Crusades

by S. J. Madill

  A dozen metres away, a long line of civilians was walking by: the first of the rescued hostages returning to the city. They looked relieved, even joyful. Giddy from dissolved anxiety.

  A few of them caught sight of her. She was hard to miss, blue amid the sea of black. Some of the civilians paused to bow before carrying on up the hill.

  Zura fixed the image in her mind. On one side of the street, a group of tired soldiers. On the other, a line of happy, relieved civilians. One group living lives of struggle, so the other would not.

  As it has always been.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Yaella sat on the pavement of the landing area, her splint-wrapped leg stretched out in front of her. She couldn't take her eyes away from the sheet of dull-red cloth next to her, that covered the humanoid figure underneath.

  She'd run out of tears a while ago. Now she sat, eyes aching, feeling numb inside. People were moving around her, but she wasn't paying attention. She assumed everyone else was busy. Being useful, unlike her.

  The rest of the bodies — the dead were all mercenaries, apart from Ocean — had been cleared away. The surviving mercenaries had been led away somewhere; she'd heard someone talking about finding a way to send them home.

  Niner had risen to a higher orbit, and the sun had come out. Now the giant ship was barely visible in the haze above the clouds.

  She stared at the red-covered lump in front of her; the way the sunlight hit it. Maybe this was why her mother didn't make friends; why she didn't get close to people. In Mom's line of work, people died all the time. She was just protecting herself from the pain. And the guilt.

  Slow footsteps behind her. Yaella glanced over her shoulder, and saw Admiral Dillon smiling down at her.

  "Hey," she said.

  "May I join you?"

  She shrugged.

  "Thanks."

  The old man slowly lowered himself to the ground, one knee popping loud enough for her to hear. "Growing old is bullshit," he muttered. He let out a long sigh and fell silent.

  Yaella sat and watched Ocean's cloth-covered body. Some sort of insect landed on the rumpled form; it had colourful green and blue wings, and twitched its little head before abruptly flying off again.

  "I was concussed," she said. "Knocked out. I didn't see him die."

  A deep breath beside her, let out in a sigh. "No one wants to see the death of someone they care about. To see them suffer." Dillon cleared his throat. "That sort of thing never leaves you."

  She should've thought of that: he'd spent a life in the military, too. He'd probably seen people die. "Sorry."

  "It is what it is." He paused a moment. "I heard that Ocean saved lives today."

  Yaella nodded. "They said he crawled to them. Reached out and touched them, and…" She gestured at the dull red form. "His machines helped them." Her eyes ached, trying to cry tears that weren't there. "He controlled the machines, you know? So he must've done it on purpose. Gave them…" She trailed off, and wiped her nose with the rough sleeve of her jacket.

  She turned toward the Admiral sitting next to her. Brown eyes looked back at her from a time-worn face.

  "You know," she said, "I had some of the machines too. Just a few; I couldn't even control them. But if I still had them, maybe I could've found him. Helped him." She blinked away the soreness in her eyes. The Admiral didn't say anything.

  There was a group of people at the far end of the landing pad. They'd put out the fires in the McLean-Irvine ships, and were clearing away the wreckage. In the middle of them was the Handmaiden; her white shape stood out. She was moving a piece of hull plating as big as her.

  "I should help out," Yaella said. "Like Lanari. Look at her. I admire her, the way she's got her shit together."

  Dillon had turned to look as well. His grey beard twitched as a smile turned up the corners of his mouth. "You'd be surprised," he said, "how few people actually have their shit together." He watched the group in the distance. "Whenever she got upset at her mother or me, she'd go clean her room."

  "Huh?"

  He saw Yaella's confused stare. "No," he said, shaking his head. "Not the way you or I would clean a room. I mean, 'hospital' clean. Perfect. Orderly. Precise."

  "So you're saying she's upset right now?"

  "Maybe not upset." He looked back toward his daughter at the far end of the pavement. "Preoccupied. She's got a lot on her mind. But I never said anything to you. Right?"

  "Right," she agreed. "It's just… It seems like everyone knows what they're doing, except me. I keep screwing up." Her eyes went back to the red cloth near her feet. "I thought I was coming here to help people. Now, I don't know. What did I do wrong?"

  "Don't ask me," said Dillon. "I'm not an expert—"

  "Sure you are," she interrupted. "More than me, anyway. They don't make just anyone an admiral."

  "The bar is lower than you think." He thought for a moment, his eyes still in the distance. "I can give you an old man's opinion, for whatever it's worth."

  "Please."

  "Right." He stretched his legs out in front of him, and leaned back on his hands. "So… the people you were helping. Did you involve them in the helping?"

  "I was mostly trying to find them, but—"

  "I mean after that. Did you know what help they needed?"

  "I just assumed…" she began, then stopped herself.

  The Admiral raised his eyebrows.

  "Oh," she said quietly. "I just barged ahead, and I just… I always saw Mom taking charge, you know? She just did stuff."

  Dillon nodded. "Maybe it seemed like it," he said. "But she's a military officer. She lives in a structure. A strict hierarchy full of procedures and rules." He shook his head. "Rules, rules, rules."

  "She always said I needed discipline."

  "Maybe. Everyone needs some. And I don't necessarily mean the discipline that involves a petty officer shouting at you. I mean the discipline that comes from within." He had a cryptic smile on his face. "Although yelling can be effective."

  Yaella gave a heavy sigh, and looked up. The hazy shape of Niner disappeared behind a cloud. "What about you?" she asked. "I was supposed to bring you to find that thing up there. We did that, then came here while you disappeared for a while." In her mind, ideas slowly nudged together. "Wait," she said. "You were here to make a deal with the Union."

  "I was here to try."

  "Pentarch Yenaara sent you. Because she trusts you more than anyone." Her eyes went back to the white-clad Lanari working in the distance. "And it kept the two of you safe, away from the trouble back home."

  Dillon shifted, leaning on one arm while his other hand scratched his beard, fingertips pinching it to a point. "Something like that."

  "So did you make a deal? Or is it all hush-hush?"

  He rolled his head back and forth. "Not a deal in the way you're thinking, but it was a good start. Time will tell."

  "What could you offer them that McLean-Irvine couldn't?"

  "Not so much a 'what' as a 'how'."

  Yaella frowned. "I don't get it."

  "They're a bit like the Palani," he said. "Their civilisation is a shadow of its former glory. But they still have their pride. Their dignity." He seemed to be still thinking about it. "I think it came down to how I talked to them."

  "So… how did you talk to them?"

  "Like an equal."

  "But they're not. They've lost everything. Even McLean-Irvine could—"

  The Admiral shook his head. "Always treat people like they're equals. Even when they're not." He thought a moment. "Especially when they're not."

  "Oh."

  He was watching her, studying her face. The way Mom sometimes did, when she wanted to make sure she was paying attention. "So," she asked. "What're you going to do next? Are you staying here?"

  He grinned. "I was hoping to hitch a ride home. Got any room?"

  "Sure. But what about…" She pointed up toward the hazy shape in the sky.

  "Niner is staying
," he said, following her gaze. "For now, at least. She said she's going to look around. She mentioned that story about ancient Union explorers finding the words of their god somewhere near the galactic core. Maybe she'll go searching for it… " Something across the landing pad caught his eye. "What's this?"

  Led by the Otlaff, a dozen people approached them from the direction of the settlement.

  "Uh oh," said Dillon. "The authorities are coming for us."

  Yaella looked around for her crutch: a rolled-up sheet of stiffened red retmel. She carefully got up, standing on her good leg.

  Behind her, the Admiral moved slowly, his knee popping as he straightened up. "Jesus," he muttered.

  The Otlaff was dignified, maybe even regal. The boy wasn't even a teenager, yet he carried himself with an air of solemnity and confidence. How did someone so young learn to have such a presence? When she'd been his age, she'd been frightened and alone, in a world of instability and impermanence. But then she'd met Mom, and saw what stability and permanence looked like.

  The young Otlaff came to a stop a few paces away. Behind him stood a grim-faced Izzy and others, of various ages and appearances, all wearing the gold plates of the Daal.

  "Admiral," said the Otlaff. "Captain."

  Yaella tried to force a smile. The Otlaff and the Daal all had that look she used to get from teachers: the look when they told her they had 'no choice' but to tell Mom of something her daughter had done.

  "Captain Yaella," said the Otlaff. "I come to express the will of the Daal."

  "Oh," she said quietly. Yes, the teacher was definitely calling Mom.

  The Otlaff lifted his chin. "Captain Yaella: you made a decision on our behalf. You forced us into battle with McLean-Irvine that put the lives of our people at risk, and that cost the lives of several mercenaries. You had no right to make that decision for us. That was unacceptable."

  "Yeah." She looked down at her feet. "Yeah, I did do that. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

  "That is well," said the Otlaff. "We respect you accepting responsibility. And we acknowledge the fighting spirit of you and your crew." The grim-faced boy gestured at the cloth-covered body on the ground between them. "We especially acknowledge the loss of your friend Ocean. Though we don't know exactly how, it is clear that he gave his life to save others. We are deeply honoured by his sacrifice."

  Yaella was about to say something, but paused: the Otlaff bowed deeply toward Ocean's body, the members of the Daal following suit. As she watched, tears welled up in her eyes again. She sniffled.

  "We have been told of Ocean's journey," said the Otlaff, straightening up. "And of your selfless assistance in helping this lost spirit find his world and his people."

  "I don't know," mumbled Yaella. "I didn't—"

  The Otlaff cleared his throat. "Long ago, we documented the beliefs and traditions of the 'ship people'. Tonight at sunset, we will honour Ocean in accordance with his peoples' customs. We hope you will join us."

  "Yeah," she said, sniffling again. "Yes. Of course. Thank you."

  "Very well," said the Otlaff, nodding sagely. "The Daal also acknowledges that we have acquired two new ships…" He gestured toward the undamaged McLean-Irvine vessels parked nearby, "and we have the services of someone to teach us how to fly them. They will be put to use, and will benefit all the worlds of the Union."

  Yaella frowned. "What? Wait. Who's teaching you to fly them?"

  "Hey," said Tal.

  He was standing nearby, looking a bit sheepish. His clothes were particularly rumpled, even by his standards: one pant leg was stained with blood, more purple than red. Yaella realised it must be hers. "Tal? What's going on?"

  He gave her a thin smile. "I've decided to stay a while." He clumsily gestured behind him, toward the town. "I mean… what an opportunity, right? When life offers something like this, I'd be crazy not to try it. And they say the ground can grow anything…" His smile became something more wistful. "And c'mon, Chief. You and I both know there's nothing waiting for me back home."

  "Oh," she said. "I mean, if that's what you want—"

  "Promise to come back sometime soon?"

  "Oh, Tal. Of course I will."

  Tal stepped closer and drew her into a brief hug. She tried to smile through her tears. Not only was she going home without any of the hybrids she intended to rescue, but without half her crew. No captain was that bad.

  It was like the Otlaff had been reading her thoughts. "We have spread the word, Captain: any who wish to return with you are free to do so. As we have said, there are no prisoners here."

  "Okay," said Yaella. "Thank you." Her voice was barely a croak. "So… if I find more hybrids who want to come—"

  "Then by all means bring them," said the Otlaff. He held up a finger. "Only if they wish it."

  Tears welled up in her eyes, and her nose was running. "Okay," she whispered. "I'll… I mean…" She turned toward the Admiral next to her.

  Dillon made a face. "C'mere," he said, opening his arms.

  She quickly pulled him into a hug. "I don't know what to do," she mumbled into the old man's chest. "I just wanted to do the right thing. None of it turned out how I wanted."

  "I know," said the Admiral, holding her close. "I'm sorry, but that's going to keep happening." He sighed. "All the damn time."

  Chapter Fifty

  Zura stood in front of her bedchamber's window, fastening her uniform coat in her reflection.

  When she'd returned to the Kaha Ranila half an hour ago, she'd made her instructions very clear: she was going to rest, and was only to be disturbed if something happened that an entire room of admirals and generals couldn't fix. In such a case, the admirals and generals were to know that they'd all be demoted.

  Pari had sometimes said that having a shower at the end of the day made her feel more human. Zura wasn't sure if she felt more human, or that she wanted to, but washing off the blood, sweat, and grime of battle was as much an emotional cleansing as a physical one. A chance to leave the day's horrors behind, to don a fresh new uniform and prepare to face whatever came next. Even if, as now, she didn't know what that would be.

  It was dark in the room, and she couldn't clearly make out the face of the woman in the reflection. But she could see the slump of the shoulders, the droop of the head. Chin up, she reminded herself. Shoulders back.

  A single chime from the wall console: Pari had entered the admiral's suite. When Zura had returned to the ship the Doctor had stayed behind, tending to Irasa and the other wounded.

  Within moments, she heard a muffled sound coming from Pari's bedchamber. The bulkheads were well soundproofed; whatever it was, it was loud. Was Pari swearing?

  Two knocks on Zura's bedchamber door. She raised an eyebrow. "Open."

  A rectangle of light silhouetted her reflection in the window, as well as another figure in the doorway. Zura turned around.

  Pari was still in her combat armour, though she'd shed her helmet and pack. Her hair was a disheveled mess, and her face was flushed red. She looked frustrated.

  Pari lifted her arm, pointing at the clasp on the side of her breastplate. "Would you help me with this, please?"

  "Of course." Zura motioned her closer.

  They met in the middle of the room, and stood close enough for Zura to feel the hot human breath. She put one hand on Pari's shoulder and, with a flick of her wrist, opened the clasp on the side of the breastplate.

  "Thanks," said Pari.

  "Mm hmm." Zura reached under Pari's other arm to unlatch the other side. The breastplate unfolded and came away in her hands. "How is Irasa?" she asked, setting the armour on a table.

  "She's okay," said Pari. She sounded tired. "She's in a tank right now. They're going to keep her in it overnight."

  "Overnight," Zura repeated.

  Pari had undone her arm and leg armour; Zura wordlessly took them and set them down on the table next to the breastplate.

  "I'm going to go have a shower," said Pari. "I want to put on
something clean."

  Zura paused at the table, looking down at the armour. She slowly moved the leg plates, lining them up with each other. "Understood."

  Pari headed toward the door. "Thanks again, Zura."

  "Of course."

  She turned and walked back to the window. Thoughts edged their way into her mind: Pentarch Yenaara was already having trouble with her new government. One of her picks for Pentarch had bowed out. It had only been a few hours, and already…

  In the window's reflection, she saw Pari was still in the room, standing at the door. Zura turned around.

  Pari's face was grimy with dried sweat, and her hair was a mess. Under her armour, she wore an insulated version of the undersuit that hugged her figure. She was looking down at the floor. "You know," said Pari. "My sister used to tell me something. She said, if I ever found someone I liked, I should spend a day with them at their work. That way, I'd see a side of them I'd never see at home." Pari cocked her head, a hint of a grin on her lips. "Easy for her to say; her husband's a chef."

  A lump was forming in Zura's stomach. "Were you scared today?"

  Pari thought about that for a moment, then shook her head. "No, I wouldn't say that. Startled, I guess. Shocked."

  "Shocked," Zura repeated.

  "Hey," said Pari. "I'm a combat medic. I've seen people die before. I've seen people killing people. I wasn't—"

  "I wouldn't have hurt you, Pari."

  Zura looked up in time to see the flash of annoyance in Pari's eyes. "Knock that shit off, will you? Give yourself some credit. You're not some animal, whatever you might think."

  Zura remained quiet. She knew Pari wasn't done.

  Pari put her hands on her hips. "I think I get it."

  "Get it?"

  Pari gestured at her with both hands. "Yes. You. You've got this notion in your head that I'm going to leave you the moment I find out you're the monster you think you are."

  "But—"

  "Don't 'but' me. Listen. You're not a monster. You need to start believing that."

  Zura lowered her eyes. "I fight, Pari. I destroy and I kill. My own people call me a monster. How am I not one?"