The
Ship Avenged The
Ship Avenged
The Benisur Amos ben Sierra
Nueva sat before the viewscreen in his cabin, watching the beloved shape of Bethel grow
smaller, until it was merely a bright spark, another star in the star-shot blackness of
space. An exterior view was a luxury he allowed himself, even as he insisted on this
simple cabin in a hired merchantman. Bethel had always been a poor world, poor and remote;
their ancestors had chosen it to preserve their faith in isolation. It was even poorer
since the Kolnari raid, if less solitary; the Central Worlds had sent much aid, and the
people had toiled without cease, but so much had been destroyed.
Alarms rang. He braced himself, as he did
before every transition; it was futile, but not something you could help. Nausea flashed
through him as the engines wrenched the ship out of contact with the sidereal universe. He
swallowed bile. Some men could take the transition without feeling so, but he was not one
of them. But I can bear it. Life taught you that, how to bear things.
Still Amos watched. The screen was a
simulation now, a view of how the stars would appear if the outside universe were there.
He watched until he could no longer distinguish Bethel's star, Saffron, from the others.
Then he switched off the viewscreen and rose wearily. It was always a wrench to leave his
home, his people.
Think of what is to come. A week or
so to Station SSS-900-C. He removed his robe and lay down on the narrow bed, yawning. The
drugs that helped one make an easier transition always left him sleepy. Channa, he
thought, and her image rose to delight his mind's eye. Her long, high-cheekboned face
framed by curling black hair, teeth white in a smile of welcome.
He'd never imagined, at the beginning,
that this makeshift arrangement would last ten years. They'd agreed then to steal twelve
weeks from their lives each year so that they could be together. Half of that time he
visited Channa, the other half she was with him on Bethel, allowing for travel time that
gave them four weeks together in either place.
He closed his eyes in pain. Four weeks.
Just time enough to make each parting agony.
I was so sure she would stay, once she
saw my home. Bethel rose before him. The stinging salty wind from the desert marshes,
dawn rising thunderous over the sands. The warm sweet smell of cut grass in the river
meadows . . . And she always wanted to live planetside.
Amos' mouth quirked. They had too much in
common--both were prisoners to their sense of duty. Being reliable made one susceptible to
the demands of others. He could not leave Bethel, not while they struggled to rebuild from
the devastation the Kolnari had left. And Channa's commitment to her Station was equally
strong; as was her friendship with Simeon, the Brain whose body the Station was. So much
of her identity was tied up in being a Brawn, a calling to which many aspired but for
which few were qualified. And from among those few, she had worked her way up to an
unusually high and responsible position. She was respected in Central Worlds. She wielded
power and influence.
But among his people, her profession was
not understood, her strength and capability, her ambition had been disparaged. She was
considered mannish, and his love for her was considered unnatural by many. Not a few of
his worried followers had told him so.
He sighed and turned over, thumping at the
pillow.
Ten years. He'd thought that if she did
not come with him, that perhaps their attraction would gradually grow less. But that had
not been the case. The attraction between them was as powerful, the parting as painful,
the reunions as rapturous as ever.
Just as her dedication to the Space
Station Simeon remained as strong as ever.
Simeon. There was the spur that
galled his spirit; that one whom he esteemed as a brother should be his rival for the
woman he loved.
Unfair, unreasonable, he knew. Simeon's
twisted, non-viable body had been encased in a titanium womb at birth. A life-sustaining
shell fitted with neural implants that would allow him to be connected to various
housings--to the space station that became his body and his home. Channa was his Brawn,
the mobile half of the team of which Simeon was the "brain".
Amos twisted around in the bed again.
His jealousy was baseless, but still, it
tormented him. Simeon's love for Channa and hers for Simeon was, perforce, chaste. Simeon
could never hold her, as Amos could, nor run hand and hand with her along a beach, nor . .
. other things. And yet, Simeon had the greater share of her time, her company, the sight
and sound of her that Amos himself yearned for.
In five years her contract will be
finished. Then she would have to choose to renew it--or not. Amos smiled as sleep
drifted in, as gentle as weightlessness. She is too full of life to choose more years
among metal and machines.
"Is it true, my Lord, that when you return to Bethel you will at last choose a
bride?"
Amos--Prophet of the Second Revelation,
Hero of the war against the Kolnar and Leader of Bethel's Council of Elders--suppressed a
violent start.
Not again! The Council must have
been at her. He put his book aside reluctantly-- Simeon had tracked down an original
Delany--and turned his recliner to face her.
Soamosa bint Sierra Nueva, for her part,
sat silently, dressed in a very proper, long- sleeved gray dress which covered her from
throat to ankles. Her hair, amazingly blond for a Bethelite, was completely hidden now in
a matching gray bag that framed her small face unbecomingly. Amos ran a list of the usual
suspects through his mind. One reason I have lived so long is that I do not have
an heir. There were many traditionalists on Bethel who loved the thought of a
regency--with themselves pulling the strings from behind a minor's chair.
Amos considered his cousin, trying to see
her as a stranger might. She is no longer the tomboy I once knew, he admitted
reluctantly. She is a woman, a terribly proper one. He suppressed a sigh. I
should have brought her with me earlier.
Bethel had become considerably less
isolated since the Kolnari attack. Before that he'd been viewed as a heretic for wanting
to open their planet to the universe--and he hadn't been heir, either. The Kolnari fusion
bomb that destroyed the city of Keriss and the then- Council and Prophet had driven home
his point about the dangers of isolationism quite thoroughly.
Soamosa licked her lips nervously.
"I do not wish to overstep, my Lor .
. . cousin," she looked up at him with soft blue eyes and smiled shyly. "But it
is true that the people wonder when you will take a wife. For ten years, they say, you
have left us to go to this woman who is married to an abomination and still she has given
you no heir. The people say it is a judgment and they are troubled, cousin."
Soamosa lowered her eyes and her head when
she'd finished speaking. Her slender back was straight, her slim feet pressed together in
their thick, homely shoes, her hands were folded modestly in her lap. She was the perfect
picture of traditional Bethelite womanhood.
Perhaps a perfect candidate for the
Prophet's wife. Amos wondered who had been in charge of her education these past few
years, regretting his lack of involvement. There was too much to do, he protested
to his creeping guilt, too many documents and summaries and reports . . .
Amos breathed a quiet, frustrated sigh. Ah,
Channa, he thought, how you've changed me. Once, not so very long ago, I would have
approved of such overwhelming self-negation. I would have been pleased at the way she
distanced herself from her own opinions so as not to seem overbold. What would you advise
me to tell her, my love?
He realized now, far too late, that
choosing to bring Soamosa had been something of an error. Insensitive at best. No doubt
his young cousin's mother had visions of an elaborate wedding ceremony with thousands of
guests upon their return; her daughter would be the radiant bride, himself, the blushing
groom.
He sat up straighter and spoke to her
firmly.
"Soamosa, look at me."
Her lips trembled and her eyes were huge
and shining when she looked up.
"I have told you that Simeon is
neither an abomination, nor Channa's husband. He is my dear friend, and Channa, who is
completely unbound, is the woman that I love. Do you understand this?"
A frown struggled to manifest itself and
then her face smoothed.
Ah, Amos thought, such control.
For one so apparently timid she's actually quite strong.
"No," she said firmly, "I
do not."
"I do not owe you an explanation,
little one."
She bit her lip and lowered her eyes, then
looked up at him again, abashed, but hopeful.
Amos sighed.
"We will begin with Simeon," he
said patiently. "What is your objection to him?"
"He isn't human, cousin. He is a
thing that mocks the perfection of man as God created him."
"And is our uncle, Grigory, an
abomination because his heart is made of plastic mesh?"
She frowned. "No, of course
not."
"Simeon simply requires more
mechanical aid than does our uncle. He is still a man, just as Grigory is a man. And he is
good man, one of the truest friends that I have ever had. If you will but open your heart
to him, he will be your friend too, Soamosa."
Predictably, she looked both doubtful and
queasy.
"As to my relationship with Channa
Hap . . . "
Her interest sharpened to a sword's point.
"Frankly, it is none of your
business." He watched her blush a deep scarlet. "This I will say, Channa and I
do not need a marriage ceremony to sanctify what is already a very real and pure love. Nor
is it necessary for me to produce an heir."
Soamosa actually gasped and clutched at
her heart in horror.
"Let the family divide my estates and
wealth among themselves when I am dead. Our world and people will not falter because I am
gone. Let them find another to head the state."
"But your holiness will also be gone.
We would be so comforted if you left sons behind to guide us," she said passionately.
Amos smiled at her. "Sweet cousin,
when God touches a man's heart and urges him to speak as a prophet to the people, that man
is not chosen because of who his father was. Only think what it would be like if the
people turned to you, expecting you to fill my shoes."
"But they wouldn't!" she said in
horror. "I'm only a woman."
Amos tried to imagine Channa's reaction to
that remark. He gave a complex inward shudder. Channa Hap in full fury was enough
to make a strong man blanch and cringe; like a thunderstorm on the sands, or a driven
ocean crashing on high cliffs.
"Ah, but they might think that my
taking you on this trip had some deeper meaning." She blushed at that and quickly
lowered her eyes. "And if I were to offer you such special attentions for the rest of
my life, then they would surely think it significant. After all, there have been
prophetess's before."
"But . . . but . . . I have no
calling," she protested, both horrified and confused. "I know that I have
not."
"So, why should I create an heir, who
might have no calling either, but of whom the people would expect such? Imagine the life
my son or daughter could look forward to. Should I be so unfair? Should I arouse such
expectations?"
"No," she said almost sullenly.
"But, then why . . . ?"
"Have I invited you to accompany me?
I have invited you because I like you, cousin. Because you are young and I thought that
you might enjoy seeing one of the greatest space stations in the universe."
Because I didn't want to see you living
your life in a gray sack, with your mind pinched off like a plant being deliberately
stunted.
He had changed Bethel, the Kolnari war had
changed it more, but there were limits to what could be done in a single generation.
"I thought you might like an
adventure."
He was pleased to see a sudden gleam come
into her eyes. It reminded him of the girl who'd put a desert gurrek under his
pillow. His heart grew content when she grinned back. Perhaps, after all, those horrible
clothes and the mealy-mouthed behavior were the result of an ambitious mother's determined
schooling. With time and care she might return to her own true self.
A sudden twisting wrench made both of them
cry out involuntarily. Soamosa fell to her knees, hands over her mouth to hold back the
retching. Amos turned his chair and lunged for his console, knowledge driving out the
merely physical misery.
They'd been ripped out of hyperspace.
Dangerous, exceedingly so. Without drugs,
or preparation, susceptible and unlucky passengers had been known to slip into a psychotic
state.
Amos gripped the arms of his chair and
closed his eyes waiting for his body to readjust. Soamosa gave up the unequal struggle and
ran for the washroom. Amos swallowed hard as the sounds she made urged his body to
sympathetic action.
He activated the com and snapped,
"Captain Sung!"
Before he had finished speaking a voice
came booming through the ship:
"Attention merchanter ship Sunwise.
Stand by to be boarded. Resistance is futile and will be punished. Repeat. Prepare to be
boarded."
The skin at the base of Amos's neck
clenched as though stabbed with a jagged piece of ice. Kolnari. The accent was
different, but the arrogance the same.
The captain hadn't answered his call. Amos
made an impatient sound deep in his throat and headed for the bridge, calling out to
Soamosa to remain in the cabin. The two guards standing watch outside the door turned
smartly and followed him.
I have waited too long. I thought . . .
The Kolnari never forgot an injury; but they never attacked a foe they thought too
strong, either. They had already found the SSS-900- C a mouthful large enough to choke on.
Bethel had a space navy of its own, these days-- small, but enough to defend the system
until a Central Worlds squadron arrived.
In the merchant ship Sunwise
Belazir t'Marid had found a target easy enough to take; which also meant he felt strong
enough to survive the inevitable retaliation. The Kolnari leader had the cunning of
Shaitan his master. He might be right . . .
"Ship is in the five kiloton range," the communications tech was saying.
"Warship, from the neutrino signature. Corvette class, but not a standard
model."
Amos nodded to himself, standing at the
rear of the horseshoe-shaped command bridge. Panic, but well-controlled panic, he
decided. Captain Sung was snapping out orders; hard, almond-shaped green eyes glittering
in a stern middle-aged face. Young Guard-Caladin Samuel stood behind him, one hand on the
captain's chair, one resting on the console. Occasionally he leaned close and spoke
urgently to the distracted Sung.
On the forward screen, to Amos's vast
relief, was a somewhat worse-for-wear ex-courier ship. An ordinary pirate vessel, nothing
like the augmented ships the Kolnari favored.
Mere pirates, he thought. I am relieved that it is merely pirates.
"Have they indicated what they want,
Captain Sung?"
"They want to board," the
Captain snarled. "Beyond that, Benisur, I don't know." He rubbed his chin.
"But this is no happy accident on their part. There's no trace of recent drive
energies, they had to've been waiting for us."
Sung glanced at the controls. "With a
grapple already engaged and waiting to trip us out of hyperspace. Timing like that . . .
" he let the thought trail off.
Amos's finely chiseled mouth thinned to a
grim line. Yes, timing like that meant a traitor, a spy high enough in the Bethelite
Security Forces to have access to privileged information. Traitors or Kolnari agents,
or both, he decided. Joseph, I should have listened to you.
Complacency. Letting the wish be father to
the thought. I thought you paranoid. Mind you, a Chief of Security was supposed
to be paranoid. I should have listened. Of late years he'd even given up the simple
precaution of booking passage on several different ships, leaving at different times.
"That spawn of Shaithen would know
where I was," he'd argued with certainty. "It would take more than a simple
trick to escape his grasp."
Joseph would have preferred an escort of
destroyers, and a company of Guards. Amos had argued that Central Worlds would, at the
least, see that as an insulting lack of trust, and at worst as a provocation--the
Bethelites were thought barbaric enough as it was.
Amos glanced at his escort. Four of them;
all were young. And untried, he thought, realizing for the first time that they
might well die today. Regret and anger washed through him. He'd chosen youngsters because
he wanted to expose as many of the young as he could to Central Worlds culture, because
that was their future. Just as these vibrant young men were meant to be Bethel's.
Joseph, my brother, if I ever see you
again I shall allow you to scold me for as long as pleases you about my foolishness; and
in future I will bow to your will. He would let Joseph boot his Prophetic arse, for
that matter, if he lived past this day.
"Benisur, I'm afraid they may be
after you. There's nothing else on the ship that would be worth their trouble."
Nothing, unless the pirates were after a
cargo of sun-dried tomatoes, dates, goat-cheese, leather handicrafts, and preserved meats.
Valuable enough on SSS-900-C, with its rich manufactories and well-paid, highly-trained
inhabitants. Not the sort of thing which pirates selected for their raids.
Amos nodded. "My thinking exactly,
Captain."
He paused. Pirates would squeeze Bethel
for a ransom it could ill afford.
"I am reluctant to place your people
or your ship in any greater danger, Captain, but I believe we must consider resisting.
After all, if I am the object of this exercise, then they cannot risk firing on the ship
and possibly killing me. So that is one danger we need not fear. And as they are in a
small ship, how many of them could there be? Ten perhaps? Fifteen?"
The Captain, shrugged. "Fifteen tops,
more would overtax life support."
"So we outnumber them as well. Let
them come aboard, lure them in and when they are in far enough, strike, and take hostage
any survivors. What do you say?" Amos glanced at his young Caladin, courteously
including him in their council.
"I had not even considered
surrendering you to them, Benisur." Samuel's brown eyes held an innocent bravery.
"I'm no soldier, Benisur," Sung
said, and pulled on his lower lip. "But I like your plan a whole lot better than just
letting these animals grab my ship and take you off it." He nodded decisively:
"We'll do it."
There was a slight quaver in Sung's voice
as he issued orders to break out the arms. He glanced at Amos to see if it had been
noticed. But Amos was studying the monitor showing the lock through which the pirates
would enter.
An echoing clang resounded through the
ship as the pirates extended a caterpillar lock to connect them to the Sunwise.
Amos looked up from the screen to watch
the crewmen depart for their ambush site and murmured a blessing over them; knowing that
most of them would neither understand nor thank him for it. But the eyes of the four
Bethelites showed gratitude as they ceremoniously touched forehead, lips and heart.
Then he watched as the Captain keyed the
monitors that covered his crew's progress under the direction of the Bethelite soldiers.
The camera trained on the main lock showed
the hatch recessing. Air hissed as pressures equalized; Bethel's was well below the
Earth-derived standard the Central Worlds used.
A long second's pause. Two men in black
space armor swung out from the airlock, crouching, plasma rifles up. After a moment one of
them signaled and five more swept out. Three split off and moved carefully towards
engineering, the other four, hugging the walls and moving with extreme caution, headed for
the bridge.
Amos's stomach knotted. Their armor was
too much like the Kolnari's--though a stripped down version of it--and their movements
were too professional, too disciplined, for mere criminals. If the Kolnari were so reduced
as to use outsiders . . . mercenaries . . . But no, surely they would despise and avoid
such creatures.
Yet these men behaved like the product of
intensive Kolnari training--that was an inhumanly businesslike civilization.
He opened his mouth to advise the Captain
to call off the ambush, when a final invader left the airlock and entered the ship.
A foot, clad in massive black battle
armor, hit the Sunwise's deck with a crash that seemed to move the ship.
Slowly--majestic as an eclipse--the Kolnari entered, turned, and marched towards the
bridge.
Amos could not speak. For a moment his
throat was paralyzed, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't move. It was unexpected, to be so
overwhelmed by horror at seeing one of them again, for he was no coward. But an evil that
had almost destroyed his people had returned; the nightmare was marching again--coming to
collect him personally.
"Captain!" Amos managed to choke
out. "Call off the ambush, call it off or they'll kill you all!"
The Captain stared for a moment as though
he hadn't understood, then activated the com and spoke, just as Samuel, the Bethelite
Caladin, fired on the invaders.
"Stand down! Stand down! Lay down
your weapons and fall back!"
Some of the crew heard him, reacting with
confusion at first, looking around to see if anyone else had heard the order, lowering
their rifles, backing off. But Amos's guards engaged the enemy--too intent on battle to
listen--certain that if the Benisur Amos wished them to hold their fire his voice
would have told them so.
One crewman stood up, his hands lifted in
surrender and died for it, a steaming hole blasted in his chest by a plasma rifle.
The doubtful broke then and fled, while
the others fought and retreated, and died, one by one. Retreat turned to slaughter.
Amos was thrown with bruising force at the feet of Belazir t'Marid and lay face down,
unmoving, on a rough carpet made from the scaly hide of a great beast. Behind him, he
heard the gentle whir of servos as the battle-armored Kolnari lowered the arm that had
flung him here. He heard soft grunts as his companions, Captain Sung and Soamosa were
tossed to the floor beside him.
Soamosa, her blond hair freed from
confinement and her gown much torn, clung to Amos's arm, burying her face against him and
trembling.
"Look at me, Benisur," purred a
voice silky with satisfaction.
Amos raised himself onto his elbows and
slowly lifted his head. Belazir grinned down at him, white teeth gleaming in a predator's
snarl from a face as black as a starless night. He has aged, Amos thought, shocked.
The hawklike nose was more prominent and
the flesh hung on his face like slightly melted tallow. But the golden eyes were as bright
and cruel as they had ever been; though now they held the glint of sheer mad glee, where
before there had only been a lazy amusement.
"So good to see you," Belazir
continued, almost whispering.
The control room was centered on his
chair, like a massive throne set among control consoles and display screens. The Kolnari
lord wore only a white silk loincloth and jeweled belt, besides his ornaments; he lolled
like a resting tiger between guards in powered armor, his own suit standing empty and
waiting. Behind him a holograph showed a nighted landscape where armored plants grew and
moved and fought slow vegetable battles with spikes of organic steel. In the distance a
nuclear volcano spat fire that red-lighted the undersides of acid clouds. A giant beast
with sapphire scales trumpeted its agony at the sky as six-legged wolves leaped and clung
and tore at its adamantine sides. Thick purple blood rilled towards the ground, and the
very grass writhed to drink of it.
Kolnar, Amos knew with a shudder. Antechamber
of hell. Belazir had never seen the planet that bred his kind, but it lived in his
genes.
"So good to see you like
this," Belazir said. He slowly clenched his hand. "You are in my fist," he
explained, as though Amos might not know it. "You and your companions." He
grinned at them and indicated the Captain. "And who have we here? Captain Sung, I
presume?"
A vicious kick from a mercenary prompted a
response.
"Yessir," Sung grunted.
A flurry of kicks caused Sung to roll into
a ball, covering his head, drawing his feet up to protect his privates. The kicks
concentrated on his kidneys until he sobbed.
"Beg," the Kolnari said.
"Please!"
Belazir raised one finger. The mercenary
stepped back, grinning. He had a particolored beard and a brass hoop in one ear.
"You must tell the Captain the rules,
Benisur. We would not want a repeat of this lesson, not at his age."
"We must address the Divine Seed of
Kolnar as 'Great Lord'," Amos said, his voice flat and distant, his eyes fixed on the
space below the Kolnari's feet, "and when the Lord Captain Belazir addresses us we
must respond with 'Master and God.'"
"And what are you, Simeon Amos?"
Belazir asked with delicate sarcasm.
"Scumvermin," Amos ground out.
Belazir laughed with delight.
"Ah, there are times--like this one,
Benisur--when a despised enemy can be more welcome than a beautiful bride." He smiled
benignly at Amos, then indicated the cowering girl at his side. "Is this your
bride?"
"No! Lord and God," Amos said
with such obvious sincerity that Belazir raised an eyebrow.
"Do not tell me you are still saving
your seed for the delectable Channahap?"
Amos tried to school his features to
immobility. He knew the slight shifts in his expression conveyed his outrage to the
Kolnari like a shout.
Belazir smiled a cream-eating smile.
"A most . . . satisfying woman,
truly. I can understand your obsession." He indicated Soamosa again. "Then no
doubt this little one is a virgin; your people have an inexplicable admiration for such.
Do not fear, girl, I can cure you of it."
Soamosa's body jerked as though she'd been
struck. She muffled a cry with the sleeve of her robe.
"She is only a child, Master and
God," Amos pleaded. "Her family will pay a ransom for her safe return."
Belazir shrugged, "I had eight
children by her age, and all of my wives were the same age as I. If I return her to her
family in . . . almost one piece, I doubt they will complain. Much." He
grinned. "And certainly not to me."
He flicked a hand at the guards,
"Take them away." To Amos: "We will talk again later, scumvermin. I shall
look forward to it."