Uprising Page 5

  “I like to think I taught you some of those tactics. Then we agree that the obvious focus is forward, yes?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good,” he said briskly. “Then off you go, and I’m going into the lab to make a pile of mistakes and throw them all in the discard container.”

  “I wish I could do that with my mistakes.”

  “Why do you think I love my work?”

  She leaned down to kiss him, then shook her bracelets vigorously. The jingles filled the kitchen, along with his laughter.

  Galor was behind the counter when Rax walked into the plant and seed store. He looked exactly as he had before, scowling with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Belsara!” he called. “Your Voloth friend is back.”

  “Need a tick.” Belsara’s muffled voice came from behind Rax, who turned to see what appeared to be a stack of boxes with legs making its way toward him.

  He hurried over and pulled the top two boxes off the stack. They were quite heavy; he was impressed that she had been carrying so many. “Where do you want them?”

  She stopped with a startled look, then pointed her chin toward a pallet near the counter. “Right there.”

  Galor edged away as Rax approached with the boxes. He set them down carefully and stepped back, giving the Alsean space.

  Belsara dropped her boxes with less concern. “They’re bags of compost; you can’t hurt them.” She dusted off her hands. “What do you need this time? Don’t tell me you killed those starts I sold you.”

  “No . . .”

  “Oh, good Fahla.” Galor was staring at him accusingly. “He did! I can feel it!” He advanced on Rax, his forefinger stabbing at the air as his voice rose. “I harvested those seeds and grew those starts with my own two hands, and I didn’t want them to go to the likes of you, but no.” He turned on Belsara. “You decide to sell them to a Voloth who doesn’t know how to do anything but destroy what other people build and grow! Are you surprised at the result? I’m not! Don’t you even think about selling any more to this—”

  “I didn’t kill them!” Rax shouted.

  As they drew back, he cursed himself for losing control.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a quieter voice. “I didn’t mean to yell. But I didn’t kill those starts.”

  “Typical,” Galor said. “You won’t take responsibility. They’re dead, I know it. I can feel it.”

  “What happened?” Belsara’s brows drew together. “Ah, no, didn’t you plant them right away? I thought you were a producer’s son.”

  To Rax’s horror, tears pooled in his eyes. “We planted them the day after I brought them home. They had two ninedays of growth and they were beautiful.”

  He blinked rapidly, trying to push back the traitorous tears. He could count on one hand the number of times he had wept as an adult; all but one had been here on Alsea.

  “What happened?” Belsara repeated. Her voice was almost gentle this time.

  Rax looked up at the store ceiling, stalling while he cleared his throat and swallowed. Even something as prosaic as a plant and seed store was built with artistry here. The exposed wooden support beams in this ceiling would count as quality architectural design back home.

  “It was producers,” he said once he was sure of his voice. “I don’t know if they set the fire, but they killed our garden. Every single plant.”

  Galor made a dismissive noise. “Impossible. You think that’s true, but it can’t be. No producer would do that.”

  “They used pole cutters. The plants were cleanly cut at the soil level. No rough edges. No missed cuts. Nothing left above the soil. And none of us heard a thing, so they were fast and quiet. Who would have those tools and those skills other than producers?”

  The two Alseans shared a doubtful look.

  “If you don’t believe me, believe this.” Rax pulled out his reader card and gave it a tap. “I had to take images for my report to the Council.” The reader card unrolled itself and stiffened into a sheet. A few more taps brought up the first image.

  As Belsara took the reader card from his outstretched hand, Galor stepped closer. They examined several images, then raised their heads and stared at each other.

  “How is that possible?” Galor asked.

  “I don’t know, but he’s right. This was a harvest job.”

  “Those were my starts. And producers killed them?” There was fire in Galor’s eyes, but for once it wasn’t directed at Rax. “How could they do that?”

  “Because they hate us more than they care about the plants,” Rax said.

  “I hate you, too.” Galor glared at him. “All of you. But there are limits. If we go over them, we’re no better than you, and I won’t be brought down to the level of a Voloth.” He spat the last word. “Sell him what he needs. And take ten percent off.”

  Belsara nodded. “Same order as before?”

  “No. We don’t have the funds for a whole new set of starts. Not even at ten percent off, but thank you for offering.” Rax shot a grateful look at Galor, who didn’t seem to know how to respond. “One of our engineers came up with an idea for glasshouse substitutes, with lumber and plastipaper. We’ve already built them. All we need is the seeds. We’re hoping we can catch up if we get enough sun.”

  “Lumber and plastipaper glasshouses, eh?” Belsara pointed at the reader card she still held. “Do you have images of those?”

  “Uh . . . yeah.” He took the reader card, pulled up the images, and handed it back. They spent a long time flipping through them, leaving him with nothing to do but fidget.

  “You’re sure you designed these?” Galor asked. “You didn’t get a builder to help?”

  “Where do you think we’d find a builder willing to help us? Besides the warriors, they’re the caste that hates us the most.”

  “Words for Fahla.” He sounded cheerful at the thought.

  “What did you spend on materials?” Belsara asked.

  “About forty-five cinteks per unit.”

  The Alseans looked at each other, communicating without words. It was eerie to watch, but Rax had seen it before.

  Belsara gave a quick nod. “All right, here’s our offer. Give us the blueprints for this design, let us sell kits for it, and we’ll replace your starts.”

  “You’ll—what?” He couldn’t have heard that right, yet they seemed to be expecting an answer. “But this isn’t manufactured. We can’t get the rights to the design. We used available materials.”

  “Sounds like a builder to me,” Galor muttered.

  “We’re not offering to sell the design.” Belsara held out the reader card. “We’ll sell kits. People will pay for the convenience. And you get your starts. You might be able to catch up with seeds in these, but you’ll be dreading every weather report.”

  He took the reader card in a daze. “Why are you doing this?”

  “It’s a brilliant design.” Belsara scratched her neck and offered a rueful smile. “Much as I hate to say it. And it’s not right that any producer could take their revenge out on a garden. We’re better than that.”

  We’re better than you, was the unspoken addendum, but Rax was so shocked by this generosity that for once the prejudice didn’t bite.

  “I accept,” he said hurriedly. Part of him was afraid that if he wasted even a piptick, they would retract the offer. But another urge welled up from somewhere deep inside. Citizens always took advantage of hangers if they could, so hangers had to push back. One of the first lessons his parents had taught him was to never take the first offer.

  Straightening his shoulders, he said, “I, uh . . . I want one more thing in the deal.”

  Galor’s scowl returned, but Belsara looked mildly amused. “Trying to push a bargain?” she asked. “What do you want?”

  Rax pointed at the boxes of fanten compost he had carried. “Three pallets of that. Our soil has a little clay in it.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “You really are a producer’s son.”

  “I never aspired to be a murderer.” He was taking a chance, but they were listening. “I wanted to be a citizen so I could protect my parents. Military service was my only option. They lied to us and beat us if we asked questions, so we learned not to ask. They lied to us about you. They said you attacked first.”

  Both of them reddened, their anger so visible that Rax thought he knew how it felt to be empathic. “I know,” he said hurriedly. “I know you didn’t. We all know now. But that’s what they told us, and we obeyed orders. And you killed most of us. I’ll never say we didn’t deserve it, because we did, but . . . we’ve paid. You won. And you did more than that. You’ve heard of our empathic directive?”

  “You can’t hurt Alsea or any Alseans,” Belsara said. “Smartest thing Lancer Tal ever did.”

  “There was a side effect. Lancer Tal didn’t know it would happen, but it’s one of the reasons we asked for sanctuary here. She was working with the Protectorate ambassador to ship us somewhere else, but we refused to go.”

  Their anger had given way to curiosity. He took a deep breath and spoke more slowly.

  “We love Alsea. All of us. It may be an artificial love, but it doesn’t feel that way to us. It feels like this is where we were meant to be. That’s why we’re trying so hard to fit in and be independent. And yes, competing in the Games wasn’t our best idea. But we have to keep trying.”

  In the potent silence, he heard the glasshouse irrigation system and wondered when it had activated.

  Belsara let out a long exhale. “You’re not lying. But it’s hard to believe.” She held up her palm. “Hypothetical situation. You’ve received a message from your government. If you want, you can come home to full honors and citizenship. All you have to do is renounce Alsea as
a primitive planet. What do you say?”

  Her eyes hardened as she said primitive, and he winced. There was a time when he had believed exactly that.

  He met her palm, giving her the skin contact that would make his sincerity undeniable. “I’d say thanks for the offer, but I’ve already lived half my life based on lies. I won’t live the rest based on more.”

  She stared in his eyes, then at their hands.

  “Well?” Galor asked.

  “Huh.” Belsara dropped her hand. “Where do you want your compost?”

  7

  Maneuvers

  Irin might not have been fond of travel or the macro world in general, but even he would not turn down the opportunity to be one of the first Alseans in space.

  Anjuli flew them to Blacksun Base in her personal transport, a plush vehicle with military-level defenses that came with her title. Their early arrival meant she could land right next to the Protectorate shuttle, cutting down the distance Irin had to walk and enabling him to board without an audience other than the warriors guarding the craft. He had little trouble getting up the outside ramp or down the aisle to the window seat she suggested, but sitting was difficult. These seats were not made for people whose legs did not bend properly. Anjuli helped him down, letting him hold on to her shoulders while she bent forward and lowered him.

  He relaxed onto the seat with an audible sigh and smiled up at her. “I forget how low normal chairs are.”

  “These aren’t normal chairs,” she joked. “They’re for very short Gaians.”

  He chuckled. “I doubt Chief Kameha has Protectorate shuttles designed just for him. And I’ve seen Dr. Rivers on the news. Most likely she has to duck her head coming through the doorway.”

  “You’ll be seeing that for yourself soon.” She accepted the canes he held out and carefully stored them in the cargo space overhead.

  “You look beautiful.”

  His admiration warmed her senses, no less strong today than it had been thirty-four cycles ago. She closed the cargo door with a satisfying snick of magnets and did a slow twirl in the aisle. “You approve? I wanted to wear a full cape, but we’ll be sitting for hanticks.”

  She had compromised with a half cape in the light blue of the builder caste, which complimented her brilliantly patterned orange-and-yellow dress. A wide, builder-blue belt cinched her waist and sparkled with a fringe of silver triangles that dangled from its bottom edge. The chest chain holding her cape in place bore the same decorative fringe, its free-moving bits of silver shifting and shining with every breath. Even her earcuff matched, though the triangles hanging from it were far smaller.

  “I approve very much,” he said in a growl that made her laugh. “Have I told you how proud I am of you?”

  “Not today.” She leaned against the seat in front of him, her bracelets chiming as she pushed up her sleeves. “Or yesterday, now that I think on it. Possibly it may have been a nineday.”

  “No, it can’t have been that long.” He looked around the shuttle, absorbing every detail. “From the day we bonded, I knew you’d take me places, but even I couldn’t imagine you’d take me into orbit.”

  “I think I took you into orbit quite a few times,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows for effect.

  She was fortunate that Irin was who he was. A lesser man would have allowed his temper to degrade along with his body. She had seen it often, back in the days when she worked directly with disabled clients. By contrast, Irin’s disease seemed to purify him, distilling out the weaker parts of his character and leaving behind a quiet strength and calm acceptance. He never railed at his fate, nor mourned the loss of sensation that sucked away his physical pleasure in joining. Instead, he savored her caresses to his upper body and took pride in his ability to “send her into orbit,” as he called it, which was how the phrase became their private joke.

  The pang of guilt pierced without warning. She had never told Irin about Shantu. Not because he would have begrudged her the opportunity to join with a whole, healthy man—on the contrary, he probably would have encouraged her—but because it would hurt him to know that his loss was her loss, too. She found enough pleasure in their joinings that her emotions did not betray her, even with full skin contact or in a Sharing. In truth, she missed the days when she could make him shiver.

  Then had come the Battle of Alsea. After all those war councils planning a battle they could not possibly win, after accepting her imminent death and that of her entire civilization, their survival felt like a miracle delivered straight from the hands of Fahla. When Shantu returned from battle glowing with victory and triumphant joy, Anjuli threw eight cycles of friendship out the window and took him to bed. In those heady moments of their first joining, which had been athletic beyond even her wildest fantasies, she gave no thought to her bondmate or his. She gave no thought to anything other than celebrating their lives, their victory, their miracle.

  Afterward, she could not give it up. Joining with Shantu, Sharing with him, seeing him as he allowed no one else to see him was a drug that ensnared her from the first taste. For more than a cycle, she lived a double life, hating the deception but unable to end it. Fahla was wise indeed to make Alseans empaths and not telepaths. Emotions required interpretation, and within that subjective space lay plenty of room to hide, even from someone who knew her as well as Irin.

  The deception ended in spite of her, in the worst possible way. She would never forgive Lancer Tal for killing Shantu. Yet at the same time, she felt a shameful relief. Shantu’s death meant that Irin would never be hurt, and for that she was grateful.

  But not to that woman. Never to her.

  She sat next to Irin and chatted with him about the upcoming launch, until the appointed time drew closer and the first member of their group arrived. Chief Kameha strolled up the ramp with his eyes glued to his reader card, somehow navigating the entry without bothering to look. Then he raised his head and saw them.

  The spike of anger startled her.

  “Prime Builder,” he said in his gruff voice. “I’d like a word with you.”

  She met him halfway up the aisle. “Is something wrong with the launch? Don’t tell me the spool malfunctioned.”

  “What? No, the spool is fine. Lhyn Rivers is not. Was my language chip malfunctioning? Or was it your ears?”

  She froze. He wasn’t supposed to know about that.

  “Well met, Chief,” Irin said from his seat. “I haven’t seen you in a few moons.”

  Kameha’s expression softened as he stepped past her. “Well met, Irin,” he said, leaning over the outside seat and offering a palm. “Glad you could come along for the ride.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it for all the shannel on Alsea.”

  “Neither would I. Sorry to greet and go, but I need to speak with your bondmate.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sure you have last-tick preparations.” Irin waved them away.

  Anjuli followed Kameha to the shuttle door and had barely stepped onto the ramp before he rounded on her.

  “I told you that couldn’t happen,” he snapped. “I told you I wanted Lhyn to have the first citizenship. You stuck a knife in her anyway.”

  The anger rolled off him, slamming against her senses, and she stumbled over her answer. “I did not—”

  “Don’t!” He fisted his hands at the sides of his head, then slapped them against his thighs. “Don’t lie to me! I just want to know why. Why would you do that?”

  “It wasn’t about you,” she tried to explain. “Or Dr. Rivers. Lancer Tal used both of you in a power play—”

  “Oh, for the love of flight! Do you even know her?”

  “Dr. Rivers?”

  “No! Lancer Tal!” His smooth forehead furrowed as he peered at her. “You see her in every High Council meeting and you’ve worked with her on the rebuilding, but you don’t know her at all, do you? How is it that an empath can’t take one look at her and see how much she loves Lhyn? Power play my hairy ass!”

  She recoiled, as much from the startling visual as from his anger, and he thrust his finger in her face.

  “You need to apologize to her.”

  “I am not going to apologize to Lancer—”