon as it cured their disease.

  It healed everyone but the dead.

  Simon thought of Dillon and allowed a small part of himself to mourn, but Horace wrapped himself around that pain and healed it, too. Simon leaned in, letting himself be cured at last.

  They parted, both breathless, but before Simon could get another kiss, Horace said, “The Sun-Moon are behind you.”

  “I know.”

  Pool’s tree moved close as Simon faced the dual gods. A branch lowered Pool to his side. “We are with you, shawness.”

  He didn’t know if he’d need her help, but he appreciated it. “We already healed you,” he said loudly. “Something else you need?”

  “Thank you, but—”

  He shut off their power, making them stagger. “No buts. And you’re welcome. Now, to borrow a phrase from someone I used to now, ‘Fuck with me or my friends again, and I’ll kill you.’”

  Their mouths dropped open.

  He waved them away and turned his back.

  Horace had a surprised smile. “I don’t know whether to be appalled, elated, or completely turned on.”

  Simon grinned and hugged him close even as he used his power to track the Sun-Moon as they walked back into their city.

  Behind Horace, Samira held out her arms, tears swimming in her eyes. “Is it my turn?”

  Simon gave Horace a final squeeze and then hugged her as she sobbed. She’d had her fatigue cured, but she needed sleep; they all did. He held her and thanked her, and after a moment she stepped back and wiped furiously at her face.

  “You’re so strong, Samira,” he said. “You’ll be all right. We’re all okay.”

  She laughed through her tears. “I don’t feel strong. I might need some help getting out of here.”

  Reach touched her arm. “Ahya, Usta. We will all go together.”

  “Please, shawness?” Nettle approached with Cordelia’s body, and Simon cast his senses out again, looking for her spirit.

  “Here she comes.”

  “I feel as if I’m coming home from a three week bender with two broken legs and a spike through my head,” Cordelia said through their link with the drushka.

  Simon chuckled. “You’re almost there.”

  She floated back down to her body, and Simon felt the power of the drushka reach for her. He used it, braiding it like a stalk and pulling pieces of Cordelia’s spirit into it. She balked a little, and he knew she had to be thinking of Naos, but she needed a new way to attach herself to herself, and the drushka were all he had on hand. As the light from her spirit and Pool’s energy blended, it secured her to her body again.

  “I can make this permanent,” he said, “so you can never leave your body or be forced out again.”

  She paused and then said, “Just make the cord a little stronger, okay? I think I’d miss being able to fly.”

  He chuckled but did as she asked, and her eyes fluttered open as her spirit sank back inside.

  Nettle bent over and kissed her forehead. “Welcome home, Sa.”

  Pool gathered all her people into her branches, leaving the plains dwellers to scatter to the wind. Liam said he’d find Wuran when they got back home and
tell him to spread the word that Naos was dead, that everyone should return to their lives.

  “Tell him that if the Sun-Moon start killing people again,” Cordelia added, “they should send for the badass healer to take care of it.”

  Simon ignored that, tired of being badass for the time being. Where home would be was a different story. Cordelia didn’t want to leave the paladins or the yafanai unconscious and near Celeste, so the drushka took them all prisoner, leaving only the dead behind. Simon left them to it, preferring to stay close to Horace and Samira. But with the soldiers subdued and Dillon dead, there seemed to be nothing standing between the former renegades and Gale, though Simon suspected it wouldn’t exactly be easy to go home again.

  When they were out of sight of Celeste, Mamet asked to be lowered to the ground. “I’ve freed the Sun-Moon’s captives,” she said. “I should go home.”

  Samira’s shoulders sagged, but she smiled softly, always happy to sacrifice her own happiness for whatever someone else needed. “Mamet, I just want you to know—”

  “Come with me?” Mamet asked.

  Samira’s mouth fell open. “I…give me a minute.” She grabbed Simon’s arm and pulled him aside.

  “You should go,” he said before she could ask.

  “You’ve stopped needing me already?” She laughed, but he knew the question was serious.

  “I’ll always need you, and I’ll always love you, but you shouldn’t let that stop you. I want you to be happy. You’re the truest friend I’ve ever had.”

  She nodded, but he felt her doubt. She’d been seeing to other people’s needs for so long, maybe she didn’t know how to see to her own. Well, she’d have to figure it out. “Go,” he said. “Have a rest, see what happens. We can always have more adventures later.”

  She chuckled again and nodded, but he still felt her waver.

  “Don’t live with regret,” he said. “You can always come home again, no matter what.”

  She hugged him close. “I love you, too.”