Crusades

by S. J. Madill

  Black specks flooded down his arm, across his hand, and onto the girl. However her ancestors got here, she is a child of Uryuna as much as I.

  He felt strength draining from him as the machines flowed down his arm. He couldn't see what they were doing, but they told him in their own way. They were repairing damage; rebuilding blood vessels and nerves and organs and more.

  The man kneeling next to them said something, but Ocean didn't hear. Sounds were distorted in his ears; everything sounded further away.

  Their job done, the machines returned up his arm. They moved sluggishly, and his strength did not return with them. It was an effort to push himself to his feet. He shook off the man's grasping hand, words of gratitude barely heard, and stumbled toward the next body lying on the ground nearby. She looked middle aged, he thought, as he fell to his knees beside her. Her face was familiar: she reminded him of Inya, a friend from the colony program back before they launched. Perhaps this was a descendant.

  More of his strength drained away as the machines marched dutifully down his hand to the woman's body. After a time they returned, though he barely felt it.

  Someone helped him to his feet. A concerned face, speaking to him. He slowly moved one foot in front of the other. There were more bodies on the ground. Everything sounded underwater; far away; indistinct.

  His name came to him. Veridi. He'd been named for the ocean he'd once sailed. The ocean he'd seen again, after centuries of being lost.

  He didn't know when he'd fallen to the ground, his face against the pavement, but there was another body near him. Someone was trying to roll him over. He reached out his hand to the body, and watched as the specks — the life-giving machines — obediently crawled down his arm, taking the last of him with them.

  He should have found his people. Saved them. All that time spent searching the heavens. In the end, it hadn't mattered. He'd seen his homeworld again, and been in its ocean again. And then, beyond all hope, he'd seen his people again. Heard their singing. His people lived on.

  He closed his eyes.

  * * *

  She woke up screaming.

  Pain, hot like fire, started in her leg and flowed through her body. Something touched her leg again, forcing another scream from her mouth. She tried to sit up, but hands held her down.

  "There," said the Handmaiden's voice. "The bone is set."

  An upside-down face came into view. Tal?

  "Hey Chief," he said, a weak smile on his face. "Welcome back."

  "W-what?" she stammered. "I don't—"

  She tried to focus her eyes. The sky looked wrong: it wasn't blue.

  A pounding headache made her wince. "Nsal 'neth," she cursed.

  In the haze above them hung a chaotic jumble of starships, crowded together from horizon to horizon. Engines and hulls and wreckage, lit in all the colours of the rainbow; a patchwork quilt of ships that filled the sky and blocked out the sun. "Is that—"

  "It's Niner." Bucky's voice; he leaned into view. "Hey, Blue."

  "Well, shit," she whispered. "About time they showed up."

  "You okay?" Bucky reached down and gently tapped at her scarred breastplate. "We thought they'd got you. Scared the shit out of us."

  "Nonsense," came Lanari's icy voice.

  Yaella raised her head, and saw Lanari crouched near her feet. The white suit was flecked with red. "Palani armour is effective against human weapons." She pointed down at Yaella's leg. "This is set, but needs a splint. Given time, the bone will heal as it should."

  "Thank you," she breathed. "Wait. Where's Ocean?"

  Tal turned away, and the smile dropped from Bucky's face. Yaella felt a lump rising in her throat.

  Lanari looked her in the eye. "Ocean is dead, Captain. He used his machines to heal people: eight in all. He left nothing for himself."

  "Where is he? I want to see…"

  She trailed off as the Handmaiden shook her head. "No, Captain. He is… disintegrating."

  Yaella struggled to sit up, pushing awkwardly with her arms before Tal helped lift her. "But…what the hell happened?"

  A column of black smoke rose into the air. At the far end of the landing area, two of the McLean-Irvine ships were on their sides, their hulls torn open and flames burning within. The other two were still where they'd landed.

  A dozen and a half mercenaries knelt in the middle of the pavement, their hands on their heads, guarded by two of the red-armoured settlers. A dozen more lay strewn around the landing area, their faces covered with red sheets.

  "Well," said Tal. "Between the surprising weapons of the Union, and the uh, work of our friend the Handmaiden…"

  Yaella looked at Lanari, whose only reaction was to raise an eyebrow.

  "Anyway," Tal continued, "They decided that the whole 'let's-enslave-the-planet' thing wasn't going to work out. Just as they were taking off, Niner made this big showy entrance, and—"

  Yaella was watching him. "Divines, Tal," she said. "You're taking this well."

  He shook his head. "No, I'm not. I'm really not. Everything's horrible. You have no idea how many plants I've had to eat." He blinked at her, his eyes unfocused. "Seriously. I think I can actually smell time."

  "Hey," said Bucky. "Did you see the settlers with their metal staves? Whatever those things are, they've been practicing with them."

  "We kinda picked a fight," said Tal. "They're not going to be happy with us. Maybe we'll get thrown off the planet." He made a face, his eyes losing focus. "I hope not."

  A breeze brought a horrible, acrid smell that made her stomach lurch. As the reality of it all began to sink in, it turned into a lump in her stomach. "Gods," she whispered. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  There was a reliable and consistent way to make a group of subordinates nervous at the same time: do something obviously unsafe.

  Zura could hear them behind her, their combat armour rattling as they squirmed and shifted. The comments had trailed off after she'd barked at them, but they still didn't like it. 'I wouldn't do that, Mahasa, if I were you'. That's right: you wouldn't. She let them squirm.

  She was standing on an empty weapon crate, leaning on the top of the hardened foam barrier. The foam had long since hardened, becoming tougher than composite concrete. Every now and then, the energy shield in front of her flared: a bright blue sparkle rippling over the dome with the angry sound of crackling energy. The snipers in the Temple knew exactly where she was. They were good shots, too. If the shield failed, she'd probably get a round in the face within a second or two. It didn't matter. She wanted them to see her.

  She lowered her targeting scope. This was her fourth command post; they'd been moving south during the course of the day. First to the edge of the city, then into a ruined building in the suburb, and now at the top of the Mount of Prophets. Despite the name, it was little more than a hill; most people wouldn't even break a sweat walking up it. But it was the last hill before the land sloped down to the broad cliff-top plain. There sprawled the Temple of the Divines: a half-kilometre-long triumph of Palani religious architecture. Its spires reached skyward, high above the massive domes and intricate vaulted arches. Countless sculptures adorned it, and dotted its manicured gardens and grounds. It made grown Palani cry, such was its beauty. Zura thought it was gaudy.

  The Temple had become the last stand of Pentarch Ivenna and her abortive religious regime. It was surrounded on three sides by gardens full of Zura's troops, hunched down around sculptures and behind decorative walls. Beyond the Temple, there was only the two-hundred-metre drop to the rocks and the sea.

  Overhead hovered the Kaha Ranila, poised in the air like a giant blade ready to drop and cleave the Temple in half lengthways. The sight had prompted one of her generals to dryly remark, 'we appear to have them surrounded'.

  She took a deep breath, testing the soreness of her midsection, and was rewarded with a dull ache. Nothing serious, the medic had promised her; just 'too much exertion'. Too much?
Nonsense. I'm alive; it must have been enough.

  Crossing her arms, she leaned on the top of the barrier, ignoring the occasional flaring of the shields. Behind her were the staff officers, busy at their datasheets, passing data back and forth with other command posts. There was, at the moment, very little for her to do. Her generals knew their jobs, as did all the officers and NCOs, right down to the individual troops she saw resting behind the broken statue of some ancient Prophet.

  Zura turned around and stepped down off the crate, to the sound of a dozen sighs of relief. They feared for her safety, which was understandable. But did they not see the need of it? She wanted her troops to know she was there, and she wanted the enemy to know, too. Ivenna had shown irrational interest in killing her; for whatever reason, her presence distracted Ivenna. If she could distract the enemy by being alive, she was happy to oblige.

  "Update," she commanded.

  Colonel Mwangi stepped forward and gave a quick bow. "Mahasa." He had a datasheet in his hand, but wasn't reading from it. "Lead units are within a hundred metres from the Temple walls. A recon unit has eluded the defenders and is now inside—"

  She raised an eyebrow. "Whose?"

  "Hunter Battalion, Mahasa."

  She grunted acknowledgement. "Well done. And?"

  "Mahasa, they confirm the presence of several thousand civilians." He gestured in the direction of the Temple, out of sight beyond the barricade. "All at the north end, near the Altar of Eternity."

  "Can Kaha Ranila see anything?"

  "Only visually, Mahasa. They confirm the recon group's assessment."

  Zura nodded. "Understood." Hanging in the air a kilometre above the target, the Kaha Ranila was useless in a ground battle; at least, any battle that required precision. At the ship's current range, her main battery's targeting sensors would burn unshielded people in the open. But a kilometre-long dreadnought filling the sky still held considerable psychological value.

  Zura checked over her shoulder, but there was no one there. She'd become used to having Irasa in her peripheral vision; it was distracting not to see her. She felt vulnerable without the black-armoured giant nearby.

  Pari had gone with Irasa. It was just as well; Pari could contribute, instead of standing in a command post looking lost. Pari's helmet had hid her face after the Artahel attack, but her body language was obvious enough: Pari had been shaken by what she'd seen. Shaken by her.

  Zura blinked and gave her head a shake, forcing those thoughts to the back of her mind. For the time being, at least. She could — and would — deal with it later. Right now, she had the present to worry about, and many lives were on the line. So much more was at stake than her personal happiness. As it had always been.

  "Mahasa?"

  She turned toward the speaker: a staff officer, the liaison from the Third 'Blizzard' Brigade. General Deran's unit. She liked Deran; he'd always been aggressive without being reckless. A difficult line to walk, even for a good officer. "Yes, Major?"

  "Mahasa, General Deran reports he is advancing."

  "Ah. Good." She grabbed her targeting scope and climbed back up on top of the crate. As soon as her head appeared, the shield in front of her flashed like a strobe: patient snipers in the Temple, trying their luck. She raised her scope and looked down the hill to the Temple.

  The assault troops were breaking out of cover, rushing toward the walls of the cathedral. A memory came to mind: Pari had playfully called her a 'cathedral' once. An absurd moment; she wondered if moments like that would come again.

  The troops surged forward. They lunged out from behind cover, darting across open ground — across the manicured lawns and pristine marble walkways — before ducking back into cover behind monuments and statues.

  From this distance, they were just images in a targeting scope. No sound, no smell, no taste of smoke in her nostrils. Again and again, the shield in front of her flared. Let them shoot at me. Every sniper shooting at her wasn't shooting at the troops pushing across the Temple's gardens. There were too many snipers as it was; with each push forward, more soldiers stumbled and fell as they crossed an open space. Bodies, some still moving, began to litter the Temple's gardens like fallen leaves.

  Her hands tightened around the targeting scope. One shot, one single shot, from the Kaha Ranila's main battery would have levelled the Temple and ended the battle in an instant. But it would also have killed the thousands of civilians inside. To save civilians, soldiers had to die. That's the way it was; the way it had always been. She wished she was there with them.

  Something caught her eye, and she swung the scope to look. There, at the north end of the Temple: a line of troops huddled against the base of the Temple's walls. Tiny figures moved next to the massive columns. They were smashing holes in the bottoms of the windows — the millennia-old windows depicting the Five Divines — and civilians were climbing out. More holes were smashed in the giant windows, and the trickle of civilians became a flood. Some immediately sprinted across the pavement to get away, and were cut down by snipers high in the spires. Most stayed against the wall, crowding around the soldiers. Nsal 'neth. She'd been afraid of that happening.

  So, it seemed, had General Deran. New teams moved slowly across the Temple grounds: groups of four, carrying heavy pieces of gear. One would fall, and perhaps another, and those that remained would keep going, moving the gear forward. When they reached their destination, they dropped the gear, pressed a button on it, and the device unfolded. After a moment, the flickering blue dome of a shield expanded over the generator. One generator at a time, teams were building lines of shield generators across the ground toward the Temple. As soon as the paths were complete, streams of civilians began to flow back along the uninterrupted lines of shields.

  "Colonel," she said, lowering her scope and turning around. "Contact—"

  "Mahasa," interrupted Mwangi. "Many apologies." His helmet tilted to one side; he was listening to something. "Report from General Deran."

  "Go on."

  "Mahasa, advance teams are inside the Temple. They report gunfire from high in the dome. Possibly from the Pentarch's offices. Resistance is collapsing."

  "Very well."

  Looking through the scope again, the scene was changing. Her troops were advancing toward the giant Temple, but encountering little return fire. Along the side of the building, ornate doors were being pulled open: soldiers poured in the south end, while civilians poured out the north end and streamed along the lines of blue-domed shields. "I need to know," she said quietly. "Find Pentarchs Ivenna and Fennin. I need confirmation."

  "Yes, Mahasa."

  Shots were no longer hitting the shield in front of her. Down below, teams of medics tended to the wounded. Across the wide ornamental gardens, past statues and sculpted trees, more black-armoured troops approached the Temple. She couldn't see inside, but she could imagine the soldiers advancing. She'd done it herself, long ago. Room to room: breach, clear, secure, on to the next. Smoothly, methodically, being careful and thorough. Taking nothing for granted, leaving nothing to chance.

  The last sounds of battle trailed off, leaving only the eerie silence of an empty battlefield.

  * * *

  It was fifteen minutes before Mwangi approached her.

  "Mahasa," he said. "We have confirmation."

  Zura lowered the scope. "Ivenna and Fennin?"

  "Both dead, Mahasa. Confirmed."

  "Very well." She put down the scope and pulled a rolled-up datasheet from the sleeve of her armour. "Proceed with the next phase, Colonel. Transmit the confirmation code. Begin landings on the other home worlds. Accept no conditions from the rebels. They surrender or they die."

  "Yes, Mahasa."

  The datasheet unrolled in her hand. With a few taps of a finger, a woman's face appeared. Pentarch Yenaara looked worried. "Mahasa?"

  Zura sighed. "Honoured Pentarch: I confirm that Pentarchs Ivenna and Fennin are dead. Resistance has collapsed. I have sent the order to begin landings
on the other home worlds."

  The Pentarch lowered her eyes. "Thank you, Mahasa. Ivenna and Fennin… I wish it hadn't come to this."

  "They made their choice. Your civilian government may assume control at their convenience, Pentarch. My forces — your forces — are standing by to assist."

  "So… you are done, then."

  Just thinking it made Zura's throat tighten. "Yes. I am."

  "We are in your debt, Mahasa. I will speak to you soon."

  "Yes, Pentarch." A swipe of a finger, and the communications window closed. Zura released her grip on the datasheet, watching as it slowly rolled up in her hand.

  That was it.

  She looked again at the quiet Temple down below, at the soldiers going in and the civilians coming out. The machine of war, abruptly winding down after eleven days of furious activity. There would be days, perhaps weeks, of cleanup. There would be details of re-establishing order and administration. The new Pentarch Council needed to be installed. The disloyal needed to be found and held accountable. The machine of governance needed to be set in motion again..

  When all was said and done, nothing had been accomplished but to restore the status quo at the cost of thousands of lives. It didn't feel like success.

  "Mahasa?"

  She turned around, still standing on the empty crate.

  Behind her, the generals and staff officers stood at attention, helmets off and held under their left arms.

  "Yes?" she asked.

  "Mahasa," said Mwangi. "Congratulations on your swift and decisive victory. On behalf of us all, it has been an honour serving with you." They all bowed to her: a deep, formal bow, in near-perfect unison.

  She returned the bow, acknowledging the group of familiar faces. Most were Palani officers she knew well from years of service together, and some were humans that she'd only met days ago. They'd all proven themselves. When she tried to speak, no words came. She tried again. "Thank you," she said, barely a whisper. "But the honour is mine. It always has been."

  Stepping down off the crate, she threaded her way through the bowing officers. Her broken helmet was on a table — it kept reappearing — and she tucked it under her arm as she walked toward the gap in the barriers.