The Mergans
One
THE HAND WASHED the Voice’s legs, smoothing away the dust from her knees and the bottoms of her feet. The Voice watched her work, trying to remain detached, as if it were not her body being tended with such care. Done with her legs, the Hand looked up, ready to wash the rest of the Voice’s body in preparation for her first robing.
The Hand paused when she saw the Voice’s face and the tears that marked her cheeks. Her alarm was real and immediate. Tears were for infants, unacceptable from anyone else. Dropping the wet cloth to the floor, she wiped away the tears with work-roughened fingertips, making sure to get every spot of lingering moisture.
When more filled the Voice’s eyes, she gripped the Voice’s head and shook her a little. It wasn’t rough or angry, only fearful and concerned, but it worked to make the Voice look at her. The Hand pulled away and signed the words, Be brave.
These two signs didn’t help the Voice at all. How could this Hand know what she was about to go through? How could she understand?
Something of her thoughts must have been written on her face, because the Hand sunk back into her kneeling position in front of the bench and put a hand to the Voice’s knee in comfort. When she leaned back her head, as if searching the ceiling far above for some answer, the Voice saw the tiny, pale line across this Hand’s throat. She’d seen it many times, but tonight the old scar had greater significance than ever before.
The Voice leaned over as much as she could without unbalancing herself and whispered into the Hand’s ear, “I’m afraid I’ll do poorly. I cannot be a Hand if I fail. A Voice does not need hands and a Hand has no need of a voice.”
The Hand’s body stiffened when she spoke, and the Voice saw her eyes dart about as if looking for anyone who might have heard her speak. This was not allowed. Her voice belonged to her master and was for his use alone. Just as the hands of all Hands belonged to their master, all words from a Voice did too. The Voice relayed his words to others, but had none of her own.
At least, the Voices weren’t supposed to have any words of their own.
The Hand pulled away and put a wrinkled hand to the Voice’s mouth to stop her words. After another quick look around, she signed, Your songs are beautiful. Your face is beautiful. They will accept you and you’ll keep your voice. You will sing and read them stories from the Sky-God’s books forever.
The Voice straightened back up on the bench, a more difficult task than it should be. The Hand picked up the fallen cloth and resumed her washing of the Voice’s body, pausing only when she reached the stumps where her arms once were. Her face hardened as she washed those, her eyes losing some focus as if she didn’t want to fully see the damage that had been done to this Voice after her songs won her a place as such. The Voice didn’t mind that so much. She couldn’t even remember what having arms had been like since they’d been taken when she was three years old.
The Hand brushed the Voice’s cheek and she smiled at her. The smile the Voice returned was weak, but it was there and would have to suffice. Her sadness would color her songs. It might make them beautiful or it might make them rough. It was best not to risk it this night.
Yet the Hand also knew the young Voice was right. A Voice did not need hands and a Hand did not need a voice. The deed had been done to the Voice already and if she did not debut her songs well tonight, she would be on the burning pyre tomorrow. Before sunset, she would be spread amongst the fields to help the crops grow.
All women had uses, even dead ones.
The Hand brought the robes and the Voice stood while she was draped with the exacting precision demanded by the evening. This was her first night wearing the robes of the Claimed. Her first week in the bleeding rooms was over and she was now a woman. She could be displayed as such and her songs heard by more than just her master.
As the crimson silk fell over her, the Voice watched the Hand and waited for her moment. When the Hand leaned close to tie the many elaborate closures on the robe, she put her lips to the Hand’s ear and whispered the forbidden words, “I will be brave for you, Grandmother.”
Two
Tango listened to the briefing, then nudged Delta in the next seat. “Let’s just call it Douchebag Planet Number 40 or something.”
Delta stifled a laugh and grinned widely. The grin didn’t look good. It stretched the wide, white scar across a pair of lips already marred by a myriad of other such scars, making it shine under the briefing room lights. Lips and chins were often the victims inside the battle suits when a battle was in full swing. It was the only part of them that had significant freedom of movement inside their shells.
“Douchebag Planet, aye!” came her hissed response. Neither of them actually understood the origins of the reference, but it was a popular one and the word considered the ultimate insult.
A sharp glance from the Division command section up front hushed them and brought both soldiers’ attention where it should be. There was nothing new here, nothing to be worried about. This would be just another planet that didn’t pass muster. It didn’t matter what name they chose for themselves or which Seed ship brought them to the planet. It didn’t matter what they envisioned themselves to be, what they had deluded themselves into thinking was the right way to live. Their so-called faith and beliefs were of no importance.
What mattered is that they were douchebags and for that, they had to die. Or, as the Peace Force liked to call it, reorganized.
The Division Commander—called DC rather than any standard designator—eyed the crowded room, which held the leading elements of each Brigade, Battalion, and Company in their Division. Tango was the current Second in Third Company, while Delta was currently running in third for the Fourth Company of their Battalion. Not too high up in the command structure so that life was entirely without fun, but not so low that they didn’t have opportunities to make their own fun. It was a nice balance and they were both very happy with their spots in the hierarchy.
The DC’s next words put a hush on the room. “This will be a no-two-stones operation.”
Tango and Delta looked at each other in surprise. There’d been no such operation since before either of them had come out of the crèche. It wasn’t unprecedented, but it was rare. This planet must have gone very far off the beaten track to deserve a complete obliteration of their entire infrastructure, customs, and culture.
No-two-stones simply meant that no two stones in a building would be left together, an ancient reference that hardly worked when most planets were covered by buildings made of metal and glass. Still, the sentiment held. No-two-stones was bad news for the planet’s current ruling parties.
“And the inhabitants?” asked the First for the battalion Tango and Delta both belonged to.
“That’s where this operation gets a little sticky, so thank you for asking, Battalion Commander Xray-Mike-Four. We’ve got another year of ship time until we reach the system, which means you’ll all be going back to sleep. That will give us about twenty-five additional years of planet time to evaluate them and figure out the details. Our current operational plan is being loaded into the learning modules. You’ve all seen the rather unique planetary conditions we’ll be working under during your pre-planning sleep sessions. Extensive deserts and wind make this one an interesting environmental outlier. But there’s also the social structure to consider, which is nothing like we’ve seen before. Our social engineers are still working on that part of it.”
More than a few surreptitious looks were passed between particular friends or leaders. If it required even more study after the decision to intervene was made, then it had to be a seriously messed up system. But would it be messed up in the oh, that’s interesting sort of way or the I’ve really got to kill everyone I see kind of way?
The battalion commander wasn’t yet done it seemed, and asked, “And there are still no reports of significant military presence on the surface?”
The DC coughed a little at that question, which meant the answer wasn’t truly known or wasn’t going to be to the liking of the soldiers. Tango listened more carefully and tried not to be distracted by the close proximity of Delta.
“That’s a difficult question. There are plenty of standard old-Earth style anti-air platforms, but they don’t appear manned. Also, there are some indicators of underground activity, though we can’t see through the bedrock to figure out exactly what that activity might be. It’s possible that there won’t be much fight here—”
The DC paused as low groans broke out from the assembled crowd. No one wanted to go to battle only to find no one to fight. “But—and I repeat, but—we should be ready for pop-up activity. It’s entirely possible that they relocated all military structures underground to protect assets from the periodic activity in their asteroid belt. The planet is bombarded on a fairly regular basis, which would make underground assets a logical choice.”
The groans faded at those words, but no one was very excited after that. Pop-up activity was nothing if not intense, but underground facilities would be boring. Orbital bombardment would get to have all the fun if that were the case.
As the briefing ended, Tango grabbed Delta by the arm and tugged, swerving them out of the flow of traffic toward a ladder access. Tango shouted a little to be heard over the noise a hundred pairs of boots created while clomping across metal. “Come. I’ve got a surprise!”
Delta’s eyebrows rose at that. She liked surprises and especially liked Tango’s surprises. Usually, it was something fun like a new combat move or an early look at some new weaponry.
They banged up the stairs for four levels, alone in the stairwell because no one used them. Most of the sailors and soldiers on this ship had probably never used stairs in their lives. Why would they? The chutes were faster and the ship was big. More than sixty thousand people lived and worked on this ship and it didn’t seem crowded except when waiting for a chute. Tango had discovered the joy of the ladder-well echoes and never gotten over it. They were also a nice way to avoid waiting for the crowd after a battle briefing or during shift changes.
They left the stairwell at the level primarily reserved for suits and suit creation. Delta grinned again, thinking this might be a peek at some new weaponry for their suits. That would be good. Each planet they visited offered new opportunities to adjust their current weaponry to a new environment, a new defensive system, a new set of challenges. There was always something new being added.
Tango’s face wore a mischievous look when they stopped in front of one of the Build Bay doors. It slid open and Delta followed along, passing racks of suits being refurbished or built. It was a constant process. A soldier was their suit. It was weapon, medical unit, habitation, transportation. It was all things to the person inside, and the soldier’s suit must be up to date and in perfect working order at all times.
As the two soldiers passed the open stalls hung with suits, technicians called out or waved greetings. As they approached one such stall—an elaborately decorated suit in the final stages of battle preparation gleaming within—the technician popped out and smiled up at the two soldiers, leaning back so that there wasn’t quite so much neck-craning required to see their faces.
Tango leaned over a little and said, “How’s it hanging, Tech? This is Delta-Four-Bravo. Delta, this is Technician 440 assigned to the First Division.”
The technician’s small hand was lost in Delta’s paw when they shook, but the shake was enthusiastic even so. Delta smiled at the short person, no taller than the bottom of her rib cage. The techs were small, but very nimble, very quick. And very smart. They were to be respected, but Delta always felt big and clumsy around them.
Before Delta was forced to figure out what to say, the tech clapped her hands and giggled, “She’s going to love it. Go show her! Go show her!”
Tango boomed a laugh and grabbed Delta’s hand to drag her down the row, the technician’s high and delighted laugh following them. A few more technicians popped out of their stalls and clapped or shouted greetings as they walked. Delta marveled once again at how many people simply liked Tango. Was it the smile, the easy manner, the battle prowess that never returned to the ship as attitude after a battle was over? Delta could only shake her head at it and watch Tango return each wave and greeting.
Halting suddenly, Tango motioned into a stall and said, “Here it is. For you!”
Inside the stall was a suit, and it wasn’t Delta’s usual suit either. The last battle had seen her dented and damaged—so much so that her suit wouldn’t even join the transport back up to the ship properly, requiring she be lifted with the wounded. Delta had expected a refit, but not a new suit.
She stood in front of the suit and took it in. Instead of gleaming metal or bright decorations like those on Tango’s suit, it was all in shades of tan and brown, swirled about so that it blended beautifully. It wasn’t a common color choice, but it was lovely even so. The exoskeleton that would encase her and join with her looked about the same in terms of general form, but it was smoother somehow. Elegant was the word that came to her mind. The weapons that covered every available surface almost seemed to flow like water from the metal body.
“It’s beautiful!” she gasped.
Tango apparently couldn’t hold back anymore or wait for Delta to explore the suit herself. Punching the button to rotate the suit, Tango opened the back and waved in invitation. “Get in!”
Delta slid into the suit and immediately felt the difference. This suit hugged her, pressing in where it should and giving her room where she most wanted it. It was fitted as only a long-time lover would understand she needed it to, as someone who knew her body as well as she did would create it to fit.
“Turn it on,” Tango said from behind her.
Delta chinned the activation bar and the suit closed in around her, haptic feedback telling her exactly where the suit was touching the rack in exactly the right way. Even the chin-bar was padded on this new suit, an added touch that spoke of love and made Delta smile.
“Weapons,” Delta said and the displays that came up in front of her eyes made them widen. She had everything. No, she had at least two of everything.
When at last she climbed out of her suit, Delta was overwhelmed and didn’t want to sleep another ship-year away before she might use it. Tugging the sleeves of her bodysuit down, she asked, “How did you do this?”
Tango looked almost embarrassed, waving away the singular nature of the accomplishment. “I woke up a few months early, but the techs here did the hard stuff. Really.”
Delta looked over at Tech 440, who was standing outside the stall of the suit she was working on and shaking her head. She pointed to Tango as if to counter that claim.
“Well, I thank you. And the colors, how did you think of that?”
Tango shrugged and said, “During the learning about this next planet while I was sleeping, I saw all the deserts, the sand. I’m not sure why, but it stuck with me for some reason. I like it though. Do you?”
Delta nodded, suddenly shy again with all the techs sneaking glances at them from the stalls. This was unprecedented. Techs made suits, designed suits, maintained suits. Soldiers didn’t do that. Tango was different and always had been, but this was almost too different.
“Why did you do this? The techs would have refitted my old one or made one,” she asked, looking up at Tango, her eyes soft with emotion.
Tango shrugged and touched the pattern on the chest plate of the suit. “I don’t know, really. I just wanted it to be right for you. Perfect. It seemed like something I could do for you that was special. I want you to be as safe as I can make you.”
Delta shook her head, but she smiled even so. “I’m a soldier. So are you. Safety is for the ship, not the ground.” She pushed the button that sent the suit back into the stall to wait for the next battle, eyeing it like the prize it was. Then she rose onto her tiptoes and kissed Tango’s equally scarred lips and whispered, “But it’s the best gift I’ve ever received and I love you for it.”
“Well, anyway,” Tango said, stepping back and eyeing all the grinning techs watching them, “we should get to sleep. Lots to learn. Lots of battles to plan. It’s going to take a long time for the ship to slow, so we might as well not get old while it’s happening.”
Later, as Delta felt the rush of cool gas filling her pod and the sleepiness washing over her, she thought about her suit and murmured, “Bang. Bang. Zap.” Then she dreamed of battle.
Three
The Voice nearly tripped as she shuffled with unusual haste toward the women’s quarters. The Hand assigned to her that day caught her before she landed on her face, a look of barely concealed panic marring her features. If the Voice were damaged, then it would be the Hand that paid the price.
“Thank you,” the Voice said and the Hand cringed at the words.
This Hand was young, just out of the bleeding rooms and newly allowed into the halls of the palace. She was still fresh and fearful, which is why she’d been assigned. The Voice had grown old and weary, not so steady on her feet anymore. She needed a young, strong Hand to help her. But even with her advancing age, her voice was still pure and the notes she could carry higher than any other Voice in the land.
This ability had kept her alive for longer years than most, but she had one more advantage. She had also borne two Masters, an unprecedented accomplishment. That had made her master tender toward her, even lenient. He always ensured she had a Hand nearby to tend her. Even when she had been caught reading a Sky-God book for her own pleasure, he had only taken one eye instead of having her burned to feed the crops.
Though she had only borne five times, just one male had been culled during the Three Year selections. The other two had been sent to the Master’s School, and when openings in the Great 5000 had opened, both her males had been chosen from their like number to fill the gap. The others were culled, but those she had borne had been made masters.
Of her two female bearings, she had no idea, for it was not considered important to the master, but she watched each new selection when it would have been their times, hoping to see some girl-child chosen to be a Voice that carried hints of her features.
Selections were always hard to watch, but those years had been particularly difficult. It would be the final time a child was whole. Each tap on a shoulder meant either the girl-child would have her voice or her arms removed. It was hard to decide which was the better outcome to hope for. Either choice was better than that which awaited all those not tapped on the shoulder. They filed out the other side of the choosing arena and their smoke darkened the skies within hours.
Even so, she’d looked for some hint of herself in those small voices and faces. She’d seen none, but that didn’t mean they were both culled. It was possible that they lived.
Only now that meant nothing. Nothing in all the land meant anything now. The end was here. There were dark shadows in the heavens and the Masters were in a frenzy of fright.
Her master shifted between abject fear that it was the burning stars returning to blight the land again and ecstatic joy that the shapes might signal the return of the Sky-God. Eventually, he had settled on abject fear and that was that.
Grunting to avoid frightening her young Hand any further, the Voice nodded toward the door that led to the women’s quarters at the end of the dim hallway. The Hand ducked her head and made the sign of obedience before hurrying ahead to open the door for her.
Two Enforcers bracketed the door and their eyes flicked toward her for only a moment. Like the Hands, they had no voices, but unlike every other person who was not a Master, they were male. Or rather, they had started as males.
Pausing at the threshold, the Voice looked down at the floor and said, “The Master calls for you. All Enforcers are to report to the sheltering place.” They did not acknowledge her, but they knew of the dark shapes and hurried off, leaving the door unguarded for the first time in memory.
Like the women, some Enforcers were Hands and a few were Voices. These were Hands, and even though they were Enforcers, they listened to all Voices. Voices relayed the words of the Master and no others. They were trusted.
The hallways inside the women’s quarters were stark. Bare of the decorations and frescoes that lined the halls on the master’s side of palace, they were instead clean and bare, painted in shades of brown and tan to match the bareness of their lives.
The Voice hurried down the passageways, past the cells where pallets for women not on duty held sleeping forms, past the kitchens where they ate in silence. The bleeding rooms were up ahead and this was the only place a male would never venture to go, so it was where women went as often as they could. It was their only place of peace.
The Hand opened the door for her and she rushed in, her robes endeavoring to trip her feet with their many layers. It frustrated the Voice that she was unable to brush them aside or pick them up to make the going easier. Again, her Hand steadied her and as the door to the bleeding rooms shut behind them, she said, “Gather them all. Gather them here. There is no time. There is fire in the sky.”
Four
Two divisions would be conducting the assault, which was a slender number when the number available was considered. Then again, this was a rather unique situation, the population skewed and the defenses oddly absent. Like all colonized planets, the Seed ship for this one sent out updates along the quantum buoys for millennia until finally launching itself into the system’s sun to disappear forever.
And like all ships, this Seed ship did not concern itself with social development, only with ensuring that technological development remained within or below the allowed levels. It was a flaw in the original design, one that the Peace Force had been tasked with correcting long ago. It was the final task given to them before the Earth joined all the other planets whose times had come and gone.
Tango had learned the details of the planet while they all slept, troubled dreams and nightmares interrupting the long learning sessions. The Seed ship had not spared details or flavored the reports with opinion, but that only made the learning worse. Why this colony had become what they were was a mystery, but the asteroid impact that soured so much of their land had probably played a role. It didn’t matter why, though. It only mattered that they had chosen this unacceptable path.
Like everyone else, Tango awoke disturbed. Angry. Ready.
As the suit tightened around Tango’s body, the gel filled every crevice. The gel would sustain all bodily functions and protect its inhabitant from the vagaries of space and the planet’s surface. The moment of breathing it in was hard—as always—but the moment passed. Now Tango was as mute as the majority of the planet’s population, an irony.
Tango’s throat made the motions of speech, and the suit created the sounds and transmitted them. An acknowledgement from the Company Communicator came rapidly, and soon all the members of the team were ready to form up. Testing weapons came last, each soldier passing through a testing chamber on the way to formation. The sizzling pops and hums were felt more than heard inside the suit, each one like a caress to a heart formed for battle.
Each company filed into the formation bay and the crowd grew, a thousand suited bodies standing on their markers and ready by the time their leadership filed in to take their places. More than twenty bays would be used for this launch, but that only accounted for the use of two ships and a mere twenty thousand troops. That was nothing in comparison with most. It was very few when considering the target was an entire planet.
As Tango crossed the bay, a final look brought Delta into view. She was far back in the formation, her tan and brown standing out in the forest of bright colors and patterns. Raising the suit’s arm in a final wave, Tango’s boots found their assigned spot and locked into place.
Two more ships stood at the ready in case of need, the bombardment cannons ready to destroy all of the surface that needed destroying, but this plan called for a more delicate operation. It was decided that though this would remain a no-two-stones operation, the vast majority of the population had been classified as victims in need of rescue. This was also an unusual wrinkle in the history of such planetary cleansings. Not entirely, because there had been others, but not at all common.
In practical terms, it meant that Tango and every other soldier deployed could not simply eliminate anyone they encountered within a set battle zone. Instead, each human would have to be cleared or targeted as individuals, a process that increased risk and delayed completion.
It was also a challenge. Tango liked challenges almost as much as battle itself.
The suit feedback probes attached to the bones behind each suited ear vibrated as the channel opened. “Brigade, prepare for deployment!”
The red lights of the opening bay door raised the pulse rates of all the soldiers. The anticipation of insertion and the battle that would follow heightened their bio-readings enough that the support techs in another part of the ship were highlighted in the red glow of their screens. Smiles and butt-fidgets inside their thousands of support pods followed the glow. For them this was battle too. Each soldier had a support tech, and each support tech lived the battle through their soldier.
As the bay floor lowered into open space, the planet loomed bright and wide around the edges of the platform. Too much brown, too much red, not enough green. Soured land. It would recover, but such things take time. The wide green strip to either side of the equator was jagged and broken by the seas, but already Tango could see tendrils of green stretching up along rivers and spreading abundance. Yes, the planet would recover in time.
But not with these people. Not with this society.
“Deploy!”
Like one thousand others, Tango’s boots detached from the bay floor and the propulsion systems kicked on, pushing the suit over the edge and into space. With only the briefest pause, the matrix began to form, each suit connecting in its assigned spot, the ball growing around those suits in the center. Within moments, the Battle Ball was formed and propelling itself toward the atmosphere and planet below—one thousand suits meant to bring destruction and death. Other balls deployed, each one headed toward a known population center that the inhabitants called Palaces.
Once the spin began and the ball approached atmosphere, there was nothing to see as the face plates went opaque. Now, all they could do was enjoy the ride.
Five
The Voice crouched outside on the large platform roof above the women’s quarters. Through the window, a crowd of women waited for her words, each ear ready and each body pressed forward. Her Hand steadied her as she gazed upward, though the girl would not look up at all. Perhaps she was even more fearful than the masters of the sky-fire, but she could be forgiven fear when her youth was considered.
“They are balls of fire,” the Voice said. The awe she felt at the sight filled her voice and made the women nearby sigh. One of the many reasons she had lasted so long while other Voices fertilized the fields was her ability to tell a story with such feeling that the masters would cry at the telling. And that had been acting on her part. This was real.
“I see one coming this way. They are round, I’m sure of it. I do not know what they’ll do, but if they bring that fire, we will be burned. That is nothing to us, is it?” She expected no answer, but she felt the trembling of her Hand through the arm around her waist.
One of the older Hands stuck her head out of the window and looked from side to side. The yard below was strangely empty. No Enforcers watched the un-bled Hands as they tended chickens and no Hands crossed the yard with food or water. Seeing her way clear, the Hand stepped out of the window for the first time in her life.
Even without a voice for speaking, the gasps of the other Hands drew the attention of the Voice. She smiled, creating a web of wrinkles around her eyes that spoke to her venerable years. At forty, she was long past the time for burning and she feared these balls of fire far less than the fire that would certainly take her soon in a much more personal way.
“Come. Come out. All of you. There is no one to see!” For the first time in her life, she gave an order that did not first come from a master’s throat. It felt odd, strange… good. It was her duty to gather the Hands, to keep them together until the masters returned, but the Voice was quite sure that duty did not include standing outside against all the rules.
And her words were true. For the first time, there was no one to see, to judge, to send them for burning. The Voice knew where the masters had gone, at least the hundreds that lived in this palace complex. Her own master had grabbed a bag of gold, shocking the Voice into silence as she relayed his commands. No master touched an object in labor. No cup was lifted to their lips by their own fingers, no shoe shoved onto their own foot. And yet her Master had done so, nearly tripping at the unfamiliar action and putting the shoes on the wrong feet.
Her expression must have given her shock away, because he’d slapped her face and said, “Do not look upon me like that or I’ll take your other eye.”
She’d bowed her head and waited, no longer sure what she should do. The Sheltering Place was for the masters should another of the sky-rocks fall and scorch the land.
It happened every few years, but they were small, quick tails of flame that made no noticeable impact. Every few lifetimes the larger sky-rocks came, but even then the land was spared from any blighting like that which occurred long ago. That had been the time of darkening and nothing like it had happened since.
And these balls of fire did not look like any sky-rocks the Voice had ever seen. These giant balls of flame looked alive and filled with purpose.
Rock or no, the sheltering places were deep underground, each one far beneath the Palace it served. Her master had gone there with his enforcers and the breeders who had achieved Select classification through virtue of their many healthy births. All the masters would go. Deep underground, they would be safe.
The Voice could have also been taken, but she had hoped she would not and tried to be invisible as her master frantically gathered his favorite things. As the master had rushed through the passage away from her, the Voice held her breath, hoping that he would not turn back and tell her to come. When he did not, she’d smiled and run the other way.
Now, on this flat roof, she smiled again and said, “I tell you they are gone. Come out!”
The Hands came, at first hesitantly, but then like a flood. These were palace Hands, not allowed beyond the walls or outside like the Hands that tended the yards, gardens, farms, or animals. Most had never seen the sun save through the open sky-pit in the kitchens where smoke from the cooking fires escaped, or if they were fortunate enough to tend the master’s palace, then through the windows there. But to feel the sun on their faces? No, none would have felt that before.
They crouched under the sun and sky, eyes squinting at the bright light after a lifetime of dim rooms and smoky fires. The balls were growing brighter in the sky, the flames surrounding them like coronas. They looked like the fires of a thousand children sent to the burning fields at once after a culling.
And the flames were growing closer. Quickly. Women did not fear fire. It was the end that all of them saw eventually, save for a few who died in other ways.
Let the Masters feel the flames now, the Voice thought and watched the fire.
Six
Right on time, the spin decreased and the heat dissipated. Propulsion kicked on and the Battle Ball changed trajectory for the landing zone. The display on Tango’s faceplate cleared, then overlaid the landing zone and deployment plans. It was going to be a tight one.
The palaces were nothing of the sort, but rather small and compact cities linked by endless walkways and roofed sidewalks. The buildings inside clustered in strange configurations that were going to complicate their plans for battle in significant ways.
A cluster of lights—huddled close the way animals and people often cluster—blossomed over a section of open space on the other side of the city. The Support Techs and the computer evaluated each bio-sign and the lights changed from the white of the unknown to the green of humans who were not legitimate targets and the blue of animals. Intel reported that all children were clustered in very specific locations, and now each of those locations glowed green, making all of those buildings off-limits for battle.
The land below approached quickly. When Tango first graduated the crèche into the life of a soldier, it brought a combined thrill of fear and excitement to see the planet rise in greeting like this. That thrill was still there, though tempered now by many battles in the years since.
The Battle Ball slowed and then hovered, the lowest suits no more than one hundred feet off the ground. As always, the outer suits rotated during that final descent and now weapons were brought to bear on any opposition. Yet there was none, or none worth the title. Old and almost useless anti-air guns belched smoke and clumsy projectiles in their direction, but those were almost too easy.
Tango frowned, unhappy at so little fight. Were these people also stupid? Were they so arrogant they did not understand that even if they had control over every living thing on a planet, harm can come from elsewhere?
Each suit broke away, the landing pattern already established. Smoke and the bright lights of targeting lasers against the guns cleared under the wind’s dusty power. Even before Tango’s squad made it beyond the landing zone, the sound of weapons diminished, leaving only a few distant sizzling pops as old, combustion type ammunition burned off around the disabled guns.
The lack of fight made Tango’s neck hair rise. It wasn’t normal or natural. Who would create a culture so messed up that it begged for intervention, but do nothing to defend it? Waving the team forward, Tango’s weaponry rose almost of its own accord, making the already-wide suit shoulders even more so. Laser weapons best used against small or moving targets flared from the forearms as if in sympathy with the disturbed feelings brought on by so little fight.
“Where is everyone?” Tango asked. It didn’t matter if it was command or a support tech that answered, so long as an answer came.
A stone carved by the wind into a shape vaguely like that of a ground conveyance drew Tango’s ire and the surge of energy from one of the suit mounted cannons sent a cloud of dust into the air. The rock was gone. Was this the extent of their battle? Rocks?
“All hold!” The command came from central, which meant the division leadership. It also didn’t bode well. Never had an ‘all hold’ command been given once the battle was enjoined. It just didn’t happen. It was one of those theoretical commands everyone knew, but never expected.
The ground trembled under the combined impatient steps of all the suits, the clomp-clomp of Tango’s boots joining the beat while they all waited, sensors picking up and displaying everything. And nothing. The only bio-signs remaining were quickly coded into blue or green. Non-targets.
“Tango-Foxtrot-Nine, you have a command communications channel now open,” said Tango’s support tech.
The support tech seemed as disappointed with the battle as everyone else. While still professional, there was a glum tone that Tango could pick up. After a dozen battles paired with this tech, they knew each other’s moods well.
“Roger, this is Tango-Foxtrot-Nine.”
The channel burst with noise. The suits were big and unwieldy, but were like second skins to those that wore them. That didn’t mean it wasn’t a lot of work to carry them, however. Heavier breathing was the norm once planetary landing had been accomplished. The quick roll call as the channel was joined by others was another surprise. Instead of all command, the channel was being populated by a seemingly random assortment of soldiers from squad leaders like Tango to a fire team on the other side of the planet.
“Okay everyone, listen up. We’ve got a problem. Intel correlated over twelve-K signatures as confirmed hostile during pre-attack. Another eighty-K plus as potential hostiles. Not one of them is now locatable. They’re all gone.”
“What the sheeping hell?” Tango muttered, that prickly neck feeling rising again. Hostiles disappearing? Where did they go? “Off planet?” Tango asked, trying to think logically and not be spooked by this unusual foe behavior.
“Negative. These people have no ships,” answered the division command communicator.
Division command took back up the reins and said, “We’re going to have to think outside the battle box here. All of you on the channel are in close proximity to two specific indicators. First, you’re closest to the last places the hostiles were located. Second, you’re close to large masses of Greens that were in close contact with the hostiles before they disappeared.”
Tango turned around and looked at the squad. Each had cleared their faceplates so that their expressions were visible, and each wore that same disappointed and slightly confused look that matched what Tango felt. Signing for them to wait and watch, Tango gave them the signal for intelligence passing and that seemed to settle them a little.
“We’re sending survey and report instructions to most of the squads on the ground and assigning backup positions to others, but you will be receiving contact commands.”
Tango took a step back at that, swiveling the suit to look at the cluster of ramshackle buildings behind the wall nearby. Made of stone and what looked like mud-brick, they were hardly imposing, but their sheer size and hodge-podge construction made them perfect for setting traps. Not to mention that contact commands using soldiers like Tango was also unusual. That sort of thing was limited to after the battle as a rule, and then usually assigned to the Administrators with their ability to communicate smoothly.
The unusual silence on the line was telling. Every person on this channel aside from command was a soldier like Tango. No one wanted a contact command.
“I know this isn’t any specialty of ours, but we at command can’t be sure that this isn’t some sort of trap. We can’t send Administrators down here with one hundred percent of the hostiles unaccounted for. So, you’re to lead your squads to the Greens as directed by your support techs. Make contact. Find out what’s going on. Then let’s get it done and get the hell off this creepy planet.”
Like everyone else on the line Tango hoo-yahed that final statement with whole-hearted agreement. This place was a shit-hole of brown dust, wind, and messed up behavior. They didn’t even do battle properly. Who could respect that?
Once the line was clear, the support techs opened their squad lines and Tango briefed the team. There were a lot of raised eyebrows, but a command was a command. That was always good enough.
Leading the squad of five suits toward the wall, Tango said, “At least we can blow up this piece of crap wall. Who wants it? Give me any number between one and twenty. Closest pick gets to fire.”
Seven
The Voice watched as the strange monsters walked about. The old icons of the metal-god were all gone. They were holy spots and not to be touched, yet these metal-men had simply erased them in great explosions of fire.
One of the Hands tugged at her skirts to get her attention, then signed, The Sky-Gods have returned! They will bring more masters.
The Voice shook her head, then returned her gaze to the metal-men—if that’s what they were. Some were metal and she could hear the clang and bang of metal against stone even from where she stood, but most were colorful in ways not even the freshest of frescoes were. They were covered in chaotic patterns she could not discern from where she stood.
They were also huge. Far, far bigger than any male the Voice had ever seen. It was possible that these were the Sky-Gods. It was possible the Hand was correct and there would be more masters. It was equally likely that the Sky-Gods had returned because they were angry. After all, they were destroying all the holy relics they had given to the masters. Perhaps the masters would be punished.
That would be fine with the Voice.
The young Hand at her side nearly unbalanced the Voice when she jerked and then hid behind her wide crimson robes. The older Hand steadied her almost absently, then signed, They come.
The Voice looked where the Hand pointed and saw that she was right. A group of five metal-men were headed directly for the place where they stood. Their steps were long and loud, the ground banging with each heavy footfall. A glinting reflection off the head of one metal-man pierced her eyes. It was like brightly polished silver—no, brighter than that. Strange.
Fear made her belly flutter. There was too much unknown. Sky-Gods or perhaps something entirely new, like sky-devils or something. There was no way to know. The Voice had read every book in existence to the masters many times—all one hundred of the Sky-God books—and nothing like this was described in any of them. Yet, they were coming. Better to be ready should they be gods.
The Voice turned to face the huddled mass of women and said, “Listen to me. If these are the Sky-Gods, then we must be seen as obedient. If they are not Sky-Gods, then there is nothing we could do to stop them. We must know what they are, what they want. And even better, we should try to live to see the other side of it. The masters have made me their Voice, so I must do as they would command me.”
A Hand near the front signed, What should we do?
“Follow me. Let’s go into the courtyard where the masters who visit this palace come. Let us greet these metal-men as if they are Sky-Gods and see what happens.”
Eight
“Tango, you’ve got movement ahead. Changing your view,” the support tech said, voice tight and ready to provide.
“Go,” Tango replied and blinked when the display changed. A mass of green lights seemed to be flowing like water from an upper area in the huge building ahead of them. The wall was still between them and the building, but just beyond it, the cluster of green moved closer.
“What are they?” Tango asked, letting those eager forearm guns rise a little more.
“Slave women. Oppressed class. Non-targets,” said the tech.
“We’ll see about that,” Tango grunted.
Gender roles were often muddled on the planets colonized by the Seed ships. The humans first grown from the Seed had no history, no cultural context—things that the Peace Force worked hard to maintain in the thousands of years since they were put into action. The seed colonies developed strange ideas, but there was one thing all planets had in common—no one was exactly like anyone else and no one should be discounted. A non-target could be just as violent and dangerous as a confirmed hostile.
“Tango, it looks like they’re forming up. Looks like a parade square. Nothing tactical.”
“Roger,” Tango replied, then said to the winner of the wall destruction draw, “Go ahead and blow it.”
The section of wall disappeared in an explosion of mud-brick returning to dust. The thick brown cloud hindered their vision, but their visors shifted spectrums without a hitch.
“Go around the building in front of you to the right and the formation is in an open area just beyond and to the left. They barely moved when you blew the wall. A few fell down, but that’s it,” the support tech said.
“Roger,” Tango replied.
Shifting the spectrum again, the forest of green dots turned into a forest of green silhouettes, each one a person easily sensed through the building in front of the squad. As support reported, they were simply standing there. Even as Tango tried to sort them, one of the silhouettes shifted, then another made many complicated hand gestures, then they shifted again. It was clear they were all facing the opening to the area, exactly where Tango and the squad would approach from.
The rest of the squad got the same visuals. Tango waved them onward and said, “Target detection is priority. Motion detection second. I want a full 360 in case this is a trap. Do it by the numbers.”
Each squad member acknowledged. This was as standard tactic, with each of the four other members and their individual support techs responsible for a ninety degree arc around the formation. Tango would be focused on the action, which in this case was this strange group.
Tango opened an enhanced ambient audio channel and said, “Support, scan and parse.”
“Roger.”
Breathing. Lots of breathing came back from the audio. Quick, nervous breaths from the crowd of women.
Tango led the squad around the building, but they might as well have been on the mess decks inside the ship. There were no weapons, no troops, no defenses. The idea of non-hostile contact was nerve-wracking, such having happened in any context only twice in all the battles or cultural adjustments Tango had participated in.
Both times it was contact after the event and both contacts had been brief. Once, when their squad was assigned to dig out a non-hostile family from a basement under a building, a rescued man had hugged Tango’s chest plate in gratitude. The other was when a non-hostile offered sex on a planet in which sex was rare and highly regulated before being liberated by the Peace Force.
Tango hadn’t accepted the offer.
“Here we go. Keep your weapons up, but don’t engage or direct weapons toward the non-hostiles unless I order it. I want a targeting offset of no less than fifteen degrees.”
Tango turned the corner with the squad. In front of them was a garden, the color a shock after so much brown. Clipped green grass, flower borders tamed into regimented shapes, a fountain tinkling out a thin stream of water into a brightly tiled pool.
And women. Four hundred-seventeen of them according to the display. At Tango’s appearance, the woman in front was lowered to her knees with the aid of a young girl at her side. As if the kneeling was a cue, all the rest did the same, each one bending entirely so that their hands were outstretched on the ground in front of them, their heads tucked down with their faces between their elbows.
It was an appalling sight to see.
“Give me a channel, support. Translate,” Tango ordered, voice a bit gruff at seeing such undeserved obeisance.
“You’re a go,” came the near immediate reply.
Swallowing, Tango considered what to say. It would be easier to simply say Show me the location of your hostiles so I can blow them up, but that would also probably not be very effective. The words that protocol suggested flashed up on Tango’s faceplate. Yes, this support tech knew exactly how to support.
“We are not here to harm you. Will you speak with me?” As the suit translated and transmitted the words, Tango made a face at how weak the words were.
The ambient noise filter picked up and translated the words, “Help me up.” It seemed to come from the woman in front, the one wearing something that looked like a red tent. The young girl put her arms around the woman and helped to lift her. Something about the narrowness of her shoulders disturbed Tango and sent a chill rippling along the suit liquid.
Once she was standing, the woman looked up at Tango, her single eye flitting around as she took in the suits. Then her eye widened and she lowered her head again. Quietly, she said, “I don’t understand. Will the Master tell this Voice why the Mergans are attacking the palace of the Euripeas?”
Tango didn’t think that had translated properly. It made absolutely no sense. “Support, what the heck is she saying? I don’t get it. Is the translation messed up?”
The pause was noticeable this time. At last, support replied, “Translation confirmed. You’re the first to make contact so I don’t have anything from any of the other teams. Just ask what she means? Maybe it’s code or something. Wait, Intel reports that Mergans is the name of one of the cities and… hold one… okay, that Yoorrippie-ass is the name of another.”
Great, Tango thought.
Nine
The Voice waited while the strange metal-men stood entirely still and didn’t answer. They were so large that they could not be human, yet they had to be Mergans, for the one in front—who must be their leader—wore the symbol of the Mergans upon the breast of his metal body. It was not done entirely correctly, but it was clearly meant to be that symbol. The entire metal body was covered in bright shapes and patterns, but that one stood out.
The red and white stripes, the field of stars upon the left side, the golden fringe like the sun. It was surely some artistic rendition of the symbol for the Mergans’ Palace no more than two hundred miles away.
The Voice knew that symbol as well as every other palace symbol. The Mergans possessed the land bracketing a mighty river and had more than four hundred masters in their palace. They were feted when they came to the Euripeas Palace, treated as all masters were treated.
Why would they attack? And how did they create metal-men to do so? What Hand could perform such work? Confusion was replacing her fear. She would be burned for speaking to a Master unbidden, but this one had bidden her to.
No, this one had asked it of her. No Master that the Voice knew of had ever asked for anything. Commanded, yes. Asked, no.
At last, the strange booming voice from the metal-man answered her. “Protocol says I should ask for clarification of what you just said, but I’m going to be honest with you. I have no clue what you just said. I don’t know what a Mergans or a Yoorippee-ass is other than the name of a city. We’re not from this planet. We’re the Peace Force and we’re here to help… uh… liberate you.”
The Voice understood the words, but the context was entirely wrong. Who are they liberating? The books the masters received from the Sky-God when they were made said that they were liberated from an eternal sleep. Is that what this metal-man meant?
“Are you the Sky-God?” the Voice asked. It was best to just get it over with. If she was to die, then let it happen and be done. If there were more masters to be woken by the Sky-God, then she’d rather not be here to live through it. New masters were terrible and cruel. Many new masters at once would be even worse.
“Sky-God? You mean the Seed ship? No, I’m not from there. I’m from the Peace Force. I need to ask you some questions,” the metal-man boomed.
The Voice caught movement from the corner of her eye and saw that some of the Hands near the front had pulled back their hands to cover their ears. The metal-man’s followers noted the movement too, because strange protuberances on their metal bodies rotated and followed some of the movements.
The words of the metal-man were confusing. Seed ship. Seed was the name given by the Sky-God to the magic by which masters were formed. The divine seed that had traveled the stars to create perfection in the form of the masters. Yet this metal-man had said the words as if speaking of nothing more important than a litter used to carry a master in the palace. Dismissive.
“This Voice will answer. If these Masters seek the Mergans as your symbol shows, then these Masters have come to the wrong Palace. This Voice will provide these Masters with a map to the Mergans if these Masters so desire it.”
The metal-man boomed a laugh and said, “You’ve gotta quit talking like that. It’s freaking my girls out here. Can everyone just stand up? It’s weird. As for this symbol, it’s just an old symbol from Earth that I liked. A country called America. It’s one of the places where we originated, but it’s long gone now. So is Earth, for that matter. You know it?”
The Voice nodded and said, “It is from the Sky-God, one of the many symbols for the Masters and their Palaces. The Mergans. You are not from the Mergans Palace? You are not Sky-Gods seeking the Mergans?”
“Mergans,” the metal-man said. “It’s wrong, but I get it. And no, we’re not Mergans. Or Sky-Gods.”
She had never heard any Master speak so. Ever. These could not be masters and if they were Sky-Gods, then they were strange ones. And girls? Girls are unclaimed Hands and Voices, never just girls. Peering around, the Voice looked for any sign of girls with the metal-men. She saw nothing of the kind.
A movement caught her eye and she saw one of the kneeling Hands—an old one known for her good counsel to young Hands—making signs. She read them, then turned to the crowd of Hands and said, “Everyone stand. Just stand and be still.”
She was breaking all the rules today. A Voice had just relayed an order from a Hand! Yes, she would be burned if she survived this strange day.
The jostling around to get behind all the other Hands immediately commenced. No one wanted to be in front. The Voice shook her head and said to her young and trembling Hand. “I will go forward.”
She took a few steps forward to show that there was nothing to fear, but the metal-men’s strange objects all swiveled toward her. Though there were no spear points or arrows like the Enforcers used, the Voice was sure these were weapons.
She halted and asked, “How does this Master wish this Voice to speak?”
Ten
“Tango, you’re not going to get anywhere like this. They don’t understand. Intel reports are clear. They are an oppressed class, but it’s more than that. They have no individual identity. She can’t just talk normally to you. She doesn’t know how,” the support tech said, a hint of exasperation in her voice.
“Why does she keep calling me master?” Tango asked.
“She thinks you’re a man. Men on that planet are masters, as you know. Well, some of them are. There are other slaves called Enforcers that are men, but they’re still labeled as potential hostiles and potential non-hostiles.”
“Gross. She thinks I’m a man? That’s fucking insulting!”
“Yeah, yeah. Just tell her already. She can’t see through your suit. I’m relaying your info to Division. Some of the other contact squads are having issues. Everyone just keeps running and hiding. It’s freaking ridiculous.”
Tango considered the woman in front of her. When those narrow shoulders kept bugging her, Tango had switched to infrared and seen the terrible truth. The woman had no arms and probably hadn’t for a very long time. The narrow chest and shoulders were a clear sign that she’d never built up any muscle from using arms.
“Is this what they were talking about when they said the women here were mutilated? She can talk, but I don’t think the others can at all. They keep signing to each other.”
“It is.”
“God, I hate this planet! No frigging fighting and this kind of messed-up crap.”
The woman in red was looking more and more nervous, her feet shifting under that giant tent of cloth. Suddenly, an idea popped into Tango’s head and she chinned the exterior channel, “Hold on a second. I’m going to come out.”
Support broke in immediately with, “Go out? Are you de-suiting? No! That is not protocol. You may not de-suit on a planetary surface prior to the official end of hostilities.”
Tango reached for the emergency de-suit button. It required that she maneuver her hand out of the glove, which was hard enough, but also use two fingers. It was meant to be difficult. While she wiggled her hand free, she said, “Support, this is not a normal situation. The hostiles are gone. The women are here. Just let me be. I’ll keep my corona, so I’ll still be in control of the suit.” To the rest of the squad, she added, “Watch my back. Uni, you’re in change if things go sideways.”
When the release finally engaged, an immediate sensation of free space surrounded Tango. It usually signaled the end of a battle, not the beginning of one, but this time, it seemed like the way to get things moving in the right direction. These women probably had information, but the way they spoke made it clear they weren’t in the habit of offering it. They probably didn’t even understand that they could.
And if they thought the Peace Force suits were Sky-Gods, then Tango really needed to set the record straight. The last time a planet was rehabilitated—not a major battle, just a realignment of priorities—where they thought the Peace Force were gods, things did not go well. They started sacrificing each other all over the place to appease them. It was a nightmare.
As the suit fluid flowed out the back of her suit, Tango immediately began to cough. The probe unseated and her lungs fought for air. It probably wouldn’t make the best first impression, but what can you do?
Eleven
The metal-man ejected a stream of bluish water from his back, making it look as if it had a sudden need to evacuate. If it weren’t so frightening, it might even be funny, though the Voice would never dare to laugh at anything a master did.
Then the metal-man gave birth and the Voice stumbled backwards into the arms of her Hand. The other Hands also backed up, the gasps and shuffling feet loud. A giant blue infant landed on the ground behind the metal-man.
The Voice tried to look away, but could not. The infant coughed a terrible cough, blue fluid shooting from its mouth as it heaved on the ground. It was huge, taller than the tallest man the Voice had ever seen. Was this infant inside the metal-man? Was it an infant at all?
The infant ceased its heaving and breathed in deep breaths, making sounds like words as it did. The metal-man boomed out words shortly after the infant spoke and said, “Don’t be afraid. I’m just coming out of the suit.”
Suit? Like a master’s suit, the one worn during congregations of the masters when a new master was selected? If so, then this was a very different sort of suit. No silk here. So, this giant infant was inside the metal-man the whole time. The infant stood, the legs as big around as the pillars that held up the ceiling in the great hall of the palace.
The infant wiped a hand down its face, flinging blue fluid from its hands onto the ground. Then it pulled away the blue covering from its head, exposing a shock of red hair the fell to its shoulders and framed the face. And finally, the infant stood and it was an infant no longer.
It was a woman. A very big, very beautiful, and smiling woman.
“You’re a woman!” the Voice cried out, quite unnecessarily. Every Hand had frozen in place, all eyes wide upon the figure in front of them.
The woman spoke, but her words were gibberish. The metal-man—no, the metal suit—behind her spoke her words after a short delay. “Yes, I’m a woman. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to find the ones who have hurt you. We think they’re the ones you call the masters. This world has failed to develop in accordance with Earth/Seed Peace Accords and must be re-organized or re-colonized. The culture present has been deemed toxic to human life, freedom, and the pursuit of happiness to all individuals outside the ruling minority. Complete re-organization has been determined to be the only proper solution.”
The Voice shook her head, because most of those words were also gibberish.
The woman spoke again, this time only a few words. The suit said, “We’re here to kill the men and help you rebuild a new culture that isn’t complete shit like this one. Will you please tell us where the men are?”
The Voice stood stock still, everything else forgotten and the words she’d just heard spinning in her head. It couldn’t be right. She must be ill? Perhaps even dead and dreaming. The giant woman had just said the masters’ rule was feces.
“What?” she asked at last.
The giant woman flung more of the blue fluid from her body, exposing even more of the tight suit beneath. She rippled with muscle, more than any enforcer could ever hope to have and they were the strongest of all the Hands. She spoke again, and again the metal suit broadcast her words.
“Listen, don’t take it personally or anything. We did this on another planet where women only kept three percent of the men alive for breeding. That was a shit planet too. Hardly any of them survived, but you women are totally safe with us. I promise. Will you tell me now?”
The Voice wished she had arms more than any other time in her life. She wanted to fling them wide and shout to the heavens. There were no Sky-Gods or if there were, they were not like the masters said.
That same old Hand, the one who helped many young Hands survive their first years of service, shoved her way forward in the group, tapping the Voice’s shoulder with urgent pokes. The Voice turned and nodded for her to go on, trying to watch the giant woman at the same time. She was huge, like nothing the Voice had ever seen before. Even the largest enforcers would be small in comparison.
The old Hand signed for a long time, turning so that all the Hands would read her words. As she did, a smile lit her face that showed the gaps where her teeth had been lost. The light in her eyes was as bright as a woman’s pyre at sunset.
When she was done signing, the Voice asked the crowd of Hands, “Do you all agree? Is this the bargain you wish me to strike?”
They slapped their hands against their thighs, the sign of agreement in the Hand quarters.
The Voice turned to the giant and said, “I know where the masters of this palace are. They are three hundred and fifty in number. With them are the Enforcers, whose number I do not know. Also with them are the Select Breeders, who are blameless. These Hands present here are but a small number of those Hands within the palace who are also blameless. I will show you where the masters are, if you agree not to kill them.”
The giant woman looked confused for a moment, then touched the wide golden band around her head as if listening to it. Then she shook her head and spoke for a long time, but the metal suit did not convey her words.
Finally, she turned back and spoke to the crowd of women, her eyes not without pity, and the metal suit said, “I’m sorry, but these operations are what they are. There will be help for you, assistance for as long as you live to help you understand and form a better world. But as for the men? No, they are hostiles. We cannot allow them to live. That’s been tried before. The same culture or something even worse always develops. The only solution for a bad culture is complete elimination.”
The Voice nodded, realizing that this giant woman did not truly understand her meaning. She would have to use better words. “You misunderstand, sky-woman. We would like to serve this one final duty to the masters. We women have always been useful, even in death. We would like the masters to have the opportunity to experience that same kind of final usefulness.” Here the Voice paused, smiling a little at the old Hand who remained at her side, then she said, “Exactly the same final usefulness as we provide. A cleansing fire and feeding the crops with their ashes. With your help, of course. This is the wish of the Hands assembled here.”
Then the Voice bowed her head and waited for an answer. When the answer came, she smiled and vowed that she would bow no more.
Twelve
Tango and Delta got a drink from the portable cantina and found a spot where they could swat at mosquitoes in peace for a few minutes. Nearby, a few Administrators were huddled with some Engineers as they argued the merits of particular type of dam. The engineers would win this one, Tango was sure of that.
“Dude, this sucks!” Delta said with a sigh as she dropped down onto a newly fabricated bench next to Tango.
“Yes, yes it does,” she agreed, sipping her drink. It was ridiculously hot near the equator when compared the ship, but the women of this world didn’t even seem to notice it. While Tango poured sweat and pounded electrolytes, their foreheads barely glistened.
Delta took a long drink and then belched loudly, earning a giggle from some nearby women. The giggles sounded strange, which was okay. The Administrators—which included the Medical Corps as well as a host of other sub-specialties—had decided the best solution for this world of mutes was the easiest one: the same voice transmitters that the suits utilized.
It had taken them many months, but most of the women could communicate well enough. Not all of them, but most. It was a start. The ones who were not mute, but who had no arms? Well, again the suits provided the answer and new, smaller metal arms were now displayed with pride.
Twining her hand in Tango’s, Delta leaned close and said, “When do we leave? I’m tired of being a pack mule. And I only got to shoot once. I’m ready for a new battle.”
“Soon enough. This planet isn’t ideal, but it’s theirs. The asteroids will continue to come, but one of the ships is making good progress in clearing up the bigger pieces out there. The briefing this morning was good. Only a few million more big rocks to blast into smaller, not so dangerous, rocks. It will take a while. You know how much they hate wasting resources, so it’s either this or sleeping. Just be glad we’re not sleeping through it. We get some time together before the next long nap. That’s good, right?”
Delta rubbed her cheek against Tango’s shoulder and said, “That’s true. I don’t mind aging a year for that.” Her dreamy smile spoke to the many warm nights made much warmer by the activity in their shared shelter at night.
Tango looked out at the new city being constructed, the green land around them, the many soldiers who carried out tasks to complete this no-two-stones operation. The old cities—the so-called palaces—were gone into dust. The green band around the equator would be the new home for these people. It was battle, only a different kind.
“Just think of it this way. We’ll have a story no other division can match,” Tango said. Then she swatted at another mosquito and sighed.