rix_scaedu

Raquel thought her Dad and the old man, his father, looked worried. They probably were. After all, they’d stood here before in this room, or one very like it, waiting for someone to come home from their war service and everyone who served, all of them, came home changed. Mum simply looked uncertain. She hadn’t done this before, her brother hadn’t come home.  Uncle Darren hadn’t even left a body.

Raquel was pleased all her brothers and their wives had managed to make it today, despite the precious time out of their important schedules. With five children in the family they’d known that one would be drafted but when the time came and they’d been debating how they’d choose which of the boys would go, Mayin had simply...volunteered. Just gone and done it while they’d been talking over the virtues of anonymous votes and drawing lots. Mayin the background child had acted while they had, frankly, dithered.

The boys, as they had been, had acted as if their noses had been put out of joint but they’d settled down, studied, married, progressed. Raquel had done the same, her own husband-to-be was here in support. Mayin, from her letters, hadn’t changed. Just, sometimes there’d been something in her letters like the one to Mum that had said, “They’ve put half an ovary on ice for me, in case worst comes to worst. In case the worst does happen, I’ve made you my genetic executor. If you decide to use my eggs, can it be with someone I would have liked if I’d met them?” Mum had cried.

Raquel thought of Great-Uncle Walter and his nightmares and of Uncle Charlie and his cybernetic prostheses. Every one, changed.

The supervisor’s announcement from beside the lifts cut through her thoughts. “They’re coming up.”

Edita was standing watch in the small hours while Doc Tarascotti and Bennoli slept when she heard a gun cock in the darkness beyond the firelight.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” it was a hard woman’s voice, “I’m coming in so we can talk.” The speaker came out of the night, rifle at the ready and a six shooter on her thigh. The long, silver-blonde braids marked her as one of the surviving Frost sisters, a daughter of Old Man Winter who died beside Barleyman in the range war of half a generation before.  “Give me the cup and I’ll be on my way,” she said. “No harm, no foul except I get the reward from Donna Kevira and her sisters, not you.”

“Problem with that,” Doc was awake but the old man wasn’t stupid enough to spook someone with a cocked gun by moving unexpectedly, “Federigo Rex has already half paid us to swap the cup to get his daughter back from the three ladies. Take the cup, you screw us and him. How long do you think you’d last with Rex mad at you?”

“Fair point,” Frost conceded, “But I still have to make money on this trip.” She smiled coolly. “I suppose one reward’s as good as another. So, you still have the ring that Giovanni fella gave you, Noniello?” When Edita didn’t reply at once she went on, “You do remember him don’t you? The one who threw you over for that little Eastern heiress his momma found for him?”

“And if I do?” Edita didn’t move a muscle, not even to change expression.

“His momma’s put it round that you stole that ring and offered a reward. You give me the ring, I hand it in for the reward and you don’t have to deal with the bounty hunters.”

“Sounds fair,” allowed Edita.

“You toss it over,” the other woman made a brief gesture at her feet, “Then I’ll be on my way and let you nice people get back to your sleep.”

“Edita, you sure you want to do that?” That was Bennoli, dishevelled from sleep, his dark blue cavalry jacket half open.

“Better than letting Momma Illesconi have me hunted down.” Edita pulled a chain with a ring on it over her head from under her shirt and threw it to the other woman.

Frost scooped it up one hand, keeping her eyes and rifle on the three of them as she did so. “Pleasure doing business with you all. Now,” she warned, “Don’t you go ruining things by trying to follow me. Honey,” she said to Edita, “Stop breakin’ your heart over him, you can do better than that Giovanni and his momma.”  She backed into the night, and was gone.

“That was interesting,” said Doc, resettling himself for the rest of the night. “See you in the morning.”

“I’m awake now,” rumbled Bennoli, climbing out of his bedroll, “Mind if I sit with you for a bit?”

I’d gotten off Hamon a step in front of Commune Intelligence then the ship’d broken down and we’d been rescued to Ifra. I’ve been here less than ten days and I’m already irretrievably enmeshed with Ifran Intelligence, working to avoid repatriation to Hamon and there’s a Commune invasion fleet in orbit. Today, I’m going to a laundromat.

The hotel we shipwrecked space farers are staying in is reasonable, except for their extortionate laundry fees. My clothes need to be washed, so I’m doing it myself.

It’s not bad as such places go: it’s clean, bright and smells of lemon scented laundry powder. The machines take coins as well as cards so I’m good.  I put my wash on and settle down with a magazine to wait.

A quarter of the way through my wash cycle two police come in, but they’re not police – they’re two lowlifes off our ship, one of whom I last saw being taken off in cuffs by the police.

This is not good.

They’re swinging their batons as they walk, so fixed on me they don’t notice how the Ifrans look at them. I stand. “Miss Nosy selected herself for this,” says the one who’d been in cuffs.

“Don’t feel bad,” says the other, “If it wasn’t you, it’d have to be one of the others.”

I realize something, “The ship’s engine was you.” The second one shrugs. “And now you’re making an incident.” We’re speaking Ifran.

“Way it rolls, sweet cakes,” it’s the second one, “No hard feelings. I’ll make it as quick as I can.”

I surprise him by stepping towards him and it’s quickly obvious that this is a fight involving three trained operatives. Even so, only the arrival of the tactical police spares me serious injury.

Now I have to tell Ifran Intelligence that war may have started.

I fear that if my tale is a narrative you will dismiss it as fiction, thus I give you only a list of events in that week:

1.      Monday morning news came from the village that another murder had been committed, this time Mr Burkin the poacher;

2.      Tuesday afternoon I went to afternoon tea at the vicarage, meeting Miss Moorhill whose guardians had leased Benscott Lodge for the hunting and enjoyed conversation on the latest fashion which she could not wear due to being in deep mourning;

3.      Tuesday night told Father of Miss Moorhill and her guardians and he said they had been dudded as the hunting on that land has always been poor;

4.      Wednesday afternoon I received a visit from Mr Audley whose intentions Father wished me to encourage, but I never could considering that hair and eyebrows, which sounds shallow but is true;

5.      Wednesday evening as we sat down to dinner we received word of another murder committed only an hour or two earlier on the Linton Road and naturally Father was concerned for Mr Audley who would have travelled that way from our house to his;

6.      Wednesday evening later, Sir Kennard Marsden, one of Miss Moorhill’s guardians, came to ask us about any visitors we may have had in the afternoon but Father hardly let me get a word in and I was barely able to mention my suitor;

7.      Thursday morning very early we awoke to the sounds of someone trying to break into the house and gunfire to which Father took exception and went outside to stop, despite my pleas, to be immediately attacked by a monstrous, shaggy creature;

8.      Thursday morning early the gunshot that felled Father’s attacker came from Sir Kennard who, with his friends, is a Knight of the Church come to hunt a werewolf thought responsible for our murders;

9.      Thursday sunrise the dead werewolf turned back into Mr Audley (I must say that men do look very odd naked) and arrangements were made for his burial;

10. Thursday morning treatment was arranged for Father’s bite, else he turns into a werewolf too – everyone agreed that five murders was enough; and

11. Friday morning Miss Moorhill called to bid farewell as they are returning to Town now that the hunting is over.

The young man known as Gabal put his horse between the mob and the girl they’d torn the outer garment from. Her hair and face were exposed to the world and there was already a mark on her cheek from something. He gave a contemptuous glance at the mob and cast a force barrier between him and them. A second, concerned look told him that his wife on her horse beyond the girl was also behind the barrier.

“Why are they doing this?” he asked the girl on the ground.

“They say my mother’s mother was ravished by a djinn. Now my father is dead in the fighting and I have no brothers to protect me,” her face held no hope for herself, “They say I’m a part demon who will destroy the village if they don’t destroy me.”

“I have a baser opinion of human nature than that, I’m afraid.” He surveyed the mob again, “How many of them did you turn down?” He ignored her shocked expression, “Give me your hand,” extending his own towards her. When she took it, he pulled her up onto the horse behind him, getting her to use his foot as a step up.

“Where are you taking the demon?” It was a large middle-aged man in the front of the mob, stone in hand, who challenged him.

“She doesn’t look, smell or sound like a demon to me,” Gabal gave him a grim look, “So I’m taking her far enough away that you can’t taint your soul with her murder.” He spurred the horse away, prudently keeping up the barrier until the three of them were out of arrow range.

“We will speak of this at the camp, my husband,” said his wife firmly as they rode away.

“Yes, my dove,” he agreed.

Later that night in one of their tents Gabal’s wife, Ulema, was helping their guest with her hair. “You are,” Ulema said, not unkindly, “In a difficult position, Zenobia. You have no family and you cannot go back to that village.” She made the village sound like something bad she had tasted.

She paused and Zenobia was sure she knew what was coming next. Everything about Ulema said ‘noblewoman’ although her husband was a foreigner. There were worse fates than to be a servant in a noble household. Zenobia had already decided that she would say yes.

“Have you considered marrying?” That was not the question Zenobia had expected. “My husband is a good man, despite his foreign peculiarities. He washes as regularly as the faithful, he doesn’t drink alcohol and he doesn’t demand pig meat for his meals. His duties for the caliph keep him busy though and I am often alone – I could do with the company of another wife. He is not rich but he has the caliph’s favour,” Ulema assured the other girl seriously.

“But you’re noble and I’m-,’ floundered Zenobia.

“He married me,” dimpled Ulema, “To save me from being executed for my father’s crimes against the reign of the caliph. He rescued you from being stoned by a mob.”

“Oh...”

Fourteen years later the two eldest sons of Gabal had decided that their eleven and ten year old brothers could be trusted with the family’s biggest male secrets. The littlest ones were having their afternoon nap and they had picked a shaded corner that they could occupy against both sisters and younger brothers. “Father’s given name,” whispered Jibril, “Isn’t Gabal at all, it’s Gaius!”

“But that’s a name from Frangistan,” whispered Musa, the youngest of the group, “How did Father get here?”

“Well,” Jibril looked around carefully before tucking back into the group, “He had to leave his home one night on the fastest horse he could find to outrun the enemies who were coming to kill him. He-“

“Father, Father,” their eldest sister Farrah, twelve, ran past screaming at the top of her lungs, “Daddy! Jamila’s in trouble. Daddy, help!” The boys could hear a growing babble and roar in the direction she’d come from and they realised they were missing something. They abandoned the story and went to see what was happening.

Their other twelve year old sister was standing in the top of a whirlwind that raised her well over the head of any adult they knew. She had her arms held out from her side as if she were balancing and a look of concentration on her face. The whirlwind was steady underneath her but there were signs of earlier destruction. The space was surrounded by their younger brothers and sisters who weren’t napping.

“She’s got it under control,” commented Umm Razin, their father’s sword–wielding, youngest, fiercest and fourth wife, “Good girl.”

Then their father was there, staff in hand and launching himself into the air by his own magic. Jibril cast a little spell so he could hear what was going on.

“What happened?” asked Father.

“I tried to use wind to clear the dust from where we wanted to play,” Jamila was trying her hardest to be brave, Jibril could tell, “I only get a spark of fire or a cup of water so I thought that much wind wouldn’t be a problem.”

“I think this is more than a spark or a cup of wind, don’t you?” Their father was still thinking, Jibril could tell. “You’ve got it under control, that’s very good. Now, can you come down or disperse it?”

“I don’t know how,” Jamila confessed.

“All right,” Father sounded reassuring, “You need to let little bits of wind leak, like something being strained through a cloth, very slowly. Try now.”

Jamila nodded, the whirlwind wobbled a bit, and then she concentrated. Slowly the whirlwind shrank. By the time Farrah came back with rest of their father’s wives, Jamila was no more than her own height off the ground.  A few moments later the last of the whirlwind dissipated and her feet were back on the ground. Her father gave her a fierce hug and, “Well done!” Followed by, “Now I think I understand where your magic lessons, and your brothers’, are going wrong – not enough consideration of the elemental.  We’ll work on that tomorrow. Now,” he looked around, “Was anybody hurt?”

After a general negative response he led Jamila over to her mother and handed her over for general tidying. “Zenobia, my jewel,” he said to that lady, “I may have to reconsider my opinion of why people thought your grandfather was a djinn.”

Sayl was working in the library.  Her husband didn’t do much research these days unless he needed a fact for his book but those of her children and grandchildren who had magical ability also called on her for help. Sometimes she simply read for the pleasure of a new story or new facts. That in itself had proved useful in the past.

There was a cough behind her followed by, “Excuse me, Mother?” It was a voice she hadn’t heard in years.

As she turned on her chair and stood she asked, “Gaius?”

An image of her third son floated over the floor. Wherever he really was, it looked sunny, hot and already afternoon. “I’m sorry I’m not really there,” regret tinged his voice and he seemed greatly aged since she’d seen him last. “I’m near Ctesifon. I hoped you still spent most of your time in the library. I’m sorry to impose after so long, but I need to check whether this glyph work,” he held up a drawing, “Is the same as the one in the second chapter of the brown book on the extreme right of the third shelf on the right of the window. Please?”

“You’re not still – black magic, Gaius?” He’d had to leave Constantium twenty years ago just ahead of the magistrum’s vigiles.

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have the time if I had the inclination. Too busy cleaning up other people’s messes.”

She got the book and checked it against his drawing, chattering all the time to catch up twenty years and unsure how long the spell would last.

Finally, “Four wives? Do you have children? Yes they’re the same, I can show you.”

“No need. Thank you. I have a demon to bind before it’s embloodened, excuse me.” He was gone.

“This hunk of junk isn’t going anywhere again once we land,” Darleton kicked the hull plating in frustration.

“It’s not meant to,” pointed out Twzimbe. “It’s a colony ship. They’re a one shot item, meant to be taken apart for power plant and metal by the colonists. Our luck it was the only ship ready to lift besides the one to the penitentiary.”

“So, gentlemen,” Pears was a pursed-faced, precise killer, “We have exchanged one prison for another.”

“Without guards,” pointed out Twzimbe, “And the Colonisation Authority isn’t allowed to sell rights to planets as bad as the penitentiary. Of course, we’ll need to become farmers to keep eating.”

“Mr Twzimbe,” corrected Pears, “I am a predator. I do not farm.”

“If we do nothing but prey on each other we won’t last more than a couple years.”  Twzimbe continued, “I suggest you work out a way to sell your services to help those who do farm grow enough food to feed you too.”

“Big game?” The suggestion came from the embezzler Rostov who had hacked the ship’s computer, “There are supposed to be animals on this new world that might want to eat us or sheep and cattle.”

“That may be acceptable,” Pears conceded. “Are the original owners of this ship likely to follow us?”

“Don’t think so,” Rostov again, “Looks like they had a one use only autopilot from the Colonisation Authority. Guaranteed not to be reissued. Lucky them, looks like their insurance policy covers immediate replacement in this situation.”

“Why lucky?” Darleton stopped regarding the ship’s hull as if it were a personal affront.

“These guys, The Second Reformed Congregation of the Friends of Jesus, are certain Ringface will win the election. They want out before that.”

“Can’t blame them,” approved Pears. “So we’re colonists now.”

The music blared across the back fence: electric guitars, drums and loud male vocals. Underneath that burbled voices, laughter and the sound of bellyflops and dive bombs hitting the pool water.

He shook his head and closed the sliding door to the backyard. The back neighbours’ daughter was having a party. At least she’d sent a note and flowers in apology – in advance. She’d been away from home for a number of years and her parents were so pleased they’d gotten her to come back. Personally he thought their methods were over the top, she was no longer a teenager after all but they seemed stuck in the mindset that she was an errant child.

The party was a statement of some kind obviously. The flowers indicated that it wasn’t aimed at him or the other neighbours – the ones on either side of him had already commented to him on the arrangements they’d received. He wondered idly what her sucker punch on her parents was going to be, the state of the house or something else? Where had that thought come from? Interesting. When he’d seen her in their backyard the last few days he’d dismissed his initial impression of tightly controlled anger, she’d been so laid back. Yet, what was wrong with that scenario?

He watched one of the party goers execute a fancy dive off the top board the put him above the fence spinning in the air to plummet feet first into the water below. The diver looked fantastically fit from this distance and had finished the spin facing over the fence. Two more divers followed him, all making the same move. He’d played that game himself as a boy, but the tattoos across the third one’s back were familiar...

He locked up the house and walked around the block with his cane, as if to complain. The street outside the house was lined with utes, muscle cars and a couple of nice convertible sports cars. Their driveway was solid motorbikes. He walked up to the door and rang the bell. The door was opened by a young man he didn’t recognise whose only response was, “Please come in, sir.” The door was locked behind him. There was a handgun tucked into the back of the doorman’s shorts.

It was quieter in the house than it was outside. Leaving the door and its guardian behind him, he penetrated the interior of the building, passing the closed doors to the study and home office. Kit bags followed the internal halls in neat lines. He found people in the dining room, papers spread across the table, the clustering of personnel awfully familiar. Someone on the far side of the room said the magic word and the entire room braced and looked at him, including the party girl.

“As you were,” old, familiar words. “Where am I? Central HQ?”

“I’m glad you came, sir,” the party girl made her way over to him around the furniture and through the men of the, maybe even her, planning staff, “It makes it much easier to give you this.” She handed him an addressed envelope.

He opened it with a finger and read the letter inside. “I was medically discharged, you do realise that?”

“If I may be bold, sir, it’s your mind we need, not your body.” A level gaze met his. A tiny faded scar to the side of her left eye caught his attention, she’d nearly lost the eye to one of the enemy’s nasty little flechette rounds.

“And you are?” He knew her name of course, but it was becoming obvious that her parents hadn’t asked questions when they’d dragged her home.

“Operations Officer, Third Strike Force. Your Operations Officer, sir.” She paused, “You’ll be wanting the 2IC for a back brief, won’t you sir?”

“Of course. One question.”

“Sir?”

“Why the party?”

“We needed to concentrate. The court confined me to the house.” She grinned, “And I did tell my parents I had to work this weekend.”

They were at the rendezvous before the Terrencians. Somewhere in the distance, Nettlebrake from the direction, there was bombing. The support section huddled under their covers like begreyed field mice in their dens, hugging the inner slopes of the explosion crater.

The Terrencians arrived like ghosts in daylight, flowing almost shadowless over the crater’s lip. They were larger and solider than their allies, frontline assaulters bulked out by their body armour. One of them settled down to rest against a bump in the landscape that was a medic, to his comrades’ muffled mirth.

“Captain Bennett.” The Terrencian officer continued, “How is Great-Aunt Mabel?”

Captain Evelyn Bennett gave a quick nod of acknowledgement, “Gran’s good, Captain Count Schtulvayer. And Great-Aunt Samella?”

“Well”. He looked around at her squad. “You’re all women?”

“Your people asked for a support section. We’re a support section. Medics and etcetera.”

“So we did,” he sighed, “My men were hoping for more testosterone in your squad.” She grinned back at him.

Four hours later they’d reached their objective. The installation they surveyed from the wrack of a village was new in construction and design. Their job was simple: Seize, Investigate, Destroy.

Of course it was defended. Hard-faced hoplites in machine guns pits guarded the approaches. An armoured synoris prowled around its walls. The first machine gun pit went down easily then the enemy knew they were there.

The defence was fierce. The Terencians were overmatched by their opponents’ brute strength, their officer commanded from his synoris. Small red holes began blossoming on the defenders. Something thudded into the synoris’ engine block and it stopped.

Afterwards.  “Captain Bennett, why didn’t you tell me you had snipers?”

“We’re a support section, Captain Count Schtulvayer. I thought it was obvious."

They didn’t travel far to deliver Princess Christobella to her father. King Federigo was encamped, by arrangement, less than half a day’s walk from the exchange site. Despite patrols their group was not challenged until they reached the camp’s perimeter. There they were stopped by a knight in armour.

The afternoon sun shone on his polished, fluted, pretty, metal court dress. His head was bare and he looked vaguely familiar to Tarrascotti and Edita. Bennoli’s face blanked to an emotional neutral. The princess’ glance at the knight contained recognition and consideration.

“Your Highness,” the man bowed easily and gracefully despite the armour, “Allow me to escort you to His Majesty. These gentles are no doubt eager to see the Chancellor’s clerk and collect the rest of their payment.”

“Sir Piero,” the princess had a kind of tired grace, “You may escort my party and me to my father.”

“Your Highness cannot wish to spend anymore time than you must in the company of such a person nor to introduce him to His Majesty.” The knight was obviously labouring under a strong emotion and somehow it was clear he was talking about-

“We’re half-brothers,” Bennoli said. “He’s legitimate. It’s - untidy.”

“I cannot, in good conscience,” insisted Sir Piero, “Bring him into the king’s presence. It is not to be thought of.”

“Then stay here.” If the princess had any more energy she would have snapped. “I will take them to my father and he will order their reward.” Her glare killed his response stillborn.

Then Bennoli asked quietly, looking directly at his brother, “Is your mother there?”

Sir Piero nodded.

Bennoli pulled his hood up and over his head to overshadow his face. “She won’t know who I am.” He added to the others, “She doesn’t deserve our father’s mess.”