Army of the Goddess: A Bona Dea Novel (Stormflies Book 2) (15 page)

Downing the remaining liquid in his glass, Quinn thanked the server and departed the lonely table. Heading inside to head upstairs, he immediately noticed that Mainsteer had found Axandra just outside the Council Chamber. The tall man put forth a persistent effort to hold Axandra's hand, but she tucked her hands behind her back. Just as Quinn stepped in their direction, Ben wedged his broad shoulders between the Protectress and Mainsteer and, with mock pleasantry, swept a wide gesture toward the main doors. “I will be happy to show you the way out, Mr. Mainsteer.” The guard left no room for refusal.

“Yes, thank you.” Mainsteer hunched his shoulders as he walked away, glowering at everything in sight.

Quinn approached his wife slowly. “Is everything all right?” he asked curiously.

She remained silent while her green eyes followed Mainsteer out the door. “Everything is fine,” she assured him. Pecking his cheek, she said, “I have to go,” and hurried inside the Council Chamber where Lelle struck her wooden gavel against the sounding block repeatedly.

Everything was not fine. Mainsteer rattled Axandra in some way.

Wagging a finger, Quinn gestured Ben over. “Can we … do something about keeping an eye on our friend? I don't trust him.”

“We can,” Ben confirmed stoically, his eyes surveying their surroundings for any stray ears. Ben had a sneakingly suspicious side; Quinn liked that about him.

“Perfect. Do what you need to do.” Quinn did not want any details, knowing Axandra would pick up on them and grill him later. The less he knew, the better. The motto served him well several times in his life.

+++

Morgan Mainsteer walked out of the People's Hall with an honestly different opinion than when he walked in. Oh, not about his overall goal. He still wished to restructure the government, to oust the old blood and renew creativity with a younger, more progressive selection.

His perception of the Protectress over the last several months was that of a deceptive, unintelligent, unworthy attention-monger who understood nothing about her dedicated role in society and had no business assuming the role, even if it was her birthright.

Instead, he discovered an actively social-conscious leader, a woman who, though reluctant to fulfill the role, did not shirk her duties, even shortly after the nearly successful attempt on her life.

And that touch—the gentle, supple touch of her hand. So rarely did he touch a woman's hand and feel the spark of a kindred spirit, a fully capable remoter. Long ago he had given up on finding a mate, unsuccessful in finding anyone he could call an equal in anyway, but most particularly in the telepathic ability. There simply were not enough of them among the population. One in ten thousand? One in fifty thousand?

Mainsteer was not an attractive man, not with his face disfigured by scars from a vicious adolescent illness, or his excessive height and disproportionate arm length, sloping back and shoulders. He once found a woman who valued his mind enough to fall in love with him, until that same mind disagreed with her beliefs. The disagreement broke them apart, and since then, he worked toward his ultimate goal of launching his race into the future. Through her platonic loyalty, Daylin was the closest he came to another loving companion.

He had heard rumors of the Protectress' abilities, her projective talents, both empathically and kinetically. He had not believed either was possible until he came close enough to be enveloped in the sphere. He wondered how far she could reach out and influence others. Those rumors reminded him of one of the most prominent reasons why he hated the Protecting family: the suspected ability to change someone else's thoughts and actions without saying a word or lifting a finger. Dozens had suspected throughout history that the women known as Protectress possessed dazzling, dangerous abilities. Now he understood that this was absolutely true. The abilities existed. She attempted to use such on him consciously and without apology. The realization repulsed him on an atomic level.

Passing the main doors into the courtyard, Mainsteer realized his palm continued to tingle. The contact lingered, probably allowing her glimpses into his consciousness over a greater distance. He attempted to diminish the sensation by sweeping his hands together, but there was no soil to remove, no physical remnant. How long would the bond last? Or how far? Marching downhill, he monitored the feeling until, once he reached the first intersection at Council Street, the tingling stopped completely. The bond was broken.

Satisfied that any further activities would not be privy to the Protectress, Mainsteer proceeded to his next engagement.

“Morgan,” greeted Lawrence Jackmoore at the front door. “Early as usual. Have you eaten?”

“No, actually. I came straight from another meeting,” Mainsteer said, catching a whiff of something delectably earthy. The Palace offering had not been to his tastes, so he was pleased to have a second option for a meal.

“Join us for lunch, then.” Lawrence gestured him inside.

“Don't mind if I do,” he accepted cordially.

“So you've come to ask me if I'll run to be the new councilor in Tremby's place,” Lawrence said as he patted his friend's shoulder in greeting.

“My intentions are transparent. Yes, Lawrence. Are you interested?”

“I've discussed the prospect with my wife, and she agrees to give it a try.” They sat down together at the rectangular table after Morgan briefly clasped hands with Clara, Lawrence's wife. “I have a good name about town, though I'll need to circulate nearby villages for better coverage.”

“Wonderful! Then we need to start campaigning immediately, sow the seeds. Do we know who we're up against yet?” After a day's travel, Morgan did not have the most recent information on those petitioning to run in the political race.

“The only other name I've heard is Florence Nightly, but I'm not familiar with her,” Lawrence responded. He broke a loaf of fresh, warm bread and passed the larger half around the table.

“Undunite?”

“As far as I know.”

“I'll put Daylin on it as soon as I catch up with her this afternoon,” Morgan promised. “She's visiting relatives. We're holding a rally in a few days to test the local waters. I'd like you to join me. I'll endorse your candidacy while we're at it. What can you tell me about the general atmosphere of our capital city?”

A cloud of steam erupted from the stew once the spoon penetrated the congealing top layer. Lawrence puffed on his soup to cool down the hot meal. The aroma wormed its way into his nose and induced a flood of saliva in his mouth in anticipation of the wholesome morsel. “Around here, there is a general love of all things related to the People's Hall. Our new Protectress is quite conscientious that the Palace be seen as a welcoming, helpful institution, rather than a burden or a beneficiary. Many changes have taken place in the last six months despite her extended recovery period,” he reported with knowledgeable sincerity.

“She is different than her foremothers,” Morgan agreed without revealing his recent meeting. “That is evident through her work.”

“You should arrange to meet her personally,” Lawrence urged. “I hear rumors that being in her company has some curious effects on her visitors.”

“Is that so,” he mumbled, his mind returning to that lingering sensation from several minutes ago. “It just so happens, I came directly from such a meeting. I think those rumors are misplaced. She is a remoter, obviously, but she is young and untrained, and that mental prowess is going to waste while she tries to woo people with words.” He outright lied, knowing he needed to keep his plant interested in the job, as much to convince himself he should have no interest in her. He shifted his spine to hide a squeamish shiver. He briefly wondered if Mr. Elgar had been similarly seduced by her extensive abilities. With such powers, she could choose any mate in sight and convince him to become her lover.

Lawrence leaned back in his chair considerately. “I hope you will take some time to allow our new Protectress the opportunity to prove herself before you continue with your agenda. She may lead us in the very direction you wish, beginning with the communit expansion. Communication is an accelerant to innovation.”

“There are still obstacles—Spirton, Lelle, Ross—those old bloods that hold us back,” Morgan argued.

“Then we replace them. Casper is older than Tremby—he'll be ready for retirement by the end of the year. You can't expect advancement to jump ahead overnight, and forcing people against their will may ignite a conflict we could avoid,” Lawrence offered. He hoped Morgan would heed his advice and reconsider his head-long approach. “And can't afford at this juncture. Baby steps. We need buy-in from tens of thousands before we can succeed. Impatient revolutions have always resulted in wasted time and wasted lives.”

Morgan nodded slowly. “Perhaps you're right. I've worked at this for so many years already, I would like to live to see that success.”

“Three hundred years of complacency is difficult to change, but we're making progress,” Lawrence promised. “Change is coming.”

26 Trimont, 308 (Moonsday)

On Moonsdays, Quinn generally stayed home to work on his interpretations of reclaimed artifacts. In solitude, he was able to concentrate on particular aspects of certain pieces without interruption. The quiet time allowed him to talk to himself as well, vocalizing his trouble spots to give them air. So, when the inner door opened at 10:07 and his wife stepped in, he was startled and somewhat disappointed.

“Axandra?”

“I won't bother you,” she promised with a subtle wave of her hand, settling immediately into an overstuffed chair in the great room.

“Thank you, but what are you doing here?”

She pursed her lips tightly, then rubbed her eyes and sighed out of frustration. “I was asked to recuse myself from today's meeting due to the sensitive nature of the defense plan Mark Osander is presenting. Apparently
quite
a few people are concerned I might somehow be supplying that information to the enemy. I agreed to leave. I have a lot of other things I can be doing—letters on my desk need responses. I can fill up my schedule.” Though she said these words, she made no effort to move to enact them.

“But they don't have any proof that you're a leak. Someone else on the Council may be at fault, or no one may be at fault. The Stormflies may just be one step ahead of us,” Quinn argued, not that his words would do any good here. Axandra wasn't the one who needed convincing. Her body language expressed extreme frustration with her fists clenched at her sides and the firmly set jaw protruding like an under bite.

“It isn't me, and Mark knows that—at least I think he knows that. But I can't do anything about it right now,” she hissed. “I just have to wait until they are convinced that I'm safe. Or until we find the real culprit. I don't know when that will be.”

Quinn eased onto the couch perpendicular to the chair and reached out to caress the hand hanging over the chair's arm. He monitored for several seconds as Axandra leaned her head back against the cushion and closed her eyes to resign from her thoughts. She squeezed the offered hand one time, then relaxed, gently clasping his fingers. Thoughts flowed through the link as clear and concentrated as sugar syrup.

What she wanted to do was resign from the position, find a quiet home in Southland not far from the shore, and live out the remainder of her uncertain lifespan in solitude, except for her husband.

She wanted to leave the squabbling, bickering, and pretense behind. She wished for serene, uneventful days. She imagined collecting sea shells, her hands brushing away sand and salt, gritty beneath her fingers. With copper wire and needle-like pliers, she would create wind chimes and jewelry, carefully selecting complimentary colors and patterns. Through his telepathic connection with his wife, Quinn could hear the tinkling, jingling sound of sea shells rattling together in the briny, fecund breeze of the sea, a dozen of the chimes singing in a wide scale of tones accompanied by the applauding tree leaves and occasional creaking of branches, and the twittering of song birds from a dozen species. The house would be far enough away from any neighbors to provide a sanctum.

“I don't want to give up,” she complained, “but I'm almost completely overwhelmed. One more twig on this brush fire and I'll collapse.”

Quinn contemplated his words for a few seconds longer than seemed necessary, since Axandra turned her face to him curiously while she waited.

He spoke his words with complete sincerity. “Once this calamity is over, if you want to retire, I will gladly support your decision. CiFR will have what they want, you'll have what you want, and I'll have what I want.”

+++

21
^st
Trimont (Hundsday)

“What you are proposing amounts to genocide, Mr. Osander,” Carmen Offut barked at her fellow councilor with disdain. The concept of murdering other living beings revolted her.

Osander had prepared his testimony to attempt to convince any naysayers to agree with his proposal. Standing beside his desk, he surveyed his colleagues with uncompromising copper eyes. They waited silently for him to speak, most meeting his gaze. A few looked awkwardly away. “We must shift our view of these creatures from things of intelligence and reason to that of parasites, an infection that must be controlled, inoculated, and essentially eradicated in order for our people to survive, much less continue to thrive. We already take these same steps to prevent River Fever year after year, a virus that killed three hundred people during Year 1. We take the same steps against rigorworm, saving dozens from a parasite that chews on our connective tissues. These otherwise unique parasites feast in the same way, invading our bodies, stealing our nutrients and destroying our brain tissue. These. Are. Facts.” His splayed fingertips thumped against the fine-grained wood of his desktop to emphasize his words. “The Healers and the researchers have announced these findings with certainty.

“Does anyone in this room wish to be eaten alive? Does anyone here wish to give up their Free Will to cater to a thing that will eventually kill you? Do you want to see your children suffer the same fate?” He paused for effect, watching the eyes of his peers. They absorbed his words. They felt fear in their hearts. They were beginning to realize that they were not immune. No one on their world was immune. People were dying. Children were dying. “I don't believe any one of us or any one of our constituents wants to lay down and die for the Stormflies. Don't make me ask that of my people.”

Again, the room remained silent, pregnant with a sinking sense of foreboding. The decision had to be made today.

“My full plan, as comprised with the assistance of Healer Gage, Healer Adese, and Councilors Keys and Spirton, and the information provided by the research division of the Healer's Assembly, is in front of you now,” Mark stated as the interns hurried between the desks, placing short sheaves of parchment before each councilor. “We will proceed through each point, explaining thoroughly the implications of the task. We will discuss all concerns, all ideas, and approve these tactics for implementation immediately.”

“Thank you, Councilor Osander,” Lelle stated, “for your diligence. We will begin with item One-A.”

+++

The bodies were nearly used up now, and their systems were failing. These hundred were stronger now and ready to infiltrate the city. Those in Prophet bodies would lead the march. The free-flyers would strike as many humans as possible.

Tyrane looked on through his eyes feeling like a passenger on a runaway bus. He could clearly see the accident yet could not alter the outcome or the event. Within him, the queen instructed her minions to prepare for a full-on assault of the capital.

The decrepit faces of the victims all turned toward him, watching, absorbing the marching orders through their shared telepathic bond. The orders were simple: Inhabit. Kill. Use. Destroy the People's Hall. Do not discriminate. The implants already in the People's Hall would kill the Protectress and open the gateway to taking control over all.

Tyrane felt that his body would fail soon. The queen consumed his remaining life force like a glutton, fattening herself up for the flight back to Undun City free of a host. A new host waited for her there, implanted with a sliver of her being as the Prophets had done to the young Heirs for three centuries. After three hundred fifty-six years of life, he would now come to an end. He remembered the last years aboard the generation ship
Prophet
, seeing the fourth planet of the system from space. He remembered landing and almost immediately becoming the jailors of the Stormflies. The transformation that took his life and made him nearly immortal seared through his body once more, as painful as ever.

We gave everything we had to feed you, to maintain you, and now you destroy us,
Tyrane pleaded. He thought he might appeal to what good nature must certainly reside deep within the center of the queen.
We could have saved everyone, but you would not try.

You are still a fool. We can wait as long as it takes to prevail.

I poured this cup, now I must drink the wine of my own ferment,
Tyrane wailed in misery.
We should have destroyed you when we found you, but we felt sorry for you. You were weak and dying, starving from centuries of famine. We could have struck you down and been rid of you. But we used our compassion.

You succumbed to our will. We gave you immortality and you accepted our offering. Now you belong to us.

Then just kill me now.

For you, I have one more task.