Orphans Among the Stars: 4

Image courtesy of Stockvault.

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Clover puts away her chain sword in disgust. She’s breathing through her mouth, her split lips making a squishy wheezing sound. Nobody in the crowd laughs. There’s too much of Janice’s blood on her armor. A couple of medical serfs fawn over the sobbing warrior. Grunting. Unable to talk because her mouth has been ripped open.

“This will help with the pain,” says one, talking like a mother does with a child.

The crowd parts as Clover stomps away from Janice, away from the baroness and the messenger. She has to get away from them all. There’s murder in her heart. Underneath, a festering ache. “A good rut.” Janice’s mocking words. That imperial messenger could have come with news that they’d found the Lost World, Tirra, as the scholars suspect it had been called, and Clover will only hear Janice and her laughter at what she’d done.

Still sucking in air through her lips, Clover wonders if there’s any way for her to go back and claim Janice’s head. She’d be disobeying her lord, taking the life of one of her servants. Janice would die. Clover would have to end her own life with her chain sword. It would take her longer to die than Janice.

Unacceptable.

With a snort, Clover stops and realizes she’s standing at the pneumatic train terminal. Aurora’s twin suns are just about to set, glinting light off the glass and steel awnings over the simple metal benches and concrete platform. A holographic sign says the trains are on schedule. In floating pink letters, the word “Cuvala” flashes. Her estate.

Moments later the sloped and smooth front edge of the train comes through. Automated brakes slow the cars down with a light screech. Doors whisper open, and Clover steps inside. Several passengers in the tunics and rags of serfs and villeins look at Clover and avert their eyes to the floor. A child points at Clover and smiles. She wears an oversized tunic, almost a dress. Its many different stitches indicate its age, handed down and used until it falls apart. “Mommy, she has dirty armor,” says the child. “She spilled her drink.”

The child’s mother looks at clover and pulls her child’s arm down. “That’s not wine, child. You musn’t point,” says the woman.

“What is it, mommy?” asks the child.

Clover answers for the woman. “It’s the blood of my sworn enemy.” The child blinks and nods, satisfied by the answer. Her mother is trembling for reasons the girl does not understand.

“Did you kill her?” asks the child. The only noise in the car is the sound of the doors closing. All the peasants have moved their eyes from the floor to the child. Underneath the mother’s dirty face is crimson skin.

Clover waits for the train to start, taking a step towards the child. She grabs a railing above their heads. “Apologies, ma’am, this one is three years old and hasn’t learned her manners yet.”

“It is fine,” says Clover. Her eyes are on the child. “To answer your question, girl, I did not kill her.”

“Does she deserve to be dead?”

Clover smiles, her lips parting ways in a way that most find unsettling. The child does not wince. “Very much so,” says Clover.

“I hope you get her, then,” says the child. “I can clean your armor in the meantime.”

Clover can’t tell if the girl’s mother is going to faint. “What is your name, child?” asks the knight.

“Moira,” says the child.

“I am Lady Pallas,” says Clover. “Where are you and your mother headed?”

“We’re going to Kirkfield,” says the child.

“We’ve been summoned to work in the naval yard,” says the mother. “Our previous lady has died of sickness. The baroness commands us now.”

“Your daughter’s talents will be wasted in Kirkfield,” says Clover. The girl’s face brightens. “I will take her into my service. She will be paid well, and I’ll make sure she sends you her wages. She will want for nothing in my service.”

Moira’s mother stops shaking. “Are you…” The question disappears from her lips. Clover nods. “Bless you,” she says. “Moira, go with Lady Pallas. Do as she says.”

“I’m not going to Kirkfield?” asks Moira.

“No,” says Clover. “Say goodbye to your mother. You’ll be coming with me.”

Orphans Among the Stars: 3

Image courtesy of Stockvault.

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Clover swings an arm up to grab Janice’s dagger arm. With her free hand, she grabs Janice by the leg and lifts. One heavy push takes Janice off her feet. Clover slams Janice onto the ground, knocking the wind out of her lungs. She pulls off Janice’s helmet and punches her once in the eye and another in the nose, breaking the latter with a satisfying crunch. “Look who’s ugly now,” says Clover. “Your corpse will have a crooked nose.”

Janice tries to pull her pistol up for a shot, but Clover slaps her hand away. The pistol goes flying into the crowd. Dazed, Janice leans her head back and whimpers something. She inhales and chokes on some blood, coughing up a mist all over her and Clover’s armor. Clover punches her again and gets up to grab her sword.

Clover picks up her weapon and engages the chain a couple times to clear the dirt from it. The chain moves freely, and Clover lets it climb up to full speed. She fights the weapon to hold it wide and straight, and then swings down at Janice’s head. “You ruined him,” says Clover, just loud enough over the sword.

Janice laughs and sprays more blood. “Ruined him? He was a fucking peasant. A good rut.”

“I loved him,” says Clover.

“You’re pathetic,” says Janice.

Clover swings her sword at Janice’s head. Janice lifts her dagger hand up, catching the oncoming weapon. The chain sword rips the end off the dagger, but misses its mark by a few centimeters. It cuts through Janice’s left cheek, carving a permanent smirk on her face. Howling in pain, Janice lets go of her dagger and holds her gauntlet up to her cheek. Blood pours out between her fingers, sputtering when she exhales, slurping when she inhales.

Bringing her sword up for another strike, she freezes when the priest shouts, “Hold!” Clover snarls, but she does as she’s told.

On the platform, next to the baroness, a messenger has arrived. He’s wearing a thick tunic worth twice the baroness’s jewelry. His arms and legs are wrapped in silk like the fashion of the Imperial Court. On his head, there’s a crimson helmet with a flat top and a visor that goes down over his eyes. From under the visor, he has an oiled and sculpted tuft of black hair that passes for a beard. Everything about the man, from his tailored boots and gloves worth almost as much as Clover’s armor, to how absurd he looks, screams one thing: the emperor speaks.

There is only one real reason why the emperor would send a messenger out this far to a system in the middle of nowhere. “This duel is over,” says Ystrelle. “Tell them,” she says, motioning to the messenger.

“War,” he begins. Clover doesn’t pay attention to the rest of what he has to say. The rest is just formality. Who Clover will be fighting. What reason, real or imagined, Clover has to fight. The rest is up to Ystrelle.

The baroness finishes the ceremony. The cyborg priest translates into Holy Speak, to mark the occasion. Ystrelle says, “I’m calling all of my knights. We serve the emperor.” She bows to a man, born of a bloodline far lower than hers. The messenger smirks as if it’s his place to be pleased. His eyes turn to the blood dripping from Clover’s chain sword, and his delicate beard begins to quiver. He might be getting sick. Disgusting.

“Her blood is mine to spill,” says Clover. It is her right. The ritual must be followed.

Ystrelle frowns, like a parent with a stupid child. “If you both survive what’s coming, you may pick up where you left off.”

Orphans Among the Stars: 2

Image courtesy of Stockvault.

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The cyborg priest activates its modulators for a new chant in Holy Speak.

Translation: “By the blessings of his Holy Majesty and his noble representative here, this is a duel to the death. Your liege, Baroness Ystrelle has given her permission-”

Ystrelle holds up a hand to halt the chant. “This is your last chance, Janice,” she says. “There will still be the melee if you apologize.”

Janice squares her feet and nods at Clover. “I will not give that thing the satisfaction of an apology. Killing her will do her a favor. She’ll look better as a corpse.”

Clover revs up her chain sword. The baroness stands. A gasp comes from the crowd, and many bow as if they’ve done something to offend her. “Fine,” says Ystrelle. “Have your duel. Priest, continue.”

The priest continues its chant: “The Baroness Ystrelle has given her permission as liege. Armor shall be worn. Weapons are allowed. After blood is drawn, both parties may end the duel without loss of honor or standing. Anyone who dies shall not be granted digital resurrection. Your genes will be removed from the procreation catalog. When I tell you both to begin, the duel shall begin. The duel will not end unless blood is drawn, one person is slain, or I call a hold.
Understand?”

The knights nod without taking their eyes off each other.

The cyborg priest steps off to the side and motions for the crowd to give the knights some room. Everyone is quiet.
“Begin,” it says.

Clover puts both hands on the hilt of her chain sword, holding it low while the chain howls. She bounds forward once, twice, until she is within swinging distance of Janice. Torque from the spinning chain wants to pull the weapon up and away, and Clover relaxes her grip on it to almost let it swing for her.

Janice ducks under the blade and spins away. Clover wrestles with the blade to get it back under control, but she takes too long. Her back faces Janice. There’s a hum of a blaster drawing up charge, and Clover cuts the power to her sword so she can spin around faster. A plasma blast goes wide and high, heating a thin red streak across the side of her helmet. Too close.

Clover revs up her sword again, but has to stop when Janice squeezes a few shots at her feet. The blasts set fire to the grass and send up puffs of smoke. Janice shoots and steps back. Each shot gets closer to Clover’s feet, and she’s unable to close the distance with Janice. It’s an effective technique to disorient and put an opponent off balance.

The next two rounds land close enough to warm Clover’s toes. Janice might be pretty, but she’s smart and has won her fair share of duels. With a curse, Clover revs up her sword again and makes a desperate lunge at her smirking opponent. One foot doesn’t come up quite high enough, and it catches on a clump of sod. Clover trips and lurches forward, her sword coming loose in the process.

Instead of moving back, Janice screams in triumph and raises her dagger. Clover’s neck is an attractive target, and she aims the point there. The dagger comes down, but her arm stops.

It was a feint.

Orphans Among The Stars

Image courtesy of Stockvault.

Fights, like everything else on the planet Aurora, are ritualized. Two women of the knight caste stand in full body armor, scarred and mended from years of use and mending. A ring of knights surrounds them. Their liege-lady sits in a chair on a raised platform. Between the women, a cyborg priest drones on in the Holy Speak, its voice modulator making noises no biologic can emulate.

Translation: “By the blessings of his Holy Majesty and his noble representative here, this is a melee between equals. Armor shall be worn and in use. Weapons shall not be allowed. No blood shall be spilled. Limbs may be broken in a way that may be mended. This fight shall last until one of you yields through assent or by loss of consciousness. Your liege assents. Do both of you?”

One woman, a meter and a half tall, nods. She doesn’t have her helmet on. Her hair’s shaved close to the scalp. A battle scar runs from her forehead, down her nose, and through her lips. The shape has given her a nickname no one dares utter to her face. Clover. With a small grunt, Clover says in vulgarspeak, “Of course I, the Lady Pallas, assent. I’m the one who called us here.”

A few of the crowd chuckles. The cyborg priest’s metal face can’t curve into a frown. “This is a serious matter,” it says in vulgarspeak, as if the words might burn out its circuits.

The other woman, taller, back straighter, polished helmet dangling from her gauntleted hand, sneers. “Let’s get on with it, priest. I want to have breakfast after I break Pallas’s arms. I, the Lady Janice, assent.”

The cyborg priest continues on in Holy Speak. “Lady Pallas charges Lady Janice with trespass and theft of property.”

“Theft?” asks Janice. “You dare call it theft? He doesn’t belong to you. Never mind that you couldn’t keep him even if you did…”

Clover curses in vulgarspeak. The crowd goes quiet. With a bestial snarl, she says, “I demand a duel to the death instead!”

Everyone’s eyes turn to the woman on the platform. She’s dressed in formal silks cut in the complicated style of nobility. “No need to rub salt in the wound, Janice. Apologize so we can get this melee done with.”

“I will not apologize to that monster, baroness,” says Janice, pointing at Clover. “She wants to fight to the death, I’ll be happy to oblige.”

“Apologize, now!” bellows the baroness. Janice winces as if slapped, but she says nothing.

“Hotheaded knights, the lot of you,” says the baroness. “Fine, priest, I will agree to let them duel.”

Both women put on their helmets and gesture to their squires. Two girls come forward, weapons in hand. Clover takes her chain sword and powers it up with a trigger on the hilt. The cutting chain screeches to life, metal sliding on metal, spinning fast enough that Clover has to fight to keep it facing the right way. Janice takes a plasma pistol and a small dagger from her squire. The girls run back to the crowd.

Murder, like everything else on the planet Aurora, is highly ritualized.