C f bentley, p.5
C. F. Bentley, page 5
Time to make new plans.
Guilliam watched from the shadows as Gregor retreated from the death watch and followed silently. Then he returned, gathering up a newly calmed Penelope from the tiny temple alcove on the main floor.
“We need to be there, My Laudae, at her side,” he said quietly. She nodded and allowed him to escort her back to her mother.
Within moments he realized Gregor needed to be here as well.
“My Laud.” Guilliam grabbed Gregor’s elbow and near dragged him out of Sissy’s sickroom. “I have made arrangements for Sissy to travel to the retreat center on the Southern Continent as soon as she is able.”
“Excellent.” Gregor straightened his back and turned a fierce eye on the family of Workers. “Miss Sissy, you need training to control your gift of prophecy.”
“But you cain’t take me away from my family,” Sissy protested. “I must. A gift such as yours must be carefully nurtured.” Hidden away, Guilliam added silently.
“Is such extreme isolation necessary, My Laud?” he asked when they’d cleared the room and headed toward the opposite end of the hospital where Laudae Marilee drifted in and out of consciousness. Her vital signs grew weaker each time she closed her eyes.
“Of course isolation is required. We can’t have the media learning about a new prophet emerging. They’ll drag out all the old ones and start looking for portents and signs in everyday life, making Temple look inadequate. They will rally around a Worker, looking for leadership, ignoring their divinely ordained High Council.”
“Little Johnny already suspects.”
“Because you told him?” Gregor sneered.
“No, My Laud. Because he watched you escort a solitary injured Worker to Temple Hospital when there are thousands in more dire need of our help.”
Gregor paused and fumed a moment. “Shut the man down. Transfer him to the Serim Desert or the Southern Continent.”
“Won’t do any good,” Guilliam replied. “His father owns and runs Harmony City Broadcasting. Together, they are the core of the movement to separate media from the Professional caste.”
“How can we turn this to our advantage, Guilliam, without actually saying why we have taken Sissy into our custody?”
“Let me think on it. Meanwhile, Laudae Marilee is losing ground.” Guilliam didn’t want to complete the message. Didn’t want to acknowledge the tempest that must rise. “The surgeons don’t dare operate until she is stronger. Despite their best efforts she is getting weaker. You should be at her side.”
Gregor grumbled. He looked longingly toward the main entrance.
“You have more experience with this sort of thing, Guilliam, coming from the country, working with families in the burial caves… “
“I cannot do this for you, My Laud.” Guilliam had his own responsibilities in this matter. More than just the HP was affected by the HPS passing.
Oh, the paperwork would be endless.
At the doorway to Marilee’s room, Gregor hesitated. His nostrils flared at the unaccustomed odors of sharp antiseptic, acrid fear, and the cloying sweetness of a body shutting down.
Guilliam let the scents transport him back in time to his earliest years. His parents presided over a Funerary Temple next to a series of burial caves to the far west on the Northern Continent. He remembered the solemn processions where he was privileged to swing the aspergillum filled with smoking incense. Once more he shared the sense of unity as families drew together in grief and then celebrated life with a grief blessing. The family who called him Gil. Only one person did that now. The only one who knew anything of his past.
In his mind, Guilliam heard the soft chiming of seven crystals as his mother and father intoned the proper prayers. Their voices blended effortlessly with the notes and chords they drew from the crystals. And then at the culmination, together they rapped a special black crystal. Its sweetness swelled and encompassed all the others. The acoustics of the cave amplified and reverberated the full chorus of notes.
And grief that had been an all-consuming solid barrier shattered into thousands of tiny pieces. The family of the deceased could manage the little pieces, cherish them as memories. One and all they departed the rites healed and ready to go about their lives.
The moment Gregor took his place at the foot of Marilee’s bed, ready to catch any last words she might utter—and try to make them profound, though Guilliam doubted Marilee had a wise thought in her entire life—Guilliam slipped away.
He knew better places from which to observe. Secret places.
At the end of the corridor, Guilliam found a door. A metal one too heavy for weak patients to open, solid enough to hold out fire, with a reinforced jamb to withstand quakes. He checked over his shoulder for observers. None. Staff, patients, and families all had more important matters to occupy their attention.
On the stairwell landing on the other side of the door, he found the outline of another door. It had been cleverly concealed beneath layers of paint. Only maintenance staff knew to look for it. And Guilliam.
He pressed around the edges until he felt the wall board give just a little. More pressure made it swing inward a few inches. Within seconds he had slipped through and closed the panel behind him.
Darkness engulfed him. He embraced the warm close feeling, so near to a cave. It smelled dusty and rarely used, like home. He didn’t need a light to find his way. He’d done this too many times, first in the burial caves, then within the walls of the various temples he’d served. His other senses opened and guided him. Touching a wall here, smelling a draft there.
A glimmer of light and the susurration of muted voices to his left seemed almost an intrusion upon his quiet communion with the darkness.
Duty compelled him to peek through the gratings into each of the hospital rooms. Time after time he peered in at severely wounded Temple people. He knew most of them, shared the pain of those who could only sit beside them and mourn. He worked with them daily, lived beside them. Most often the injured had only a single companion. Usually a lover. He could foresee a long line of grief blessings and far too few rituals to celebrate healing in the next few days.
At each observation post, he made a note on his little computerized pad of name, position in Temple, and condition, as well as those who watched. He wished he had the time to reach out and offer them comfort.
Laud Gregor had no one to share his burdens. Discord only knew if the HP actually felt anything but frustration at having to seek out a new HPS. Gregor did not make friends easily and took lovers only casually. Guilliam already suspected that Gregor had no intention of elevating Penelope, the logical candidate.
Finally, he found Marilee and those who kept her death watch. At first glance she seemed the same as when he’d left the room scant moments ago. Lady Marissa wept quietly, holding her sister’s hand. Penelope paced anxiously, sobbing loudly, dramatically. Gregor stood in a corner, frowning. A study in their typical behavior.
A bubble of tension seemed to isolate them from the rest of the world, muffle the sounds. They moved jerkily, as if in a television drama where the sound and the action no longer matched.
A second look and Guilliam knew something had changed. The monitors beeped. Equipment dripped. A machine wheezed as it breathed for the fallen HPS. All in different rhythms. The tones were wrong. Out of synchronization. Out of Harmony.
And then a buzzer blasted. Three heads jerked upward alertly.
A physician and three nurses ran into the room. Noise and Chaos in their wake. More machines. Shouts, terse commands. Marissa shoved aside. She bristled at the affront to her Nobility.
Penelope grabbed the older woman’s shoulders and held her tight, embracing her as if comforting one of her children. Only this close could Guilliam pick out the family resemblance in the shape of nose and cheekbones and texture of dark hair. Penelope’s broad shoulders, erect posture, and magnificent bosom dwarfed the fine bones and delicate stature of the older women.
Guilliam knew how much Penelope resembled Marissa in strength of will. And how much Penelope had inherited of Marilee’s concern for protocol and ritual, as well as her rather shallow view of the world and politics outside of Temple.
“I’ll have your heads, one and all, if you allow my sister to die,” Marissa shouted.
Wisely, the medics ignored her.
Penelope kept her from raging forward and throwing aside Professionals and life-saving equipment alike.
Gregor pounded one fist into the other. Then he stomped out of the room.
“Time to go back to work.” Guilliam arrived back at Marilee’s room just as the physician shook his head and looked at the large clock on the wall.
“Come.” Guilliam enfolded Penelope into his arms. She nestled her head into his shoulder, her entire frame shuddering with grief. “You, too, My Lady. There is nothing more we can do here. A private grief blessing is in order.”
“I’m not finished with these incompetent fools!” Marissa proclaimed. “I will have justice for the loss of my sister.”
“My Lady, can you claim justice from Harmony Herself?”
“If I have to. I will take my sister’s place as High Priestess.”
“My Lady, that is just the grief speaking. You cannot replace your sister, only mourn her,” Guilliam soothed. “Come, I will perform a grief blessing for both of you. Privately. All the people of Harmony and her empire will share in one publicly. Later.”
Chapter 7
“Painless procedure, my ass!” Jake grumbled. The most demanding itch was on his rear. Every square micron of his skin burned and twitched. Damn, but he needed to scratch.
Good thing his heavy flight suit and gloves prevented him from doing more than rubbing his cheeks occasionally. The demands of piloting a three-man cargo vessel occupied his hands most of the time. But not his mind. This run to Prometheus XII was so routine he could have flown to the jump point in his sleep.
Maybe just this once he’d make use of the sleepy drugs while the computers flew them through hyperspace. The sensory distortions of the space between space didn’t usually bother him enough to give up control of his body and mind to medication. He’d never encountered a ghost in hyperspace, even when he wanted to. But right now he desperately needed relief from the constant itching.
He’d almost rather have the hangover, which had miraculously disappeared within seconds of the first shot.
Pammy had promised him he’d barely notice the five syringes of nanobots that worked to darken his skin, broaden his nose, swell his lips and add tissue to his face to make his cheekbones look higher and broader. By the time he and his crew reached Prometheus XII, he’d look like any other Numidian trader. His own mother wouldn’t recognize him.
When humans first ventured away from Earth, a tribe of Africans from the upper Nile region wanted their own planet where they could restore an ancient culture and religion. The planet they drew in the lottery offered barely enough resources for them to eke out an existence, let alone rise to the glory of their ancient past. Then four years after they set up housekeeping on New Numidia, a revolution in jump drives—right after they made contact with Labyrinthe Space Station—had changed the space lanes and placed New Numidia right smack dab in the middle of the biggest crossroad in the galaxy.
The Numidians proved themselves worthy of their revered ancestors and bargained the best deal imaginable with spacefaring humanity. They charged huge rents for limited leases and guaranteed that seventy-five percent of all employees in the port, from the lowest janitor to the highest management and the most technical engineer, were all Numidians.
A generation later, merchants from New Numidia were the most respected traders in the galaxy. They drove hard but fair bargains and got the goods where they were supposed to be when they were supposed to be.
The best cover possible for Jake was black skin and Negroid features. He could go anywhere unremarked, from the most exclusive country club to the darkest dive in a back alley.
“You lied to me, Pammy. I itch so bad, I hurt,” he muttered again.
“You say something, boss?” D’billio, his copilot asked. Billy had the advantage of being a true Numidian and didn’t have to endure three hundred million nanobots running rampant under his skin.
Jake muttered something under his breath. Then he decided to be sociable. Maybe conversation would take his mind off his twitching skin until they reached the jump point and he could trigger an injection of sleepy drugs.
“What made you succumb to Pammy’s wiles and go to work for the CSS’ spymaster?” he asked.
Billy laughed long and loud in a voice so deep it nearly rattled Jake’s bones. “She blackmailed me. Me and my brother D’mikko.” He jerked his head to the navigator’s seat behind them.
Mickey flashed them both a blazing smile, pearly white teeth shining in his handsome black face.
“What brought you into her service, Jake?” Billy asked.
“She bribed me. Gave me a promotion when Warski was getting ready to bust me back to shavetail lieutenant for insubordination.” Jake had to chuckle. “Pammy always gets her way.”
“More than that, our asses belong to Pamela Marella now. What she says we do. No questions. No outs.” Mickey shook his head in dismay.
“Remember that and you’ll go far in her service,” Billy added.
More than just Jake’s skin itched with that thought. What have I gotten myself into? he asked himself. Probably not the freedom to run hard and fast away from my memories and the loneliness, like I thought.
“You think this scientist on Prometheus XII really has a substitute for Badger Metal?” Billy asked, probably just to fill the void of silence.
“I hope so,” Jake replied. “We need to beef up the fleet before the Marils attack again. I’d rather make our own hull shielding than try to force a break in Harmony’s isolation. They really don’t want contact with outsiders.”
“Last thing I read about Harmony, they’ve been isolated so long they’ve forgotten they’re human,” Mickey said.
“Maybe they aren’t human anymore. Legend says they transported most of their colonists as embryos. They had some of the best genetic scientists in their crew. Who knows how they manipulated those eggs,” Billy said.
“I read the report on the last interview with a Harmonic merchant who left the Empire.” Jake shook his head in wonder at the ineptness of the interrogators. “They left so many questions unasked it was pitiful.” They knew precious little about the Empire of seven planets that controlled the process for Badger Metal.
If only their lost colony had procured the formula… According to Pammy they hadn’t. But they had broken through communications barriers long enough to petition for asylum and eventual membership in the CSS.
One less lost colony to fill the folklore books. One less ghost ship to haunt the space lanes.
“Harmony has their own creation myths, their own religion, totally different from anything from Earth,” Jake said, remembering every word of the interview. “They’ve done enough DNA manipulation to give them all caste marks at birth. The process may have achieved genetic drift. And it’s only been seven hundred years.”
“Jump point coming up,” Mickey interrupted.
“Thank God,” Jake added. He keyed the computer to take them into hyperspace. Even before the lights shifted to a new prismatic scale, he hit the injection button at the base of his helmet. He barely noticed the jerk and jolt to his stomach and the loss of gravity as his eyes closed and the itching beneath his skin faded to a dull irritation.
The unquiet in his mind persisted in long involved dreams more real than reality.
“I’ll not have Marissa as my HPS,” Gregor said firmly. “I’ll not have her disrupting all that I have accomplished for Harmony.”
Marissa had the same training as her twin Marilee. Easy enough to manipulate her caste mark once more, bring it back to a natural Temple purple circle. She’d had the Noble blue diamond added artificially at her marriage.
Gregor shuddered at the thought of having the lady outvote and out-maneuver him on High Council. Would she relinquish her position as a Noble in favor of the presiding position as HPS? No. Knowing Marissa as he did, she’d claim both places and both votes. She’d rule Harmony unquestioned. A true queen rather than the first among equals dictated by the Covenant with Harmony.
Resolutely he marched across the hospital complex. He had only one solution.
“Maigrie, Jaimey, please, I need a word with your daughter alone,” he announced from the doorway of Sissy’s room.
“I want my family to hear what you have to say,” Sissy whispered. Her voice was raw, her breathing shallow. She truly needed the surgery, sooner rather than later.
Gregor bristled a bit. He’d had enough of families tonight. Whatever happened to thinking for oneself?
He forced himself to remember that independence had been bred and manipulated out of Workers. Only Temple and Noble had the spirit and intelligence to make decisions.
Whatever else Sissy might be, she’d been raised to think like a Worker.
“Very well.” Gregor looked sharply at Stevie who perched on the stool beside the bed, where Gregor had sat before.
The brother vacated the seat slowly, almost reluctantly. He never released Sissy’s hand as he moved.
Gregor assumed his place, imagining it a throne; an invisible altar and authority between him and the Workers.
“Sissy, would you rather stay in Harmony City for your study and training?” he asked without preamble. He didn’t have the time for niceties. He had to have everything in place before Marissa could enact her ill-conceived plan to become HPS.
“I don’t want no more schooling. I’m happy doing what I do. I make good money. Money my family needs.” She dissolved in a fit of coughing that racked her body so fiercely she couldn’t breathe. She jerked and convulsed trying to coax air in and dust out.
