Authors: Sean Williams,Shane Dix
Tags: #Science Fiction, #Fiction, #Space Opera
The Prodigal Sun (15 page)
No, Roche reminded herself, not abandoned. Emmerik intended to meet someone here.
“Which way?” prompted Cane, gesturing at the five roads.
“Second from the left.” The Mbatan’s voice was muted, muffled by an emotion Roche could not read. “Please stick to the road and don’t disturb anything. I’ll follow in a moment.”
“Are we in danger?” Cane studied the darkened doorways with suspicion.
“No.” Emmerik shook his head. “It’s not that.”
Roche suddenly guessed what was bothering the Mbatan. Studying the silent streets more closely, she could see the way sand had gathered in every crevice, untouched for decades, perhaps centuries; the very air tasted pure, despite the tang of dust, untainted by the outside world. It was as though the whole town had been sealed in memoriam to whatever in its past had killed it. The town was a shrine, and they were violating it simply with their presence.
Again she swallowed her curiosity and forced herself to walk, eager to reach the end of their long journey. The others followed her lead, heading slowly along the road with their footsteps echoing off the stubborn buildings. Cane took the rear, his keen gaze studying the shadows for movement. Roche looked also, but from training rather than suspicion; in those deserted streets she didn’t expect to find life of
any
kind. Still, the absence of Emmerik’s steady steps among theirs made the procession seem somewhat unnatural, even tense. And the fact that he had their weapons only made her feel more uneasy.
Roche trod onward, refusing to look behind her. There were other ways to find out what was going on.
“What’s he doing, Maii?” she asked, once they were out of earshot.
There was a hint of resignation in the reave’s tone.
“Can you sense anybody else? The people he’s supposed to be meeting, for example?”
Roche sighed.
Roche looked ahead, trying to locate the corner but failing.
Did she detect indignation in the AI’s tone?
They reached the dogleg fifteen minutes later. Roche studied it cautiously before sending Cane ahead. The blind corner would be the perfect place for an ambush, and she wasn’t prepared to risk anything in this place. The lanky figure of her only Pristine companion strode confidently across the open space until he disappeared from sight. Roche found herself holding her breath until he appeared again, waving an “all clear.” Tenuous though her connection to him was, right now, in this town, she felt she would be lost without his presence. It wasn’t an emotional issue, but one that any realist would admit to. In her weakened state, she needed someone strong to rely on. And if she was wrong to place her trust in him, then...
Not that she had any choice. She was vulnerable, cut off from the support structures that usually surrounded her. She had to take what she could get, and learn to live without the rest.
As they approached the heart of the abandoned town, the towers loomed higher than ever. The scaffolding became clearer, although its purpose remained a mystery. Wires and thin poles tangled like an abstract sculpture across the gap between the towers; the faint light from the Soul touching various sections gave it the appearance of a giant spider’s web. Roche strained her eyes to see more clearly: could she see something, a tiny speck, in the center of the web, or was that just her imagination?
The road turned once more before reaching the central square, which occupied the space between the towers. The curve was gentle, hardly threatening, but Roche’s nervousness increased with every step along it.
“I don’t like this,” she said. “I feel like we’re walking into a trap.”
“Don’t be stupid,” said Veden, his grey eyes glinting in the darkness. “They know who I am.” “Still...”
“There are two people ahead,” said Cane.
Roche stopped in mid-stride. “Where?”
“In the square.”
She squinted into the gloom. “I can’t see them.”
“I can just make out the shapes of their arms and legs,” said Cane, his eyes narrowed. “Only just, but they are definitely there.”
“What color, Cane?”
“A very deep purple, around the edges. Like silhouettes.”
said the reave.
“You can read them?”
“Should we keep going?”
Roche noted the qualifying phrase, and nodded. “Okay. But keep an eye out. Or whatever.” She wished Emmerik were back with them; at least then they would have somebody to speak on their behalf. It was unlikely that Veden would.
They continued onward, closer to the square. As they approached, the shields fell away from the pair, revealing a short man and a tall woman, both dressed in black. Beyond the dropping of the shields, neither made any move.
Roche walked until she was within ten meters of the pair, then stopped. Cane did likewise, as did Maii. Veden hesitated, then continued walking.
“Makil Veden?” said the man, his voice booming into the silence.
“Yes,” replied the Eckandi. “I am he.”
The man and the woman moved simultaneously, drawing heavy weapons from beneath their tunics and directing them at the Eckandi. “Come no closer.”
Veden stopped immediately, with his hands half-raised in an automatic gesture of surrender. “What—?”
“Take another step and we will execute you for the crimes your Caste has committed against us.”
Cane moved. From a standing start to a rapid sprint, he ran for the shadows cloaking the square. Roche gaped, startled by the swiftness of his response; his legs almost seemed to blur in the darkness. The woman spun to follow him. Chattering gunfire chased his heels, too late to catch him. He disappeared into an open doorway, reappeared an instant later through an alleyway, then disappeared again.
Roche automatically extrapolated his path. He was circling the square, not running away. Stunned by his sheer speed, she could only watch, frozen.
The man and woman turned to face her and Maii.
“Put your hands on your head,” said a voice from behind them. “Lie facedown on the ground and do not try to resist.”
Roche spun to face the familiar voice. Six more people had appeared from the shadows with rifles in their hands. One of them was Emmerik.
“Do it,” he spat, gesturing with the rifle. “Now!”
Roche obeyed, clumsily lowering herself to her knees, then lying flat on the road with the cold stone against her cheek.
“We’ll kill her!” Emmerik shouted, his voice echoing through the empty square. The words chilled her less than the tone of his voice. The Mbatan’s eyes searched the shadows, desperate for any sign of the fugitive.
Something moved on the far side of the square, and the woman’s rifle turned to face it.
“I mean it,” Emmerik said, less loudly than before. The rifle clicked at her back: a projectile weapon, she absently noted; lethal at such close range. “I swear.”
Cane,> said Maii, her mental voice stabbing the night.
hurt her if you don’t.>
Emmerik nodded. “She’s telling the truth. Too many people have died here for another to make a difference.”
Silence answered him, heavy with potential violence.
Then a shadow moved, and Cane stepped into view. His hands hung clenched at his sides. His expression was one of anger, tightly reined.
“Down.” Emmerik gestured with the rifle.
With his eyes focused on the Mbatan, Cane obeyed. A rifle butt, held by the woman, jammed into the back of his neck as her companion fixed his hands and feet in carbon-steel cuffs. Cane made no sound at all as he was bound, although Roche could see the rage boiling inside him, waiting for a chance to escape. But with the gun at his neck, he had no opportunity to break free.
When he was securely bound, rough hands lifted Roche upright. She gasped, staring in confusion at the Mbatan.
“What the hell—?”
“We had to do it,” he said, his eyes pleading for her to believe him.
“But he swore to help you,” she hissed. “He deserves better than this.”
“He’s too dangerous, too unpredictable,” the Mbatan said. “You saw how fast he moved. Until he tells us who or what he is, he stays like this. I’m sorry.”
Roche glanced at Cane, prostrate on the ground, then at Maii and Veden. The Eckandi was looking smugly superior now that the object of the trap had been revealed: not Veden himself, or even Roche and the Box, but Cane alone.
Roche turned away, feeling frustration bubbling within her like a ball of superheated water. She couldn’t bear to look at him, potentially the most powerful fighter she had ever met betrayed by a handful of low-life rebels.
“What about honesty?” she snapped back. “Integrity? Trust?”
“Look up,” said one woman standing close behind her.
“What?” said Roche.
“Look up,” the woman repeated. “Between the towers.”
Roche did so, and was gratified to hear Veden echo her own involuntary gasp of revulsion.
Suspended by the scaffolding between the two towers, crucified horizontally by wires and impaled upon iron spars, hung the mummified body of a naked Eckandi male.
“Blind trust on Sciacca can often prove expensive,” said Emmerik, and gestured with the rifle that she should walk ahead of him to join the others.
9
Sciacca’s World
Behzad’s Wall
‘954.10.31 EN
0750
“Newcomers to our planet usually mean trouble.” The woman brushed strands of black hair from her narrow face. Roche had heard Emmerik address her as “Neva,” although she hadn’t been formally introduced. “It’s an unfortunate fact of life,” she added.
Roche glanced inquiringly at Neva from where she sat, but the woman averted her face and busied herself at one of the tables. Emmerik crouched nearby with a gun in his lap, his attention fixed on Cane sitting against the wall opposite Roche. Through the only doorway leading into the room, Roche could make out Veden and Maii discussing business with a half dozen other rebels, their conversation kept carefully out of earshot.
If the woman’s remark had been an overture to an explanation, it seemed Roche would have to wait a little longer for the rest.
They had been brought to the shorter of the two towers, which obviously served as an impromptu base for the rebels in the town. The room they were in was slightly rundown and thick with dust; around them were scattered ten camp beds, a number of the crude projectile weapons she had seen earlier, a small cache of food and water, and a dozen or so unmarked containers. The only light in the room came from a battered fuel-cell heater in the corner; the only window was currently shielded by a carbon-mat, presumably to prevent their heat from being detected at night.
Neva came to Roche’s side to tend her injuries, gently peeling back the survival suit to take a closer look. Roche winced as her bruised muscles submitted to the woman’s examination.
“I think you’re being a little harsh on us,” said Roche. “I never wanted to be here in the first place—and if the only way to leave is by helping you, then that’s what I’ll do.”
Neva grinned wryly. “Whether you want to or not.” She slipped a ration-stick into Roche’s mouth. The stick burst upon chewing and became a thick, sweet gel. “The transportees don’t want to be here either, remember.”
Roche nodded in appreciation for the food, but couldn’t bring herself to offer her gratitude. The rebels may have helped her so far, but she was still decidedly wary of their motives.
“Well,” she said, “this
is
a penal planet—”
“That’s not the half of it.” Neva roughly unstrapped the Box from her back. “If you think
we’re
being harsh, then you don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“Not now,” Emmerik interrupted. “She needs rest, not a lecture.”
“Be quiet, Emmerik,” said the woman evenly. It was clear to Roche from Neva’s tone that her rank in the rebels was higher than that of the Mbatan. “She wants to know who we are. She
needs
to if she expects us to help her.”
“And if you expect us to help you.” Roche smiled, but the light from the heater reflected in the woman’s eyes was cold. That she wanted to talk, though, was obvious. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“What happened was the Ghost War,” Neva said, settling back onto her haunches and continuing to work on Roche’s injured shoulder. “Prior to then, this was a comfortable planet, with forests and lakes and fields of grain. And rivers.”
“It’s hard to imagine.”
Neva’s fingers dug deep into Roche’s shoulder, making her wince with pain.
Be quiet
was the obvious message.
“A strike on a Dominion installation in the Soul changed—
ruined
—everything,” the woman went on. “There was massive destruction. Three large moonlets fell from orbit. Killed millions, smashed the ecosphere. A few small cities survived, such as this one, but the moonlets— along with the quakes and volcanic activity that followed—left virtually nothing else standing. The Ataman Theocracy didn’t even bother to hang around to mop up the survivors. Bigger wars to attend to, perhaps. I don’t know. History doesn’t supply an explanation. And it didn’t matter. The old world was gone.”
Neva’s fingers stopped working, and for a few moments she remained very still, staring off over Roche’s injured shoulder. Roche made no attempt to prompt her, but glanced over to where Cane sat huddled beneath a cowl of shadows, attentive as always. His eyes were fixed upon her, but she suspected he would be listening to every word that Neva or Emmerik said.
Then Neva’s fingers began to move again, and with them her labored account of Ul-oemato’s history. “For the survivors, life went on. They adapted to the new environment: the deserts, the sandstorms, the predators. Sciacca’s World was still home to a couple of million people, and I guess they believed they could tame it again. They became a harder breed, tougher than their ancestors. A more resilient type of Pristine altogether, although not a new Caste,
“The First Ataman War came and went. Officially, from then on, we were part of the Theocracy, but they had no substantial presence, so it didn’t mean much to people here. Only during the Second Ataman War did things change. The Commonwealth of Empires took the system, and they invaded in force. But we were stronger on the ground, and we held a number of small territories in the hills and mountains free from the invading forces.”
“Such as Houghton’s Cross?” Roche said, noting Neva’s unconscious switch from “they” to “we.”
“It wasn’t called Houghton’s Cross back then,” said Neva. “It was called Ul-oemato, and it became the capital of this region.” She shrugged. “And although the Commonwealth occasionally conducted raids in the hope of destabilizing the Dominion population, the two nations coexisted in relative peace for quite a while.”
“It was around then that the penal colony was founded,” put in Emmerik. “To mine the Soul, and the places on the shattered crust where minerals had come to the surface.”
Neva nodded once more. “The Theocracy, when it destroyed the planet, ignored that resource, just as its soldiers ignored the Human suffering they left behind.”
She paused, concentrating for a moment on Roche’s shoulder. Then: “Port Parvati was rebuilt—along with the installations in the Soul—and the entire project was turned over to OPUS, a mining consortium. The planet became a business venture, and the board of directors wouldn’t tolerate competition or interference from unruly neighbors. Ul-oemato became
competition
.”
Neva began to rub salve into Roche’s shoulder. It burned and stung, but she didn’t interrupt the woman’s narrative with complaint.
“Then DAOC, another mining company, took over the administration of the planet. Its prospectors exhausted low-lying deposits and decided they wanted the hills. They mounted a full-scale military campaign against Sciacca’s people. There are ruins all through these mountains where DAOC troops—mercenaries, most of them—razed entire communities to the ground, leaving nothing but rubble and ashes in their wake. Yet, despite being outgunned in almost every way, the defenses of Ul-oemato held while other towns fell around it. The fight went on for weeks, until Ul-oemato was teeming with injured and frightened refugees.
“Food and water were scarce. DAOC had destroyed irrigation and mist-collection plants. The siege of the city was in its seventh week when a lucky strike crippled one of only two fusion generators in the area. It all seemed hopeless until a gunrunner approached the defenders from out-system with a large supply of weapons.”
Neva paused to tie a bandage in place. “Word must have spread, and I guess it was only a matter of time before somebody tried to profit from the situation. But any chance of improving the odds had to be considered seriously. DAOC was well armed, whereas Ul-oemato was relying on technology centuries out of date. The Mbatan rifles, nearly five thousand in all, were high-frequency microwave weapons—designed to disable electronic equipment rather than to kill. They would be effective against the battle armor of the attacking troops. They were cheap, efficient, and honorable, and the gunrunner agreed to sell the weapons on credit.”
“Credit?” said Roche. “What sort of illegal—?”
Neva raised a hand to silence her. “He agreed to supply the weapons in exchange for a substantial down payment in underground currency. The deal was signed. With the weapons, the troops of Ul-oemato went into battle.
“And they did well, taking first one and then another DAOC squadron by surprise and forcing them back. As the squadrons retreated, Ul-oemato’s territory expanded to something like its original size. Anything with powered systems could not enter this area, or the peace guns would disable them, and the Ul-oemato fighters were so well trained at more primitive methods of combat—having practiced them for generations—that DAOC was reluctant to send troops in unarmored. Orbital bombardment was ruled out, because that method of fighting would be frowned upon by the interstellar community. For the first time in several months, it seemed that DAOC would have to capitulate and allow the original owners of the planet their small territory.”
Having finished ministering to Roche’s shoulder—as well as changing her makeshift bandages—Neva strapped the injured arm into a more comfortable position, leaving the valise free. She sat back upon the gritty floor, facing Roche.
“Then, for no obvious reason, Ul-oemato’s troops began to weaken. A tiredness afflicted them: a terrible malaise that sapped both strength and will. It caused bleeding, skin damage, and occasional loss of hair; in the long term, it led to death. No physical cause could be found. The popular theory was that a biological agent had been unleashed by DAOC to quash the town’s resistance.
“The strange thing about it, though, was that the disease only affected those who fought in battle, never noncombatants. And as the battle continued, the weakened fighters were replaced by others, who in turn fell to the mysterious illness. Lacking an advanced medical center the colonists had no means of determining the illness’s cause until it was far too late. And even then, it was only by chance. By that time, nearly three quarters of the town had fallen prey to the disease.”
“The rifles,” said Cane softly.
Neva nodded. “One of the town’s elders, a woman named Madra Hazeal, returned from the front with one of the Mbatan peace guns. Its batteries were dead, and she intended to recharge them the following day. Legend has it that, feeling tired and sick with the disease, she retired to bed and absently left the weapon near a tub of water. Somehow the weapon slipped and fell into the water and remained immersed for a number of hours. When she retrieved it the following morning, she discovered something very peculiar: despite the chill of the desert night, the water in the tub was distinctly warm.”
“Beta decay,” said Roche, echoing the voice of the Box in her skull.
Neva nodded again. “The rifles were radioactive—so contaminated that only a few doses resulted in debilitating sickness. The gunrunner had deliberately sold them, knowing the harm they would do. This left the people of Ul-oemato in a bind: continuing the defense of the town with the weapons meant slow death by radiation sickness, while surrender meant that they would be invaded.” She lowered her eyes to the floor. “So the town fell to DAOC without a fight, killed by the rifles that had almost liberated it.”
Roche waited for her to continue, but Emmerik picked up the tale.
“Shortly after taking the town,” he said, “the DAOC troops learned what had happened. Naturally, they were appalled. Along with orbital bombardment, the use of radiation weapons was forbidden. Breaking the Warfare Protocol carried a heavy penalty. If conciliatory measures were not taken immediately to demonstrate their innocence, word would spread that the DAOC troops had planted the weapons themselves.”
“So,” Cane guessed, “as a gesture of goodwill, DAOC allowed the few remaining survivors to keep the town?”
Neva glanced back to him in the shadows. “Yes,” she said. “Although they took the mountains around it, the security forces vowed to leave the town and its inhabitants alone.” Again she faced Roche. “In the weeks remaining to them, the dying townsfolk buried the dead in a ring around the town, using the poisoned rifles as gravestones.”
Roche remembered the endless field of rifles pointing at the sky, and shivered. “And the gunrunner?” she asked.
Emmerik snorted. “You’ve seen what happened to him,” he said.
Roche nodded slowly. “The Eckandi.”
“Lazaro Houghton,” said Neva, her voice cold, “was eventually captured by the Dominion with the help of the COE—in a further gesture of goodwill. After his trial, he was sent to Sciacca’s World as a convict. He only lasted a year before the inhabitants hunted him down and meted out their own justice.”
“Thus ‘Houghton’s Cross,’“ muttered Cane.
“That’s right.” Emmerik stared at him in the half-light, the glow from the heater catching his intense expression. “Only a handful of children survived the radiation sickness, but DAOC’s promise still holds. They won’t attack us here. The Cross, the old city, has become a symbol of everything we strive for: justice for past wrongs, freedom to live as we wish—”
“And it’s safe,” said Cane, cutting through the Mbatan’s rhetoric with hard-edged pragmatism.
“That too.” Emmerik glanced at Neva, and Roche noted the look that passed between them. “We do not seek a bloodbath, and we are not interested in leaving the planet. Our cause does not belong with the convicts, or the wardens. We were born here, all of us. This is where we want to live, in peace, for the rest of our lives. In order to do so, we will attempt diplomacy, but not open rebellion.”
“Except as a last resort,” added Neva. “Our reluctance to trust off-worlders is ingrained, you see. Sciacca’s World has been betrayed at various times by the Ataman Theocracy, the Dato Bloc, the Commonwealth of Empires, and even by the Dominion, who abandoned it to its fate eight hundred years ago. Any treaty would be regarded as suspect until proved by time.”
“Patience is what we should be embracing, Neva,” said the Mbatan wearily, as though they had had this disagreement many times. “There has been enough death here.”
“But not enough, it seems, to convince the wardens to agree to our terms.” Neva returned her attention to Roche. “Haid seeks a hearing with the High Equity Court of the COE to discuss our claim of sovereignty. To do this we need a hyperspace communicator. But our requests to use the MiCom facilities at the landing field have been denied, and Warden Delcasalle refuses to negotiate.”
