Bringing Stella Home Page 16

  Lady Borta rose magnanimously from her seat on the nearest couch and circled Stella. “Not bad for one of Qasar’s playthings,” she muttered.

  Stella winced. “I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I never meant to come between you and your husband. If—”

  “What? Come between me and Qasar?”

  “Uh, yes,” said Stella. “I didn’t mean to, and I’m sorry, I really—”

  “What gives you the impudence to think that you can come between me and Qasar?”

  Stella blushed and shifted nervously on her feet. “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “It’s just that the way Qasar, you know, keeps so many women, I—I don’t know. You must be jealous, and—”

  “Jealous?” Borta tossed back her head and laughed uproariously for several long moments. Stella smiled, but couldn’t find the nerve to laugh with her.

  “You think I’m jealous?” Borta said. “Of you?” She laughed again.

  “I—” Stella said, then stopped herself. She didn’t know what to think anymore.

  “Do you have any idea who I am?” Borta asked, suddenly serious again.

  “Well, yes,” said Stella. “You are Lady Borta, Qasar’s first wife—”

  “—head wife.”

  “Head wife,” Stella corrected herself.

  “And?”

  “And, um, mother of Qasar’s heir?”

  “And?”

  Stella fidgeted nervously with her hands. “And, um, a very important woman?”

  “That’s right,” said Borta, her voice low and dangerous. “I am the chief matriarch of the Lion of Tenguri. Within the confines of this ship, my word is law; only Qasar has more authority than I. And what are you?”

  Stella shifted uneasily on her feet. “A prisoner?”

  “Not anymore,” said Borta. “You ceased to be a prisoner the moment you set foot on this ship. What are you now?”

  That’s not true, Stella thought to herself. I’m still a prisoner.

  “I said, what are you now?”

  She drew in a sharp breath. “A concubine,” she mumbled.

  “What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

  “A concubine,” Stella said, marginally louder. She wished she could sink through the floor and disappear.”

  “That’s right,” said Borta. “A concubine. A plaything. A glorified whore. That is your place on this ship.”

  “I never meant to take your husband from you,” Stella said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Please don’t be jealous.”

  “Take my husband from me? How could you possibly take my husband from me? Qasar is a powerful man. In his heart, it’s not enough to be captain of one ship—a man of his greatness is destined to command entire fleets. Do you think one woman is enough for such a man?”

  Stella slowly shook her head. Borta’s eyes narrowed.

  “Qasar’s destiny is to conquer and rule, in his bedchamber as well as anywhere else. And what are you? His plaything. His pet. You exist to give him pleasure, to quench his desire. You exist to be conquered.”

  Stella didn’t know what to say to that, so she kept silent.

  “My husband called you into his bedchamber last night, did he not?”

  “Yes,” said Stella. “But I—”

  “But you did not sleep with him,” said Borta, cutting her off. “Why not?”

  Stella blushed again. “Because—because it was wrong.”

  “Wrong? How could it be wrong? It’s your place on this ship, isn’t it? It’s your duty!”

  Stella clenched her fists. “I’m not that kind of a girl.”

  In one smooth motion, Borta slapped her on the cheek. “Without those above you, you would be nothing. You would be dead. Understand?”

  No, Stella almost answered. Instead, she said nothing.

  Borta slapped her again, on the other cheek. “Listen to me, you little whore. I know your type. You think that you’re subtle, that you can climb the ranks, that you can come out of nowhere and rise to the top.”

  “No,” Stella said quickly. “That’s not true. I—”

  Borta struck her a third time, harder than both the first two. Stella’s head snapped to the side, and she lifted her hand to rub her battered cheek.

  “Don’t lie to me,” Borta hissed. “I know you told Qasar that you’re a virgin.”

  How could she possibly know that? Stella wondered. Is there a camera in Qasar’s bedchamber?

  “I don’t know if he believes you yet,” Borta continued, “but I won’t have any more of your machinations.”

  “I’m sorry,” Stella said. “I want nothing to do with your husband. Honest!”

  Borta’s eyes narrowed. Stella cringed, expecting another blow. Instead, Borta pulled a long, thin object out of her sleeve.

  “Do you see this?” Borta said, holding up a needle. The tip was as long as Stella’s hand, and it glimmered in the fluorescent light.

  Before Stella could answer, Borta jabbed the needle into her stomach with a quick flick of the wrist. Stella’s eyes widened, and she felt a sharp pain, followed by an even sharper numbness. Fear shot through her, and her blood turned to ice.

  Oh my God, she thought to herself. Lady Borta just stabbed me—she just stabbed me!

  “This needle is embedded in a major acupuncture point along your liver meridian,” said Borta, her voice deadly calm. “It will leave no visible wound when I remove it. It was not poisoned—this time. You should consider yourself lucky.”

  Don’t move, Stella told herself. Don’t make it snap off inside of you.

  “I tire of your games, so let us be frank. When my husband summons you again, you will let him have his full pleasure with you, in every possible way. Is that clear?”

  Stella hardly dared to breathe for fear of injury. Her eyes burned with tears, but she bit her lip to quell them.

  “Who do you think runs this ship? Who is in charge of the concubines’ level? I oversee the food you eat, the water you drink, even the very air you breathe. If I wanted, I could kill you right now—and it would not look like murder.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper as she leaned into Stella’s ear. “I would get away with it, too. I’ve done it before.”

  Borta yanked the needle out. Stella gasped and fell to her hands and knees. She wanted to throw up.

  “Well?” said Borta. “What is your answer?”

  “I’ll do it!” Stella cried. “Yes! I’ll do it!”

  “You had better,” said Borta. “Now get out of my room, you little whore.”

  Stella did not need to be told twice. Clutching her stomach, she stumbled to her feet and hurried to the door, banging her knee against one of the couches on her way out.

  After she found herself in the bright white corridor, she lifted her hand up and looked at her stomach. Borta was right—no blood, no wound. No sign, other than a slight tingle, that the long, wicked needle had ever been there.

  Ben! Stella wanted to scream, her legs weak and her arms and hands powerless. Where are you? What have they done to you? Please, save me!

  Anybody—save me!

  * * * * *

  “Forward!” Voche’s voice boomed through the narrow white corridors of the training ship. “Double time!”

  The heavy footsteps of the platoon sounded loudly in the ears of the boy without a name. The vessel of his body was once again his to possess, and he reveled in the briskness and precision of his senses. His new black body armor, though heavy, felt solid and firm on his shoulders, reassuring him that he was still alive.

  Still, an ever-present awareness of the Many stayed with him, long after the effects of the drug had worn off. Feelings and emotions swam together, all of them his, all of them theirs, a single river of Being fed by dozens of tributaries.

  The sound of his platoon brethren marching in unison filled him with a sense of belonging. This was his home—this was his family. His emotions were no longer his to possess alone, but that was of no consequence. He was happy.
>
  At a signal from Voche, they turned and passed through an open doorway into a room filled with tables and benches. Against the wall on the far side, the boy saw a series of tables with covered pans. Trays, plates, and utensils were stacked on one side, and the smell of freshly cooked meat filled the air.

  Gradually, almost imperceptibly at first, a feeling of eager anticipation rolled through them. It grew steadily until the boy licked his lips, suddenly aware of the burning hunger in his stomach. He could tell, from the expressions on his platoon-brothers’ faces, that they felt the same. Without a word, they formed a line.

  Voche stepped up and lifted the first pan. It was empty.

  A crushing sense of disappointment struck them all like a blow to the stomach. The blow echoed through the hearts of his platoon brethren until it became a giant wave, filling them all with a horrible sense of loss. Tears came to the boy’s eyes, while around him, others fell to their knees, sobbing.

  “Your first lesson,” said Voche, “is that life is a never-ending struggle. Food, water, living space, the basic necessities of life—these are things you must earn. These are things you must fight for.”

  He replaced the tray. Several of the platoon brothers wailed in agony.

  “The enemy will steal your food and leave you to starve,” Voche shouted, his voice infused with furious, didactic passion. “He will steal your ship and make it his own. If you are weak and divided, he will steal everything from you and throw you out into space!”

  The boy shuddered as memories flooded into his mind—memories of a dead woman’s body, floating naked in the icy vacuum. He didn’t know where the memory came from, but it made his hands shake and his knees go weak. Gradually, that feeling swept through his brethren, resonating into a fear as primal as the will to live. He gripped his rifle and swallowed, eyes never leaving Sergeant Voche’s face.

  “So long as man has lived, there have been those who lead and those who follow. Unity is the only thing that saves us—perfect, unwavering unity. And to be united, you must learn your place on this ship.”

  He paused and stared into the faces of each of the platoon-brothers. The boy felt a chill run down his arms long before his eyes locked with the sergeant’s.

  “Your place is to obey!” Voche shouted. “Am I understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” a few of the platoon brothers weakly replied.

  “What kind of pathetic soldiers are you? Do you want to starve? Am I understood?”

  The boy felt his heart surge. He gripped his rifle with white knuckles and shouted in unison with the others.

  “Yes, sir!”

  Chapter 11

  The gymnasium lights flickered on soon after the door hissed open. Danica stepped inside and took a deep breath. The smell of old perspiration and spent ammunition filled her nostrils like a healing balm. Her old punching bag still dangled on its chain from the ceiling, while the targets on the far wall showed bullet holes from the last round of shooting practice. Wrestling mats covered the floor, while a contraband gravitic weight machine stood off in the corner. Though it might not have looked it, everything was in its place, just the way Danica had designed it.

  She turned to James, who glanced around him like a desert groundhog cautiously poking his head out of his burrow.

  “This is the physical training room,” she said. “We do all our exercises and target practice here. It also serves as the ship’s armory, so if there’s ever a battle, this is the place we go to get suited up.”

  She walked to a console near the door and keyed it open. A series of sliding panels retracted vertically along the entire length of the near wall, revealing weapons and armored battle-suits, faded and nicked from use.

  “Unfortunately, our battle armor is too large to fit you and too expensive to cut down, so you’ll have to go with the lighter field armor. It comes with bullet-proof, plasma-resistant durasteel plating, but I wouldn’t rely too heavily on it. The helmet doesn’t include a visor, so you’ll have to shield your eyes with your hand when we use flash grenades.”

  Danica reached up and pulled out one of the smaller issues of the field armor. It was brown and black, the knees and elbows covered in scratches. The patch on the upper right shoulder indicated where at least one soldier who’d worn it had taken a hit. As with everything else in the room, it smelled of old, stale sweat.

  “This should fit,” she said, handing it to him. “Try it on.”

  He took it and stared at her, puzzled. “How do I put it on?”

  The kid’s a total greenhorn.

  “The arm and leg segments detach just under the plating,” she said, showing him. “Slip it on like a vest, then secure these clasps.”

  She waited for him to clip the arm segments to the shoulder nodes, then handed him his assault rifle.

  “This rifle is standard Tajji issue,” she said. “It’s a dual action automatic plasma and projectile gun, with a .56-caliber projectile barrel and a twenty-five millimeter toroidal plasma launcher. It is your responsibility to be thoroughly familiar with this weapon. Before the end of the week, I expect you to be able to take it apart and put it together again in less than five minutes. Questions?”

  “Yeah—when are we going to go over how to do that?”

  “Not during training time, Ensign,” said Danica. “You can figure it out in your quarters, on your own time.”

  James bit his lip and nodded. Danica lifted the weapon up in his hands and showed him the switches set above the trigger.

  “These are the safety, the trigger, and the alternator,” she said, pointing out each one. “Reload your projectile ammunition here,” she said, pointing out the magazine directly in front of the trigger guard, “while your plasma reloads here,” pointing to a canister chute in the back end of the stock. “A fully loaded rifle carries five times as many bullets as plasma, but the plasma can be much more effective in close range against shielded opponents.”

  “Shielded opponents?”

  “I’ll explain basic tactics before we shoot a few practice rounds. Listen carefully.”

  James nodded.

  “Firefights on-ship tend to be messy,” Danica explained. “They don’t require much skill, either. Our longest corridors here are less than a hundred yards, and straight enough that a stray shot could ricochet and kill one of our own. Remember that when you’re under fire.”

  James nodded again, a little more anxiously than before.

  “We have essentially three lines of defense against enemy fire.” She pointed to a small box on his chest. “That’s your high-energy radiation shield. It will protect you against ship–to-ship antipersonnel gamma ray and microwave beams. Keep it on at all times during combat.”

  She reached down and lifted his hand, pressing a button on the left wrist of his armor. “This is your personal RPV shield generator. You have a similar one on your back. It projects a small force field that instantly vaporizes anything traveling faster than one hundred feet per second. Use it when you’re under projectile fire; it is one of the most critical elements of your armor.”

  “Should I keep it on at all times, too?”

  “No,” said Danica. “When the unit overheats, it becomes explosive. The shield’s only tactical function is to give you time to get to cover—don’t rely too heavily on it, or it’ll blow your arm clean off.”

  James’s eyes widened. “How will I know when it’s about to overheat?”

  “This indicator will tell you. If it blinks for more than five seconds, unstrap your RPV unit and get rid of it.”

  “But—but what if the back unit goes unstable too?”

  “Then you’re already dead. If you’re the heroic type, you could try a kamikaze run for good measure.”

  James nodded, his face more than a little pale. Danica had his complete attention.

  “Your RPV shield won’t work for plasma bursts. That’s where your armor comes in; it’s specially constructed to diffuse the heat and rebind once the plasma cools. Howev
er, on this light armor, three successive hits in the same spot will burn an irreparable hole. If you’re hit, get low and seek cover.”

  “How long does the armor take to harden and cool?”

  “About a minute. Again, unless you want to become a well-done corpse, don’t rely on it too heavily.”

  James bit his lip and nodded. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the rifle.

  “In combat,” she continued, “we typically open with plasma fire and switch to projectile weapons as we advance.”

  She reached down and picked up a black half-sphere about twice the diameter of her hand. “This is a larger version of the RPV shield on your wrist. When blasting our way through a sealed door, we lay this shield down about two yards behind to give us projectile cover. Once the door is open, we typically stay behind the shield and suppress the enemy with plasma fire before advancing.”

  She reached to her belt and pulled out a grenade a little smaller than her fist. “This is a flash grenade. They’re useful for blinding the enemy before making a charge. Take care when using them, though—they can permanently damage your eyes if you don’t cover them. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. For ship-wide training exercises, we use paintballs and lasers to simulate our real weapons. The first session starts in less than an hour. I’ll put you with Mikhail’s unit—”

  “Wait, we’re starting already?”

  “That’s right,” said Danica. “From here on out, we’ll be conducting twelve hours of training per day.”

  “Twelve hours?” said James, incredulous. “That’s—”

  “That’s what, Ensign?”

  James swallowed. “That’s great, ma’am. I’m looking forward to it.”

  Danica inwardly smiled. He’s learning.

  “Before training exercises begin,” she said, “let’s put in some targeting practice. Show me what you’ve got.”