The First One's Free (16 page)

Laral felt himself deflate, his shoulders and
head sagging. “I accept the challenge.” He looked up and glared at
Tishla. “It will be a pleasure to butcher you, little girl.”

“Lady Tishla,” said Hereesh, an admiral who
once served as Laral’s squire, “the laws of the Warrior Caste do
not allow General Laral to do battle with a pregnant woman. Do you
have a champion to stand in your place?”

“I have selected,” said Tishla, “and he has
consented. I choose Laral Umish.”

“My oldest son?” Laral hated everyone in the
room.

*****

Laral returned to the dwelling where they had
held him to find it dark. The place disgusted him, a
hew-maan
dwelling. He refused to say, even silently, the
name of the Tianese properly. He could still smell their stench
everywhere in the “house.”

What a joke, calling this a house. It barely
qualified as a peasant’s shack. And yet these
hew-maan
s had
clung to them so fiercely, Brac and Tishla gave some of them back.
What was that little whore up to?

A knock came, and a
hew-maan
guard
entered, escorted by a Gelt enforcer. “This,” the
hew-maan
said, not even bothering to attempt the Mother Tongue, “came for
you on the last transport.” He held up a small device and rubbed
his thumb across the surface of it. The back of Laral’s hand
tingled indicating a new message received by the chip in his wrist.
“Whoever sent the message also sent you a package.”

Laral gazed at the
hew-maan
, bile
rising in his throat.
After I
refute the claim, I’m going
to make sure an accident happens to you vermin on your “safe
passage” to Metis, the Sovereign be damned.

The Gelt enforcer handed him a small box. The
enforcer crossed his fists over his chest and bowed. “Sire.”

Not even “My Lord.”
Laral decided he
would kidnap Tishla when all this died down and put her to her
proper use. In the meantime, Laral returned the salute, not even
making eye contact with the
hew-maan
. “Dismissed.”

When the guards left, Laral fingered the back
of his hand, expected the nano-tattoo to render a text or a video
message there. Instead, the lights darkened in the house’s main
room as a cone of light appeared from the holo projector. The image
of Umish appeared within.

“Father,” he said. “By now you know I have
agreed to stand in Lady Tishla’s place. I have sent this message to
tell you why.”

Looking into Umish’s face was like looking a
mirror of his younger self. Like Umish, Laral once shaved off all
his hair. He also had sported the facial tattoos of the Sovereign’s
Elite. Having them removed upon attaining his Third Degree in the
Warrior Caste had been a rite of passage. Would Umish survive long
enough to undergo the process?

“I have seen the original agreement you made
with Lattus Kai,” said Umish. “You agreed to accept Essenar as
payment for the worlds now known as Hanar and Cyal. The contracts
were binding, and breaking them is a Blood Crime.”

They were not. Umish had a lot to learn about
the real rules between Castes. If he survived tomorrow…

“You have brought shame upon the family and
the Caste,” said Umish, now snarling like a young Warrior hunting
his prey. “To allow you to live without answering for it is to
allow our shame to continue. So, father, before The Sovereign,
before Council, either I will kill you in honorable combat, or I
will deny you an heir.”

Tishla would pay for killing Laral’s son,
using his very own hand as the weapon.

“There is, however, an alternative, father.
You will find it in the package I’ve sent along. Until we meet in
combat, farewell.” Umish did not even salute before the hologram
faded.

Laral opened the package sent along with the
hologram. Inside lay a shock pistol, a common sidearm among some of
the Realm’s lesser troops. It was an odd weapon, even for the Gelt.
One shot would be nonlethal, but successive shots in short order
became more powerful. On Gelt Warriors, three or four shots would
rupture most of the internal organs. Unless…

Suicide stories among conscripts and peasant
troops frequently featured someone putting a cold shock pistol into
one’s mouth and firing. The contained energy, even at nonlethal
levels, would cause the brain to swell up and explode the skull.
Laral had never seen it, but he knew some of the stories were
true.

A slip of the fibrous paper the
hew-maans
favored lay at the bottom of the box. Someone had
written a note in a clumsy attempt at the written version of the
Mother Tongue.

Laral,

I cannot imagine what you must be going
through. Tomorrow, you will either be dead or a pariah, having
murdered your own son over a silly pregnant girl. I can’t imagine
how you will face your Sovereign if you survive. So I got you
something that might help.

When I brought you the original tuber, I
said only the first one was free. That’s just good business among
my people. However, there are exceptions. Please accept this gift.
I heard this was your favorite model.

• Marq Katergarus
  

Laral examined the shock pistol. It had a
full charge.

They found his headless body the next
morning.

*****

Douglas Best, chief of staff to the First
Minister of Jefivah, watched as the parade marched through Capitol
Square. Most of the participants were Marilynists. Most of the
floats had Blessed Mother themes. A few protestors had taken up
station here and there along the route, various Abrahamists
complaining about the Marilynists’ use of the title “Blessed
Mother” for their goddess, a few atheists complaining about
religion in general. Unlike the riots that followed the Compact’s
threat to shut down the new colonies, these protests resembled
outdoor parties for sporting events.

Best wished he could enjoy the parade with
the same detachment he had watching Settlers’ Day parades and
welcomes for various notables. Unfortunately, each Marilynist group
in the parade turned and saluted him as “the Prophet.” He tolerated
the title, but he would never accept it.

“I heard you turned down the governorship of
Marilyn,” said the Grand Dimaj, standing up on the platform with
Best as a guest of the First Minister. “You could have been set for
life.”

“To govern a desert,” said Best, “for a faith
I don’t believe in? I don’t think so. Besides, your method of
baptism requires me to cheat on my wife.”

“Too bad,” said the Grand Dimaj. “Because
those people down there believe in you.”

Best grinned. “Most of them are going to
Marilyn. Let them create myths about me. It’s what they really want
anyway.”

“Your loss.”

“But not yours.”

The Grand Dimaj simply stared back at Best
with arched brows.

“I know you asked for the governorship of
Marilyn,” said Best. “I can’t say that I approve. It’ll make
Marilyn a virtual theocracy. But these are your people. They won’t
listen to a secular governor, not even me.”

“You’re too cynical, Douglas.” The Dimaj
moved away.

Best hoped it was the last time he would have
to speak to the charlatan. He doubted it was.

As the parade ended, Best’s palm tingled. He
looked down to see a secured text message from Jefivah’s militia
commander. He leaned in toward Myrna Gillorn and said, “There’s a
projection drive ship trying to land at the spaceport. It’s from
Amargosa The captain demands contact with the government.
Apparently, something has happened there.”

“That’s a Mars colony, isn’t it?” asked
Myrna.

“Last I heard.”

“Go. Be my representative. Find out what’s
going on. I’ll send a hyperpacket to Mars as soon as I have your
report.”

Best nodded to one of the body guards and
started his way off the platform.

*****

Black marks from energy blasts had pockmarked
the ship at some point before arriving at Jefivah. Miraculously,
the two projectors at either end of the ship appeared intact. They
had to be. The ship could not have generated its own wormhole
otherwise.

Best arrived just as it landed. Some of its
thrusters were firing sporadically, causing the ship to wobble as
it descended to the tarmac. Soldiers and medics swarmed the vessel
as it came to rest, while ground crews rushed emergency debarkation
gear into place.

Those who came off the ship, escorted by
medics or one or two soldiers, had a glazed, faraway look in their
eyes. Best noticed the entire aft of the ship had been blackened
despite the trailing projector dish remaining intact and metallic
white. He guessed that the energy that kept the wormhole from
collapsing behind the ship blew off any carbonization. But what, he
wondered, would blacken so much of a ship’s hull like that?

Only one person coming off the vessel did not
have that distant look in his eyes. He was doing his best to look
as stunned as his counterparts, but Best recognized that
infuriating smile despite the wearer’s best efforts to hide it.
Luxhomme’s mouth did display it, but those eyes of his did.
What
did you do?
Best asked silently.

Luxhomme looked around the terminal as a
soldier escorted him inside. He feigned surprise – or maybe he
truly was surprised – when he spotted Best. “Douglas.”

He rushed over to Best only to be stopped by
one of the First Minister’s body guards assigned to her chief of
staff.

“It’s okay,” said Best. “I want to talk to
him anyway.”

“Alone,” said Luxhomme. “Trust me. You want
to talk to me alone.”

Best whispered something to the soldier
before dismissing him. When the agent asked if Best was sure, he
said, “Stay right outside. If this takes longer than five minutes,
both of you come inside.” He grabbed Luxhomme by the arm and led
him to a room off the boarding gate. Once they were alone, he said,
“What happened on Amargosa?”

Luxhomme’s stupid smile still lurked in his
eyes. “Last night… I guess it was night here, too. Anyway,
Amargosa’s hypergate exploded.”

“Hypergates don’t explode,” said Best.
“Especially primitive ones like colonial gates.”

“Well, this one did,” said Luxhomme. “And
since Amargosa has only the one gate, it’s been effectively cut off
from the rest of humanity.”

Best realized the same thing had happened to
the Metisian colony of Gilead a few weeks earlier, weeks during
which Luxhomme had managed to get Mars’s delegate to the Compact
General Assembly recalled. “What were you doing on a Mars
colony?”

“Discussing with the governor the possibility
of allowing JunoCorp to improve its crop yields. The loss of Gilead
has already put a big dent in the Compact’s food supply.”

Best frowned. Earth and some of the older
core worlds, even Jefivah, had vertical farms in the cities and
kelp ranges in some of their oceans to stave off a famine. Even so,
it still left the more pressing question unanswered. “Why is your
ship blasted all to hell?”

“Alien race,” said Luxhomme. “Primates like
us. Gray-skinned, though not like the Grays. More like us, maybe
taller, or so I’ve heard. They started prowling the countryside and
burning farms. They dropped a nuke on Lansdorp, the capital. My
guess is they were throwing sand in the colony’s eyes so they
couldn’t fight back.”

Just like with Gilead, or some had speculated
anyway. Two colonies in one month. Had war come to the Compact? And
would the core worlds realize it before it was too late?

Of course they couldn’t fight back, thought
Best. When Jefivah, a full member of the Compact, had to beg and
plead for military resources, there was no way even the colonies of
the wealthier worlds would be protected. It was simple. Colonists
did not vote, which made them disposable in the face of an alien
threat. “This wouldn’t have been a laser fusion device, would
it?”

Luxhomme shrugged, once again betraying the
falseness of the gesture with his eyes. “Douglas, how would I know?
I barely got off that planet alive. If the ship I was on wasn’t
hardened for deep space, the mushroom cloud would have destroyed
it.”

“I see.”

Luxhomme clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer
up, Douglas. There’s a silver lining in this tragedy.”

“Oh?”

“With two major food-producing colonies out
of commission, the Compact will have to turn to newer colonies.
Such as Marilyn.”

Best suddenly felt cold. “You know this
because Juno is handling the crop customizations for Marilyn,
Gallifrey, and Baritaria.”

“I know that any prosperity on Marilyn will
be attributed to the prophet who made the Marilynists’ new
homeworld possible.” Now Luxhomme let that stupid little smile of
his bloom. “How’s it feel to be a hero, Douglas?”

Best did not bother to explain to his body
guards why he had punched Luxhomme in the jaw.

First off, I must thank the incredibly
talented Stacy Robinson for editing this novella and helping me
find logical points to divide it into chapters. Stacy wasn’t used
to working in science fiction, but she is now Tishla’s biggest fan
and the reason a Tishla novella is in the works.

I also must thank Jennette Marie Powell for
advice on creating the covers. I could pay for editing or cover
art, but not both. Jen, who’s been a solid friend for more years
than either of us will admit, gave me great guidance. So while the
first episode cover wasn’t spectacular, she got me moving in the
direction for the covers that followed. And Jen is responsible for
the great covers that adorn all but two of the Jim Winter novels
and collections and the brains behind the concept I used for
Gypsy’s Kiss
. Thank you, Jen. You are, as our friend Athena
says, amaze-balls!