When he first saw her, he thought she resembled a tiger. There was a latent fierceness to her that painted her soul in vivid oranges and blacks, and a domineering aura about her that was enhanced by the wicked gash that ran canted from her branded forehead through an empty left socket and down to her lip.
Then he gave Thete Jutson his best study and saw in that charcoal pupil of hers a painful and unresolved thing that she carried with her and that burdened her. And suddenly she didn't seem so fierce to him anymore.
Her features had a rough-hewn beauty to them—of the kind that other boys liked to tease about, but which he secretly fancied. Her cheeks had a slight puffiness to them, and her nose was wide and flat and slightly upturned so that he could see her nostrils when she raised her head to talk to him.
Later on she would fit a Caturdhara prosthesis into that ophthalmic cave, and he would ask her about why she didn't just leave it in. She would respond that the thing was 'military grade' and as such so shitty that the thing leaked electricity and made her eye hole itchy. Betelgeuse supposed also that she had first appeared before them without the prosthesis to seem more fearsome than she actually was.
But at their first meeting there was a healthy dose of yelling and now Betelgeuse was scrubbing the toilet down with a rag that looked positively infused with the detritus he was cleaning up. Voke, secreted between the browned sides of a cubicle, was wrangling with a mop whose plastic shaft was bent about the halfway mark. Watercloset, toilet bowl, washbasin, tile grouting—all of it was under their purview and their instructions were that all of it had to be made sparkling clean.
This was their punishment for 'disturbing the peace', meted out by Sergeant Thete Jutson, a Desertian woman who hailed from Jegorich and whose loyalties lay with the TAF. More recently, she had been one of the five team leaders appointed from the incoming Jegorich contingent to lead the PLP sections; Sergeant Jutson would take the section comprising Betelgeuse, Frederica, Douglas and Voke.
'Bet Parsiphal had a hand in the team allocations,' he thought absentmindedly, bringing his thumbnail down on the blackened rag and scraping off through that threadbare material a thing clotted upon the floor. '… I do wonder how she got that brand. For that matter, I wonder how she came to work for the TAF.'
"... Remember how you were telling me that the 'transceiver's only for official business'?" Voke quipped, dipping the scraggly mophead into a blacksteel bucket brimming with suds and discolored brown water. "Turns out brutalizing the locals also counts as official, eh?"
"Come off it, Voke. I think I was drunk."
"I didn't know it was official business to get drunk and flirt with the sexy bartender."
Betelgeuse sighed. There was no doubt it was his fault they were in this mess, though he wouldn't so much as admit it to Voke.
"I don't think that Thete should've given us a whole month. She didn't even ask about the circumstances. It was clear provocation, yeah? I wasn't even flirting with the woman. She came on to me," Betelgeuse said.
"If it were me I don't think I would've given me a day of this shit," Voke chortled. "You, on the other hand, can take the whole month."
A curious thought occurred to Betelgeuse. Maybe Voke was suffering from bad karma, a kind of cosmic retribution for dragging him into the mess of that nonstarter of a mutiny. Now Voke had been drawn into his mess.
He laughed silently and put the idea out of his mind. Despite everything, Voke had been good to him. If there were such a thing as karma, its effect should sooner be felt by that pale man Michael Thane.
"I think this area is done," Betelgeuse announced. Now the scratches and gouges in the brick-red tiling stood orange-white under an ancient pendant OLED, clean even unto where the floor had suffered and been riven by some unknown piece of weight dropped thereon.
Voke was just about to call Betelgeuse over to help with the cubicles when the door to the toilet creaked open upon ill-fitting hinges. They'd left another bucket by the doorway and when the door's semicircular trajectory was halted a boot and a slender leg stepped sideways through the crack.
Subaltern Mentzer, calling for Betelgeuse. Voke peeked out of a cubicle. She had come alone, as though the agent of some clandestine operation, bedecked in the stiffly starched uniform of a TAF officer and hung with myriad badges and pins the provenance of which escaped the erstwhile janitors; and Betelgeuse, bent over and inspecting the floor in a set of grimy vest and slacks, his form heavily bandaged all across his neck and arms, looked an unlikely thrall to that punctilious woman.
"Come with me. I've already informed Sergeant Jutson and Master Sergeant Lorenz," she requested, her tone decidedly un-officer-like. The contrast with Sergeant Jutson was stark. "Change first, though—you'll need to be in official uniform."
And they were gone in less than thirty seconds, Betegeuse straightening silently and staring at the woman, then leaving the rag upon the rim of the doorstopper bucket and apologizing insincerely to his fellow penitent.
Voke stared at the door, catching a draft as it swept through the space, wondering, as he often did aboard the Vespertilio, how Betelgeuse managed to avail himself of so many convenient excuses.
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The ride from the Barracks to the Government House was long and silent. The Protectorate-arranged chauffeur, a whiskered and middle-aged driver-of-buggies who answered to the name Hawley, swerved expertly from lane to lane, overtaking two-wheeled, three-wheeled, four-wheeled and no-wheeled vehicles of various sizes and configurations. Along the way they passed motorcycles, holocycles, armored trucks, buses and contingents of clanking bipedal machines traveling toward the Saltilla gate.
The whole city seemed caught in the throes of some wild emotion.
The artificial lights blazed high noon for the sixth hour. As their buggy sped past clouds of commuters and darted under the yawning shadows of the Saltilla columns, Marja's thoughts turned to Ortrud and brooded on their frustrated ambitions.
In their childhood they had said they would carve out a portion of the stars together, rule their own dominion far away from the clutches of 'the Family'; childhood dreams made possible, she thought, by the war against the aliens; childhood dreams foiled by the long and cunning arm of the Presbyter.
How she must be feeling now, caged like a bird, her soul and intentionality grafted onto the unfeeling superstructure of the Family. Every thought had as its ultimate purpose the expansion of some long dead ancestor's will. It was no way to live.
Marja knew Ortrud. She knew that, despite Noah Ostermann's words to the contrary, Ortrud was suffocating in that environment. She was prevented from expressing it, perhaps, gagged by the familial policies that enslaved her. But true friendship needed no express pronouncement.
Powerful though the Mentzers may be—some said, the most powerful family in the Democracy—Marja did not believe they were invincible, especially not to someone like her. They derived their interstellar power from the Democracy's reach, and therefore the Democracy could be used to check their absolutist pretensions.
The Presbyter, Bishop Mentzer, even her own father—their fatal mistake lay in thinking her merely spoiled, impudent and unenthusiastic about 'Contributing To The Family'. It was why, for all that, she had been dispatched to Desert to take on the mantle of Deputy Marshal Allied Forces, courtesy of a shadow deal negotiated between the Mentzers and the President of the Protectorate Sylas Hallstead. An expedient solution to her youthful malaise, in the eyes of the leadership: her wanderlust could be made to secure Desert against the encroachment of the Choudurys, whose subsidiaries were starting to consolidate control over key Saltillan industries like mining, smelting and prosthesis manufacturing. And, as they said, whosoever controlled Saltilla controlled the economy of the Protectorate.
By the time the Government House hove into view, Marja knew what decision she would make.
Betelgeuse and Marja were admitted through the imposing doors and quickly ushered into an opulent room awash in golden light. Here, the ceilings were affixed with hanging chandeliers and the gold-plated wainscoting sported keenly detailed bas-reliefs of mythical creatures, stormy seas and curving gouges that resembled lacework embroidery. The carpeting was crimson damask-weave filled to brimming with floral sprigs, earthy and lively and reminiscent of old religions. It was as if some passionate interior designer had combined myriad Earthen styles derived from the tastes of the wealthy and powerful of old, then spilled this eclectic Second Empire-esque creation onto the walls and furniture.
They were seated at a large oval table which appeared to Marja fashioned of lacquered Earthen mahogany, and they waited in the silence for some time, Betelgeuse leaning backward and taking in the details of the room, Marja straight-backed and running key discussion points through her mind.
'Jirani isn't here yet…' she thought.
Two men, one old to graying and lightly hunched, the other young and gaunt and limping slightly, entered from a door at the far end, and Marja rose to her feet to welcome them. Observing this, Betelgeuse followed suit.
"Ms. Mentzer," the older man acknowledged. "I see Mr. Lorenz has not joined us today—ah, but you have brought a friend."
He passed his eyes over the brand upon Betelgeuse' forehead, but betrayed no reaction.
"Mayor Grimmersby, Marshal Grimmersby. This is PLP Sakar, whom I have brought with me for an important purpose I wish to discuss today," Marja saluted.
"At ease, Subaltern Mentzer," Marshal Phyllis Grimmersby nodded, eyes narrowing. The younger man was stiff as his dark brown uniform and his lips looked like they rarely assumed a position other than a hard line. "Please do not salute me in informal situations. I should inform you that we received your identity verification certificate from the embassy earlier. As of today, you have been appointed Deputy Marshal of the Allied Forces in Desert."
"Deputy Marshal Mentzer, is it necessary for Mr. Sakar to remain here?" Mayor Richard Grimmersby inquired, his expression smiling and avuncular atop a coal-black western suit filled to bursting. Confidential matters will be discussed, his eyes seemed to say.
"I can leave if needed," Betelgeuse offered, meeting the Mayor's eyes, his voice barely disguising its hard edge.
Marja shot a glance at him.
"PLP Sakar is my minute-taker and the second I referred to briefly during our last exchange, sir—can I suggest he stay until we have discussed certain important topics?"
"Well—" the Mayor began.
"That is fine. Uncle, let's get on with it. An urgent matter has come up that absolutely cannot be delayed, and I suggest we get to our discussion without further ado." Marshal Grimmersby motioned to the mahogany table and the four quickly settled into the seats on the near side. "Is anybody else supposed to be here?"
"Colonel Mzeeka, acting Commander of the TAF contingent to Desert, should be arriving shortly. But we can start first and I will fill him in," Marja returned. Seated beside her, Betelgeuse had laid his notebook upon the table and started scrawling quickly across the page.
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"Let's get to the most important thing first," Marshal Grimmersby leaned back, resting his elbows on the armrests and splaying his fingers against each other in a steeple before his face. "I'm not sure if you've heard, but fifteen minutes ago we received word from TAF Supreme Commander Wallace that we are to stage a strike against a key Chimerae base within the next seventy-two hours. He means to use us as a diversion to cover the TAF push on Konrad, Castro and the uranium moon Opalia, and I believe the forces at those locations are moving as we speak. Our timing is synchronized to the allied forces on Consus and Eritrus—we must match the timing of our strike to theirs."
"We were waiting for this. My understanding is that the Jegorich contingent had arrived in Saltilla last night," Marja nodded. "Following our last meeting and based on the manifest updated this morning, we have in garrison ten thousand Saltillan infantry, three thousand infantry from Jegorich and eight thousand infantry from Polyaria, which I understand arrived in Saltilla last week. There are six thousand TAF troops, including the thousand that arrived by way of the Vespertilio. In all, we have twenty-seven thousand soldiers ready to be mustered. In addition, two hundred bipeds and one thousand Armored Personnel Carriers have been set aside for this operation."
"I had my aide inform the general staff to prepare the muster orders. The orders will go down to the troops by sixteen hundred hours," Marshal Grimmersby added.
"Then the target of attack has been decided? So quickly?" Marja raised her eyebrow.
"Yes, the decision has been made," Marshal Grimmersby confirmed, glancing at the Mayor.
"Yes, yes, it's obvious the target should be Liberation's Reach. It is west of here, beyond the Amate Range," the Mayor said, pointing a finger to his right as though that were westward. "This was the decision taken by the Grand Marshal with the general staff in attendance."
'… They must have been waiting for it—the decision comes too quickly. I am almost certain the Choudurys are behind this, given how much control their company's partner Ninsei has over Saltillan production,' Marja thought. 'No doubt about it. Ninsei and the Choudurys have the Grimmersbys in their pocket.'
Several seconds passed in silence. Marja bowed her head, her mind racing, her heartbeat quickening.
At that moment, the door Betelgeuse and Marja had entered through opened—the arrival of "Colonel Jirani Mzeeka" was announced by the attendant.
Marja and the Grimmersbys turned their heads. Betelgeuse abstained and did not raise his head from the pages before him.
Jirani was a man half bald by reason of a severely receding hairline; what hair he had was bone-white and thinning. His uniform was the jet black of the Tellus Armed Forces, and covering its narrow chest was a multitude of medals granted him for honor won in wars past. That veteran of the battlefield entered the room dabbing with a silk cloth at the sweat beading around his nosebridge and temples; he stepped into their midst and gave them all, including Betelgeuse, quick nods, and then took his seat swiftly. Betelgeuse glanced at him once he had settled into his chair.
Marja quickly filled him in, and in the circumstances it appeared that Jirani had already received the urgent missive straight from the TAF general staff.
"… which leaves us approximately three thousand short of the standard TAF recommendation pursuant to the TAF Green Book, if the intention is to sortie against Liberation's Reach," Jirani stressed, his voice a deep baritone. His words were articulated with a rare precision and undergirded by wisdom borne of experience. "I managed to scan the brief on Liberation's Reach. There was information on the surrounding topography and defensive capabilities. The standard recommendation remains at thirty thousand men plus armor plus air support plus requisite supplies for a siege-type battle as contemplated…"
"Commander, you must understand we had actually previously requested from President Sylas and Mayor Detlev some further support from Jegorich," Mayor Grimmersby interjected, his expression scrunching up in an expression of affected pain. "But they'd replied citing concerns over their own defense, amongst others. I don't expect any more troops from them. Polyaria can't spare any more—they're basically a militia garrison now—and the cities further away won't be able to supply troops fast enough…"
Picking up where the Mayor left off, Marshal Grimmersby added: "Which means we have no choice. We're stuck with the timing. If I may be so bold, Commander, I recommend we go ahead with our plans, despite the ostensibly sub-optimal circumstances."
"The TAF Green Book is clear on this matter. If we do not meet the recommended specifications for a sortie against a fortified position of this size, I will have to withhold the TAF forces," Jirani articulated firmly. His expression was cast in iron.
At this Marshal Grimmersby leaned forward and as he spoke his volume rose: "This is unconscionable, sir, the lives of so many men and women are at stake. Can you in good faith—"
The Mayor, raising his hands, palms outstretched before himself in an expansive manner, interrupted the Marshal: "What the good Marshal means is that, there are times which call for a less bureaucratic interpretation of the norms as applied to warfare. Commander sir, the battlefield is endlessly unpredictable—who can say for sure what is the correct number of troops in the circumstances? There is a balance to be struck amongst the different factors, including timing, terrain, supplies and other constraints. In other words, we have to play the hand we are given, sir, and it's clear to me that twenty-seven thousand stands us much better odds for success than twenty-one."
"That is my prerogative to decide, as Commander of the TAF contingent. The rules of the Green Book were formulated by men far more experienced than you or I in the vagaries of warfare, Mr. Mayor. And I should add that I seem to have heard over the voxcast, as I was commuting here, your President Sylas dispute the decision to attack Liberation's Reach. He is suggesting to target Arroyo, which lies east of us and equidistant between Jegorich and Saltilla, and I believe your Saltilla Ombudsman agrees. If the troops garrisoned at Jegorich are combined with the TAF contingent in an attack on Arroyo, my sense is that the requirements of the Green Book will be satisfied. The odds of success will be even better if the whole garrison in Saltilla is mobilized. In short: what do you say to a pincer attack on Arroyo?"
"Look here—" Marshal Grimmersby began, his face flushed, a vein pulsing across his temples.
The Mayor silenced him with a hand, and the Marshal settled back uncomfortably.
"I think I see what you mean. Sometimes our federal system can throw up hiccups, as in the present case, much unlike your well-oiled government-by-council. I would stress that the Grand Marshal Darwin McConnell had already agreed to the strike on Liberation's Reach, but I think you already knew that." A curious twinkle began to dance within the Mayor's pupils, and his lips curled upward amiably. "Instead, perhaps there is something other than Arroyo that is of pressing importance to the good Commander?"
Jirani flashed Marja a look pregnant with implication.
"There is something," Marja began, and the Mayor immediately sat up straighter. "I understand there had been a formal Request for Assistance put up by the Protectorate some months ago for three Golden grades to be allocated to the Desert Frontier."
"… Yes, it was signed off by President Sylas and Grand Marshal Darwin," the Mayor nodded, his brow furrowing.
"The Desert Request, as you know, was filled by Lebensraum, and there had originally been three names submitted in the manifest: Colonel Mzeeka, myself, and one Ortrud Mentzer. The Request manifest was later updated to strike out Ortrud's name, am I right?"
"I believe so, though I will have to verify the name on my side," the Mayor replied, discomfort flashing visibly across his face.
"In not so many words, I think that a formal complaint against Lebensraum can be raised with the Tellus Arbitration Court. It seems right that the request for remedy should include a reallocation of Ortrud Mentzer to the Desert Frontier."
A silence descended over the meeting. The sound of pen on paper, ubiquitous throughout the conversation, suddenly halted, and its absence was salient indeed. The Marshal's eyes were shaded by a cliff of hair and Jirani sat unmoving, implacable as ever. The Mayor's expressions shifted slowly but perceptibly from discomfort to discomfort, as he puzzled out a million implications in his mind.
"... It seems a drastic measure…" he managed.
"The needs of the Democracy are beyond the interests of any corporation. It would be the just thing to do," stated Marja emphatically.
"You were… appointed Deputy Marshal by virtue of the President's… um… negotiations with Lebensraum," the Mayor pointed out.
"As I said, the needs of the Democracy are paramount. It is an implacable foe we face in the Chimerae. We need the power to exterminate them."
"The… ah… President is unlikely to sanction such a complaint," the Mayor returned. He was grasping about at straws, wondering exactly what it was he was dealing with.
"The complaint can be signed by yourself in your capacity as Mayor, and Grand Marshal Darwin as well. I trust you will have no issue soliciting for his support. Marshal Grimmersby and any one else you can find should be appended as signatories," Marja said.
"... We would need an affidavit, as supporting evidence. The affidavit must be witnessed by a second, present in person…" the Mayor's eyes widened, as a sudden understanding dawned on him.
Marja didn't reply. It was crucial in such circumstances to let the counterparty work the import out for themselves.
"You have a transcript?" the Mayor asked finally.
Marja retrieved from her uniform a ream of papers and proffered it to the Mayor. "Witnessed by myself and PLP Sakar, my second. All we need to do is get it notarized."
The Mayor leafed through the photocopied transcript silently, his brow furrowing into deep troughs. Once done, he placed the papers carefully upon the table and stared at Betelgeuse, then Jirani. His eyes came to rest on Marja.
A long while later, he said: "I assume you have the original."
Marja nodded.
"It is a dangerous business, making an enemy out of your kinsmen."
"That's my business, sir. I understand you've bet against them yourself," Marja returned sharply. The Mayor looked into her eyes and saw that she knew, or at the very least suspected.
A sudden sliver of doubt intruded upon her thoughts: 'Is it? Are Ninsei and the Choudurys really behind him?'
"We don't have time to think about it too much," Marshal Grimmersby interjected, leaning forward again. This time his voice was cool and measured. "Uncle, we have no choice but to guarantee as far as we can the extirpation of the Chimerae at Liberation's Reach."
The Mayor took up the ream of papers again, folded it, then put it away in his inner pocket.
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Decorative eaves flew high above their heads, an elegant ornament by some accounts but to Marja so very out of place. They stood there covered in shadows and watched the lights dim over Saltilla to a gloaming purple and remain there, the whole city blanketed in a dusky haze that would last longer than Earth's twilight ever did.
Jirani had instructed Betelgeuse to find his own way back to the Barracks, and the two, Marja and Jirani, watched after that receding back as it passed from shadow to streetlamp to shadow again. It was a long way back, Marja thought, and she hoped for his sake that the buses were still running.
"Once they submit the complaint, there will be no turning back," Jirani said. Then, turning to Marja, he added, "so you managed to pull something together in the end?"
"The transcript, you mean? Difficult to say—I didn't manage to get anything absolutely conclusive and there were no lawyers to look through it besides, so I figured we'd get the Grimmersbys' support just in case," Marja explained. "The Arbitration Court cannot ignore this sort of thing if they want to maintain cohesion amongst the Founding Families."
"He'll wait until we return, see if your second survives the operation before he commits. It's not too late to change your mind," Jirani said.
"It's what I've always wanted, Ji. It's what she would want," Marja returned. "What did you need to talk with me about, anyway? It's not very fair forcing him to walk back halfway through the city…"
"Just…" Jirani trailed off. He seemed more reticent than usual. Older. Marja scrutinized his face and saw lines where there had been no lines before. His bone-white hair drooped with a flaccidity she had never before associated with her mentor. The warmth within him had faded away and been replaced by a vague sense of unease.
"... If Ortrud makes it here, and she isn't who she seems she is…"
"... What do you mean to say?"
"I want you to remember how you both were when you were young. As long as you stick together, you're invincible. Something big is coming, Marja. The Democracy isn't on as solid a ground as we'd like to think. A message came by the encrypted channel. It was the Library on Abuye. A little over two months ago they found a Golden grade who has a Primary mother. The first recorded instance."
"That's a tall tale—" Marja didn't know whether to chuckle at the absurdity—it may have been a closely held secret, but a Golden grade could only be achieved by the offspring of two Golden grades—when Jirani cut her off.
"No, this isn't a joke. They verified it—they took the mother and her Incunabulum. They dissected her, scrutinized her brain and her eggs then ripped apart her genome to rule her out as the one. They've verified it as many times as it takes to establish an incontrovertible truth. This girl, her daughter, is the first Golden Incunabulum holder in whom the gene which expresses the Golden grade is dominant. Do you know what it means? Her offspring, regardless of the genomic makeup of her mate, will also be the holder of a Golden Incunabulum."