by S. J. Madill
This was Zura. Her Zura. She'd shared her heart with this woman. She knew the passion and the strength; she'd seen it, felt it, been overwhelmed by it. But not like this. Eyes wide, teeth bared. Grabbing and ripping and tearing. Sinking the knife in, carving the enemy apart, then on to the next without another thought of the life she'd left pumping its last onto the ground. This was her lover; this was the same woman who treated her with kindness and gentleness. The same woman who was scared to death of going into a regen tank, and whose nightmares brought silent tears in the dark.
A stream of soldiers flooded in through the barricades, pushing past Pari. The last of the Artahel fell. Pari knelt on the ground, thinking of that blood-spattered face, those wild eyes, that fury—
"Hey!"
The face was right in front of her. White skin spattered with blue blood. Wide eyes staring into hers.
Powerful hands clamped onto the sides of Pari's helmet. "Pari!" Zura was panting, taking gasping breaths. "Are you okay?"
Those eyes. There'd been a moment when she'd seen them and wanted to hide. But it was still Zura. And she was still alive. "Yeah," Pari stammered, the taste of bile in her mouth. "You?"
"Don't know," Zura panted. "Didn't feel a thing." She coughed up a few drops of blood, which she spat away. "That 'Fuckitall' works."
"Yeah," Pari said. Her voice didn't want to come, like it was trying to hide.
She saw Zura's expression change. The wild energy draining away, the brows furrowing, the eyes narrowing. "This is my fault," said Zura. "I took a stupid risk. I'm glad you're okay."
"Yeah," she whispered, the sound cut off by her helmet's speakers.
"Go help Irasa."
Strong hands pulled Pari's head closer, and Zura gave her a clumsy kiss on her helmet. With a grunt, she shoved herself back on her feet and was gone, surrounded by a gathering of tense-looking soldiers and officers.
Pari stumbled to her feet as teams of medics arrived, swarming around the bodies on the ground.
She took a dazed step forward. Right, she thought. She took a deep breath to regain her focus. Irasa.
Pari ran toward the kneeling giant. Everything else would have to wait.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Yaella ran between the rows of dull-red houses, headed toward the landing area. The others kept pace, with the exception of the panting Tal who was falling behind.
Residents looked toward the sky. They knew these ships weren't a good sign; she could see it in on their faces. Some were calling for each other, searching for familiar faces. Others started running toward the landing area. A few gave Yaella startled looks as she passed.
They ducked sideways around the corner of a house, shifting feet to avoid a bed of flowers. "Hey," asked Izzy. "That name's familiar. Who the hell is 'McLean-Irvine'?"
"McLean-Irvine is a giant Earth corporation," Yaella panted. The breastplate made it harder to run. "They're behind the kidnapping that brought the hybrids here. I'm sure of it."
With each step, the heavy gun in her pocket swung and clunked against the breastplate. As she ran, she tried to fasten the front of her jacket. "Izzy, them being here isn't good."
"I hope you didn't bring them—"
"No!" Yaella sputtered. "No way. You gotta believe me. Their people kidnapped me once."
Racing past a growing group of curious residents, they arrived at the landing area.
Four sleek McLean-Irvine ships had landed in the middle of the broad pavement. Armoured corporate troops had debarked from their ships and were fanning out, approaching the gathering crowd. A couple of them were checking out the Blue Guardian parked nearby. They all had guns, and a few wore armour. They're not here to negotiate. It was in the way they walked: the swagger, the hands fingering their weapons. They're here to intimidate.
One of the mercenaries, in a corporate uniform with a pistol on his hip, stood at the front of the group with two armoured mercs behind him. He was speaking to the Otlaff; the robe-wearing boy looked diminutive next to the burly man. Behind the Otlaff, a loose handful of settlers had arrived, wearing their handmade plates of dull-red armour and carrying long metal rods that they held, white-knuckled, in both hands. From the sneer on his face, Yaella could see that the McLean-Irvine captain was talking down to the Otlaff. Though the robed boy remained calm, he was clearly frustrated by it. "Speak plainly," said the Otlaff, his voice breaking. "What do you mean, you need someone older?"
Glancing over her shoulder to see that the others were behind her, Yaella approached the landing area. Several of the mercenaries took notice, though their weapons remained pointed at the ground.
"No, kid," said the McLean-Irvine captain. "Kids under twenty can't negotiate anything legal—"
"What's to negotiate?" said the defiant Otlaff. "This is an invasion."
"No, no, no. You're wrong, kid. You're not getting it." The captain rubbed one hand against the stubble on his chin. His eyes wandered in Yaella's direction, and when he looked past her he perked up. "Madam Artahel? Perhaps you can help?"
Lanari pointed at Yaella. "Speak to her."
The mercenary's eyes turned to Yaella. "Oh. Miss, this is all very simple—"
"Of course it is," snapped Yaella. "Like the Otlaff said: you're invading."
"No, no." He shook his head and took a deep breath. "This isn't an invasion. It's all perfectly legal—"
"Legal?" interrupted the Otlaff. "In what way could this possibly be legal?"
The mercenary captain checked a datapad he held in his left hand. "The 'Xenoplanetary Resources Act' says that—"
"What?" asked Yaella. "An Earth law?"
The captain continued. "Planets with resident lifeforms can be harvested for resources if—"
"We are not 'resident lifeforms'," said the Otlaff. "We are citizens of the Union, which has dominion over this system, and—"
"Yeah," said the mercenary captain. "Thing is, we spoke to your 'Union' already." He tapped something on his datapad, which he then held up toward the Otlaff. A wall of text scrolled on the screen. "Made a deal with your Union this morning. Gives us resource rights to their planets—"
"A deal?" Yaella clenched her fists. "Are you kidding me? You threatened them, didn't you? Like the Shard? Said you'd blow up their fortress? Or did you—"
The mercenary captain frowned at her. "Mind your manners, young lady. I said this is all legal. If the Union don't like it, they can go to McLean-Irvine headquarters on New Manhattan, and—"
The Otlaff sighed. "We knew this day would come."
The way he said it made Yaella pause. The boy was barely a teenager, but spoke with the weight of centuries.
"Huh?" grunted the merc. He frowned at the Otlaff. "What d'you mean?"
"Ultimately," said the young Otlaff, "we did this to ourselves." He shook his head. "We've lost so much, we're almost unable to defend ourselves. It was only a matter of time before others would come to scavenge what's left—"
"No no no. Kid, you're not listening." The captain was looking frustrated. "We ain't here to scavenge. You'll all have jobs. With McLean-Irvine."
"Jobs?"
"Yeah. I mean—" he gestured past them into the distance. "Those unauthorised farms will have to go, but you'll all have decent paying jobs. Handling those boxes of rations, and those sheets of red material. Loading transports. Helping us survey and disassemble those underground machines. In turn, you'll be paid real money, with benefits. And you can buy whatever you need — food, water, whatever — directly from McLean-Irvine at discounted—"
"What's the difference," said Yaella, "between that and slavery?"
The word brought a frightened murmur from the gathering crowd. Yaella looked behind her. Several hundred people — men, women, and children — lined the edge of the landing pad, watching. On their faces, Yaella saw apprehension and fear. A few people were backing away, steering their children toward their houses.
"Hybrid people!" Yaella called to the crowd. She pointed toward the mercenarie
s. "This is McLean-Irvine! They're the reason you're here! They've been abducting hybrids and bringing them coreward, selling them to the Union for technology. Your lives are currency to them!"
"Hey!" shouted the mercenary captain. "You shut your damn mouth, girl!"
"Or else what? Or else you and your thugs will make me a slave again? Like you're going to do with these people?"
Voices in the crowd were getting louder. Some of the mercenaries started moving back, their weapons at the ready.
"You need to shut your mouth, Miss—"
"You shut yours!" she yelled. "Maybe you think some law passed on Earth makes this legal, but you know damn well it doesn't make it right! Think for yourselves! Don't just do what your corporate bosses tell you to do! Or are you slaves, too?"
Behind Yaella, the crowd was becoming angry. Children were being spirited away by their parents. Those who remained were younger, and mostly hybrid. Angry shouts filled the air. Someone threw a rock.
"Section four!" yelled the mercenary captain. "Section four! Declaring a hostile life form!"
Yaella clenched her fists at her sides. "No!" she screamed, her voice carrying over the crowd. "They're people, damn you!"
At a signal from their captain, the mercenaries raised their weapons, pointing them at the crowd. "All of you!" he commanded. "On your knees! Do not resist! This is a lawful acquisition!"
Yaella's heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear. Her chest was heaving, her breaths coming in quick gulps. "No," she said, her hands clenched in fists at her sides. This wasn't legal. Even if it was, it wasn't right. If they did this here and got away with it, they'd do it everywhere. Who knew how many systems they'd enslave with their bullying and threats. They had to be stopped. Here. It had to be done.
It was necessary.
She jammed her hand into her jacket pocket and grabbed the heavy metal handgun. It caught in the lining of her jacket, then tore free. Flicking the safety with her thumb, she raised the gun as some of the mercenaries swung their weapons toward her.
She pulled the trigger.
* * *
Tal froze in place. He watched, helpless, as Yaella's body hit the ground in front of him.
Everything was happening in slow motion; there was too much to process. He could only focus on one thing at a time; the rest merged together into a murky, incoherent ball of confusion and panic.
She'd pulled out that giant gun of hers; it belched a brilliant yellow flame wreathed in smoke. He didn't know if she'd hit anything, but it didn't matter. All the mercenaries started shooting. Her body jerked, twitching like a marionette with its strings yanked. Then, strings cut, she fell back, landing hard on the ground. The giant gun, still smoking, tumbled from her hand.
He couldn't get his body to move. He wanted to run, to hide, to cower, all at the same time. There was so much screaming; cries of fear and anguish and pain and anger. So much anger.
Some civilians ran; some crowded around bodies on the pavement. Some charged forward, shouting, their faces contorted in rage. Bucky had his gun out, and was shooting. The Handmaiden went by like a white blur, the blade in her hand glinting in the sunlight. Flickering specks of blazing blue light winked past, churning up the ground where they hit. A small group of red-armoured settlers stood with the Otlaff, holding long metal staves in their outstretched hands. Neon-red beams of light leapt from their staves, burning across the landing area and through the bodies of mercenaries who screamed and fell.
He looked on the ground a few paces in front of him. Yaella's blue eyes were rolled back, her mouth open. Blood soaked through the arms of her jacket; one leg was splayed out at an unnatural angle.
The taste of bile bubbled up into his mouth. "Oh god," he blurted. At last his body obeyed him: he stumbled forward, toward the body on the ground with the tangle of beautiful blue hair.
Ignoring the bright specks of sparkling death whizzing past him, and the screaming and yelling and madness, he knelt behind his friend. She didn't respond as he threaded his hands under her arms and started dragging her body to safety. He tried to focus on the blue hair in front of his face and block out the screaming, the yelling, the fear. There was only the blue hair, the weight under his hands, and the tears in his eyes.
How did it come to this?
* * *
Bucky had been standing near Yaella. He'd seen her face, known she'd made a decision. When she shoved her hand into her jacket pocket, he'd known what she was going to do. So had the mercenaries. As she'd brought her gun up, the mercenaries started aiming their weapons at her. He remembered yelling, then the roar of the big powder-burning gun, the blue flashes from a dozen mercenary carbines. He remembered Yaella being struck repeatedly, falling back, one leg kicked out from under her. As she fell, he'd turned toward the mercenaries. His hand was reaching over his shoulder to the butt of his own carbine; with a touch of his fingers, the gun pivoted over his shoulder and into his waiting hands.
He remembered the first time Yaella's mom had spoken to him one-on-one. It was after Yaella had bought the Blue Guardian and they'd made clear their intent to go into business in space. Learn to shoot, the Mahasa had told him. Growing up on a farm, there had always been a gun in the house, but he knew that the Mahasa wasn't talking about groundhogs. So he'd practiced, then practiced some more.
The mercenaries were shooting wildly; a few sparkling rounds flickered by him. When they slammed into the ground, they spit up bits of pavement. A sickening thud told him that one had found a body in the crowd behind him. Off to his right, beams of bright-red fire scorched across the landing area, cutting toward the scattering mercenaries. Those metal staves the Union people had, they weren't just ceremonial; they were terrifying.
He raised his own gun and took aim at a pair of mercenaries. His gun probably wasn't enough to defeat their armour, but it didn't have to be; he just needed to distract them. Two quick shots, and he started moving.
A nimble white form raced by him, blue pony-tail bobbing behind. Bouncing from one foot to the other, almost too fast to follow, toward the enemy. He didn't even think about it; he charged after her. Maybe he could keep some of the mercenaries busy. For her. And for Yaella.
* * *
Blade in hand, Lanari charged at the human mercenaries.
A leap from left foot to right, throwing her body diagonally forward. Moving laterally, she would be harder to track. Visually separate from other combatants; they'd have to divide their attention.
Two of them were close now. They'd underestimated her speed; only now did they realise how close she was. She bounced a half-step, planted both feet, and pushed off the ground.
Human armour protected the neck better than Palani armour, and their faces were hidden behind enclosed masks. They watched the battle through computer-enhanced optics which could survive a phased-energy hit. But not a blade.
A half turn in the air, blade slicing across the front of one mercenary's helmet, a shower of sparks flying from the ruined optics.
One foot touched the ground and she tumbled into a roll, conserving energy and momentum. Not fighting physics, but welcoming it as an ally. Up to a crouch behind the blinded merc's partner; they were already turning around, trying to find her. A quick upward jab, the blade sliding under the back plate, and she withdrew the red-slick blade as she spun away.
Ahead of her, two more mercenaries, five metres away. Both turning their weapons toward her.
Lanari grunted as she shoved off the ground, swinging her arms to turn in the air. She took a brief look at her surroundings.
The two mercs had been distracted, and were reacting to something. A glancing blow had struck one of them, and they were trying to find the new threat.
Bucky. He'd fired two shots; now he was running to one side. An inelegant, lumbering sort of run. But he'd distracted them, and that was more than enough. She whispered silent thanks as she leapt forward, launching herself at the two distracted mercenaries.
* * *
> Ocean looked down at the gaping hole in his stomach. Burned flesh curled up at the edges, and red meat glistened inside. There was no pain; just a numb throbbing. Without medical help, he'd be dead soon. Or would be, if he was alive. The seeping hole swarmed with black specks; a thousand tiny forms moving within him, across him, through him. Reassembling him, so his torment could continue.
He was surrounded by chaos. People running, weapons firing. Bits of pavement thrown up by plasma bolts striking the ground. Some of the settlers were charging forward, running at the mercenaries with nothing more than sticks and fists. The Otlaff and his retinue were firing bright red beams from their staves, to devastating effect. The Handmaiden, that cold Palani killer, flowed through them like water. Nearer to him, Tal was dragging Yaella's body off to the side, leaving a thin trail of dribbling purple blood along the ground. Ignoring the weapons fire, he started to walk toward them.
A scream of anguish made him stop. He turned around.
Most of the settlers had scattered, but half a dozen lay unmoving on the ground. The bravest of the settlers were returning, trying to reach the fallen. One man was crouched next to the unmoving form of a little girl. He was screaming, raw and primal, an anguished sound that reached beyond language. Ocean took a step closer, then, recognizing the child's face, broke into a run.
He dropped to his knees next to the child, one of the two who had been singing the ancient song of Uryuna. They called his people the 'ship people', and maybe they were: long ago on the homeworld, they had been people of the sea. Driven to explore, to sail ever farther.
The girl was alive, gasping for breath, her eyes already glassy and distant.
No. She is of my people. Ocean reached out.