Crusades

by S. J. Madill

  Closing the door behind her, she crossed the floor of her inner office, headed toward her desk. The sun was barely over the horizon, and it filled the office with a golden glow. When she couldn't sleep, the rising glow in the east made her anxious: an indication that morning had come, and sleep hadn't.

  A fresh cup of tea was waiting for her. She raised an eyebrow at it as she pulled out her chair and sat down. Was everyone at work early today? Maybe they'd heard of Admiral Amoroso's loyalty sweep. He'd barely even started, and no threats had been uncovered as yet. But it only took one person in the right place to cause a world of trouble.

  She picked up her teacup, but set it down again when a gem started flashing on her desktop. An incoming call from the homeworlds: Gold channel; video requested. She pressed a fingertip to the gem, and waited for the holoprojector to start up. Motes of light swirled into the shape of the veiled Four-Thirteen. "Mahasa," he said with a bow.

  Even as she returned the bow, Zura focused on his eyes. He'd requested a video call; he didn't always do that. He wants me to see him. "Good morning, Four-Thirteen."

  "I hope you are well, Mahasa. I'm calling to remind you that the latest Ten-Day Intelligence Report will be available shortly."

  "Of course, Four-Thirteen," she replied. She tried to study his expression — the look in his eyes over the top of his veil — even as she tried to hide her own. The Ten-Day isn't until tomorrow. "I appreciate the reminder, as always."

  She left it hanging at that: a lengthening pause in the air between them, waiting to see what else he had to say. The Ten-Day was just an excuse to call her.

  "Thank you, Mahasa," he said with a bow. "Good day to you. Please extend my best wishes to Doctor Singh."

  "Good Day, Four-Thirteen," she replied. She held the half-smile on her face as the call ended and the projector wound down. The specks of Four-Thirteen's image dispersed in the air above her desk.

  She took a deep breath, and felt the hair rise on the back of her neck.

  They know about Pari. Four-Thirteen wanted me to know that.

  She let the breath out, slowly clenching her fists.

  He wanted me to know that now. Right this moment.

  A tap on a blue gem, and her office door locked with a series of dull thuds. Her heart was already beating faster. She tapped the next gem down the row.

  "Amoroso here—"

  "Ken," she said, as calmly as she could. "I'm headed to the sea this afternoon. I'll be leaving here at quarter after three."

  The briefest of pauses. "Fifteen fifteen. Got it."

  "I'll need you to cover for me."

  "Will do."

  "Thank you." She tapped the button again to close the channel. Ken Amoroso would know what to do; they'd discussed the contingency plans just a few days ago. He'd be headed to the underground command room, where he'd lock down the headquarters building and assume command of the sector. Quietly. Discreetly.

  She pressed another gem. The response was immediate. "Yes, Mahasa?" Pelaa, the senior member of her bodyguard.

  "Squad Leader," she said. She spoke carefully, controlling her voice. "I am headed to the coast this afternoon. I will be leaving here at fifteen fifteen."

  "Yes, Mahasa. Fifteen fifteen. Your shuttle will be ready."

  "Good." She closed the channel. Pelaa would immediately mobilize her four-person bodyguard squad, even those currently asleep. Giant Irasa had a special task: she was to go find Pari and get her to a shuttle. By force, if necessary. From there, they were to go up to the Kaha Ranila. Where she needed to go herself. Discreetly.

  She pushed back her chair and stood up from the desk. All this, based on a few words from Four-Thirteen. Maybe she'd misinterpreted. Maybe she was overreacting. But Four-Thirteen had called her a day early, and had wanted her to know that the Temple knew about Pari. Something was going on.

  Zura forced herself to keep calm, as she headed toward her private elevator. She'd head up to her residence, where her armour and weapons were waiting. From there, she'd meet up with her bodyguard squad and—

  The elevator door didn't open. She stared at the darkened control console.

  We are betrayed.

  She turned away from the elevator, her mind racing. The elevator was on a separate circuit, not accessible from the network or from any maintenance panel. She'd insisted on it.

  Nsal 'neth. She ran to the wall behind her desk and its support pillars. The second pillar was hollow: it contained a ladder up to her residence. No electronics to tamper with, no security systems to defeat. It didn't show up on the building's blueprints or plans; it didn't officially exist. A last resort. She swung open the hidden access hatch.

  A wall of pink.

  The ladder trunk was full of access-denial foam, which had already hardened. It'd take a team of engineers all day to chip through it. She slammed the hatch shut.

  Trapped. Caged, like an animal. She snarled in frustration, and ran back to her desk.

  The gems had gone dark. Tapping them gave only the angry, discordant chimes of communications errors.

  The Temple was making its move; there was no other explanation. They had launched a coup attempt. There would be co-ordinated attacks on the homeworlds right now. They would seek to isolate the government, then decapitate it. It's what she'd do.

  Damn fools. The Temple wasn't ready to act; anyone with any sense could see that. They completely misread public sentiment; they expected the Palani people to support them, maybe even to help them.

  The building shook: a tremble that she felt through her feet. Her desk — and its collection of rolled-up datasheets — went dark. The office's lights flickered and went out, leaving only the golden glow of the morning sun coming in the window. From the other side of her office door, she heard gunfire.

  Nsal 'neth. We are truly betrayed.

  A firefight in her outer office; someone had helped the enemy get in. Perhaps a senior member of the building's security team. Perhaps the entire security team, for all she knew.

  On the other side of the door, the gunfire died out. The attackers had probably won; surprise, and the assistance of inside people, meant that those loyal to her were at a fatal disadvantage. The Temple would have sent Artahel; there could have been a team of them watching her when she walked through the outer office a few minutes ago.

  She opened a desk drawer. Pulling out her handgun, she placed it on the centre of her desk. She was going to face one or more Artahel without armour and without her carbine; just this little handgun. She needed her carbine: it had a low-powered beam that tricked concealment circuits, making fighting Artahel easier. But it was upstairs.

  Zura pulled a small pile of datapads out of the drawer, each with a Tunnel cell attached. There probably wasn't much time left. The explosion was likely at the barracks for her bodyguard and the headquarters security forces; most of them were probably dead. It's what she would've done. She wondered if Irasa had managed to leave the building to get Pari. And Yaella — that damned Artahel Handmaiden on her ship had probably received her orders by now. Her daughter might already be dead.

  Her heart was pounding; her face felt tight and hot. Was this how it all came crashing down? With treachery?

  She picked up the datapad connected to Yaella's. No time to call her; she just tapped at the keypad. 1515.

  Dropping the datapad on the table, she picked up the one connected to Pentarch Yenaara. She was probably dead too, but there was always a chance. She tapped the same message: 1515. Then she did the same with Pari's datapad, and the one connected to the captain of the Kaha Ranila. All the firepower and resources she needed were over her head, within view, but might as well be on the other side of the galaxy.

  With a series of loud clicks, her office doors unlocked.

  Zura quietly placed the last Tunnel-connected datapad down on her desktop, and picked up the small pistol. It all ends in treachery and blood. So be it.

  She raised the pistol, aiming it at the doorway. Her thumb slid t
o the side of the weapon, setting it to fire spreads of shots instead of singles. Almost an afterthought, she picked up her cup of tea in her other hand.

  She didn't have to wait long. Without a sound, the office doors cracked open.

  She didn't see anyone; that meant an Artahel was there. Zura pulled the trigger.

  The little gun twitched in her hand, belching a cone-shaped spread of flickering red bolts into the gap between the doors. A yell of pain, and a white-clad figure shimmered into view, their concealment cloak spattered with dark blood. They took a stumbling step forward, their knife falling from failing hands.

  One.

  Zura aimed to the right, just past the open door, and fired again. They were fast, but they couldn't have come far into the room. With a wet thud, a spray of blood sparkled in the golden early-morning light. The assassin's knees buckled and they toppled wordlessly forward.

  Two.

  She swung her gun to the left. They'd be spreading out, trying to surround her. A flick of her other hand, and the contents of her teacup launched across the room, droplets fanning out across the open space. Several drops changed direction in midair.

  Zura fired. The assassin's abdomen burst open, revealing torn leather, shredded organs, and dark blood. The man took one final step and pitched forward, his weapon falling to the ground in front of him.

  Three.

  There were more. Probably two: Artahel worked in teams of five. She glanced toward the open door. No help was coming; at least, not soon enough. In a minute, it would all be over.

  She backed away from the desk, toward the windows. Her eyes darted left and right, her ears listening for any sound: anything that would give away the location of the other assassins. They were here, in her office, somewhere. Surrounding her. Trying to get closer.

  Three Artahel lay on the floor. The third one was still moving, hands clutching at his shredded abdomen, feet scuffling on the blood-soaked floor, gasping noisily.

  Too noisy. Zura aimed her gun and fired. The body on the floor convulsed, blood spattering outward from the head. It lay still, and the office fell into silence.

  Her back was to the window, the sunlight casting a long, hunched-over shadow across the floor. All she heard were her boots on the floor, the tightness of her breathing, and the pounding of her heartbeat.

  A tap on the window to her left. Even as she turned toward it, she realised it was a mistake. She felt a gentle push on her back, like the nudge of a finger, and the end of a blade emerged from the left side of her chest, below her breast. She only saw it a moment — it was slick with blue blood — before it withdrew.

  Zura spun around and saw drops of blood falling in midair, dripping from a retreating blade. She fired, the gun in her hand barking as it spat out a spread of red bolts. Two caught the Artahel mid-leap, their nimble body twisting in the air to get away. When they came down, they slammed lifeless to the floor.

  Four.

  Zura moved away, along the window. Her next breath brought a wince of pain, and a gurgling deep in her chest. She knew what it meant.

  She heard a sound behind her: a single footstep. Too close. She turned around, waiting for the feeling of steel entering her body again. She raised her gun.

  A moment's pain in her hand, and her gun flew away. Its two halves scattered across the floor.

  Zura circled, her senses alert for the final blow. She couldn't take a deep breath; pressure was already building in her chest. She coughed; searing pain tearing through her chest, and she tasted blood in her mouth. Air was filling her chest, and blood filling her lungs. She was drowning. She didn't have much time.

  Nsal 'neth. Need to think.

  Only one left, as far as she knew. They'd trapped her. Battered her gun away. They were playing with her. They fancied themselves predators playing with their prey. Arrogance and hubris. She chuckled in spite of herself, though it made her wince. I know a thing or two about those.

  She yanked off her Mahasa's chain, throwing it away, then started unbuttoning her uniform coat. Her fingers were numb and clumsy, and she wheezed when she breathed. She took off the coat and wrapped it around her left hand. Her abdomen was slick with her own blood; with each breath, more of it gurgled from the wound in her chest.

  "Come on," she goaded. Each shallow breath brought foaming blood into her mouth. She spat it out, let it dribble from her chin. "Come on, you coward." She needed the assassin to make a mistake. Soon. "You want to fight the monster? Here I am. I'm right here, out in the open while you hide." She spat again, spraying drops of blood on the floor.

  The pressure was building in her chest; her breaths were getting shorter. Her heart was beating faster, pounding in her ears, fighting against the loss of blood.

  "Come on," she wheezed. "Kill me from the shadows. You can't do it in the open, can you? You need an advantage. You're not good enough."

  The Artahel appeared in front of her, emerging into view as they cast aside their cloak. A young man in white leathers, short blade in his hand. He looked young, and his blue eyes were filled with contempt. "Your time has come," he sneered. "Your crimes end today, in the name of the Div—"

  Zura charged. Her shout was little more than a gasp, but the Artahel recoiled as she flung herself toward him. It was her only opening. The last chance she was going to get.

  He raised his blade to ward her off, but she grabbed at it with her left hand, tangling the blade in her rolled-up coat. She pushed forward, shoving him off balance. He stumbled and fell back, and she fell on him.

  She hit the floor hard, her knees pounding against the marble as she landed straddling him. Her coat-wrapped left hand held his blade, and she brought her right hand, clenched into a fist, down onto his face. Something cracked under the blow; she pulled back her hand and punched again. Again, she pounded her fist into his face, ignoring the pain in her hand and the tightness in her chest.

  She could barely breathe. Short gasps were all she could manage, each bringing more pain and more pressure. Blood and air were filling her chest, and soon her heart would have no room to beat. No one was coming, not soon enough. But it didn't matter. Not anymore.

  Sharp pain seared through her chest, locking her body in a spasm of agony. Her bloodied fist stopped mid-swing; her left hand lost its grip on the assassin's blade.

  A punch to her side. New pain brought a moment's clarity: the Artahel's weapon hand was free, and he sunk his blade into her side before withdrawing it again. He plunged the blade in again and again. Blood spilled out of her wounds, running down her side and dribbling toward the floor.

  She leaned back, her breaths reduced to tiny sips of air, pushing against the crushing pressure in her chest.

  The assassin leaned up toward her, lifting his shoulders from the floor. His shattered jaw hung limp, teeth askew, blood streaming from his broken face. He was saying something, but it was just gurgling through his ruined mouth.

  Zura held her bloodied fist against his chest, locked her elbow, and let herself fall forward toward him. He fell back, his shoulders hitting the floor. His head snapped back and struck the marble with a sharp crack. For a moment, his eyes lost focus.

  Letting go of her blood-soaked coat, Zura's numb fingers fumbled for his blade, prying it from his twitching fingers. Holding it in both hands, she drew the blade sideways across the assassin's throat. Blood gurgled from the opening, running over the blade and her hands.

  Five.

  The blade clattered to the floor, her fingers no longer able to hold it. She sat up on the dying man's stomach, her arms hanging limp at her sides. She couldn't breathe; her heartbeat was weak but frantically fast, trying to pump blood that wasn't there. She looked down at the dying man between her legs, watching the blood ooze from his slit throat. It took her fog-clouded mind a moment to see it: the blood wasn't the right shade of blue; it was slightly red.

  A hybrid. Zura's mouth opened in a silent laugh. The absurdity of it.

  Pain clenched her chest again; she lac
ked the strength to wince. Her eyes couldn't focus. She let the pain wash through her and drain away.

  Yaella? Pari? Were they already dead? Was there anyone left?

  The pain again. Muscles tried to clench, but there was no strength left. Her vision was growing dark; all she saw was the golden glow of morning. She felt its warmth on her shoulders and back; it was peaceful.

  There was blurry movement in the distance. Flickering red lights washed over the room; her eyes were playing tricks on her. Dying nerves seeing ghosts…

  Shapes moved in the murk: armed soldiers entering the room. A giant in black armour. Faces moving. Getting closer. But it didn't matter now. She let her eyes fall closed.

  "Oh no you don't," said a voice.

  Something pinched her chest; she felt the sensation of something pulling at her. The tightness in her chest subsided; she took a last breath, just for old time's sake…

  Her lungs expanded, filling with foamy air. Her heart was still pounding frantically, but the tightness was gone. She opened her eyes.

  Pari. The beautiful face filled Zura's view. A face tense with concentration.

  Zura tried to speak. There was something over her mouth, and she could barely make a sound.

  "Hush, you," said Pari.

  A sharp jab, and coolness flooded up her forearm and into her chest. Her heart began to slow. When she breathed again, her mouth filled with blood, but it tasted different. Bitter. She tried again to speak.

  Pari's eyes looked briefly at hers. "I said, hush."

  The eyes turned away. Zura only caught fragments of what was being said. "…the flagship, Irasa. Right now."

  Pari was moving quickly around her; Zura felt more pinching on her arms, more coolness spreading into her chest. Something pressed against her side. Her entire body screamed with pain, but it was becoming distant; disconnected.

  "Hold on," said Pari, who leaned over her. A massive black shape — Irasa? — crouched over both of them.

  A burst of weapon fire: something big. Zura heard the loud shattering of glass, and felt colder air wash over her.