Army of the Goddess: A Bona Dea Novel (Stormflies Book 2) (16 page)

23 Trimont, 308 (Matersday)

Morgan Mainsteer ascended the steps of the makeshift dais and surveyed the crowd before him. Daylin gave him a count of two hundred seventy-six in attendance, but a few more wandered up even now, whether they intended to attend or not. He was willing to bet his year's worth of distilling that he would top the three hundred boasted by the news article. Applause greeted him, to which he waved, then gestured for quiet.

“Thank you. Thank you, I appreciate your enthusiasm. Good afternoon. I am happy to see so many faces here today. Some of you may have already made up your minds about the subject I am going to talk to you about today. However, I know many of you have not. I hope I can offer evidence to lead you to a decision. What I will offer you are facts about the people who provide leadership to the rest of us.”

A smattering of polite applause followed his opening statement.

“I had the opportunity a few days ago to visit the People's Hall of Leadership, the building so many people simply refer to as the 'Palace'. A gorgeous building filled with ancient treasures: works of art, tomes of wisdom, and the volumes containing the history of Bona Dea and its people. All of these things are accessible to the public at any time, granted you want to spend the time. Within those walls, the People's Council conducts our business, deciding what ideas will succeed or fail, determining who will work where and how long and on what project, projects designed to maintain the status quo. While the People's Council utilizes a great deal of the ground floor, the remainder of the building is devoted to one woman, our Protectress. She has a residence, guest quarters, servers quarters, a large banquet hall—a significant amount of space and resources for a single individual, albeit, a person considered to be the most important woman of our society. I'm not certain of the origin of the nickname 'Palace' for this building, but the implication seems clear. The Protectress lives in luxury while we serve her needs and desires.”

“She isn't just sitting around eating honey cakes all day,” a man's voice sneered from within the crowd, somewhere several rows back from the dais. Morgan could not pinpoint the source. “You try her job for a day.”

“For those of you who are not familiar with the procedures, the councilors gather together at regular intervals to make choices that affect our lives. These decisions direct our food, our water, where our roads are laid, where our houses are built, and who lives in each one. Many times, the Council has turned down requests for projects that would have provided our people with technologies capable of easing farming, speeding up transportation, and a number of other advances that would take us beyond where we have sat stagnant for three hundred years. Our lives are sedentary, our minds rotting without challenges to move us forward. The Protectress oversees these proceedings; her voice is the ultimate factor, the key to our happiness.”

Mainsteer continued, “As we all know, the Council claims that all decisions are made with our best interests in mind, to protect us from destroying this world like Earth was destroyed centuries ago. They don't trust us to know what's good for us; they don't trust us to learn from past mistakes, to lead ourselves down the right path.”

“But don't we elect the Council?” interjected a prodding question from among the crowd. A middle-aged woman stood with a bifurcated brow and a squint, the high blue sun glaring down on her at the edge of the shaded park circle. “We choose who takes ownership of those decisions, and we can remove them at any time.”

“We do, yes,” Mainsteer agreed, as the process of electing the officials was well known, taught to school children at every level. “But we are given a narrow roster of individuals to choose from, most of whom have been groomed for legislative service. They are not average citizens like ourselves. Their agenda is taught to them by their predecessors, ingrained into their world views. They do not work the way we do or live the way we do. I want a chance to elect someone fresh, someone with new ideas, someone familiar with the reality of life, someone who rejects the growing trend to sit idle while others do all the work.”

A hand popped up in the crowd, a courteous gesture. Morgan acknowledged with a “Yes?”

“I happen to know that Mark Osander does work like we do every day he's home,” stated a man with a dark mustache and a bald patch. “He's an adept bricklayer and a decent field worker. He's no shirker.”

“Then he is the exception. Homer Spirton, for example, goes to his large house in Sweetwater and sits in his chair doing nothing but complain that the sidewalk in front of his house is uneven. He doesn't offer a finger to repair the sidewalk or anything else in town,” Morgan refuted.

“Homer is seventy-eight years old,” someone informed with a tone of annoyance.

For a moment, Morgan felt a bead of sweat in the small of his back. He never experienced this much push back on his home turf. He made a mental note to have Daylin do more homework on the other councilors before he took this rally on tour. If Homer Spirton garnered more respect in Undun than at home, the old man was pulling the wool over their eyes. He needed heavier muck to throw out to the crowd to soil established perceptions of the old councilors. The roots ran deeper than expected.

For now, he used his telepathic tendrils to find anything within the crowd to get them excited. He'd used the trick before, once, the first time he ever stepped up to the podium as an inexperienced speaker. It's what the Protectress would have done in the same situation. He knew this from his recent meeting with her. One subject incited concern in the widest selection.

“Let's return our focus now to the one we call our Esteemed Protectress, a woman who, for whatever reason, left her family at a young age and vanished. She returns to us unexpectedly, reclaims her title and—apparently something else. How many here today are concerned that the Protectress may still be connected to the Stormflies? That's it. Hold those hands up.” A few thrust up quickly. Others rose reluctantly, slowly, giving in to the mass mentality and soon a slim majority admitted that the thought had crossed their minds. A few with hands down peered snobbishly down their noses, too proud to succumb.

“It's not true,” came that man's voice again. “It's impossible.”

“Have we been given proof that the separation is complete?” Morgan countered in response. “Have we been given proof that she wasn't an accomplice in the scheme from the beginning? At this very moment, the woman living in the Palace is privy to every piece of information discussed by the Council and by Security; meaning that, if she is still connected to the Stormflies in
any way
, they know every plan we have to defend ourselves. And that woman possesses abilities known only in our nightmares. She possesses the ability to twist your thoughts, leading you to believe she is on our side when she is not. Our Protectress is now a spy, and we have a duty to our neighbors and families to protect the people of this world from anyone who jeopardizes our peaceful existence.”

And that was Morgan's moment of triumph. The crowd erupted with applause and cheers as a seed was planted in each mind, a seed sown to grow beyond these few hundred with its vines curling throughout every nook in this city, the capital, the center of everything. Carefully cultivated, doubt was an invasive flora that inclined all who breathed its scent to seek the next best solution.

“What we need now are new faces on our People's Council. We need individuals who are willing to break from the unwritten restrictions of the institution and who will not fear proposing opposition. Today, I want to endorse Lawrence Jackmoore,” he swept an arm to his nearest companion on the dais, “a man who exemplifies change. Mr. Jackmoore has taken hold of our local work coordination ministry and forged a new path. He pushes this workforce harder and farther, ensuring that everyone
earns
what is given to them. He does not allow any citizen to rest on their haunches and wait to be handed their daily ration. This is the kind of person we want to see leading our people. You can help promote change by electing Lawrence Jackmoore to the open office of Councilor.”

Satisfied with the fervent response, Mainsteer felt his shoulders loosen and his lung moved more easily within his chest. A cool breeze brought with it a promise of a fresh day and a fresh way of thinking.

+++

In plain clothes, Elite guards Calvin and Dalia stood among the rally crowd. Assigned by the Second in Command of the Elite forces, they carried with them small recording devices, discreetly lodged in the pockets of their shirts to aide in capturing as much of the speaking as possible. Their eyes surveyed the crowd to note any prominent local faces.

Calvin pointed out that Healer Sampson was in attendance, the woman who oversaw health for the western section of the city. She was quite close to the stage and smiled and applauded enthusiastically in a rehearsed fashion whenever Mainsteer paused. Next to her stood Lawrence Jackmoore, a well-spoken minister for the work coordination offices. He was also a known proponent of restructuring the Bona Dean government to favor an economy based on currency in exchange for goods, service, and employment.

“I wonder who that is shouting out counter-arguments,” Dalia commented aside to her companion. “Mr. Mainsteer looks a bit flustered.”

“Let's edge in that direction,” Calvin suggested in a whisper. They pretended to be vying for a better view of the featured speaker as they danced a slow zigzag through the crowd. The voice of opposition came from a tall, dark-haired stranger, not one either guard recognized. Of course, they didn't know all four thousand six hundred seventy-two people residing in Undun, nor the hundreds of visitors passing through each month. By the comments made in defense of the Matriarch, the man must have been an acquaintance of the Protectress; but it was not one they'd seen or been advised to know. Dalia flashed a curious expression at her partner but kept her comments to herself in public.

Taking inventory of his features, Dalia found a man of substantial frame wrapped in toned muscle, golden tan skin and masculine patches of dark hair along is arms and sprouting from his V-neck shirt front. His face was clean-shaven, but this was a recent adaptation to the sticky heat of an Undun summer, evidenced by the pale outline where I beard once shaded his jaws and chin. From what she knew, he had the look of an islander. She briefly pitied him, for he probably lost his home in the flooding last fall. She eased up beside him to her left, Calvin on her right. She bumped the man slightly, eliciting a glance of his gray eyes from under a prominent brow. She apologized softly and committed his face to her memory.

Continuing her surveillance, Dalia peered around the tall man's substantial frame. As she cast a glance across another section of the crowd, a particularly curious figure caught her eye, forcing a scowl to mar her freckled face. Calvin noticed him at about the same time. Casper Ross, the aged, long-standing Council member, watched the rally from a perch on a nearby bench. Dalia wasn't certain if he intended to participate, or if his sitting place was usurped by the bulging throng. He appeared to be paying rapt attention to Mainsteer's words and the response of the crowd. He did not speak to anyone.

“Now that is curious,” Calvin remarked with an undertone of suspicion. They were going to have quite a report when they returned to the People's Hall that afternoon.

27
^th
Trimont, 308 (Tinsday)

While the days moved toward summer to the north, the daylight hours grew warmer and longer. So when night time came with the setting of the suns, the downward draft of crisp mountain air felt as welcomed and refreshing as a swim in the river.

Many of the taverns opened up outdoor seating as soon as the temperatures broke fifteen degrees. Chairs and tables fashioned of wrought iron or wood allowed numerous patrons to relax near fountains and heater boxes while they chatted with neighbors, visitors, and friends over tankards of ale and goblets of wine.

Hidden behind a wall of upsweeping shrubs, Miri sat across from Mikel at a small round table. For the last month, the couple had used their off-duty hours to spend time together, nurturing a relationship outside of their place of work. After dining at the home of Miri's parents on Quarter Street, the two headed to the tavern for a private drink. Mikel leaned on his fist and watched Miri's sparkling pink lips as she talked, looking forward to kissing those lips later.

He barely registered words spilling from her diminutive mouth until she uttered, “I feel almost ashamed to say this—maybe we should get a room at the inn on Dell. Then we don't have to worry about…big mouths.” Miri so wanted to spend a few hours of intimate time with Mikel, but she lived in the Palace staff quarters and he lived in the guard dormitory. Neither of those two places was conducive to privacy. Her apartment a little more so, but everyone would take notice of them in the hallway. Miri wasn't quite ready to make everyone privy to her blossoming sex life.

“I'm not the least bit ashamed,” Mikel assured. “I'd take you anywhere.”

“Mikel!” Miri scolded as she blushed.

“Can we do it tonight?”

“Yes, tonight,” she agreed excitedly.

“Then what are we waiting for?” he asked, eyes wide. He hopped up, pushed in his chair, and offered his arm to his date. Miri collected her crocheted shawl. Drawing it closely over her shoulders against the breeze, she gently clasped her lover's arm and smiled, hoping to display the longing she felt to be with him. They had waited a while, nervously. Miri had never been with anyone. She always avoided getting that close. Weeks of courting went by until Miri finally decided that Mikel was the one she wanted to be with. She dismissed his annoying idiosyncrasies and embraced his charm.

“I promise this will be an incredible night,” Mikel whispered as they walked out.

“I know,” she was so focused on him that she didn't notice any of the other faces they passed on the way.

+++

“There is something wrong with the sky.”

The comment, spoken by an unrecognized source behind her, prompted Axandra to gaze out the nearest window. Above the Palace, the clouds rotated counterclockwise at the same time they undulated like ocean waves, churning a stew of green-cast mist. Static lightning flashed within the atmospheric sea.

She moved quickly into the front courtyard to get a better view of the growing storm. Sniffing the air, she recognized the acrid tang instantly, the stench of the molecular soup that supported the metabolism of the Stormflies by amplifying human emanations.

“The Great Storm…” The words escaped on the barest whisper of breath.

Above, the firefly flickers of the Stormfly horde danced in the sky, hovering and waiting.

Axandra found herself without breath. If the Great Storm manifested itself here, it could only mean—

“Who is that?”

At the sight of the approaching figures, Ty and his guards encircled the Protectress. “You should be inside,” the Commander scolded.

Axandra knew these people. They were the Prophets—at least what remained of them. Of the four hundred thirty-two souls once belonging to the human subspecies, over three hundred had died at the time the Stormflies escaped their centuries-long captivity, either struck down by the Goddess or by the parasites within minutes. The remainder scattered, hiding and waiting. Some twenty-odd appeared here now. The rest—elsewhere, places unknown, but probably not for long.

Tyrane lead the ghastly procession. He appeared even older and more decrepit that before. His face and eyes were hollow and sallow.

“We should retreat,” Ty suggested firmly to his charge.

“No, I want to know what they want.”

“I think it's obvious,” he growled.

“Protectress of Bona Dea,” Tyrane's voice boomed, startling everyone to the point of jumping. “Leader of the human kind, you will release my brothers and sisters from imprisonment.”

With one arm, Axandra brushed Ty aside to make herself visible.

“Why would I do that? Releasing them means more death for my people.”

“Your people will die anyway.”

Axandra watched Tyrane carefully. She heard his voice, but those were not his words. The goddess controlled him. Yet, the Goddess was not present. Axandra would recognize the emanations of the creature she had hosted not so long ago. The Goddess had abandoned him, leaving behind a sliver, utilizing him remotely.

Knowing Ty would give chase, after succumbing to a brief coronary, Axandra dashed forward, meeting Tyrane head on. She grabbed the elder's hand and forced her way inside his mind without waiting for a word of permission.

No! Get away!
Tyrane shouted from inside.
She will have you again!

I won't allow this! Release him!

The Goddess gave her no indication of concession nor did Axandra expect one. With mental talons, she reached into the center of his mind, locating the tendrilous sliver of blackness and tearing it out, taking part of Tyrane's essence with it.

The man consumed a final gasp of air and collapsed at her feet as Axandra drew the sliver into her own body and caged it.

A gathering of on-lookers stood aghast, failing to understand completely what had just happened. In their eyes, she had just killed a man.

“What has she done?”

“The only thing she can do,” explained Casper Ross. Then the voices were drowned out by a slicing blitz of lightning and thunder.

Axandra grabbed the arm of the nearest Prophet, using the same method to tear away the parasite and attempted to pull it into her own body. The sliver had been simple—a light piece, a mere shred of mass, an echo of the original Goddess. The sliver had no power on its own, nothing to sustain it so it quickly faded when starved.

A full-bodied parasite was an entirely different matter. The impact of the parasite with her body knocked her back. She was unable to make a complete connection with the mass; for it resisted, straining against her pull, biting at her claws. Her grip on the creature slipped. The weight of the dead Prophet fell against her.

“Stop her!” screamed a man in the growing crowd.

Feet pounded the pavement and arms snatched her from the ground. She had no control as she was lifted off her feet and conveyed back into the Palace.

“Put me down,” she barked at Ben, flailing both arms and legs in a tantrum, hoping to shake loose of his grip.

“Not until we are in your quarters, Madam.”

“You have to put me down,” she insisted. “You have to let me try again.”

“Try what again? Getting yourself killed?” The lieutenant ignored her demands as he rushed inside, following closely by the non-security bystanders. A gauntlet of Elite closed behind them,

Behind them, the sky erupted again with deadly lightning, strikes ripping tiles from building and splintering trees. Fires sparked to life, drenching the rainless air with smoke.

+++

The scream brought her fully awake in less than a second. Limbs shaking, Miri struggled to untangle herself from the tossed covers. Mikel, conditioned for emergencies, was half-clothed already. Buckling his pants, he studied the scene outside the window.

“Bloody Hell! We've got to get out of here.” He tossed her dress at her and pulled on his shirt, leaving the buttons open.

“What? Mikel, what's going on?”

“I don't know,” he said as he peeked through the drapes, “but there are people chasing each other in the street with rakes. Somebody is getting beaten out there. I think I see a fire. Maybe we should stay here. Lock ourselves in.”

Dress on, Miri fumbled with her shoes. The buckles were stuck, and her trembling fingers could not master the fine motor skill necessary to loosen the strap. She was scared, but she knew what had to be done. “No. We have to get back to the Palace. They'll need help organizing security, and I need to be at the Protectress' side.”

“This doesn't make any sense. We need to get to a shelter and get out of the way.”

“It's got to be the Stormflies,” Miri said. “They're starting their full-on attack. Come on.”

Grabbing Mikel's hand, Miri tugged him forcefully out the door into the second floor hallway. Mikel surged forward to take the lead, so typical of him. As other guests emerged from their rooms with expressions of befuddlement, Mikel pushed through to the stairs and an exit door at the side of the building.

“Get to shelters!” Miri urged over the chattering voices. “Get to safety!”

Overhead, clouds gathered at an alarming rate. Miri had never seen such a storm cloud over the city. The uneven surfaces churned like inverted ocean waves, sailing swiftly into position above the city. Pale lamp lights reflected off the gray ceiling.

“Oh, Great Goddess!” she whispered in realization of what she witnessed. A greenish cast reminded her of the sky before a twister, but the resemblance stopped there. This looked from all directions at once exactly like a greenish cast of the Great Storm.

At that moment, fingers of blue-white lightning groped the housetops nearby. The air sizzled with streamers of fire. All around them, the Stormflies soared, streaks of light falling like shooting stars.

“We have to get out of here!” Miri latched onto Mikel's hand and took off at a sprinter's pace across the cobbled street, feeling the round back of every stone bruising her feet through her shoes.

Using the darkened edges of the walkways, Mikel led Miri on a jagged line toward the Palace. Dozens of people fled in the general direction of neighborhood wind shelters. Doors and shutters slammed and locked as they passed by houses. Locks clicked on doors, discouraging intruders. These steps had been included in the dispatched safety instructions last week.

As they approached a slow crowd, Miri tugged at Mikel to a stop. Just looking at them, she could see there was something amiss. Some legs moved stiffly, unwillingly, as though the bodies were forced in an unwanted direction. She'd never seen anyone behave with such a peculiar set of motions.

“They're infected,” she whispered to him. “Newly. The people are resisting.”

A man collapsed amidst the group, face ashen and sickly, vomit spilling from the corners of his mouth. His breathing sputtered and stopped with labored, gurgling noises. As the body went limp, a firefly light rose up from his face, pulsating once per second as it ascended. Speeding off, the Stormfly went in search of another host.

The crowd shifted, blocking Miri and Mikel's intended path without taking notice of the pair. Mikel gestured a hand back in the direction they came. They would have to double-back a block and go north to avoid confrontation.

A fleeing family raced past them. The father carried a small daughter on his hip while the mother ushered two older children forward. In their bed clothes, the family appeared disheveled and sooty, as though fleeing a burning house. They ran straight for the Palace up the boulevard. From nearby, a pair of men joined them, offering to help by carrying the child who appeared to be about six, his short legs struggling to keep up.

“Maybe we should go with them,” Miri suggested urgently. “We can help. Do you have your stunner?”

“No. I'll help them once you're safe,” Mikel insisted. He started across the street, squeezing her hand as he pushed off the curb.

Jerking away, Miri clenched her jaw. “I'm not just going to sit in some bunker, Mikel. I can help someone on the way, and
I
need to get to the Palace and do
my
job.”

“Are you crazy? They'll be after the Protectress most of all, if they don't already have her under their control. You're not going up there.” Mikel practically shouted at her in disagreement.

“Yes, I am! Don't think for one minute you're going to tell me what to do. I'm not hiding.”

“Dammit, Miri!” Mikel cursed loudly enough his voice echoed off the wall. “Let's go! We can't argue about it now.”

Mikel jogged away, hitting the dark alleyway across the street.

Miri pursed her lips and followed him. She felt absolutely flabbergasted that Mikel was being so selfish. Despite her misgivings several weeks ago, she had come to believe him to be a person of different character, someone who would go out of his way to protect the ordinary citizens, to assist anyone in need. Instead, he thought more of himself. He wanted her safe to satisfy his own needs and desires. At this moment, he carried very little compassion for anyone he didn't know personally.

Mikel slowed, keeping his back pressed against the wall as he crept to the opening of the alleyway. Spying into the next street, he found no one. He waved Miri forward and they stepped out under a lamp together.

“I wish I had my stunner,” Mikel hissed under his breath. “We should be allowed to carry them off duty. I'd clear us a path all the way to the bunker. We'd be there by now.”

Miri picked up her pace to a jog, hoping to pass Mikel and take up the lead. Gathering her bearings, she realized Mikel had taken them off course by five blocks, still heading away from the Palace rather than toward it. Shaking her head, Miri refused to believe that Mikel would do anything but his duty and that his intentions were to get to the Palace in one piece even if by a circuitous route. It was the only acceptable answer to the question.

Mikel jumped ahead of her again. “Be careful.”

Miri heard the crackle of wood fire nearby. Thunder rolled from west to east following the incendiary flashes. Smoke infiltrated their nostrils, and an orange glow discolored the night sky. The footsteps of a half-dozen people pattered ahead of them, just out of sight around a tall corner hedge. Cautiously approaching the intersection, Mikel peeked through a thinning branch.