by S A Asthana
Muslims, along with Christians, were a persecuted lot under Marie’s rule. Both faced the same hatred. A price to pay when you worshipped the competition. Many from both communities lived in these tunnels. Neighbors with complicated relations before World War Three were now cozy roommates in these dark times.
One of the women greeted her. “Assalam Alaikum, your highness.”
Belle nodded back. While she didn’t understand the devotions to their full-length garb, she was proud of providing Muslims space where they could wear it safely. Outside they’d be targeted by the loups. Deemed traitors for not believing in the Queen’s divinity, these women would be crucified. But not here. The catacombs were their haven, Belle their benefactor.
Religious persecution, specifically against pre-war belief systems, was a uniquely Parisian problem. Nippon One didn’t have such strict notions. In fact, Buddhism, another ancient religion, thrived there as the city-state religion. Its subscribers traced their lineage back to the old-world nation of Japan, a country that had never directly engaged in World War Three. While affected by the fallout, Japan had escaped the cultural destruction its peers hadn’t. Large swaths of Japanese citizens were able to migrate to their nation’s burgeoning lunar science facility and take whole traditions with them. Buddhism was one such element.
Port Sydney had a similar story, the difference being its source nation had been Australia and its end destination had been a growing Aussie outpost on Mars. The colony didn’t sponsor religion, on account of its population being mostly atheist, but it didn’t persecute pockets of those with spiritual leanings. To be able to believe in what you wanted without fear of persecution was true freedom. That’s what Belle had provided in the catacombs. There was no sweeter dream than that liberty permeating through Parisian tunnels one day.
She made a hard left and entered a small cavern. It was her private quarters. A hole in the ground—who would have thought it could be so relaxing? A pocket of fresh air lit by a single candle, the confined space had nothing of interest except for a battered mattress. Belle eyed it with droopy lids. A chance to finally drop face first and melt into sweet slumber. She would dream of a more glorious Parisian future.
But that wasn’t meant to be.
A tall stranger leaned against the back wall. The man’s top half, broad and muscular, lingered in shadows, the candle's light only illuminating him from his chest on down as if for effect. He wore military dress. The New Paris emblem displayed brightly across the thick chest. A red wolf. The mark of a high-ranking loup.
Belle pointed her gun at him with the swiftness of a cheetah. The lighter dropped and burnt out. How did he get in? She hoped her loyalists would join soon. Backup would be required. The man was huge. Would bullets just bounce off his muscles?
He spoke in a heavy voice, one that was probably mistaken for a tuba. “Thought you were never going to show up.” Not a muscle had flinched at the sight of the firearm.
“How’d you find this place?” Belle’s voice shook. Steady yourself, girl.
The shadowed man answered calmly, “I have my ways.”
“Well, you found your way in, but you’ll never find your way out.” The shakiness faded, giving way to a familiar, bolder tone.
The man shook his head. He didn’t seem amused by the threat. “Not even if I give you information of immense importance?”
Clicking off her weapon’s safety, Belle spat, “It better be good. You’re two seconds from being a dead loup. I don’t do empty fuckin’ threats.” The claws were out.
“The Queen’s put an assassin on your trail,” the silhouette revealed.
Belle mulled over the man’s words for a few seconds. Why was he revealing this? Shrugging her shoulders, she asked, “So, what? I’ve had you loups after me for years now, and nothing’s come of it.”
“This one is different.” The shadow man pulled an item from within his uniform. At first, Belle couldn’t tell what it was. But then, when his hand came out from the shadows, a rolled-up poster could be seen. Her muscles loosened.
Grabbing the paper, she straightened it. A sketch was drawn within. A familiar one.
“Bastien Lyons is a Martian military man, and he’s a fugitive,” the loup noted. “So, not only is he well trained, but he’s also got a few screws loose. And he is coming to kill you.”
The poster fell to the dirt. Belle’s glare fixed on the man.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
The stranger grunted with irritation. “You think I would go to all this trouble just so I could lay out a made-up story at your feet? You don’t think I’d bring some men with me to try and kill you instead?”
Point noted. But the gun still remained trained forward.
“Marie would love to have you sacrificed atop a pedestal.” The loup took a step forward to remove the shadows from his swarthy face. “But some us would like to have you atop the throne.”
“Hafiz?” Belle gasped. The thick beard, hooked, heavy nose, and the bald head were instantly recognizable. Everyone knew the Queen’s right hand. She took a step back.
“I can help you turn the tables on her once and for all.”
Several breaths passed. Accepting the man’s presence in her secret place was hard, a strange turn in the ongoing saga between the sisters.
“Why?” Belle finally asked. “What’s in it for you?”
“Survival,” he responded. “Not only mine. New Paris’ survival.”
With a tilted head she shot back, “This just dawned on you?” Her gun was still pointed at his face.
Hafiz exhaled and crossed his arms as if to shield himself from judgment. “You’re right. I should have supported your cause a long time ago. But I can’t change the past. I can impact the future, though. Marie is now a shell of her former self. Her drug addiction is out of control. And she’s hell-bent on starting a war with the Martians.”
“What?” Belle hadn’t expected that, even from Marie. Clearly, crazy had no limits.
“Yes, a goddamn war with the Martians. She is somehow convinced her army can take on the Martian military. As her right hand, I know that we cannot.”
“The Martians have spaceships, you guys have… giant wolves.” Belle uncurled a half-smile.
“Yeah, I know.” Hafiz squirmed.
“Their armada can reach us, and we in New Paris can’t even reach the moon.”
Hafiz’s shoulders drooped. “I know all this.”
“How is she trying to start a war then?” The answer was obvious, but she wanted confirmation.
“Bastien,” Hafiz confirmed. “She should hand him over. Instead, she’s giving him protection. She doesn’t realize how badly this will play out. Directly disobeying Martian orders as well as violating the Trilateral Treaty can only lead to disaster.”
“Why don’t you just hand him over? Hell, why don’t you just kill Marie since you’re so close to her?” Belle pressed. There were so many questions. She knew the answers but still wanted him to corroborate her train of thought. If there were inconsistencies in his logic, that would spotlight his unreliability. Or worse, his trickery.
“I figured you’d ask,” Hafiz stated. “I cannot hand over Bastien, because I’ll be going against Marie’s directive. That’s certain death for me. Not an option. I can’t help overthrow her if I’m dead right out the gate.”
Belle nodded in agreement.
Hafiz took a deep breath. “And I cannot kill her because there are still loyalists within the ranks. Many, many loyalists who can’t see the destruction that’s coming. So if I kill her, there would definitely be a civil war. Messy. Not an option, either.”
Belle almost lowered her gun. The interrogation was comforting.
“But if an outsider, someone who doesn’t have allegiance to anyone, does the execution, then no civil war. You see what I mean? It would be classified as an unfortunate, external attack, one brought on by the Queen’s poor decision-making. She’d be the sole owner of any b
lame. And then, we would hand over that someone back to the Martians.”
“And no war with Port Sydney,” Belle cut in. The plan seemed promising, albeit not fully-baked yet.
“With her gone, you could ascend the throne without war. And with minimal body count.” Hafiz made the last point with a satisfied grin.
Not as dumb as he looks. “And that someone is Bastien?”
Hafiz nodded.
Ten men burst into the cavern with swords drawn. “Destroy and disrupt!”
“Defend her highness!” one yelled, the gangliest of the lot.
Belle raised her gun to the rocky ceiling and shouted as if disciplining rowdy teenagers, “Stand down.”
There was stunned silence. The Jacobins lowered their weapons one by one, their eyes fixed on Belle all the while. She carved a petite figure—a pebble surrounded by boulders. But her confidence elevated her.
“He’s one of us,” Belle said. Hafiz could prove to be critical—a central pawn in the chess match with Marie. Checkmate had only been a dream up until now, something untouchable several moves out, but that had all changed in the past five minutes. A path to victory had become prominent. Still, repercussions needed to be made clear.
She walked up to Hafiz with slow, measured steps and pressed her gun’s barrel into his throat. With her eyes searing his, she warned, “This better not be a fuckin’ trick, man. I’m not the forgiving type. I’ll skin you alive and dance over your corpse. You understand?”
“Understood, your highness.” The man nodded. His face turned solemn. Even elephants feared mice.
“Tell me how we convince Bastien to kill Marie.” Belle stowed away her weapon. Things were in control. For now.
“Convince?” Hafiz shook his head. “No, he will suggest it himself if I can help it along. I have a plan, your highness, but first, we need Bastien to find you. And I know just the orphan who can assist him.”
CHAPTER 9: BASTIEN
A Nipponese talk show played on a grainy black and white television in the corner of the tent. Three boys in their late teens sat cross-legged around the set, one of them slapping the screen every time the image flickered. They didn’t seem aware of Bastien—he was in the shadows at the back, his face hidden behind a shawl.
“Emperor Akiyama, our lunar economy is on everyone’s mind these days,” the host noted with a slight Japanese accent, her eyes studying her subject through thick glasses. “Unemployment rate is over ten percent. Illegal immigration from New Paris continues to be an issue—it’s up by five percent year over year according to several estimates. And that’s not all. Another point of concern has started to surface recently. Some people fear deteriorating relations with the other colonies. What would you say to calm the Nipponese citizenry’s fears?”
The Emperor sat tall in a plush leather chair. He stroked his well-groomed black beard for a few seconds, taking deep breaths as if to prepare for a lengthy rebuttal. Fixing the sleeves of his striped suit calmly, he stared straight into the camera with an unsmiling face. “Miss Ota, I want to assure you and everyone at home our economy is not lagging our counterparts.”
Despite his Japanese ethnicity, the Emperor’s accent didn’t possess any local traits. He sounded more a vowel-loving, soft “r” pronouncing Sydneysider than anything else—probably due to childhood schooling in strict Martian institutions where Japanese accents were disciplined out of students. His eyes remained fixed on the camera. It was as if the man stared directly at Bastien. The emperor’s irises were darker than the deepest black holes. What secrets they held were anyone’s guess.
“Our economy is actually doing better than the Martians’,” he said in his baritone, a gold Casio glinting brilliantly under the studio lights. “Our gross domestic product is stronger than theirs by two percentage points. That has been the case for a year now.”
There was something measured about the way he spoke and carried himself. Every word, every tonal intonation, every movement—it all appeared well crafted. He was machine-like, despite all the smooth flesh.
“I realize it hasn’t necessarily felt like we’re ahead,” the Emperor conceded as his wispy eyebrows drew together. “These last few years have been difficult with part of the market crashing and some of our banks defaulting, but I am confident we have made great progress with last year’s monetary stimulus packages. Rest assured, state capitalism is still the best form of governance for Nippon One. It shows in the results.”
He cracked his knuckles, staring at Bastien—or so he imagined.
“As for your last statement, Miss Ota, there is nothing of concern. Nippon One always abided by the Trilateral Treaty’s rules and continues to share strong trading ties with both Port Sydney and New Paris. There is nothing but peace amongst the three. The Nipponese empire thrives, and its future remains glorious thanks to the ingenuity and resilience of the Nipponese race.”
“But what about reports the Martians want you to sever ties with New Paris?” the host pressed. “Isn’t it true there have been tensions because of your refusal to do so? After all, it is public knowledge New Paris and Port Sydney don’t have diplomatic ties. And there are rumors of your relationship with Queen Ma—”
“What plagues their relationship, does not sour Nippon One’s relationship with the two colonies,” the Emperor cut in. “Nippon One plays the peacemaker where needed. We follow the Trilateral Treaty’s edicts diligently, and in doing so, we keep open diplomatic relations and trade with everyone.”
“Yes, but my question still remains unanswered, Emperor.” The woman leaned forward, her glasses now on the tip of her nose. “There are verifiable accounts General Crone has pressed you behind closed doors to cut trade ties with Queen Marie, and—”
“Absolutely untrue.” The Emperor crossed his arms.
Bastien remained on the ground behind the boys, his back leaning against an old, dusty bookshelf. Gotta love politics. His right hand rested on the Howa and his left massaged the fingernail scrapes on his neck.
A bulletin interrupted the talk show. “Kon’nichiwa. The Lunar Police Department brings you an important message,” a stern female voice cut in with a thick Japanese accent. “To our Parisian brothers and sisters: please be on the lookout for this criminal.” Bastien’s picture flashed on the screen.
Oh, hell.
“This man has been at large and is thought to be hiding out in New Paris. His name is Bastien Lyons, a Parisian and an enlisted soldier in Port Sydney’s army. He is wanted for the murder of five colleagues and desertion. If you know of his whereabouts, please inform the nearest authority. There is a cash reward of ¥400,000 if your report leads to an arrest.”
Bastien wrapped the shawl tighter around his face. Lovely. If that isn’t rock bottom. He slid out the pistol from its holster, studying the teenagers through squinted eyes. Don’t look back, boys.
One of the three turned to his companions and laughed. “With that kind of money, we’d have les prostituées for a lifetime.” The others giggled as they passed around a half-empty bottle of sake.
“Yeah, like you’re gonna catch that guy,” another boy mocked, alcohol dribbling down the side of his mouth.
Just keep drinking and laughing—don’t turn around. Bastien clenched his jaw.
The bulletin continued. “Please use caution, as the man is extremely dangerous. We now return you back to your regularly scheduled program, already in progress. Sayonara.” The service announcement ended, and the interview resumed. By now the Emperor was reprimanding the host for continuing to press him about his relationship with Marie. There was nothing sexual there, he stated, over and over.
A young boy poked his head in through the tent’s entrance like a red-haired rabbit sniffing into a burrow. Bastien exchanged a glance with the child and swiftly exited.
Keeping his face covered outside, he said, “All right, where is it, Jake?”
“You’re a pissy one, aren’t you?” the boy spat back, breaking into a mischievous smile. “Why yo
u so on edge anyway?”
Bastien sighed. He had enough of the orphan’s tongue—it’d been a day now since getting the runaround from him. As frustrating as the situation was, there weren’t other options. The boy had vital information, and time was of the essence. Orphans in this city were often privy to information other Parisians weren’t. It was leverage that served well. A survival tactic he remembered from his own youth.
A different approach was needed with Jake. Bastien knelt and drew out the sparkling choker from his boot. Jake’s eyes went wide.
“See, I told you I wasn’t kidding about the jewelry,” Bastien said.
The boy reached for it, but Bastien slapped his hand. “No, that’s not how this works. First, you give me what I want.”
Jake scowled, and then conceded. He took Bastien’s hand and walked him a few yards. He pointed to a tent at the far end of the chamber. “That green one. That’s where Belle and the Jacobins are.”
“Behind the others?” Bastien squinted. “If you’re lying boy, I swear I’ll find you.”
The orphan shook his head. “No way. I ain’t lyin’. I’m a man of my word.”
Bastien couldn’t help but smile to himself. The boy was eleven going on twenty-one. Bastien removed the choker from his boot. Handing it over, he said, “Don’t lose it. It’s real gold. Sell it quickly, and you’ll have more than enough to get out of this place.”
Jake stowed it in a backpack hurriedly. He glanced about to ensure no one spied.
“It’s the, the Queen’s?” He stumbled out the words.
Bastien nodded. A full gold choker for a bit of information, given to a kid might seem odd to most, but for Bastien it was a way of helping. He would have loved such a prize when he was Jake’s age. It would have made a real difference. Father Paul’s orphanage could have used the money.
The boy’s eyes were wet. He was eleven again, not the smart-mouthed adult he’d been mimicking moments back. Bastien touched Jake’s frail arm. “I know what it’s like to be trapped, trust me.”
Jake looked down, his shoulders drooped in resignation.