Women of War (44 page)

War, by that definition, was simple enough. It didn't even give her time to remember why she was here.

She could see his face: spattered with gray mud and brown flecks of blood, a stubbled growth of hair on his cheeks and chin, blue eyes narrowed and teeth gritted with the effort of swinging the iron weight of his water-tempered blade. In the instant before she raised her own blade to parry the blow—the shock of the impact traveling all the way down her arms as she grunted—she could see him in terrible clarity. He was young, maybe two years younger than herself, and the boiled, studded leather of the armor he wore fit him badly, as if it had once belonged to someone else.

The steel of their blades rang, the sound harsh in her ears, though she could still hear her breathing and the clash of the individual skirmishes all around her, the screaming of the wounded, the shouts of the officers, the blare of the signal trumpets. The boy shouted, an exhalation of white in the cold air; she could smell the rot in his teeth and feel the warmth of his breath. He pulled his blade back to strike again. Too far back:
Stupid
, she thought: as she thrust her sword two-handed and hard into the opening he'd created, feeling the point penetrate leather, skin, and tissue; ripping it out again with a cry and a sideways twist that shed streams of red gore as the blade tore from his abdomen.

His mouth opened; his sky-colored eyes widened in surprise and shock, his sword still swinging forward reflexively but already falling from suddenly nerveless hands, mumbling words in a language she didn't understand, dead already but not yet realizing it. She wondered who he called to—mother, wife, friend—but there was no time for wonder, only time to react to the soldier who rushed at her from her left side even as the boy went to his knees on the ground, hands cradling the ruins of his stomach.

She didn't see the lance the new attacker held until it impaled her just under the rib cage, skewering her like a piece of meat, the daggered head burrowing up through lung and heart ...

 

The missile-craft—she was B9 this time—arrowed away from
Revenge
toward the Ghastly homeworld.

The Ghastlies had beefed up their defenses following the initial rounds of attacks. The orbital cruisers themselves came under fire from Ghastly fighter-craft, attacks that had sent sister ship
Fukushuu
spiraling down to a fiery death in the atmosphere and left
Bijesan
adrift under emergency power.
Revenge, Zhànzhêng
, and
Représaill
had suffered only minimal damage. It hadn't been much of a battle: a wave of drones, either under automatic control or perhaps remotely piloted like the ones that they were using themselves—there was no way to know, and it made no difference in any case. There'd been little warning, little time to defend: the drones were destroyed or hit, and it was over—from first sighting to final explosion—in less than three minutes. Done.

The missions today were all targeted to installations Control felt were capable of directing such attacks. Delia's own target was a small building in the center of a Ghastly town on the southeastern shore of the largest continent. She kept its image up on her display as the numbers rolled down and the last vestiges of the fiery entry into the atmosphere faded. The anti-missile fire was brutal; her vision swayed dizzily as the AI (or perhaps her own movements through the gloves—it was impossible to tell) directed the craft through evasive maneuvers, fired off decoys, and sent jamming transmissions. Delia was sweating, every muscle in her body tensed, her breath coming short and fast. Adrenaline buzzed in her ears. She grunted, leaning as she tried to send the craft left, then right as it hugged the ground. Fire erupted to her left; instinctively, she ducked. Around her, she could hear cursing as craft died.

A yellow flower bloomed directly in front of her, with petals of smoke. She yanked the craft left; another silent flower flashed into existence there in eerie silence, and her display went tumbling nauseatingly—sky/land/sky/land—before snapping off into furious white that left blobs of purple afterimages in her eyes as the display vanished entirely. Static snarled in her ears. The gloves loosened around her wrists and she slumped back.

She sobbed once, her throat convulsing as she inhaled, as she took a breath that shouldn't have been hers. “Control,” she said. “B9 is down.”

“Understood,” a voice whispered back. “Rough ride, eh?”

“Yeah,” Delia answered. “A rough ride.”

 

“Mama, what's the matter?”

“I'm tired, Cailin. That's all.”

“You're sure?”

She waited a long time to answer, standing near the door with her boots still on. Finally, she reached down and took them off, listening to the soft
plops
they made as they hit the carpet over the decking. “Yes. I'm sure.”

“Good,” Cailin said. “Your supper's on the table. Just cold stuff tonight, I'm afraid. The Ghastlies hit the main galley.”

Delia glanced toward the kitchenette, where on the tiny table a plate lay. She could see a sandwich on it, and some fruit. Delia ignored it; she walked through the main room—four strides—past to the small bedroom, filled mostly by the single bed. She sat, reaching across to pluck Cailin's picture from her nightstand. She stared at the child's face, her finger stroking the red curls on the paper under the protective plastic. She tried to remember what that hair had felt like and couldn't.

“How many Ghastlies did you kill today, Mama?” Cailin asked.

“None,” Delia said. “They killed me.”

There was a silence where she imagined she could hear Cailin breathing, then her voice came again. “Oh, Mama, you're making a joke.” A pause. “Mama, are you okay?”

She was crying, silently, the tears hot on her cheeks. She sniffed. “Cailin,” she said to the empty room. “Call Ajit and tell him I'd like to see him.”

“Sure, Mama,” the room answered. “I'm doing it now. Would you like me to sing a song to you?”

“Yes, Cailin,” Delia said. “I'd like that very much.”

The room sang quietly to her, and Delia cradled the picture to her chest as she listened.

J
UN-LI was sleepy, and her feet ached in the new sandals. Her cousins were pushing and giggling at each other like all the other girls in Four Petal Square, their thin faces bright with excitement. Jun-li wore her new star-patterned wrap that left her left breast bare. She wished she'd brought a shawl.

Sus-qa and Annele pulled each other's hair, getting more angry than playful, but then the gong sounded out midnight across the square. Everyone quieted down, lining up with their bowls as the priests of the temple of Holy Defender brought out the huge kettles of sweetgrain porridge.

“I hope I get a rabbit,” Annele whispered. “Rabbit brings luck.”

“Luck in love.” Sus-qa snorted. “You won't need that until the war's over and the men come back. And the weaver's daughter got a rabbit last year and chipped her tooth on it.”

Annele giggled again. “And Myri got a maggot and thought it was real and threw it away. Then she fell and broke her foot. Jun, what do you think you'll get?”

Jun-li stifled a yawn. The square was dark; the new moon gave little light. All around, girls whispered, and the silver bangles on their arms chimed softly. She'd never seen any difference between getting a rabbit token and getting a fish or a rat or a rollerbug. There was only one token that changed anything.

“I just want the porridge. I'm hungry.” She rubbed her fingers across the grain of her wooden bowl, feeling her stomach growl.

“Mm. Grandmother says in her day the priests sometimes put dried meat in the porridge.”

Jun-li shook her head. She hadn't seen dried meat since before the star festival. “I don't think they do that anymore.”

“Grandmother says in her day, none of the girls were ever chosen.”

Annele shuddered, and Jun-li rubbed the back of her neck. “That was before the Rasika came across the mountains. There was no war.”

“Well, no one was chosen last year. Grandmother says—” Annele broke off as Sus-qa elbowed her. All the girls grew quiet as they came closer to the priests.

Jun-li held her bowl out when it was her turn, and got a glob of porridge, already half congealed in the cool night air. She bowed her thanks without looking at the priest and turned away, joining her cousins on the blanket they'd spread under one of the shofu trees. Annele was digging through the porridge with her spoon, frowning. “I don't think I got anything.”

“Everyone gets something.” Sus-qa went through her porridge slowly and carefully. “Just eat it and mind your teeth, or you'll look like a Rasika beast.”

Annele smacked her sister's arm. “I do not have green skin!” she said. “Or a nose like a dog, or—”

“You have a voice like a monkey. Chatter, chatter, chatter.”

“Oh, shut up.” Annele crushed shofu needles in her hand and threw them at Sus-qa. The sharp smell tickled Jun-li's nose.

The last girl got her porridge, scraped from the bottom of the largest kettle, and the priests drew together in a watchful group as acolytes came to drag the kettles back into the temple. Jun-li ate her porridge. It was as tasty as salt could make it, but it could have used some butter. Probably not even the priests had butter any more.

“I got a rabbit! Look, Sus!”

“That's not a rabbit, that's a dog with big ears. Mine's a rabbit, look.”

“Mine is too a rabbit! It's the best kind of luck. Jun, what did you get?”

Jun-li put the last spoonful in her mouth and shook her head. Then she felt something hard against her palate. She spat it out in her palm. It was an ax blade, small as the first joint of her thumb, made of smooth grayish-green stone, and wickedly sharp.

Sus-qa gasped. “You—you got—”

Jun-li stared. The blade looked so small. In the paintings of Holy Defender on the temple walls, it was always big, bigger than a real ax even. Though of course a real ax blade would not have fit in her porridge bowl.

“Jun,” Annele said, clutching her arm. “Jun, I don't want it to be you, I don't want anyone to be chosen this year, hide it, throw it away!”

“She can't do that.” Sus-qa smacked her sister's hand, pulling her away. “The priests would know.”

“But I don't want it to be her! Maybe they can't tell.”

“Holy Defender can tell.”

Jun-li closed her hand about the blade, feeling the edge bite into her palm. She looked at Sus-qa. “Tell my mother,” she said, and then she couldn't think of any more words.

She got up, and the bowl fell from her lap onto the blanket. Across the square she could see the priests, dark-faced and silent, watching the girls and waiting. Jun stepped off the blanket and onto the smooth earth, walked to the temple steps, and held her hand out. The blade had blooded her palm.

Jun-li expected the priests to say something to her, words of greeting and explanation, but they didn't. They grabbed her arms and twisted her around to face the square again. “One is chosen!” the oldest priest shouted, and all the girls hushed. “One is chosen!” An acolyte beat the great iron bell by the temple door, and it rang out so low Jun-li could feel it in the soles of her feet.

She thought she could see Annele crying under the shofu tree.

“You have the weapon,” the youngest priest said, pointing at the blade in her hand.

“You have been chosen,” the oldest priest said, gesturing at the temple behind them.

“You will go before our warriors in the sacred places.”

“You will take defeat from them and give them victory.”

“The Rasika beasts will fall before you.”

“You are our Holy Defender.”

“You walk with the spirits from this moment.”

They turned her again and walked her up the temple steps before she could even draw breath to speak. The youngest priest held out a small cup to her. “Drink.”

Jun-li drank. It tasted bitter, and for a moment she felt dizzy.

The oldest priest put his hand on the door and whispered low, and the door opened a crack. A cold wind blew from the darkness inside. “You walk with the spirits. Go.”

Jun-li breathed in, smelling porridge and dusty earth and people, and the dry air of the spirit world. The oldest priest put his hands on her shoulders and pushed, and she stumbled inside.

The door closed behind her, and Jun-li stood alone in the dark. The cold wind licked at her calves. She knew what the temple looked like inside. It was a long narrow building with painted walls, and at one end the altar with the stone figure of a woman with an ax, Holy Defender ready to protect her people. Jun-li took a step backward to press her shoulders against the door and get her bearings, but the door wasn't there, and she nearly fell. The cold wind grew stronger, fluttering the edges of her wrap against her legs.

Jun-li crouched down and touched the floor. That was the same, at least, worn blocks of stone joined so tightly her fingertips could barely feel the cracks. The wind blew toward her, into her face, and it smelled strange and wrong. Jun-li stood up and walked into it.

The stone blade was a tiny sharp weight in her right hand. She knew that other girls had walked here before her, holding a blade like this one, or perhaps this very one.