Army of the Goddess E-Book

Elizabeth N. Love

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

After the attack of the Goddess, Axandra Saugray must prepare her people for war. Their planet has become unsafe, and violence strikes without warning.

Meanwhile, the Goddess has built an army of human captives, each host to a powerful parasite known as the Stormfly.

In the middle of chaos and uncertainty, a new hope arises. But is it enough for Axandra and her friends to save their homeworld from the Goddess?

Leseprobe

Army of the Goddess

Book Two of the Stormflies

Elizabeth N. Love

Copyright (C) 2015 Elizabeth N. Love

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Paper and Sage

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

The Covenants

Everyone shall have the Free Will to believe as they wish to believe.

Humans shall not kill humans.

Everyone shall live in Harmony with the World.

Everyone shall be fed, clothed, and housed.

Everyone shall receive medical care as necessary.

Everyone is expected to perform service for the good of the community.

Chapter 1 - Celebration

Landing Day, in the Year 308 after the Landing of the thirteen colony ships from Old Earth

The Great Hall inside the Hall of the People's Council boasted a splendor of brightly colored streamers and an elongated table set for the staff, their significant others, families, and the Protectress and her guest, Quinn Elgar. A silky red tablecloth contrasted sharply beneath white china plates and silver tableware. Red symbolized the courage of their ancestors to leap into space in faith and hope of survival, and represented those who died long before reaching their destination. The guests seated themselves at this table in celebration of their successes and in review of their failures with a promise to better themselves in the coming year. Landing Day is the mark of the new year, a day that stands alone upon the calendar, uncategorized by season, unhindered by months or weeks, and therefore a day when all arguments and trials are set aside in recognition of centuries past.

Alongside the dining table stood a smaller table supporting a candelabrum with six candles of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple hand-dipped wax. After the food was brought out, but prior to serving, Axandra Saugray, Protectress of Bona Dea, stepped up to the candelabrum with a long match. She wore a flowing green silk dress with flared sleeves, trimmed with silver beads sewn in the pattern of bursting stars. Her typically curly, dark brown hair was tamed into an elegant chignon at the nape of her neck. With a bright expression on her face, she began to recite the mantra of the Landing Day celebration as she touched each candlewick.

“We light this candle for courage, the courage of our ancestors to leave Old Earth never knowing if their dream of a new life would succeed.” Axandra recited for the red candle. For once in her career as Protectress, her hands did not shake as she spoke aloud to her public. These words were stamped upon her heart for every year she honored this day above any other; for without her ancestors, she would not exist, and it was likely that all of humanity would have plummeted into extinction. No soul on Bona Dea could begrudge that truth.

“We light this candle for perseverance, the will of our ancestors to survive on a new world so that we can continue to make our home here.” The orange candle followed, the wick staining black with the scorch of flame set immediately at the touch of the match. Axandra felt pride in her personal perseverance to continue her studies and perform as best she could in her position. The work was not easy, nor envied by many. Even the most magnanimous extrovert balked at the idea of compromising the thousands of arguments proposed by the masses on a daily basis.

“We light this candle for creativity, the innovations that allowed our ancestors to escape persecution and the creativity of our people in everything we do to make this world a better place.” Humans were blessed with a variety of creative arts for all minds and hands throughout all time. The Bona Dean tradition to value creativity in all manners was expressed by the walls of art both ancient and modern, the shelves of books on every topic whether factual or fictional, and the architecture in both form and function. Little in daily life lacked artistic value. Every child learned art and music and carried that language through to adulthood, even Axandra, although she rarely played her instrument in recent years.

“We light this candle for cooperation, the virtue that sustains our society and provides for our people the best possible life.” The green candle decided to be uncooperative, despite its symbolism. The wick twisted sideways and, though lit for a brief moment, extinguished itself rapidly, forcing Axandra to angle her match awkwardly from the right. Her uncooperative right hand seemed contrary to this virtue as well, but she resolved not to allow the damaged limb to dampen her spirit. Quinn began to rise from his chair to assist her, but she quickly halted him with the words, “I've got it. Thank you.” The candle flared brightly, then settled into a steady burn.

“We light this candle for wisdom, that we may recognize and respect our pasts in order to shape our futures.” Having attempted to flee her own family's past, Axandra inhaled deeply and said these words in a tone of utmost respect. Her attempt ultimately proved futile, and she returned to her homeland and her promised position. Almost every day for the last several months since her return, she studied her inherited past, delved into the lives of her foremothers, and learned to recognize the strengths and weaknesses of each of them. She hoped to internalize the aged wisdom and use her knowledge for greater purpose.

At last, she brought the dwindling matchstick to the purple candle. “We light this candle for peace. May we continue to look forward with open eyes and live free of violence.” Peace was the foremost product of their governance and laws. Peace brought freedom to create, to learn, and to grow. Without peace, humanity suffered and labored in darkness. Everyone alive today had known nothing but peace in the land until a few months ago, when the Stormflies became known and the Prophets attempted a coup of the Protectresship. Going forward, the people of Bona Dea would struggle to redeem the promise of peace. The task would not be easy, and there was no telling how long the struggle would last. The Stormflies were out there, stalking humans like a prairie cat stalks nightly prey. Eventually, war would come between the species.

But in light of today's celebration, Axandra put those thoughts aside, lifted her chin and upturned her lips in a smile to face her companions.

The attendees responded in unison, “We give thanks today for those who have come and gone before us, for their courage and determination, for their wisdom and creativity, and we honor them with our continued cooperation for future peace.”

“Joyous Landing Day, everyone!” Axandra cheered as she came back to the table. “Let's eat.”

A long-standing tradition of Landing Day, that penultimate day of the vernal equinox and the first day of every year, was to create a feast with a favorite dish from each family member invited to the celebration. Households across the continent received neighbors, hosted visiting relatives, and gave a moment of honor to their ancestors before emptying pantries onto their bowing meal tables.

This was the first annual official Landing Day celebration at the Palace, the nickname given to the People's Hall centuries ago, and a name that proved difficult to retire. Axandra desired to show the staff how much she appreciated those people who served the Hall and its only residents by cleaning, gardening, cooking, and keeping the general order; and, in general, the staff appeared agreeable and even excited to be a part of the new tradition, especially the younger interns who were away from their families for the holiday. Having no other family and little in the way of neighbors while perched atop this stalwart hill, Axandra longed for familial intimacy with those who intersected her life daily.

Being as this was the grandest holiday of the year, no one served others. Axandra served herself and began passing dishes down the table, and each diner did the same, creating a clatter of silver on ceramic and a steady stream of voices and laughter. Several bottles of wine circumnavigated the table, bolstering spirits and widening mouths.

“Your Honor, what's a tradition your family used to do on Landing Day?” asked Marta from down the table. The older, pale-haired woman in the floral-stamped dress kept the gardens tidy and kept the gossip muddy. She enjoyed poking around for new stories.

Axandra sipped her crystal goblet of tangy golden ferment and formulated a response that didn't stray too far into that rocky period in her life when she ran away from home to be adopted by another family. “We used to announce something we would like to accomplish in the coming year, and revisited the old year to take stock of how we fared. Nothing extravagant.”

“And how did you fare last year?” Marta needled with her gravelly, well-worn voice.

Smirking wryly, Axandra inhaled deeply through her round nostrils and leaned both elbows on the table edge. “The one thing I wanted to accomplish last year was reading thirty books. While I didn't come close to that literary adventure, I think I accomplished a great deal more than I expected.”

“Absolutely!” cheered Miri, who blushed at the sound of her own voice echoing back to her in the large room. The Protectress' personal aide offered the words as reinforcement and distraction, knowing topics that broached her mistress' past posed complications to any event. The young blonde raised her goblet high. “A toast to the Protectress!”

“Here, Here!” everyone shouted, out of synch with one another. A resounding flam of Ching! followed as the crystal goblets tapped together.

“That sounds like an excellent game,” Quinn chirped with a broad grin on his round, sun-starved face. He had allowed his thinning cap of blonde hair to lengthen over the winter months, and the thin locks lay feathered back from his brow with a touch of scented hair oil, enough to create style without a greasy appearance. “Let's go around the table and tell everyone something we'd like to accomplish this year, no matter how small. I'll go first.” Interlacing his fingers with Axandra's, he made no qualms about looking her in the eyes and announcing, “I want to make this woman the happiest possible by marrying her and lifting her up every day that I see her.”

“Is that a proposal?” Marta gasped with surprise, the wrinkles in her face smoothing out with her wide expression.

“No.” Axandra shook her head sheepishly, her cheeks blazing crimson at her lover's open broadcast. “I already asked him, and he said yes,” she revealed, grinning so widely her blushing cheeks ached.

“Ohhh! Congratulations!” Cheers and applause erupted along the table, for no one could frown in the face of love's declaration.

“I think we'll all feel a bit selfish after that pronouncement,” Paris bemoaned from down the table. She was one of the building's many environmental maintainers, particularly in charge of the laundry and wardrobes. Her already long face lengthened as she angled her nose to the upper corner of the room indignantly. “I think I want to see the ocean this year. I've never been.”

“I'll go with you,” Jared promised. As one of the yearly interns, he had come from the seaside village of Littoralee. Ever since his arrival, he made himself comfortable with the young women, catering to their whims with flirtatious prowess. His rugged attractiveness enhanced his powers of finesse, including the uneven dimples on his long cheeks. “I know the perfect beach.” The young people began to make plans for a getaway in the near future, including who would cover for whom during their absences.

Others joined in the pronouncements with both serious and not-so-serious goals, from planting a garden box in an apartment window, to riding a dardak, to finishing a quilt started a few years ago and abandoned due to life's surprises, to climbing Mt. Zetnic to the highest peak.

Axandra basked in the warmth of her collected, adopted family, and in the glow of her lover's smile. This was the ultimate Landing Day celebration, and she was proud to bring it to her home.

+++

At the end of the long table of staff and friends, Lynn Grady sat alone and quiet, allowing her loose, tawny hair to hang like a drape beside her face. She wasn't certain why she had accepted the invitation to sit with the Protectress for Landing Day. By all rights, the woman should have sent her packing and looking for a new occupation. Instead, the Protectress exercised her right to give someone with a decent performance record a second chance despite her mistakes. Lynn felt honored to be asked to attend; the Protectress delivered the invitation personally. She dressed smartly for the occasion in a fitted red dress and a silver set of jewelry passed down to her from her grandmother.

Yet, no one else cared about the Protectress' intentions. No one else wanted anything to do with her. She didn't blame them. She worked with Nancy Morton to practically get the Protectress killed; she just didn't know it at the time. She was the one who opened the garden gate to let the Prophet in for clandestine meetings. She was the one responsible for the packhound entering the grounds, which ultimately attacked the Protectress and one of the Elite. Lynn thought she was doing a duty to her people by following Morton's orders. It was the most profound mistake of her entire life.

Ignored for most of the meal, Lynn decided to take her leave. She said nothing, but folded her napkin neatly and slipped out through the nearest side door of the hall while the company was laughing boisterously at each other's plans for the coming year. No one paid attention to her.

“Leaving already?”

“Councilor? What are you doing here?” Lynn questioned seeing Franny Gilbert standing in the access hallway along the east side of the Great Hall once she'd slipped from the large room. She didn't let on that the woman's voice startled her. The aging councilor shifted within the shadows of the far wall, barely illuminated by a stream of sunlight entering through the textured glass window. She appeared more wrinkled than Lynn had last noticed, and the purple smudges beneath her eyes cried out for rest. “Can I do something for you?”

“No, thank you. I'm just watching the party.”

“Shouldn't you be celebrating with your family?”

“I decided not to today. I wanted to do something different.” Gilbert was smiling with a peculiar show of delight that made Lynn's skin prickle. “Go on, then. Don't mind me.”

Lynn took that as an invitation to flee the woman's presence, so she made her way quickly up to her room.

Chapter 2 - Remembrances

2nd Unimont, 308 (Moonsday)

At times Axandra felt as though the last eight months of her life were imaginary. After her homecoming from her torturous stay beneath the Great Storm last Octember, she found memories erased, her mind blank in certain areas and quieter than before. Even faces appeared unrecognizable—prominent faces such as councilors and staff. Short-term memory suffered, leaving her standing confused on her way to meetings or forgetting to put on her shoes when she left her suite.

Axandra was the lone survivor of the parasitic infection, as all other sufferers perished abruptly during the two days following the Stormfly exodus. For whatever reason as was still undetermined, the Stormflies had chosen to feast upon a religious sect known as the Believers. The followers of the religion believed above all else that a powerful Goddess watched over them and determined their destinies. They also believed that the Protectress was the Goddess incarnate. The victims found several shortcomings in these beliefs during their last days on this plane.

In addition to performing autopsies upon a few of the deceased, a team of Healers from the Assembly continued to study the Protectress' symptoms to determine exactly what damage the parasite inflicted upon its victim, hoping to gain insight into the phenomenon.

Few facts were known: the parasites always entered the left eye and settled most immediately within the left side of the brain, linking first with the optical nerve before penetrating deeper into the layers; the interruption of brain function sometimes resulted in hysteria and confusion; the parasite drained essential nutrients from the blood; and the infestation was greater than ninety-nine percent fatal.

So far, the Healers determined by their examinations that the location inhabited by the parasites included the hippocampus, explaining the loss of memory. Lesions occurred throughout several sections of the brain, causing a loss of inhibition, increased violent behavior, and aphasia, as was observed in other victims. The first known victim of the infestation murdered and dismembered another man in his own home. The symptoms varied depending upon the reach of the parasite's tendrils within the host. Axandra carried her parasite for the longest known period of time, so the marks of penetration should have existed farther into interior portions of the brain, including the brainstem. However, Axandra's brain, while exhibiting various scars and even holes, did not confirm this suspicion. She was an outlier.

For now, in consideration of her other injuries and post-traumatic stress, the Healers postponed any in-depth scan or study of the Protectress' brain.

Axandra, hoping to further their research, explained that she succeeded in blocking the parasite at times. She offered to demonstrate her methods of compartmentalizing her mind to protect certain areas, and how she restricted the creature from moving as it desired. Perhaps she prevented some damage from occurring. They deferred, concerned for her health.

Axandra doubted that their diagnosis would change the outcome of her future. The damage was irreversible. The remainder of her life would be haunted by missing moments…and memories she prayed would disappear. She was even more determined to prevent the infection of any more humans by understanding the nature of the creatures. The humans could form little in the way of defense until they understood how to defend.

To reeducate the Protectress to the names and faces of the staff and council, the archivists provided visual aids and brief bios at the request of Healer Phineas Gage. Axandra reviewed them in the evenings while she took dinner with her intended. Cool spring nights provided the perfect excuse for the still novice couple to snuggle on the divan, listening to recorded music on their new disc player while wrapped in wooly sherpa blankets.

“So, I'm curious what they wrote about Sara.” Quinn eyed the folder graced with a full-color portrait of Councilor Sara Sunsun's freckled face bearing a wide smile full of teeth.

“She's the one I remember everything about,” Axandra said, half-grateful, half-sad. “I suspect she made the strongest impression among all the councilors.”

“Friends will do that. Can I see it?” He reached out for the papers with splayed fingers.

Handing over the dossier, she joked, “Sure. It's bland. If I only had this to go on, I might get the wrong impression.”

“Hmm.” Without his reading glasses, Quinn held the pages out at arm's length for definition. “Daughter of Councilor Miles Sunsun. Home, North Compass. Thirty-one years old. Blah, Blah. Boring demographics.”

“Exactly, but at least I'm starting to get names matched with faces again. Too bad my short-term memory is a disaster.”

“Oh, I hadn't noticed,” Quinn quipped.

She rolled her green eyes ceiling-ward at his poor feigning humility. “You'd be the only one. I don't know how I'm going to make it to our bonding.” The words were an honest fret. “I'll forget where I'm going half-way down the stairs.”

“Miri will get you there,” Quinn assured, squeezing her wearily hunched shoulders.

He didn't want to admit how worried he was about the black outs, those moments of complete disorientation he'd witnessed over the past few months. She didn't remember those either, and he was actually glad. She had lost her way through the building on several occasions; and, when confronted, she became belligerent or frightened. She had shouted at Miri a few times to get out of her house. But the moments passed. For the most part, the staff and acquaintances played along as though nothing had happened. The occurrences were dwindling in number, and Quinn prayed they would eventually end altogether.

He drew her closer into the nook of his shoulder and kissed the top of her head, inhaling the fragrance of sweet laurens from her favorite hair treatment. Spring was in her hair. He chuckled at his own humor.

“What's funny now?” she questioned.

“A bad pun in my head.”

“Oh,” she acknowledged, allowing him to leave it where it was.

She failed to show any interest in laughing, and Quinn realized he missed hearing her laugh. For now, they accepted the silence of the evening.

+++

12th Unimont 308 (Hopesday)

Holton Elgar Hannely glanced at his watch and attempted to hold his irritation at bay while Ole fumbled through his inventory of seeds. Parchment packages were stacked in precarious columns, each supported by another stack. If one collapsed, the others would scatter like dominos. Each packet rattled on a different note like a hollow gourd depending on the size and quantity of the seed inside. Ole collected these seeds from travelers as they came through Range End, and the catalog was amazing. From winged seeds of the towering Leviathanus hardwoods of the Northwest forests to the triangular seeds the size of pinheads from the creeping chime flower that struck musical chords when disturbed. And the Lacaria flower, a delicate tropical orchid from the island of the Sleeper, a dormant volcano a thousand kiloms south of the mainland.

This was Holton's last stop before catching the morning bus to Undun City in order to catch the noon bus to North Compass to get home tonight before midnight. He didn't want to be stuck in Undun overnight, not if he might run into his brother Quinn by accident. The likelihood of such an accidental meeting constituted a slim percentage of possible events, but he didn't wish to test the statistics. If his mother found out he was in Undun for any stay-over, she would needle him about spying on Quinn and his new wife-to-be or, even worse, making a visitation call.

Holton didn't want to see Quinn any more than his brother was interested in seeing him. He was quite content that his little brother, by two years, had chosen to abscond from his hometown and family and stay away. Quinn had no place interfering with the lives of the Elgars. He advised his mother to force the youngest son to surrender his family name, but she refused to relinquish hold over her child completely.

“Ole, get a move on, please,” Holton pressured, rocking on his feet. He watched the frail, white-haired man carefully navigate the collection, anticipating an avalanche of paper packets. What few tufts of hair remained on Ole's head danced like wisps in the breeze. “I have somewhere else to be.”

“Bah! You're always in a hurry,” the white-bearded man scoffed his urgency. “If you wanted to make that bus, you should have showed up last night, instead of extending your visit with Miss Jenny. Stay awhile. Why do you want to get home?”

Holton felt his cheeks blaze with embarrassment. No one was supposed to know about Jenny. He didn't want any word getting back to his wife, especially if Canna felt he was being unfaithful, which he wasn't. He enjoyed Jenny's companionship when he was away from home, and she understood he was only interested in a platonic relationship, despite her flirtatious efforts. She respected the boundaries.

“I made this appointment with you weeks ago,” Holton hissed impatiently. “You knew I was to be here this morning. Why don't you have my package ready?”

Ole just waved with a shaky hand and continued to dig into his piles, careful in his movements despite his symptomatic quivers. “Ah. Here we go. Twelve Lacaria seeds, ready to germinate. You'll need to plant them in containers where you can keep them warm. Your northern temperatures are too harsh for these delicate blossoms.”

“Yes, yes. I know. Mother is planting them in the house.” Holton snatched the packet from the old man's hand. “And here are your requested juniper cones.”

“Wonderful. I want to study these. Conifers are more primitive than those flowers. It's a parallel with Old Earth I find fascinating. There are certain laws of nature that might apply to any life-bearing planet in the galaxy,” the old man prattled on.

“Fine. Fine. I have to run.” Holton tucked the gray envelop rattling with seeds into his satchel and turned on the balls of his feet to dash away, letting Ole's continued chatter fade out. He couldn't care less what the old man wanted to do with seed cones.

“Good day!” Ole shouted after him. “Say hello to Canna for me.”

Holton needed to remove Ole from his list of seed suppliers or convince his mother to stop trying to grow houseplants. Twelve seeds! How many pots was she going to cram into the house? And who was going to water all of them? Rosemary could barely move due to her weight and arthritis. Her most ambitious travels consisted of moving from bed to the divan.

Renata, his sister, must have some arrangement to take care of the forty-odd pots of varying plants from across the continent already residing in the one-level North Compass home. It was the only plausible solution to keeping that many organisms alive under his mother's care. Before her weight became a debilitating factor, Rosemary was as lithe and agile as any young woman with six children needed to be. Ten years later, she was nearly immobile, requiring a cane and assistance to move around her own home. Holton blamed Quinn, the youngest child, for pushing Rosemary into depression with his insistence on denying everything for which his family stood.

Holton would bring her the seeds as long as she didn't ask for more of his time. Perhaps Rosemary Elgar collected the plants to replace her nest-flown children, or perhaps she appreciated the silence of living things without tongues. The plants might disappoint her once in a while by dying, but that was minor compared to the disappointments caused by her children, Quinn especially. Why was he thinking of Quinn again? He hated his brother. Always had. When Quinn was born, Holton knew he would regret the twit's existence. He was not disappointed in those expectations. Quinn was a stubborn, high-nosed cark bird always flaunting his adventures and his intelligence, looking down upon his farming family. And now that he was marrying the Protectress—Holton wanted to wring his brother's neck!

Of all the people to make it to the Palace, Quinn wasn't the one he was rooting for. Renata should have been elected councilor during the last voting period, but Sara Sunsun won out simply because of her family history. Now his sister was unbearable, lamenting her loss for over a year now and conniving ways to ensure a win at the next election. She was cozying up to Morgan Mainsteer and his crazy movement, Citizens for Restructure. Holton ignored her political tirades as much as possible.

He didn't have time to dwell on these things. He had to get to that bus.

“Holton, there you are!”

Jenny's voice stopped him in his tracks.

“You didn't say goodbye this morning. Shame on you,” she scolded, though a teasing smile belied her intention.

“Sorry. I'm running behind. I'll be back around in a few months.”

The curvy brunette caught his arm and jerked him back a step. She grinned. “You let Canna know how lucky she is to have you. If I had my way, you'd never go back to the frigid North. You could stay right here with me where it's warm.”

“Oh, Jenny,” he sighed with regret. If they had met sooner… He loved Canna dearly, but she was ever so slightly like his mother in some ways, and Jenny was nothing like his mother in any way whatsoever. She was refreshing, and visits with her were regenerative. He wanted to find excuses to come more often.

“I'll see you soon,” he promised, accepting a firm embrace, her plump breasts pressed against his chest and her breath steamy against his neck.

She whispered in his ear, “I'll be here when you get back. Write me.”

Holton released himself and turned to wave down the bus as it tried to pull away from the depot. Only because there was a seat remaining did the driver allow him on, asking him to sign the register before the engine hummed again, pulling the wheels in a forward motion.

Holton collapsed into the seat with relief.

+++

Jon Irons kissed his mother on the cheek and gave his father's back a firm and loving slap. It was time for him to head off again, to rebuild his life. He'd come home to his parents when Gammerton had evacuated preceding the tidal surges. Now Gammerton Island remained mostly underwater, the topsoil of the island washed away by the Ocean. There was no space to rebuild the village or to grow food. He had no other home.

He walked away from them, heading for the travel depot at the town center. After putting in his name for volunteer duty, he'd been recruited to work on the new facility to house the communit factory in Bexan. Trucks of crew and supplies waited for him at the depot.

“There you are, Jon!” Kyle greeted eagerly, his oblong face and wide eyes doling out more enthusiasm than seemed natural to Jon. “Morning! Ready to hit the road?”

Jon took quick mental stock of what he'd packed for the duration of the trip. His thin trunk held the bulk of his wardrobe, mostly chambray work shirts and unbleached algodon pants, and his backpack held his mementos and contact book, along with sandwiches, honey cakes, and an insulated mug of hot black tea that his mother had packed for him. He felt like a teenager heading out for his first service day.

“I've got everything I need for now.”

“Wonderful. Let's hit the pavement. Come on, boys. Jon, these are my sons Gray and Almit. I talked them into volunteering with me, so we're now a team. They couldn't wait to get away from their sister for a few weeks before the next session of classes,” Kyle stated as the four climbed into the large cab of the dray. The flat bed was loaded with paper bags of cement mix and a pallet of curved terra cotta roof tiles used on nearly every roof on the planet to collect potable water. Tools for these projects filled in the spaces and everything was tied down with flat sections of bandrope to prevent any loss or damage.

The engine started with a more vigorous hum than other vehicles, the engine larger and more powerful to pull the load. Jon could feel the thrust vibrate up through his feet, into his legs and body, a vibration that didn't cease until they stopped along the way for a brief rest. A tall venting pipe emitted a cloud of water vapor, a by-product of the steam part of the powerful engine. The combination of solar and steam made for a machine capable of hauling several tons of material.

In Duchene, a common rest stop along the well-traveled road to Bexan, a food stand served hot lunch to travelers. Jon took advantage of the warm soup and bread as he sat in the open-air pavilion next to the stand, trying to find a pocket out of the prevailing wind of the open flatland. Soon they would reach the Levianthus forest that surrounded the urban hub of Bexan, the now largest community on Bona Dea due to the influx of both refugees and industry training volunteers. Those majestic hardwood giants would block the northern gusts brought down by the dipping jet stream. At the moment, there was only a trace of the spring-green canopy on the edge of the horizon. That forest was a least one hour away, and the fact that he could see the trees at all was a testament to their cloud-scratching stature.

“News for you, sir?” offered a young man circling the pavilion with a cache of machine-pressed parchments in hand. Jon accepted a copy, surprised by the thickness of the folded papers, and perused the reading for a brief respite from watching the road continually widen from pencil-thin to four meters in front of the truck.

Among the headlines and titles were scattered several color photos. Of course, the first one that caught his eye was a photo of Axandra, his old lover and now Protectress. Instantly his jaw slackened and dragged his eyes into a somber expression. She had just left, disappeared without any warning and little explanation. There were only the few preceding days after he found her half-conscious on the beach—when he'd been shaken by the strangest sensation—and then she stepped out of his life leaving only a cryptic letter in her wake.

He forced himself to admit that part of this was his fault. Something strange had happened, and though he was barely adept with his mediocre touch sensitivity, the abrupt alteration of her base emanations had struck him with a prickling sense of discomfort. He didn't know what to say to her or to do about it, so he stepped back from the relationship. Perhaps if he'd taken the time to ask her, if she would have told him the truth—he hoped she would consider the seven years they'd lived together enough to trust him—he might have found a way to comfort her.

But what right did she have to lie to him for all that time about who she really was? It wasn't like she had amnesia. She knew her previous life. She must have known eventually she would have to go back. What would he have done if she had told him to his face that she was actually a long-lost relative of the Matriarch? He didn't know, because he wasn't given the chance. Instead, he found out the day her face appeared on all of the newssheets and placards declaring the date of her installation. And he had felt like a complete fool.

Angry and mortified, he drank until his gut hurt and his head muddied and he could barely remember his own name, let alone care that Axandra had run off. Eventually, his neighbors pulled him out of his stupor. They weren't pleased at being duped either, and together most of Gammerton voiced their disapproval for the woman who would be their queen. Then eventually all the discord went quiet and life resumed as close to normal as possible—until the islanders were told they had to leave their homes behind or die in the floods.

And here he was, sitting on the mainland, trying to start over with all that he owned.

Now he was being told by newssheet that his old lover was engaged to be married. She appeared happy standing next to a short, stocky man with thinning dirty-blonde hair and a crooked smile with a deeper dimple on one side than the other. It was an informal photo, captured as the couple exited the theatre after a musical concert sometime in the last month. Jon noted how thin she appeared, and how tired her face appeared, as though she'd aged a half-dozen years in the last nine months. Her dark, wavy hair had lost much of its curl—it used to hang in a mass of springy ringlets—and her cheeks possessed a sunken, hollow appearance, causing her lips to span the width of her face. There was evidence of her on-going recovery in the bandages on her right arm, not so well-concealed beneath her teal and plum shoulder wrap. The wedding would take place sometime next month, according to the date in the article, though the exact date was not provided.

“Anything of interest?” Kyle questioned as he found his travel mate among the diners. He came with his bowl of soup and a large mug of hot tea. “The boys are…exploring.” He nodded toward a far corner where the two sons flirted with some young women at another table. Genuine laughter occurred on both sides of the exchange. “Gregarious youth. So…?”

“In the paper? If you find the Protectress' love life interesting.” Jon attempted to play off his disappointment by heaving in a deep breath and flipping the page over to more innocuous news headings.

“Is she marrying that fellow that's been around the Palace? Good for her. She deserves a little happiness after all the crap that happened to her last year.”

Kyle must have noticed a dangerous spark in Jon's eyes, for he cleared his throat abruptly and added, “If you give a damn about her. She's not much of a leader, but she wasn't raised to be one either. I'm surprised the whole planet hasn't collapsed yet. And with this continuing threat of…what do they call them? Stormflies?”

“That's the term,” Jon concurred.

“If these things are going to take a shot at decimating the capital city, as the reporters keep telling us, then we're going to be in real trouble with a woman who can't get her own life under control. If she's getting married, she's showing the rest of us she's getting organized, and that she believes everything will come out well in the end.”

Jon shook his head at Kyle's statement. “Sure. If you think so.”

“If you don't mind me saying so, you look like you swallowed your own heart. Do you want to tell me about it?”

Jon didn't necessarily want to, but he also didn't know if he could keep it to himself for another two and a half hours in the confines of the truck. “I used to know her, is all,” he replied in a veiled way, enough to release the tightness in his chest but not lay out his entire life story.

Kyle nodded slowly. “Ah. I see.”

“I don't want to talk about it, if you don't mind.”

“Got it,” Kyle acknowledged with gruff basso voce.

The two men fell into silence and finished their soup.

“So, we'd better get a move on if we want to get to Bexan before sunset,” Kyle prompted, his long body stretching upward from the bench with his leftovers. “Let me get the boys corralled and I'll meet you at the truck. You can drive.”

As he gathered up his used utensils, Jon debated whether to take the newssheet with him or not. Taking it meant he could finish the articles after dinner. It also meant he'd have to look at her face again.

He missed her and he was, in some ways, glad she was happy. He also wanted to punch her betrothed in the face to release the stress.

The abandoned sheaf of papers fluttered in the wind, held to the table by random stone.

Chapter 3 - The Roadside

12th Unimont (Hopesday)

Holton Elgar opened his eyes at the sensation of the bus coming to an abrupt stop, the kind of sensation experienced only when a vehicle encounters an unexpected obstacle and not the gentle deceleration of a bus arriving at a destination. He came fully awake in less than fifteen seconds, oriented himself to the interior of the bus, and then forced his eyes to look at the landscape. Grass-clothed plains to his right, stark naked mountains to his left, and only open road fore and aft. Smack dab in the middle of nowhere.

“Stay calm, everyone,” the driver announced in a voice signaling this was a rather routine, if inconvenient, event. “Flat tire. I need everyone who is able to please exit to the right, and I will accept any volunteers willing to help make the change.”

A few grumbles and complaints filled the compact space like the susurrus of insect wings. Beginning with the front seats, the passengers unsettled themselves from their traveling positions and, with some stiffness, lumbered up the aisle and down the exit steps. Having chosen a rear seat, Holton waited and watched as the variety of travelers formed a loose mass along the east shoulder of the paving, choosing a point far enough away for safety. Most of the passengers consisted of middle-aged folk making the trek north for the annual planting season. Smaller villages requested extra hands to get their fields sown, so many men and women volunteered, taking the opportunity to travel and collect regional favorites to take home again, in particular the frostberry liqueur from Saddle Knob in Northland. The ambrosia-like libation made for worthy compensation for the travel due to its icy-sweet flavor.

Accepting a seat on a random boulder, a brown-haired woman settled uncomfortably with her infant secured in a shoulder hammock. The baby traveled well, for Holton had been unaware there were any children on the fare today.

Making his way out at last, Holton eyeballed the crowd to ascertain if enough assistance had been offered. Three gentlemen proceeded to open the rear-most storage compartment to retrieve the spare tire and appropriate tools. Considering himself relieved of any obligation, Holton paced southward, hands in the pockets of his black trousers, in order to stretch his legs and back.

The day's weather began with rain when they left Range End. He could still see the cumulonimbus clouds to the south. Cloud lightning danced along the iron-gray shadow of rain. Holton fell asleep before the bus escaped the showers. No evidence of precipitation colored the terrain in this area. The tailing edge of the clouds, to the west, boasted a brilliant, lacey border, as the two suns evaporated the condensation a fraction at a time, leaving irregular gaps in the cloud cover. Perched at a forty-five-degree angle in the eastern sky, the suns offered a modicum of warmth to the bus patrons by casting beams of light through the windows in the clouds.

Turning back north to continue pacing, Holton noticed a dark shape moving among the rocks about a half-kilom to the west of the road. At first, he couldn't place the shape precisely. It could have been a prairie cat skulking or a crown goat balancing. At this distance, the blur concealed its true nature. As it moved in this direction, the shape coalesced into that of a human being dressed in a dark robe that fluttered like a flag in the wind. A second shape followed.

At first, he assumed they were coming to the rescue, locals who might come bearing food and water for the weary. He realized when they made a final approach that he should have been more alarmed by the unlikeliness that anyone capable or willing to assist them would be residing in this no man's land between Undun City and Range End.

By the time it registered in his brain that the two men approaching were of Prophet origin, known to him only by the large symbol stitched in gold upon the robes, the men were overtaking the other passengers. Bodies collapsed unconscious upon the ground. Holton didn't see either of the Prophets touch a single person, yet every one of the travelers succumbed to some sort of attack. The woman screamed in terror, turning her body away to protect her baby. Her cry was replaced by the shriek of the infant as the mother slipped silently to the earth.

“Hey!” Holton protested loudly, for he was a good twenty meters down the road. The attackers hadn't noticed him until then.

And for his attempt at heroism, he was rewarded with sharp blackness.

+++

13 Unimont, 308 (Hundsday)

“Head-of-Council, we have an alarming situation,” Ty Narone announced upon entry into the senior councilor's office.