by S. J. Madill
"They wanted to put me in the tank?"
Pari rolled her eyes. "Yeah. That sorta turned into a shouting match. I may have punched the surgeon. They were going to have me thrown overboard, but Irasa here…"
Zura slowly looked from one to the other. "Thank you," she said quietly. "Thank you both."
She paused, and took a careful breath. She'd been avoiding asking something. Dreading what she'd hear… what she expected to hear. "Pari? How's my daughter? You said Yaella was—"
Pari smiled. "She's okay, Zura." Her voice was quiet. "A bunch of your stuff has been brought up to the ship. Your datapad to Yaella was in it, so I called her. Hope you don't mind."
"No, of course not. Thank you."
"That Artahel on her ship was ordered to kill them, but didn't." Pari patted Zura's shoulder. "Yaella's okay. Seriously."
Warmth rushed to Zura's face and eyes; she tried to blink it away. She looked at Pari, then back at giant Irasa. It was impossible. She'd taken a stand against the Temple; she'd sentenced them all to death. The Temple had acted first and caught her off guard, and somehow she'd avoided paying the price with all their lives.
"Zura?" Pari's eyes were shot with red. "Zura, the ship's captain will be here shortly. You'll have a hell of a lot of Mahasa stuff to do."
Her mind was slowly sliding into gear. There was so much that needed to be done. She needed to think. How long had it been? Seven hours? Any number of things could have happened. She needed to find out who was loyal, and the extent of the Temple's surprise attack. Plans needed to be put in motion. She should've been better prepared…
"Zura? No one on the ship knows. About us, I mean." Pari gave a helpless little shrug. "I'll just be 'Doctor Singh'; I'll stay out of the Mahasa's way. I might go to another ship, if I'm needed."
"Understood," said Zura. She felt her mind slipping; she wasn't yet up to speed. She needed to know the state of the fleet. What ships were loyal to the government? What ships had gone over to the Temple's side? And what of McLean-Irvine? Was the Temple making use of the corporate mercenaries, as she expected? A checklist formed in her mind, growing as new thoughts and concerns flooded in.
"Call me if you need me, Mahasa."
Zura looked up as Pari backed away. "I will," she said absently. There was so much to do. Millions of lives were in the balance. There wasn't time for emotions; she had to put them out of her mind for now. Pari would understand.
It was time to do what was necessary.
Chapter Twenty-Four
"I love you, Mom. Bye."
Yaella quietly pressed a finger against the datapad's screen, closing the channel. She slouched in the pilot's seat, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "So," she sniffled. "That was Mom."
"Oh?" asked Tal, pretending he hadn't been listening. Bucky and Ocean were behind her, staying silent. Seven long hours after Pari's initial call, they'd all been waiting with her when her datapad had chirped and she'd scrambled to answer it.
"Yeah," she sniffled again. "Pretty short call, huh?"
"Wasn't really paying attention," said Tal, his eyes focused on the dash. "I'm glad she's okay."
"Yeah, I think so." She'd never heard Mom sound the way she did right now: she sounded out of breath, and in pain. It was the 'all business' Mom: asking for Yaella's current status, then giving her own. The Temple was trying to take over the government; she was injured but alive; be careful; don't trust the Artahel. The whole call had been less than a minute, like Yaella was just one more admiral that needed to be brought up to date. Seven hours of agony, not knowing if Mom was going to live, and that's all she got.
The engineer's seat creaked behind her. "You okay, Blue?" asked Bucky.
"Yeah," she said, then corrected herself. "No. Not really." She never knew what to say when someone was upset; maybe they didn't know, either. "It's like there's two versions of Mom, you know? There's my mom, and then there's the Mahasa."
"And right now she's all Mahasa."
Yaella nodded. "It's like the mom part has been switched off. She wasn't there—"
"She's at war, Blue. The Mahasa part of her knows what to do. The mom part… maybe she doesn't know what to do with it."
Tal frowned. "War's a terrible thing. The first casualty is our humanity."
Yaella slouched lower in the seat, clutching her datapad against her. Even with the boys here in the cockpit with her, she felt alone.
A hand on her shoulder; just a moment's touch, before it was gone. She twisted around in the seat, and met the black eyes of Ocean looking down at her. He didn't say anything, he just stood there and held her gaze. Maybe he didn't know what to say, or even what expression to put on his face. She was about to say something, when he turned and walked silently from the cockpit. She watched him go, before shifting back around in the seat.
She scanned her eyes over the dash. They'd be at their destination — the system Dr. Munshaw had pointed out — in another two and a half hours. A long time to be sitting here doing nothing, especially when she felt so drained. She'd been on a wild up-and-down ride of fear and panic and elation that had ended in a numb, distant conversation with her mom. It was too much for one day. She let her eyes shut, just for a moment.
* * *
"Captain," said a voice right behind her; she nearly jumped out of her seat. The voice was like icy crystals, and quieter than she expected.
"Buh?" Yaella turned around and knelt on the seat, her arms on the headrest. She came face to face with the Handmaiden.
Lanari's face was perfect again: flawless skin and clear blue eyes. But her hair was no longer in a bun; it was pulled back from her face, every strand accounted for, and tied into a brilliant blue ponytail that disappeared down her back. Her white leathers were spotless and gleaming, but the top was unfastened: a couple inches hung open, giving a modest glimpse of white neck.
"Handmaiden?" Yaella asked.
When she'd seen Lanari come out of Dr. Munshaw's cabin earlier, she'd looked timid, maybe even meek; her calm self-assurance had been missing. Wherever it had gone, she'd found it again. She raised her chin. "Captain," she said, "I am here to apologise for my earlier behaviour. I caused—"
"Heavens no," said Yaella, waving a hand. "No need. Really. I understand that…" She hesitated when she saw the Handmaiden's eyes flare. "Uh, sorry. Go ahead."
One of those perfect blue eyebrows nudged higher. "Captain, I was ordered by the Temple to kill the Doctor and the rest of you, or to destroy the ship in the process. I chose not to do so." She paused, eyes watching Yaella, who took a deep breath and nodded.
"Captain," continued Lanari. "I destroyed the ship's Tunnel cells so that the Temple would be unable to detect the ship on the public data network. They will assume that the ship is destroyed and all of us are dead."
"Oh," said Yaella. "I see." She felt like that was supposed to be reassuring, but it wasn't. She already had more questions in her mind than she could hope to keep track of.
"Captain, I served not only the Pentarch Yenaara, but also the Temple. The Temple's illegal attempt to seize power is a violation of the Teachings. I will no longer follow the Temple." She paused a moment, and Yaella wondered if she was supposed to say something. Where was Pentarch Yenaara? Was Lanari trying to tell her something more? Things were less and less certain, and home seemed farther and farther away—
"I know you don't trust me, Captain. You shouldn't. I have broken my oath to the Temple, so you have no reason to value anything I say to you, either—"
"Uh," started Yaella. "I mean, I appreciate the choice you've made. And your honesty in telling us…"
"Yeah," said Tal. "Not killing us is a big plus, I gotta say." He laughed, but it sounded nervous, almost hysterical.
Yaella forced herself to pause, to think before she spoke. She started fidgeting, lacing together her hands on the seat's headrest. "Look…" She wasn't sure how to word it. Was this even the right time to ask? "Without the Temple, and without Pentarch Yenaara—"
"Who do I serve?"
"No, no," said Yaella, waving her hand. "I don't want anyone serving anyone. I just want to know, you know…"
The Handmaiden turned to one side, nodding toward Bucky behind her. "Master Buckingham knows that I sometimes watch hockey." She looked back at Yaella. "Hockey is a team sport, Captain. The team wins together, or else it loses together."
Yaella managed a smile. "You've always been part of our team, Lanari."
It wasn't much, just the slightest widening of those blue eyes, that told Yaella she'd caught the Handmaiden off guard. Lanari stared at her, jaw tightening, and took a deep breath. "Thank you, Captain," she said.
"Yaella. Please, for crying out loud, call me Yaella."
"In time, perhaps. Thank you, Captain."
Lanari turned away, nodding briefly to the others in turn. "Master Nguyen. Master Buckingham." She left the cockpit and headed aft.
They watched the graceful, white-clad Handmaiden until she disappeared around the corner.
"Huh," said Tal, turning back around. "How about that."
Bucky's face was flushed, and the puck in his hand had stopped moving. "D'you think maybe I should—"
"I have no idea," she said.
"Yeah," said Bucky. He turned back to the screens of the engineer's station. "Maybe she needs time…" He trailed off, the puck once again moving in his fidgeting fingers.
Yaella turned around in her seat. So, here we are. All of us, jammed in close together on this ship. Just one tiny, messed-up little crew.
She checked the time. Only two hours to go.
Staring out the window, she tried not to think of anything.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dreadnoughts like the Kaha Ranila were gigantic ships, bigger than most humans imagined. Being a kilometre long or more, different departments might be hundreds of metres apart. You learned to either remember where the 'elevators' were — as the humans called them — or you did a lot of walking.
Right now, the passageways were longer than Zura remembered. She shuffled slowly along the white-lined corridor, reading the datapad she held in her hand.
Except she wasn't really reading it. It was a summary of the fleet's current status, and she'd read it several times. She believed that people walked slower when reading; if the crew saw her engrossed in reading something, maybe they wouldn't notice how slow she was moving. How feeble she was.
Her whole body was screaming at her. Every muscle and nerve wailed at her to stop moving, to lie down, to curl up in a ball and sleep; to die. It was only through a cocktail of powerful medication that she was even standing. Every time she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, every time she slid a foot forward, dull spears of pain sliced through her. Under her loosely-fastened uniform coat, the kinetic bandage clattered, shifting and squeezing with her every movement. The bandage — like a corset designed by a sadist — held her together and kept her upright. It let her keep going, when her body needed to stop. The painkillers that filled her veins — along with the medications for regeneration, swelling, infection, and Divines-only-knew what else — numbed the pain, shifted it aside. But the pain was still real, and enough to keep her from concentrating. She could think or she could move, but not both.
Back in the medical bay, she'd made the Kaha Ranila's captain wait outside while she got dressed. The medics had left her in a long gown, but she wasn't about to go back on duty like that. Leadership was about being seen, and she wasn't going to be seen on the bridge of a dreadnought while looking like an escaped hospital patient.
After Irasa had locked the door to the room, it had taken ten minutes to get dressed. What a pathetic sight it must have been: the giant in combat armour helping the weak, naked Mahasa get into her undersuit. The silent indignity of leaning on Irasa, trying not to pass out while the big woman pulled up her breeches for her, then held her steady as she stepped gingerly into her boots. But they were soldiers, she and Irasa; in times of weakness soldiers set modesty aside and helped each other.
With her right hand wrapped in bandages, she'd pulled on her left glove with her teeth. After a final check in a mirror, and a judgement-free assessment from Irasa, she'd declared herself ready for duty. Her arms and legs were bulky due to the medical gear under her clothes, and her loosely-fastened coat was sloppy, but it would have to do.
Captain Para hadn't complained about being kept waiting on his own ship. Zura had known him for centuries; had hand-picked him for command of the Kaha Ranila. There had been much to discuss before Para had left, leaving Zura to reach the bridge at her own speed.
She paused in the corridor, lowering the datasheet, her arm tired from holding it up. Irasa stopped beside her. The ship was crowded, with crew being transferred to and from other ships. Some rebel ships had peacefully debarked crew who wanted to remain loyal, creating another organisational nightmare. Sides were being drawn, and the Palani fleet was still in the process of finding out who was on whose side.
She started moving again, trying to appear pensive when she was really only trying to take a few pain-free breaths. Officers and crew stood at attention, bowing as she passed.
Someone else followed her and Irasa: her new second shadow, Colonel Mwangi. Tall and handsome — for a human man, at least — with a smart military bearing. With her own staff either dead or left behind, she'd needed a staff officer. Ken had recommended Mwangi: the colonel was young, but he was part of the Amoroso family; Ken trusted him completely. It was a marvel to her how a single human family could encompass such a wide array of appearances. "Colonel?" she asked.
Mwangi took a step forward and snapped to attention. "Yes, Mahasa."
"Any news from Pentarch Yenaara?"
"No, Mahasa."
She took a deep breath, the kinetic bandage clattering in protest. With Balhammis dead, Yenaara missing, and Eve-Anarja under house arrest, that left the lunatic Ivenna and the traitorous Fennin as the sole remaining Pentarchs. Ivenna's commandoes had been very thorough in removing opponents from throughout the Palani government. From a tactical standpoint, their coup attempt wasn't bad: it was reasonably well-planned, and competently executed. It left the Palani government leaderless, with no clear command to oppose the rebellious Temple.
Strategically, the coup was nothing short of idiotic. The Temple had acted too soon: they lacked popular support, and their forces were disorganised. Evidence suggested they were only interested in the Home Worlds, not the colonial sectors. It was a rebellion founded in dogma, not reality. She could defeat it, given time; that wasn't an issue. The problem was in doing it quickly, with a minimum of civilian casualties. Otherwise, the Palani people might decide that the Temple's autocratic rule was better than prolonged bloodshed.
Without clear civilian leadership to oppose the coup, it was all falling to her. She'd spent centuries trying to avoid political power or anything resembling it, and now it had all been dropped on her in a single moment.
Zura took another deep breath — as deep as she could, fighting against the damned bandage — and kept moving. Her left leg was reluctant to obey; she could barely get it to shuffle forward. But she had to keep moving. The crew were watching her. They had to see their Mahasa strong and sharp and ready to fight. Not tired and weak and barely alive.
Only another twenty metres to the 'elevator'. The passageway opened into a spacious foyer, crowded with uniformed crew members. The crowd fell silent as she approached, and bowed as she passed. She kept her eyes focused on her datasheet, her mind concentrating on moving and not showing the pain. She kept a constant rhythm of steps, accompanied by the clicking of the kinetic bandage under her coat and the occasional chime from the medical gear on her arms and legs.
Far to her left at the other end of the foyer, the crowd hadn't seen her. Several dozen crewmembers were gathered around an officer who was organising the crowd into groups. Zura glanced up from her datasheet, looking at the distant crowd: mostly humans in heavy coats. They carried kit bag
s, and talked and joked with each other as they waited to be called. In the group, she caught a glimpse of Pari: she was lined up with other humans, listening to instructions from the Kaha Ranila's officer.
The pain was getting sharper; it was becoming hard to think. Zura kept moving toward the beckoning doors of the elevator. The crowd stood at attention; two soldiers held the doors from closing.
"Colonel?" she asked.
"Yes, Mahasa?" said Mwangi.
She made a weak gesture in the direction of the crowd. "Transfers?" Moving her arm earned her a sharp stab of pain from her side, accompanied by an angry rattle from the bandage. The painkillers weren't doing enough.
"Yes, Mahasa. Our berthing is full. When we reach the rendezvous point, several hundred crew will be moved to other ships. Wherever they're needed most."
"Understood." They were supposed to be at the rendezvous point in an hour, where ships loyal to the government were assembling.
She checked her datasheet again. Across Palani space, there were only two operational dreadnoughts, plus the disabled Kaha Devada. Four hundred and five frigates. Of those, some two hundred had joined the Temple rebellion, and another sixty were still in the process of deciding their loyalty. In some cases, that meant ongoing firefights from one deck to the next. And McLean-Irvine remained a question: how many of them had the Temple paid for? Many of the McLean-Irvine ships had jump drives, which gave them a significant mobility advantage. And there was the question of the Palani Reserve Fleet: the two thousand deactivated Palani ships from ages past. No doubt the Temple would seek to augment their numbers by reactivating some old ships, just as they would expect her to do the same…
"Mahasa." Irasa's voice, distorted by the speaker in her helmet.
Zura stopped. The three of them were at the open doors of the elevator. "Yes, Irasa?"