Crusades

by S. J. Madill

  The broken hull rose above them as the Blue Guardian touched down and the engines faded away to silence. For a moment, no one spoke. Yaella just sat quietly, looking at the grey hull, the sandy ground, and the cloudless blue sky.

  She heard movement behind her. "Ocean?" she said, as she turned around.

  But he had already left the cockpit, and was headed up the passageway.

  * * *

  Yaella gave her breathing mask one last check. Satisfied that it wasn't going to kill her, she stepped through the containment field and out onto the Blue Guardian's open ramp.

  She stopped to listen. The whole world was cold and still. There were no sounds, no wind, not so much as a puff of a breeze. She barely dared to breathe, let alone say anything. The world was like a tomb.

  Stepping gently off the bottom of the ramp, she walked around the side of the Blue Guardian. Ahead of her was the colony ship. Not sleek and graceful like a Palani ship, or solid and sturdy like a Bezod vessel. Instead, it resembled ships she'd seen in museums and history books: the fragile, spindly-looking ships of humanity's first forays into space. All function and no form: a long central trunk like a spine, now slumped and broken across the ground. Storage modules, once attached to the spine, lay in the sand. At the rear end of the ship's spine, the engines were half-buried in the ground. Some of the storage modules were open, their contents gone. But there wasn't enough debris to account for whatever must have been in the containers.

  When she looked up, she felt a moment of vertigo. The thin blue sky was totally clear and empty. Not a single cloud or hint of dust; not even a moon. The only reference points in the sky were the sun — halfway to the horizon — and the hazy speck of the junkyard-dreadnought that had brought them here.

  She started walking. From the air, the distances were hard to make out. Only on the ground could she really get a feel for the size of the crashed colony ship and the distance to it.

  In the dust under her feet were footprints, dozens of them. Was someone here recently? Or were the forces of wind and rain so totally absent that footprints remained for centuries? Were they the last steps of people long dead?

  Bucky caught up with her. "Hey Blue," he said quietly. He pointed down at the ground. "See all the footprints?"

  "Yeah. How old do you figure they are?"

  "No idea."

  "Where's Tal?"

  "He went back inside. He thought he was going to fall off the world."

  Yaella took another hesitant look skyward. "I kinda get it. This place is…eerie."

  "Where's Ocean?"

  It wasn't hard to pick out Ocean's footprints: they were on top of the others. "He went on ahead. C'mon."

  Ocean's prints led in a straight line toward the forward half of the ship. The hull had porthole-style windows on five decks, and a long window across the front that must have been the bridge. Dirt had been piled up into a ramp that led to a side hatch.

  The two of them crested a small rise in the ground, and the path continued toward the ship. To the left of the path, near the hull, she saw Ocean. He was kneeling on the ground. His shoulders were slumped, his head hanging forward. He wasn't moving.

  In front of him, on the ground beside the path, lay rows of dull red shapes. Yaella realised what they were: bodies, wrapped in identical red cloth. They were arranged in rows, all facing the same direction. The dead had been placed here with care; now they were permanent parts of this lifeless planet.

  Yaella came to a stop beside Ocean and crouched down beside him.

  "Fifty-one," he said, his voice distorted by the air.

  Yaella did a quick count. Three rows of seventeen bodies. "Yeah. Fifty-one."

  He looked up toward the featureless horizon. "There were a hundred and twenty-five on the ship."

  "Oh." Yaella scanned the area, but there were no other bodies, no other lumps of red cloth. Bucky stood a short distance away, with the Admiral and the Handmaiden.

  Ocean reached a hand toward the red-wrapped body in front of him. "This is not how we prepare the dead." His fingers touched the red wrapping, stroking the surface. "This material… it is not something my people make."

  Yaella frowned. Did that mean another species was involved? She leaned forward in a crouch, one hand on the ground, the other reaching to touch the wrapped body nearest to her. It looked like cloth, but it was cold and hard. She gave it a light tap with her fingertips: it might as well have been steel.

  "Someone did this," said Ocean.

  She had a sinking feeling in her stomach. Even as she pulled out her datapad, she knew. "Niner?" she asked her datapad. Her voice sounded flat in the still air. "Can you scan this red stuff? What is it? Where's it from?"

  "Captain Yaella," replied the datapad. "The material is known to me. It is produced by the species you call the Union."

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Zura leaned over her desk, her hands propping her up. The holographic map hovered in the air in front of her, coloured icons showing the location and status of her ships. It slowly dawned on her that she'd been looking at it for several minutes without paying attention. The numbness in her body had ebbed, letting the pain seep through. She couldn't ignore it any longer.

  She coughed again into her handkerchief, then shoved the wet cloth into her coat pocket. She'd had the taste of blood in her mouth since the battle. Her side was cold and wet, where blood was seeping through the kinetic bandage.

  She'd sent Mwangi away. He had a mountain of administrative work to do, and she didn't want anyone around her right now. Irasa was still nearby, of course; the black-armoured monolith barely moved.

  A shake of her head, to clear her mind; the bandage rattled and clenched at the movement. Her body ached, but she tried to ignore it.

  The Palani Reserve Fleet was destroyed. That operation had been a success. While the dreadnoughts had been doing that, the rest of her ships — over a hundred frigates — had begun a high-tempo war of attrition against the Temple. In ones and twos, they would arrive in numerous Temple-controlled areas simultaneously. If opposed, they left. If unopposed, they would destroy some minor military targets — navigational aids, supply depots, repair areas — and then leave. The Temple had more sites to defend than they had ships. As a result, the McLean-Irvine mercenary cruisers — with their new jump drives — were kept busy, jumping from place to place to oppose her raids. One thing she knew about human technology: new designs were never thoroughly tested. There were always — what did they call it? 'Teething problems'? If kept under constant pressure, with no opportunity for maintenance or repair, the McLean-Irvine ships would begin to experience failures. According to her squadron commanders, this was already the case: in the two hours since the battle, raids were being interrupted later than before. As a result, more damage was being inflicted on Temple assets before the raiders were confronted. They just had to keep it up. Four or five days of non-stop raiding would take its toll: not just on the enemy's jump drives, but their crews, too.

  What she didn't understand was why they weren't counterattacking. If they threatened the outlying sectors, they'd force her to respond just as she was forcing them. Perhaps the sectors' public declarations of neutrality — a complete sham — was enough to make the Temple hesitate. Perhaps Ivenna was interfering in the decision-making; that would be ideal. There was no reason for the Temple to give up such an obvious source of leverage against her. If only…

  The idea escaped her, her thoughts knocked off course by the throbbing pain in her side. A worried-looking Pari had checked on her a while ago, when the promised twelve hours had run out. She'd been allowed to keep working, but could now barely think or move, and it was only going to get worse as the stimulants and painkillers wore off. Still, one last look at the target list—

  No. She pushed off on the desk, shoving herself upright. My subordinates are competent. They can do this.

  Standing up straight was more taxing than she'd expected. She just had to make it to her cabin, and she
'd be able to sleep for an hour or two.

  Leaning to her right, she slid her left foot forward. The duty-cabin door opened in front of her, and she shuffled out. After a few steps, she established an awkward rhythm, rocking slightly from side to side, heaving her left leg forward despite the pain. The kinetic bandage's rattle kept pace with her.

  She tried to think about deployments, about targets and squadrons and timings, but every movement brought a stab of pain that cleared away her thoughts and made her start again. I may have pushed myself too hard.

  At the side of the bridge, the door opened into the passageway. The long white corridor, that curved slightly as it headed aft, was empty. Her cabin was only fifty metres from her bridge, but it might as well have been a kilometre. By the time she reached the door, she was exhausted and sweating. The door opened in front of her, and she shuffled inside.

  The admiral's cabin on the Kaha Ranila was palatial compared to the accommodation on other ships. It had a large sitting area with comfortable chairs surrounding a low table in the human style. Along the walls were long couches: one of them was where Irasa slept. At the back of the sitting room, doors led into her private office, her bedchamber, and a guest bedchamber at a temperature suitable for Pari.

  "There you are. I was about to come get you."

  Pari crossed the floor of the sitting room toward her. She had on her heavy black coat, and her breath showed in the cool room. "You okay?"

  Behind her, Irasa locked the door. "Just tired," said Zura. "I'll be fine."

  "Uh huh," said Pari, taking her by the arm. "C'mere."

  After a moment's dizziness, Zura found herself in her bedchamber, Pari standing in front of her. Pari's hot hands held Zura's upper arms. "You were supposed to go straight to the medical bay after…"

  "I'm fine," interrupted Zura. "Just tired."

  "Uh huh." Pari let go of one hand, and reached into the pocket of Zura's uniform coat. "And where'd you get your medical degree?" She pulled out the blood-soaked handkerchief. "Thought so. Your blood pressure is down, and your heart rate is up." She was looking Zura in the eye. "You're in pain, aren't you?"

  "A bit." It wasn't that bad, she told herself. She'd been on fire before, and that hurt much more than this…

  "A bit," Pari repeated sarcastically. "So you don't remember me telling you to go straight to the medical bay?"

  Zura was struggling to concentrate. "No. I'm fine."

  Pari stepped to one side, and started pulling off Zura's coat. "I'll be the judge of that. I'm going to give you a quick scan. If you're fine, you can walk down. If not, I'm calling for a casualty team to bring a stretcher."

  "I don't want to—"

  "Hush," said Pari, moving behind her. "Let's get this off you."

  Zura didn't see where the coat went; it was gone, and the coolness of the room washed over her arms. Looking down, her undersuit top had a wide dark spot on her left side. Below it, the segments of the kinetic bandage were slick with blood, that oozed between the squares as the bandage shifted.

  Pari came the rest of the way around to stand in front of her. "Okay," she said. "Let's get that undersuit top off, then—"

  In the fog of Zura's mind, panic flared. "No," she stammered. She took a step back. "I don't—"

  "What?" Pari stared at her. "What's wrong?"

  It was getting difficult to put words together. "No," was all she could manage.

  Pari raised her hands and moved slowly, like she was approaching some dangerous beast. "Zura? It's me. I'm not going to hurt you. Let's get your top off, and lay you down. I need to undo the bandage for a moment, so I can get a good scan."

  "I don't—" Zura took another step back, and bumped against the side of the bed. The fear was in focus, but not the reasons behind it. "I don't want—" She blurted it out as it came to her. "I don't want you to see me like this."

  "What?" said Pari. "Why on Earth don't you…oh." Her eyes widened. "Oh my god. I get it." A gentle shake of her head. "The way you always turn the lights down. All this time, I thought it was me…"

  "No." Zura shook her head. How could Pari think such a thing? "You're beautiful. It's…" Her thoughts escaped her again, back into the fog.

  Pari's voice was quieter. "Right now, I need you to trust me, okay? Look at me."

  Zura took a deep breath that gurgled in her chest, and watched as Pari moved closer. She could feel the hot human breath on her face.

  "Focus on me, okay?" Pari's hands were between them. "It's me. It's Pari. It's okay." She pulled the top away, blue blood on her hands. "Sit. Tell me what you're thinking."

  Zura sat on the edge of the bed, naked to the waist. Her left side was smeared with blood leaking between the segments of the kinetic bandage. Scars covered her chest, her breasts, her shoulders and arms: long lines from blades, round divots from puncture wounds, and rippled scars from burns. "I hate it."

  "Hate what?"

  She took a shuddering breath. "This," she said, gesturing at herself. "Me."

  "Your appearance?"

  "I don't…" She looked down. In her mind's eye, she could remember her body when she was young. The skin taut and flawless. Muscles that surged beneath the surface. "That human saying… 'the body is a temple'…"

  Pari raised her eyebrows. "A cathedral, more like. Majestic and—"

  "No. It isn't. It's broken." Zura coughed, and her sinuses filled with the taste of blood. "Torn apart and rebuilt."

  "I don't see that," said Pari. "Every scar is something that tried to kill you, but didn't—"

  "No." Zura shook her head, trying to will away the fog. "Every scar is vandalism. People marking me. Marks I can't get rid of. Marks of ownership." She tried to take a deep breath, but the clicking bandage stopped her. "Every scar makes me a little less… mine." She looked up at Pari. "Do you understand?"

  Pari nodded slowly. "I understand. I wish it wasn't like that for you. I… Zura?"

  The room had decided to move on its own. Pari's hands grabbed her shoulders.

  The next thing she knew, she was on her back, staring at the ceiling. The room lights were dim, and Pari was leaning over her, datapad in one hand and an injector in the other. "There you go. Are you back?"

  "What?" There was a minute or two she didn't remember. "I'm fine."

  "No, you're not fine. I just gave you a shot of something to perk you up."

  "Ah." Zura tilted her head up off the pillow. A folded towel lay across her chest. Below it, her abdomen was a mess of dark blue bruising and lines of sutures oozing blood. "How is it?"

  Pari lowered her datapad. "I said there would be a cost to keeping you going, remember?"

  "I accept it."

  "I know you do. Right now, I don't want you moving. There's a stretcher outside—"

  "No. I don't want—"

  "Yeah, I know. The corridors are being cleared. No one will see you."

  "I don't…" She sighed. "Fine. You win. What happens now?"

  "Surgery. They'll need to redo most of the work they did earlier, and—"

  "How long?"

  "Hush," said Pari. "Quit interrupting. They'll also need to flush the pharmacy from your system. If they get to it within the next few hours, they can probably keep your liver from failing."

  "And then?"

  "A week, probably two, of uninterrupted bed rest. The wounds need to be kept irrigated, and—"

  "I don't have one or two weeks."

  Pari nodded. "I know you don't. There is an alternative." She looked meaningfully at her.

  A chill ran down Zura's spine. "No, Pari. Not the tank."

  Pari gave her a grim smile. "Two weeks in bed, or a full day in a tank. One or the other."

  "Please, Pari. Not the tank. You don't know what it's like, waking up in that thing with tubes stuck in your body and—"

  "I told you there'd be a price. This is it." She reached down and took Zura's hand; her human skin was hot to the touch. "I'll stay with you the whole time. I won't let you wake up. I promis
e."

  All she could think of was the greenish-yellow murk. Shapes moving outside. The tubes, the machinery… "Okay," she said quietly.

  "Good girl." Pari gave her hand a squeeze. "Can I make a suggestion? Give you something to think about?"

  "Of course. What?"

  "A tattoo."

  Zura blinked. "What?" She was vaguely familiar with the concept. A human custom: ritual injection of ink under the skin to create permanent markings. "Why would I—"

  "A mark of your own choosing. To reclaim ownership."

  "You mean my name?"

  Pari shrugged. "If you like. Or a picture, or a pattern, or whatever you want."

  "Huh," Zura grunted. She looked down at herself lying on the bed. The familiar landscape of scars; the chewed-up battlefield she carried with her. She thought back to that absurd thing Pari had said, and it made her want to laugh. "A new mural for the old cathedral."

  "Just an idea," said Pari. "Something to think about."

  Her eyes met Pari's. "Thank you. I mean that."

  Pari squeezed her hand again. "I love you, too. Now, because I know you're too damn proud for a stretcher, we're gonna put that bandage back on. Then you and I are walking to the medical bay. We better leave soon: that shot I gave you will wear off shortly, and you sure as hell won't feel like walking then."

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Yaella had been surprised how easily they opened the colony ship's hatch. One shoulder-check from Bucky, and it swung inward. There was no rush of air; whatever seal there had once been was long gone.

  From what she'd seen of ships from Earth's early days in space, she expected the interior to be cramped, with every cubic centimetre stuffed with equipment and supplies. But when she stepped through the open airlock, that wasn't what she found.

  "Empty," she said.

  Whatever had once been in here was long gone. No furniture, no gear, nothing. The space she entered was an empty room, bare to the hull on all sides. Bucky quietly entered after her, the others behind him.