Crusades

by S. J. Madill

  "Oh? I can have it cancelled, Mahasa—"

  She shook her head. "No. Don't. I'll go." She'd barely spoken a word to Pari in the past few days; just the usual brief messages back and forth. Joining her for a public event was better than not seeing her at all. Once again, they'd have to keep up the act of being nothing more than friends. There'd probably be the expectation of small talk with strangers. But a fashion show? She wore a uniform every day, and had done so for centuries. Why in the Divines would she… "Never mind," Zura muttered.

  "Mahasa?"

  "Nothing." She turned to the public-relations officer, who was working at her console nearby. "Lieutenant?"

  The short-haired Palani officer sprang to her feet. "Mahasa."

  "That nonsense from two days ago, about the crew members of Borealis…"

  "Yes, Mahasa. Human media lost interest in the story; it was buried by a celebrity sex scandal."

  "Understood." The humans were consistent that way: what celebrities did in their bedrooms was more interesting than what politicians did in their legislatures. "And Palani media?"

  "Temple-run media has been running the story non-stop since it broke. Other media outlets have shown little interest."

  She grunted. That wasn't a good sign. The Temple was overestimating their ability to influence public opinion. "Very well. Carry on."

  "Yes, Mahasa," said the lieutenant, as Zura turned and headed through the doors of her inner office. She looked again at her appointment calendar. "Fashion show," she scoffed.

  Reaching her desk, she dropped the datapad next to the cup of tea that awaited her. Her morning tea used to be delivered to her in a 'traditional' human cup and saucer. Delicate and ornate, its handle was too small to put her fingers through, and its saucer served no identifiable purpose. She preferred a simple, sturdy mug of composite: something that could, in a pinch, be used as a bludgeon.

  A knocking sound from her open office doors. Zura looked up to see Ken Amoroso standing in the doorway, one hand buttoning his greatcoat while the other clutched his stack of datapads. "Good morning, Mahasa."

  Zura sipped at her tea. It was already cooling off. "Admiral. Come in."

  "Thanks." He pulled the door shut behind him, then began crossing the floor to her desk. "How're you doing today?"

  She shrugged. She already knew that her new record — of two straight uneventful days — was at an end. "What is it today?"

  Ken dropped into the chair across from her desk, and balanced his stack of datapads on the arm of the chair. "Secure the room for a sec?"

  "Of course." Zura touched a gem on her desktop, and a series of clicks came from the locking office doors. "What is it, Ken?"

  "Okay," he said. "Look." He kept the stack of datapads steady with one hand, while he gestured with the other. "You're convinced the Palani Temple is out of control—"

  "I am."

  "And you don't think Amba can fix it—"

  "No." She shook her head. "I don't think Pentarch Yenaara is going to be able to contain them."

  Ken made a face. "You've met her. She's not an idiot, Zura."

  "I didn't say she was. I have very few reservations about her intelligence. But this business with the Temple and their breeding programme… it changes things. Someone in the Temple is willing to do things that would never previously have been contemplated."

  "It's normal for a church to make some moral compromises, isn't it? I mean—"

  "No." She tapped the desktop with her finger. "These aren't mere compromises, like renting out the church basement for… what do you call it… 'bingo'? What they're doing is an atrocity. I don't care how they try to justify it. I swore an oath to obey the civilian leadership, but…" She shook her head. "There's a limit. There has to be."

  Ken shifted in his chair, a grimace passing across his face. "I doubt the Temple sees it that way—"

  "Of course they don't. I expect Pentarch Ivenna and the Temple believe what they're doing is correct and justifiable in the long term. I believe they're wrong. I hope Yenaara is able to convince the rest of the Pentarch Council to stop this."

  "And if they don't?"

  Zura stared at the Admiral in the chair across from her. From the look in his eyes, he already knew her answer.

  Ken carefully smoothed out the creases in his overcoat. "Yeah," he said quietly. "So… you're going to get a message, if it isn't already there…"

  Zura's eyes went to her datasheet. The message indicator was blinking. "What will it say?"

  "Remember the Prophet, and the Chosen One? Elan and Heather?"

  "I do." The Prophet was the result of one of the Temple's many absurd projects: the attempt to create a 'perfect' Palani from the DNA of ancient saints. The most successful result — Elan — escaped and went to live among the humans, to find out why the Temple felt they needed to be destroyed. By the time they'd finally found him, he'd met and bonded with a human woman. Their child, the 'genetically-impossible' Eve-Anara, had been hailed as the first Hybrid. In the fifty years since, the couple had preached unity and understanding, to the endless irritation of the Temple.

  "What did they do?" asked Zura. She glanced again at the message indicator on her datapad.

  "They left the capital," said Ken. "They've chosen this very moment to go into a period of 'spiritual contemplation'. Their daughter, Eve-Anara, went with them. To be honest, I fear for their safety."

  Zura gripped her mug a little tighter. It was just as well it wasn't one of those delicate little tea-cups. "But Eve-Anara is a Pentarch—"

  Ken nodded. "Yeah. The Temple has been pressuring them…"

  "Threatening them, you mean." She sighed and looked past Ken, out the windows and across the city. It was going to be a beautiful sunny day. Down below, thousands of New Fraser's residents would be on their way to work or to school, oblivious to the scheming unfolding on foreign worlds. Scheming that, if not contained, could put them all at risk. "So," she said quietly. "The voices of moderation and tolerance are bullied off the stage."

  "Uh huh," said Ken. He had a grim set to his face. "With Eve-Anara out of the picture, that's one less pentarch to speak against Ivenna. It'll be impossible for Amba to create a majority on the Council. It'll be her and Balhammis on one side, and Ivenna and Fennis on the other. Nothing will get done."

  "Oh," said Zura, raising her eyebrows. "A lot will get done. Ivenna and the Temple will do as they please."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I need to give Pentarch Yenaara more time." And I need to speak to her. Privately. There were still preparations to make; it might be necessary to expedite them. If Yenaara wasn't able to control Ivenna soon…

  Zura's eyes went back to Ken. "What else is on your mind?"

  He nudged his stack of datapads. "I've been giving some thought to contingencies. We need to be able to put plans in motion without arousing suspicion. Private meetings like this don't go unnoticed."

  She liked that about him: he thought ahead. "Agreed. Go on."

  "I have some ideas." He picked up the top half of his stack of datapads, and pulled something thin and white from between two of the devices. A thin pad of paper, covered in hand-written notes. "Paper's hard to find," he said. "But it's secure, not hackable, and not connected to the network."

  She nodded toward the paper pad. "Show me what you've been up to."

  Chapter Fifteen

  One damn thing after another.

  Zura marched through the outer rooms of her residence. Outside, the sun was setting, igniting the sky in a glorious riot of reds and purples, but she ignored it. She focused on the creased datasheet she held in one fist.

  She'd tried to start the day with a sense of optimism. Look on the bright side, as the humans said. But even the brightest, sunniest day could turn into a storm. A day like today.

  She rolled up the datasheet, her mind chewing through ideas as she passed through one extravagant room after another, across lush carpets and breathtaking inlaid marble. All of i
t mere decoration; self-conscious ostentation built in her name by people who didn't know her. Prestige of the office, they said. What nonsense.

  And now her day was done, the irritants left behind for a few hours. But despite a growing headache, she was expected at a fashion show, of all things. The only 'fashion' decisions she had to make were between her 'working' uniform with partial decorations and awards, and her 'half-dress' uniform with everything. Even that was an easy choice, between practicality and a kilogram of gold chains, glittering stars, and coloured sashes. It felt like vanity to her. She knew perfectly well what she'd done in her career; she didn't need to parade it in front of everyone, jingling like a coin purse.

  She shoved open the double doors of her bedchamber. If she hurried, she had enough time to shower, change uniforms, and get to the conference hall in time to meet Pari. She might even have time to eat.

  A light was on. In one of the overstuffed leather chairs, curled up in her long black coat, was Pari. She was supposed to be at the conference hall. "What are you doing here?" Zura snapped.

  As soon as she said it, she regretted it. She stopped in the middle of the floor.

  Pari didn't say a word; she stood up from the chair and began walking toward her.

  Zura closed her eyes. She took a slow, deliberate breath, and tried to relax as she exhaled. A dull ache was forming in the back of her neck.

  Another deep breath. "I am sorry, Pari," she said. "I will control myself." She breathed again, letting it out as a sigh. "I will leave my work problems downstairs." Hearing nothing in return, she opened her eyes.

  Pari stood directly in front of her, close enough to touch. Under her long coat, she was wearing heeled boots that made her taller; tall enough to look her in the eye. Dark makeup gave a flush to her cheeks and lips, and made her eyes stand out. Eyes that stared at her.

  Pari shook her head. "No."

  As calm as she was trying to be, the word made Zura's heart skip a beat. "No?" She'd been rude, and she knew it. Whatever came next, she deserved.

  "No, Zura," said Pari.

  "I'm sorry," said Zura. "It is wrong of me to raise my voice."

  Pari shook her head again. "No. Raise your voice."

  "What? I don't…"

  "You're mad about something, so go ahead and be mad. Yell. Rant, if you need to. Scream. Curse."

  "Pari, I'm not mad at you—"

  "I know you're not." A dark eyebrow twitched upward. "Give me some credit; I know the difference."

  Zura shook her head. "I can't yell at you."

  "Yes. At me. You bottle it up, and it eats away at you."

  "I don't…"

  "So what is it?" pressed Pari. "What's pissed you off?"

  Zura looked down at the datasheet clutched in her fist. "It's just…"

  Pari wasn't letting it go. She never let things go. "It's just what?"

  Zura took a deep breath. "The Temple is doing something… wrong. Very wrong. The Pentarch Council is in disarray; the government isn't working. They're unable to do what needs to be done."

  Pari leaned closer. "And?"

  Zura's head was pounding. "It might have to be me."

  Pari's eyes didn't leave hers.

  "Do you understand? I would have to openly oppose the Temple. They would respond as they always do: by killing those close to me."

  She took a deep breath, and shuddered as she let it out. "Right now, Yaella is on the other side of the galaxy. She has an Artahel on her ship. If I oppose the Temple, Yaella will die."

  She cleared her throat before continuing. "You, Pari… I have you in my life." She pointed at the bedchamber's far wall. "I want to go out on that balcony and yell it to the world. But I can't. I have to ask you to be a secret, because if the Temple knew about you, they'd kill you too."

  The ache was spreading across her shoulders and up her neck. She blinked away the warmth in her eyes. "I do what needs to be done. That's who I am. But to do that, I would break my oath as a soldier. I would sentence to death the two people I care about. I don't…" A lump formed in her throat. "I don't know how to fix it. I don't know how to keep you both safe. I don't…"

  With the soft creaking of her long black coat, Pari leaned forward. Hot hands held the sides of Zura's face as searing lips pressed against hers, holding a moment before withdrawing. The hands, almost too hot to the touch, stayed on her face.

  "What was that for?" Zura asked.

  "For letting me in," whispered Pari.

  Zura grunted and looked away.

  Pari withdrew her hands and took a step back. Zura caught another glimpse of her tall-heeled boots.

  The ache in her neck wasn't going away. She nodded toward the side of her bedchamber. "I'll change into a full-dress uniform, and we'll go to the fashion show."

  "Oh," said Pari. Her face flushed. "About that."

  Zura raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

  "Well…" Pari lowered her eyes a moment, then looked back up at her. "We're not going to the show at the conference hall."

  "Why not?"

  "Our fashion show," whispered Pari, "is what I'm wearing under this coat. Wanna see?"

  That grin. That mischievous grin that lit up Pari's face. The one that made Zura feel alive, that made her want to tell the world. "Room," she said aloud. "Dim the lights."

  Chapter Sixteen

  By the time Yaella and the others got back to the Blue Guardian, the storm was subsiding again. Seeing the ship's lights helped them drop down from the wall into the right landing pad.

  Tal was outside in his housecoat, his feet jammed into unfastened boots, using a broom to clean drifts of dust out of the Blue Guardian's air intakes. He jumped in surprise when he saw them dropping down from the wall. "Oh my god! Is everyone okay?"

  "Yeah," said Yaella. The adrenaline was wearing off, and her body was reminding her how tired she was. "We're okay."

  Tal's hands were tight on the broom-handle. "I heard Bucky saying 'Unicorn' on the radio, and almost lost my mind. The ship's ready to go." He looked past her. "Wait. Where's Lanari?"

  "She's fine," Yaella said, trying to suppress her irritation. "Though I have questions for her—"

  "Quit worrying about her," said Dr. Munshaw. He walked past the two of them, headed for the cargo ramp. "She's fine."

  "Easy for you to say," Yaella called after him. She turned to watch Bucky and Ocean coming down off the wall.

  "Hey Tal," said Bucky as he went by. "Thanks for holding down the fort."

  Ocean was behind Bucky, totally covered in a thick layer of dust. He was tired, which was something Yaella hadn't seen before. He didn't even glance at her as he passed.

  "Chief?" asked Taliesin. "What happened? Did everything go okay?"

  She shrugged. "We're all alive, right? And we did what we set out to do."

  "Okay," said Tal. "But no one seems happy about it."

  "Yeah." She nodded toward the broom in his hands. "You need a hand cleaning the intakes?"

  "Nah, I'm pretty much done."

  "Okay." She looked skyward. Part of the sky was lit in a faint orange glow: reflected light from one of the moons was peeking through the blowing dust. "C'mon, let's get everyone together in the cargo bay."

  * * *

  Inside the cargo bay, trails of red dust tracked across the floor. Every time Yaella moved, more of the dust sloughed off her and fell to the deck. It was going to take ages to clean it all up.

  Her feet were heavy, and her legs ached. According to the display on the bulkhead, it was almost five in the morning, but that couldn't be right. Had they really been up all night, hiding in the dust?

  She crossed the cargo bay and slumped down onto a crate. Leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, she dragged her knit cap off her head and let it and her mask fall to the deck in an avalanche of dust.

  Bucky sat across from her. Maybe it was the dust on his face, but he looked unwell. He leaned forward like her, holding his hands tightly together. He had a circle of clean skin on his
face that his breathing mask had covered.

  Dr. Munshaw didn't sit. He stood nearby, chewing furiously on his bottom lip. He kept fidgeting and shuffling his feet. She'd never seen him 'go off' the way she'd been warned he would, but he was clearly getting agitated. As annoyed as she was with the Handmaiden, Yaella still wished she were here.

  When she couldn't see Ocean, she turned to look over her shoulder. He was near the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, looking like a statue sculpted from reddish-brown clay. He hadn't been wearing a mask, and his face was the same colour as his clothes. A trickle of dust fell from his head, revealing neat black hair underneath.

  "Okay," said Yaella, turning back to the others. "I know we're all tired…"

  "Huh," chuckled Bucky. His voice sounded brittle. "'Tired' isn't even the half of it…"

  He trailed off at the sound of claws on the deck. The black-and-white head of Kaiser peered warily around the corner into the hatch.

  "Hey boy," said Yaella. She held out a dust-covered hand. "It's us."

  Kaiser stayed outside the cargo bay, sniffing at the air.

  Tal appeared in the hatchway, hands cradling a cluster of mugs. "C'mon Kaiser," he said, nudging his way past. "Quit being weird. Here you are, everyone. I figured you must be parched, breathing that nasty respirator air for hours."

  Yaella accepted a mug, and watched Bucky holding his in both hands. "Hey," she said. "Bucky, you okay?"

  "Yeah," he stammered. His eyes met hers. "I've never been shot at before." He shook his head. "Man…"

  "D'you need something?" asked Yaella. Her eyes went to Dr. Munshaw. "Maybe—"

  The Doctor shook his head. "I'm not that kind of doctor. Sorry."

  Yaella leaned back to take a drink, but almost choked on it when she saw the Handmaiden enter the cargo bay. Her suit was perfectly clean and white. Apart from the hints of dust in her hair, no one would've guessed that she'd spent the night outside in a dust storm.

  Yaella was on her feet, marching toward the expressionless Lanari. She pointed in the direction of the warehouse. "Back there, what the hell was that about?"

  "I made sure they let you go," said Lanari. "Then I followed you here."