SEVENTEEN

The next day seemed to start so well. Other than a quick stop in the dream’s tavern to make sure that Moto was still hale in his stasis pod, her dreams were sweet and meaningless. But then, over breakfast in her freshly scrubbed kitchen, Tembi finally gave voice to what was bothering her: “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Matindi didn’t bother to look up from her reading. She had seized the ill-omened book from Downriver as soon as Tembi had returned home, and was devouring the pages over and over. “That’s nice.”

“Matindi!”

“Tembi!” her second mother whined back at her, and then she sighed and shut the book. “Fascinating,” she muttered to herself. Then, “Domino doesn’t want someone who knows what she’s doing, dear. That’s why she chose you.”

Tembi blinked.

“Didn’t think of that?” Matindi got up, carefully set the book aside, and started cleaning. “A skilled spy goes missing, and she assigns an untrained soldier to track him down? Don’t make that face, dear,” she added, her back to Tembi as she pushed the dishes through the cleaner and returned them to the cupboard. “You are a soldier in a war. A peacekeeper is a soldier nonetheless.”

Matindi finally noticed her face. “Oh, sweetling,” she sighed. “Domino leads one of the most powerful organizations in the galaxy. She has near-infinite resources at her disposal. On top of it all, she’s nearly nine hundred years old. You’re a mewling child in the cradle compared to her. Why would she send you after Moto?”

Matindi’s words were an assault. The answer, when it slid out, even more so. Tembi rolled forward, feeling as though she had been kicked in the chest. “To distract me.”

“Yes,” Matindi said, as she covered Tembi’s hand with her own. “Now, ask yourself why she’d go to such lengths.”

This time, the answer eluded her. Tembi stared at Matindi’s hand and wished she could feel the softness of it. Then, slowly, as events rolled together into a timeline… “It had to be that moon. She had no real interest in me before that.”

“Right and wrong,” Matindi said. She was almost smiling. “She’s always had an interest in you.”

Tembi’s hand beneath Matindi’s knotted into a fist.

“Good,” Matindi said. “Stay angry. You’re a soldier, so think like a soldier.” She let Tembi go, and stood, glancing around. Her eyes lit upon the silverware bin, and she yanked this out and dumped the contents on the counter. Then, her head came up, green eyes burning. “I take that back—don’t think like a soldier. Think like a general on the battlefield and outmaneuver the foul cunt.”

“Matindi!”

“I hate her,” Matindi said, slamming spoons into a noisy pile. “I truly hate her. Lancaster could be so much more than—” She caught herself, staring at a single spoon as if it were a piece of her sanity. The spoon went down, gently. “I have myself to blame,” she said, very quietly. “I was here long before her; I allowed this…I allowed her…to happen.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Matindi said, as she shuffled the knives to one side and began to sort through them. “Not at all.”

“Did you know about the Chameleons?”

“I thought you said they were geckos.”

Tembi blinked. Her second mother was as sharp as shattered glass, but she had as much guile in her as a box of newborn puppies. She had told Matindi all about Camp Divested and Downriver, and she had thought she had mentioned that Paisano was from a lost race, but perhaps she had skipped over that part. Or maybe she had mentioned it, but that book made for highly distractible reading.

…or maybe Matindi was so furious at Domino that this would be an exceptionally bad time to suggest that Lancaster could have played a minor role in a genocide.

“Right. Geckos.” Tembi nodded. “We have them on Adhama.”

Silence claimed the kitchen. Frustrated and feeling more than a little like a coward, Tembi went outside to bask in the sunlight on the front stoop. There was birdsong and Matindi’s excellent coffee—Did it truly take five hundred years to master coffee?—and the unmanageable invisible weight of knowing that Domino was easily, handily, professionally moving her around like the insignificant pawn she was.

How was she supposed to think like a general? That felt like the wrong question. The right question? Hmm…that felt more like a combination of insurrection and self-improvement. How was she supposed to go from a woman who took bombs apart to someone who could…could what? Take down Domino? Was taking down Domino the right course of action? Despite her machinations, Domino was valuable. The Witches needed someone like Domino to handle their dealings with the Earth Assembly, and all gods both large and small knew that person shouldn’t be Tembi herself.

Matindi, though…

Tembi grinned at the thought of the tiny green woman in that too-elaborate Assembly room, smiling serenely at Dame Idowu. Ah, but no. Matindi would fight that position tooth and nail.

Matthew, though…

Now, there was an idea!

Could it work? Gods knew Matthew had twelve lifetimes’ worth of experience as an administrator and a politician. If she managed to toss Domino, someone would have to step forward and take over Lancaster’s place on Earth—

A shadow, a cold voice, her own name as a statement: “Witch Stoneskin.”

She snapped upright. Before her, a tall man in a Blackwing uniform, five thin red claw marks sweeping across the black cloth from shoulder to sternum. He was as bald as an egg and wore glasses. Beneath one arm was a large white box, a thin stack of books resting upon its lid. At the end of the path were soldiers in formal dress, milling about as they inspected Matindi’s front garden.

Tembi scrambled to her feet. She knew this man, by constant exposure from the channelsluts if nothing else. “Wallis—Admiral Wallis, I didn’t—”

“My time is precious,” he said, nodding towards her house. “Invite me inside. We don’t want to do this out here.”

“I don’t…” Words slipped away. The public figurehead of the entire Sagittarius Armed Forces was standing on her front stoop, his toe all but tapping in impatience. Resistance seemed pointless. “Come in. Please.”

Wallis stepped past, a twist of fabric hanging from his waist whipping against Tembi’s legs as he moved. The door opened before he could reach it, Matindi waiting in the curved hollow of the front hallway.

“Good morning, Admiral,” Matindi said, smiling, nodding over her clasped hands. “Welcome to our home.” She had changed from an old nightgown into robes as white as clouds, with green branches with flowers embroidered along the sleeves. Behind her, the house was tidy—no, it was immaculate! Not a fleck of dust nor an errant fingerprint marred the sterile beauty of the place. The artwork was on display with refreshed lighting, and fresh flowers draped the common room in a light floral perfume.

A true Witch’s home.

Tembi was caught somewhere between amusement and horror. Efficient though her second mother may be, there was no chance this had all happened in the time she had drunk a cup of coffee: Matindi had asked the Deep to clean!

Wallis stared at Matindi, and the house, and then back at Tembi. She couldn’t be sure, but she’d put a couple of credits on a bet that he couldn’t decide whether to talk to the Witch who was obviously competent but bright green, or the Witch who was obviously outclassed but appeared closer to Earth-normal.

Tembi wiggled her ears at him.

The Admiral turned to Matindi. “Two of my own threatened Witch Stoneskin yesterday. One reported the incident. I regret to inform you that I must present her apology on her behalf.” He bowed low, and set the box and books at Tembi’s feet.

“Please, Admiral, come,” Matindi said, a saucer and cup appearing in her hands. Tembi didn’t recognize it; the delicate bone china looked ancient. Matindi pressed it into his hands, smiling. “Earth coffee. I made it myself.”

Matindi ushered him into the greeting room, and seated him in a chair in a sunbeam, all the while making soothing conversation while she sipped her own cup of coffee. In the silence of the white noise, Tembi picked up the books and the box, the large stack shifting in her—

A thump as the contents of the heavy box rolled to bump against the side. A noise somehow familiar, somehow hard and soft and also wet. Oh, she knew this sound, or sounds exactly like it. The sound of cleaning up after a shear bomb, of meat and bone packed up for disposal, freshly cut.

And yes, the Admiral was watching her, watching as she moved the box, watching to see what she’d do.

Tembi glared at the Admiral, and then opened the box.

The Blackwing soldier with the predatory eyes stared back at her. At least, her head did. The box was relatively small, and she had been very large.

Calm, Tembi reminded herself. You’ve seen worse. You’ve held worse. You’ve caused worse. And you have to stay calm, or the Deep will know something is wrong, and it’ll whisk the Admiral away forever and there will be an intergalactic incident and then on top of it all it’ll fill this place with cats.

Tembi replaced the cover, placed the box on the table beside her, and began to thumb through the thin stack of books. It was difficult to read when her brain was beating CALM CALM CALM or perhaps that was the sound of her heart, over and over, as the man who had just handed her a severed human head was still looking right at her. She thought—she was sure—the books were more of the same as the one she had found yesterday, books about the Deep and associated conspiracies, but the titles slipped across the edges of her sanity and drifted away, meaningless.

Books in hand, she found her way into the common room, and sat.

“Gifts,” she said to Matindi, as she set the books on the conversation table. “This was what I went shopping for in Downriver. And…” Tembi chose the chair across from Wallis. “…was she from Kingsrow?”

Wallis nodded. “Strange customs on that planet. I don’t believe in them myself, you must know, but when a dishonored soldier’s head finds its way up the chain of command, you cancel your plans and see it home.”

Matindi’s cup made the slightest sound as it rattled against its saucer.

Tembi nodded. “What will satisfy her honor?”

“Couldn’t say,” the Admiral sniffed. “I’ve heard that most of Kingsrow has evolved out of this level of barbarism, except in extreme circumstances.”

Such as insulting a Witch. Such as threatening her life. This woman is dead because of me and—

Focus, Tembi.

“We will respect her wishes,” Tembi replied. “I would like to speak to her second, if I could.”

The Admiral’s silence answered for him.

“Ah,” she replied. “How?”

“Dropped off the package to her superior officer, told him the story, and killed herself before they could arrest her.” He glared at Tembi, his hands knotted into fists. “Her second was the other soldier you met in Downriver. She swore to us the mistake was theirs. They didn’t mean to threaten you.”

“No,” Tembi replied quietly, ears high. “They meant to threaten me—they meant to do worse. But they didn’t mean to threaten a Witch.”

Wallis was as silent as the grave.

Manners often served in place of conversation. “Thank you for your time,” Tembi said, a ritual response, the politest one she could find. She needed to get this man out of her house before the shock wore off and she started screaming. “And for the books.”

Wallis nodded, stood, allowed himself to be led back down the hallway. Tembi had to do it; Matindi seemed unable to move from her chair. At the door, he paused. “May I offer some advice?”

She nodded. It was easier.

He stared down at her over the rim of his spectacles. “Keep to Lancaster, to the pretty places,” he told her. His voice was somewhat kinder than it had been when he had arrived. “War is ugly. If you want books, send someone to find them for you.” He nodded towards the box on the counter. “Witches cause collateral damage.

“Good coffee,” he added, as he set the cup and saucer on the table beside the door.

Tembi shut the door behind him. She did not slam it, no, nor did she allow it to make a sound as it sealed out Admiral Wallis and the soldiers waiting for him. There was no reason to make a fuss; he was only doing his job.

She stared at the box, aware that she now needed to do hers, still wholly unaware of what that job might be.

“I’m proud of you,” Matindi said. “You handled that extremely well.” She was once again dressed in sleepwear at least four decades old. Around her, the house was drifting back into its usual state of disorder, piles of get-to-it-later clutter reappearing on flat surfaces, fingerprints along the glass…

Ah, right, she hadn’t asked the Deep to clean, not really, she had asked it to sweep everything under the allegorical rug until the Admiral had left, a small touch of stage dressing for unexpected company, oh, and there’s the cat, and he’s sniffing the box and I’m about to start screaming—

Indeed, Tabuu, Tembi’s ancient but immortal cat, had managed to haul himself onto the counter and was exploring the white box, his nose immersed in the scents that were no doubt slipping out from beneath the lid.

“Tembi…” Matindi swallowed and tried again, eyes fixed on the box as Tabuu started to paw at it. “Tembi, this is your house now, but if you plan to honor a dead woman by keeping…by keeping that—”

“It’s gone,” Tembi promised her. “Just…I just need some time to think.”

Tabuu let out an irritated mrrremph! as she swept him up and carried him back to her bedroom.

A shower, interrupted by a quick scurry to the toilet when the last fifteen minutes crashlanded in her stomach and demanded a quick escape. Various bathroom peripherals began to circle her in cautious orbit, soaps and cosmetics and the universal bottle of mini-meds, as the shock finally wore off and the Deep tried to heal a wound it didn’t understand.

“It’s okay,” she assured it. “It’s okay,” over and over again, a monotonous chant which blended into the sound of water raining down against the backs of her ears. “Human stuff. I don’t understand it, either.”

Not true, not true at all, you know exactly why there’s a woman’s head in a box in your kitchen, she’s dead, her friend’s dead, it’s all your fault, Wallis is right, collateral damage is all you’re good for and—

She scrambled for the toilet again.

When she finally managed to pull herself together, she walked into a peaceful scene: Matthew in the greeting room, Matindi wrapped in the shelter of his arms. They stood in sunlight, her head pillowed against his chest, their eyes closed and speaking softly to each other.

Tembi watched them for a few moments, and then stepped into the Deep.

The white box came along.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, her face pressed into the Deep’s downy feather-fur. “How do I change this? How can I change any of this?”

The rainbows of the Deep’s pelt blurred into gray. Around her, the colors of the Rails fell apart, weeping away in damp, blurry lines.

Focus, Tembi.

This, at least, was collateral damage she could fix.

She wasn’t in the mood to sing. Which, as she had told Bayle countless times before, meant she needed to do it. Singing purged the mind and cleared the soul, and she needed that now. A ditty, a sea chanty, something easy and utterly devoid of substance.

Morality is the privilege of the comfortable

“Well, I’m uncomfortable as all manner of hells,” she muttered. “I should have punched Gallimore when I had the chance.”

Now that she thought about it, she should have snuck a solid punch into that last conversation with Gallimore! After they had spiked her straight into Downriver as both weapon and shield, they had offered to fly her back in Cendo’s small spacecraft. Tembi, furious, had coldly announced she hoped to never see them again.

“As you wish, Witch-nim,” they had said, bowing at the waist. “Know that I did not act out of malice but in service of the greater good.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” she had snapped.

“Yes,” they had said, somewhat surprised. “More people will live who would otherwise have died.”

That was enough to get her into the ship for the ride home. The conversation was dark, with none of Gallimore’s usual wry humor to cut it. At some point, she had mentioned that she had received a cryptic message from Domino—

“Ah, yes,” they had laughed. “That babble about morality and comfort?”

“What?” Tembi had asked. “You’ve heard it?”

“Domino said the same to Moto, back when he began working for her,” Gallimore had replied. “Kept him grinding in place for days.”

Hmm. Out of all the options she had considered, a timesink wasn’t among them. “What did he do?”

“He talked to his brother about it. Cendo said it was nonsense, as all that we do can be thought of as either moral or amoral if framed as such.”

That didn’t sound much like Cendo, and she had said so.

“Well, to quote, he said that Moto needed to pull his head out of his ass and do what he could to help those in need.” Gallimore had stared at her, ears back and eyes hooded against the storm. “So, Witch-nim, with all due courtesy, pull your head out of your ass and help me save those who would be murdered.”

She had briefly considered having the Deep drop Gallimore into the heart of the nearest sun and then yank them back to the ship unharmed, but had nodded instead.

“Good,” Gallimore had said. “With that in mind, Witch-nim, let’s talk about the Chameleons.”

And so they had, and for a time Tembi finally felt as if she had a real direction…at least, she had until the severed head had appeared. Now, she wondered if Gallimore was wrong, and violence begat violence and Domino was right to stay out of it.

“Gods, everything is a nightmare,” she sighed, as she flopped face-first into the Deep’s feather-fur, her body lying just far enough away from the white box so she could pretend it wasn’t there.

::SING:: it replied.

“You sing,” she said, tickling its back. “Pick a song. I’ll join in.”

There was a long pause, and then a single slow note sounded. It was familiar, made by a rodent-like creature on the planet Guilford which had a voice far more beautiful than science and logic required. The song grew as more individual voices joined in, each unique, all of them streaming together into a symphony. She let the Deep sing alone for a while, delighting in her friend’s ability to harmonize with itself, and then joined her own voice to its chorus. They cut their way across the Rails, singing a duet made from a thousand and one voices until the pain of the day had eased.

“I’m sorry if today was confusing, Deep,” she whispered into its feather-fur, even though she wasn’t sorry, not at all. She felt knocked flat by the enormous weight of things she wanted to say to it, explain to it, force it to see! And then the Deep would understand and it wouldn’t be such a burden and she could—

No. She would go to her own grave knowing she had spent her life dabbling in accidental cruelty, and even that was drawn out of her as seldom as she could manage.

(Ex-boyfriends didn’t count.)

“You and me, buddy,” she sighed. “Everybody wants something from us, and we have no idea how to make them happy.”

A beetle and a butterfly crashed headlong into each other, scattering colors like confetti as they toppled away and plunged into the Rails.

“Going to take that as an agreement.” She reached out to check if the box was still behind her. Yes, sadly, it was still there. There would be no pretending it had fallen into the hollows between the worlds, oops, gone forever, she too careless to be trusted with dismembered body parts. “Next problem.”

The beetles landed on the top of the box, their small hooked faces pointing towards her, patient.

“Yeah, we’ve got to…” She tapped the box, and then had a thought. “Deep? What’s Blackwing policy when an officer is given something they can’t accept?”

The beetles piled on top of each other for form a pyramid and made a rude noise.

“I can’t be the first one to have gotten a…gift…like this.” Tembi was having none of the Deep’s usual delaying tactics. “You’ve memorized the contents of entire libraries,” she reminded it. “What’s the official protocol?”

A thin plass tablet dropped onto the Deep’s broad back. Tembi picked it up and waited for it to adjust to the rainbow-hued light, and then read aloud: “’Chapter 8, Section Two, Nature of the gift…Unconditional monetary gifts cannot be accepted by…’ oh it goes on like this for pages!” She skimmed the next paragraphs. “Custodian responsibilities…Conditions of acceptance…okay, here we go, Circumstances to decline acceptance.”

And then she groaned.