Jeanne G'Fellers - No Sister of Mine (7 page)

LaRenna’s blue eyes brimmed with doubt. “Everyone shares quarters here?”

“Yes, the Langus base no longer segregates housing areas, officer-enlisted, or Taelach-Autlach,” said Krell bluntly, though not indifferent to LaRenna’s reluctance to accept what was all so new. “Things go smoothly most days. Not that you’ll be around enough to worry about it. You’ll be far too busy.” She stepped onto the lift, holding it open while LaRenna and a weary Autlach sentry boarded. He leaned against the lift walls, near asleep. Krell nodded acknowledgment to his half-hearted salute then let silence prevail until they reached the fourth level.

“We’re home.”

Krell turned down the right-hand passageway. LaRenna followed slowly, taking in her new surroundings. The quarters here were indeed cramped, some sentries forced to bunk in cleared storage closets. Krell placed an index finger on the security plate and the hatch to their quarters hissed open. “We’ll add you to the identification program tomorrow.” She tossed her sandy cape onto its hook then placed a partially filled water urn to heat. “Put your bag in the corner and have a seat.”

LaRenna obliged, flopping her spent body into a chair. Her head held an indefinable ache, one she wasn’t sure came from exhaustion or from the hunger that twisted her insides. Not that it needed labeling; both needs would be met soon enough. She pulled off her boots and rubbed her swollen feet, flinching as she touched the new Kimshee symbol gracing the upper third of her right foot.

Krell bent close to examine the reddened tattoo. “Marks hurt at first, don’t they? Guess that’s why most of us get our family ones when we’re too small to remember. It’ll heal soon enough. Leave your boots off the rest of the evening so it can air. That’ll help speed the process.” Drawing her eyes upward, she noticed the hunger-wrenched expression on LaRenna’s face. “Bet you’re starving. I’ll run down to the main level galley and bring back something for us both. Why don’t you clean up and change while I’m gone?”

LaRenna nodded and watched the First Kimshee depart. She wondered if she truly looked and smelled bad enough to warrant the suggestion of bathing. Krell was probably just thinking of her personal comfort, she assured herself, and removed her travel-grimed uniform.

The warmth of the tub offered to take away some of the journey’s stress so LaRenna sank deeply into it, submerging her head to wet her hair, then letting the water float it freely. She took the soaping stone and cleaned head to toe, proclaiming all the while that the mineral-laden waters of Langus would never make her feel clean enough.

The hiss of the hatchway and the unmistakable aroma of nourishment alerted her to her mentor’s return. Driven by the smell, she dried quickly, wrapped her head in the same towel, then slid a lightweight service tunic and leggings over her feminine shape.

Krell had moved the worktable to the center of the room, neatly arranged the food on it and was pouring two cups of tea when LaRenna emerged from the bathing chamber.

“Better?” Krell cast her a warm smile.

“Much,” replied LaRenna, reclaiming her space at the table. She took the cup Krell offered and sipped, the inside of her mouth puckering from the lack of sweetener.

“Ferntree tea, hope you like it.” Krell chuckled when the bitterness caused her mouth to draw in a similar fashion. “Sorry, but I’m out of sweetener at present. It can be hard to obtain at times. I believe sweet root is the only crop Langus doesn’t grow.” She sat across from LaRenna and lounged back, one elbow on the chair arm, head leaning on her fist, picking at her dinner as she considered LaRenna at length. She was incredibly beautiful, that was a certainty. But, as an adult child of Belsas, she was a far cry from what Krell had expected. Maybe size had caused her surprise. LaRenna was nearly the same height as when Krell had last seen her over ten passes ago. Oh, she’d filled out nicely enough, any Taelach with half a libido would admit to that. LaRenna had taken graceful curves to the extreme, developing an hourglass figure: full chest and pleasing hips sculpted at the center by a narrow waist. Surely, she surmised as LaRenna became aware of the intense gaze she was receiving, their former meetings and pure physical attraction were to blame for the sense of familiarity.

LaRenna finished her meal, flushed her disposable dish down the waste tube, then cleaned and sheathed her boot knife. She yawned deeply then, stifling a burp with the back of her hand, and collapsed in her seat. “Thank you. That was wonderful.”

“Starvation is what made it edible. Most anything’s preferable to transport rations.” Krell chortled as she tossed remains of her meal in the tube. The condition of the eating blade was a direct reflection of one’s personal habits in the Taelach culture, so Krell cleaned hers to a gleam. Then, well accustomed to the bitterness, she poured more tea, then asked LaRenna if she desired the same. The soft sounds of someone in a deep slumber were the only reply. Fatigue had won its battle. “Poor girl,” whispered Krell, carefully removing the towel from LaRenna’s damp ringlets. “The food did you in.” She unfolded a platform and bedding roll, then placed the blanket over LaRenna, running her fingers lightly over the young woman’s arms. LaRenna’s form was solid, forcing Krell to admit error in assuming her career choice had been poor. She was tough—a neat little package of muscle and intelligence, ideal for a Kimshee. Krell now looked forward to their first lessons, but that would simply have to wait until morning.

Krell wrapped in her cloak and crept out the door. Loose ends needed her attention. One of the sentry commanders was about to receive an after-hours visitor. Starnes needed a boost in business and that was precisely what he was going to get.

The mind of the masses is a rusted, barnacle-ridden vessel, free of most logical thought, heavy with pack instincts. High surge in either direction divides the pack and the ship capsizes to the lean of the majority, survivors clinging to the bottom side. A direct puncture to the hull and the pack drowns as a whole, leaving no one to bear witness to the captain’s sabotage.

—Taelach wisdom

Rain threatened the horizon, dampening the lights in a small valley not far from the Sarian military facilities. An angry but surprisingly quiet crowd had gathered, ears turned to a lone speaker in their midst.

“Brothers!” Cance Creiloff stood on a small boulder. A head over the tallest in attendance and paler than most, she looked a bit out of place but fit in unlike Brandoff, who was necessarily absent. Forced weight gain and male clothing put her above casual suspicion so she stood proudly among the Autlach, detesting their presence, savoring thoughts of their deaths even though she looked like one of them. “The time has come for us to take back what is ours.” The scars of her true identity hidden under her tunic collar, Cance looked down on the Autlach congregation.
Simple fools—
she pulled the stiff collar higher
—so easily deceived, so willingly misused. It’s a pity really. The challenge is almost nonexistent.
“Some Sarians believe they can take our land and say it is for the benefit of us all. They destroy our fields, ruin the fishing waters, and what do we receive in way of compensation? Nothing!”

Agreeing murmurs wafted through the crowd, Cance’s speech increasing to match the fervor.

“We have the right to demand restitution and demand it now!” The murmurs intensified into cries of “justice” and “freedom for our lands,” ensuring her of the words’ impact. So Cance continued, with a tightly held frown to prevent her true emotions from leaching through.

“It is our right to have enough land and fishing waters to nourish and support our families. Since the military base has expanded its presence on Langus, the average family earnings have decreased nearly thirty percent. Poverty is running amok. They are draining the lifeblood of Langus and denying us the crop room critical for the support of our mother planet. It must stop!” Cance stretched her arms wide. “If we don’t, Langus will become as desolate as the Stonemar Plateau on Firewall.” The bleak image of the moon’s yellow-orange surface produced waves of shocked gasps.

“But what can we do?” wailed a voice.

“You.” Cance pointed to the balding man who asked the question. “There is much you can do. I’ve been informed by others concerned with the disappearance of Langus farms that a charter of demands has been forwarded to the High Council on Saria Three. They have seven days to begin withdrawal of military forces from Langus.”

“What if they ignore the demands?” cried a young man in the rear.

“Then we give them a demonstration of our intent.” Cance leapt from the boulder and drew closer, beckoning the most interested to approach. “In seven days”—her face remained guarded— “in seven days, if they refuse our demands, we strike! Every compound, post, and yes, even the base itself will feel the impact of our blows.” Cance picked up a small boy in the crowd and held the squirming child high, exclaiming: “We do this for our children and our children’s children. We do this for ourselves, and we do this for Langus!” Frenzied cries drowned all attempts at speechmaking so Cance joined the celebration, returning the child to his proud mother before adding to the drone.

When the boisterous display had subsided, she continued the oration, shouting until it was sufficiently calm. “Volunteers are needed to help with our strike at the base, brave men who are willing to risk their lives for their people, fearless souls who will go down in history as the ones who freed Langus from the destructive greed of the Sarian military.” The words rolled off Cance’s tongue far smoother than she had rehearsed. Evil can make a convincing argument when it suits a purpose, and Cance was certainly evil, decades of imprisonment only serving to mold her ambitious mind into one of crazed malefactor. “Do I have volunteers?”

Ten arms waved high in the air, richly delighting the branded Taelach.

“Those of you who’ve volunteered, meet me by the tree line in five minutes. Everyone else, return to your homes. Do not speak of our plans, not even to each other. The eyes of the Sarian military are everywhere, perhaps among us now.” The listeners unconsciously recoiled from one another. “We stand on the shores of freedom, our sails unfurled for a favorable breeze. In seven days it begins.”

The crowd dispersed into small groups and drifted toward their respective homes. The remaining handful gathered at the tree line to wash away the evening chill with an oversized wine flask. Cance snatched the container and took a deep swig. “I see some of us are true to the Cause.” She looked around the group. “Let’s see what we have here. You!” Cance indicated the heavy man now holding the flask. “You ever in the Sarian ranks?”

“Two passes,” he said with a boastful squaring of his shoulders.

“Ever post on the base here?”

“No.”

Cance grabbed the flask from his hand. “Go home. We don’t need anyone who isn’t familiar with the layout of the base. Who has worked or posted there?” Four hands went up, the exact number for Cance’s purposes. “All but these four leave.” She turned to the quartet, casting their wives a scouring glare. She had little use for Autlach women besides occasional physical satisfaction, and none of these appeared adequate for that. “Send your women home. They’ve no place here.”

“We have as much to do with this as anyone!” blared a slack-breasted mother of far too many, ignoring her husband’s embarrassed hushing. “These are our lands, too.”

Our lands too?
Cance suppressed her rising anger. Autlach women had no rights of ownership. They’d been taught their place, something some Taelachs, Cance believed, could learn from. She smiled lightly then addressed the women in a gentle tone. “I understand your wanting to participate, but the strength and mental stamina required for this demonstration is ill-fitting a woman. Return to your homes and children. The less you know the better. The Cause has no wish to confuse the delicate emotions of lovely ladies such as you.”

This, accompanied by their husbands’ insistence, seemed to pacify the women’s concerns and they departed, chattering amongst themselves. Again, Cance drank deeply from the wine, refraining from speech until only her chosen remained. “Let’s get down to business. The Langus Cause has asked that the four of you effect a raid on the base.”

“Raid?” The longhaired member of the foursome sneered. “Ta’ what purpose?”

“A simple one. And one I’ll tell you in due time. For now, let’s discuss the layout of the base.” Cance knelt, motioning the others to do the same. From a hidden pocket she produced a small tube and popped its end, removing a scroll and two light sticks.

“This”—Cance unrolled the scroll, securing its curling ends with the sticks—“this is the key to it all.” The lights sputtered to life, their dim, odd green glow spilling across the soil. The men, still squatted, gazed inquiringly at the scroll then their informant. “I presume everyone here has worked a boundary sentry station?”

All four nodded.

“So getting onto the base won’t pose a problem. The difficulty will be here.” Cance indicated the Main Center’s Assembly in the middle of the map.

“Hold on,” lamented the man wearing an eye shroud. “That’s the most heavily guarded area on the base.”

“On this entire blasted moon,” agreed the darkly tanned individual to his left. “Langus’s central weather, water, and power controls are there.”

“Exactly.” Cance made a popping sound with her tongue, a habit obtained during lonely days spent in the prison colony’s isolation chambers. “So are the main controls to the security matrix. That’s what we’re after.”