Magus Star Rising

Without family, there is no constancy.

Without constancy, the Way is lost.

THE SCROLLS OF VANERA

Going Home

Behoola paced her bedroom floor, anxious and shivering. She pulled her robe closer about her and, one more time, went impatiently to her window and looked out. Here, on the ground floor at the rear of the Honin-Zay house, she could see through the bordering tree and hedge line that grew up and around the estate’s privacy wall. The lights of Frenati City beckoned in the distance.

It was late, a little past mid-moon. She had gone to bed right after cleaning the kitchen, weary and ready for sleep. But images of Arshelle kept intruding, pushing their way to the surface of her thoughts. Behoola’s sudden, painful reminder earlier had stirred up a crush of memories and guilt. It has been so long, she thought. At least two moons. “Arshelle,” she whispered, staring out the window. Then in an abrupt moment of silent decision, she nodded and turned toward her closet.

She threw off her robe and quickly dressed in her private, off-duty clothes. Quickly and quietly she exited the servant’s section of the house, locked the door behind her and headed down the cobbled causeway for the gate.

Verot, one of the Honin-Zays’ personal guards talked briefly with Behoola. He expressed little surprise at this late hour; his main concern being Behoola going out alone. Though it had been some time, Behoola had done this before and, just like those other times, she fabricated a reason for her nocturnal wanderings. This time a sick friend needed her, which, in a way, was true.

“Do you never take any time for yourself, Behoola?” Verot asked, shaking his head. “You’re always doing for others but never for yourself.”

Behoola smiled patiently and waved a dismissive hand. She had known Verot, like Marka, since starting at the Honin-Zays. Unlike the master chef, Verot was much older and had a somewhat paternal interest in her. His comments were meant to be kind and helpful but they were an old and tired argument to Behoola.

“This I do for myself also,” she said softly. Sighing heavily, Verot walked back into the guard house, used a comm to call her a hover-jit and arranged an escort to await her at her destination.

“At least take this,” he said upon his return. He held a buzz-pistol out to Behoola.

Behoola hesitated, then reluctantly took the weapon, more to appease her friend than for any desire of extra protection. She placed the pistol in her smock pocket and walked to the curb, feeling as if a giant stone lay wrapped within her cloak. She knew how to use the pistol but had never been comfortable with such weapons and had never had cause to use them anyway.

She stood at the front of the house, her figure caught in the glow of an elevated oil-globe. Pulling her hood up, she looked patiently down both sides of the street, nearly empty and quiet at this time of the night. In a matter of moments, the hover-jit appeared, collected her and Behoola was headed for the city.

I will be so tired in the morning, she thought as she leaned back in the comfortable, cushioned seat. And yet, she reasoned, she really didn’t have to get up at her usual time. Master Honin-Zay had returned from Mediett relatively early and, after a pretense of caring about what had happened in his absence, had left again. Even though the mistress was absent, he still kept up a modicum of decorum though he would, no doubt, be very, very late in getting back from this particular sojourn. Behoola had some time. Normally, Master Honin-Zay went straight to bed after such an outing, not wanting any witnesses or undue attention on his return.

The jit zipped through the well-established older neighborhood of the Honin-Zays. Past the natural greenspace or ‘grenia’ across the boulevard from her employer’ house, both sides of the brightly-lit street were lined with fences and guard houses, privacy walls and giant, stone archways. Mansions and estate houses hid behind those sentient-made barriers, their high-born inhabitants, like the Honin-Zays, safe and secure in their wealth.

Behoola wondered how much of that wealth had been acquired since Contact. Some of the high-born hadn’t been born to their fortunes as the Honin-Zays were, but had gotten rich from off-world trade, dealing in specialty products and new technologies. In many ways Alpha-Seni had become a boom world and, as such, had attracted what the Terrans termed a ‘gold-rush’ mentality.

Which contrasted with what Behoola thought of as her own modest upbringing and what turned out to be the not-so-simple dreams she once had as a child. Well, I haven’t done too badly for a halfer though it’s not quite what I envisioned, she thought, looking out the jit window. Or Arshelle...

The Seraen driver half-turned in his seat. “Destination, gentle fem?” he said softly. Behoola blinked. She hadn’t told him where she wanted to go.

“Dalma street, garment district, Mercy Hospice.” The Seraen nodded, his black, low-browed face sprinkled with small yellow freckles, his long hair tied back in a tail. He reached a three-fingered hand to the night-goggles he wore, adjusted them slightly and then went back to the business of driving.

Another ‘benefit’ of Contact, Behoola thought. The hover-jits, sleek tube-shaped, glass and plasti-steel-constructed vehicles, had only existed on Alpha-Seni since the so-called civilized worlds had begun to influence Behoola’s planet. Only one hundred and eighty cycles ago but the hover-technology, in various guises, proliferated as no other. And the refugee Seraens, with their quick reflexes and love of flying, were quick to monopolize the paid-driving market on this brave new world. Especially in the bigger cities.

Frenati City loomed ahead, its alternately bulbous yet elegant architecture swallowing them up into its brightly-lit interior. They crossed the Yabu Bridge and, within a very short time, entered the garment district.

Behoola stared out the window. “Stop here,” she said suddenly.

The driver obliged, pulling the jit over to the sidewalk. “Dalma Street still two blocks away, gentle fem.”

“I know,” Behoola said as she handed the driver a credit disc. “I want to walk.” She got out of the hover-jit and stood for a moment, taking in the sights around her. Clothing warehouses lined the street across from where she stood; small textile mills lay nestled beyond those. Behind her, a bar and restaurant catering mainly to the garment workers were only the first of a string of such establishments that ran the length of the street. Behoola smiled at the familiar sights. After all, she had grown up here.

She started walking. The streets were not too crowded at this hour. A few late-shift workers, some beggars, the usual bar-crawling crowd. Steam drifted up from open grates in the street, elevated oil-globes cast a yellow glow. Music and laughter peppered the air. Behoola walked quickly but with no fear. She knew this area reasonably well although she hadn’t lived here since well before she began working for the Honin-Zays. The garment district seemed relatively safe even after all these cycles.

Plus, she still visited the area regularly, whenever she could, sending a portion of her earnings to the Mercy Hospice. If she didn’t do at least that much, who then would help Arshelle? There was no one now since her parents had both passed beyond the Veil.

It was up to her. Another pang of guilt struck her. I will never let this much time pass again, she promised herself. Great Spirits forgive me.

A ground-car passed her, its driver craning his neck to look at her. A warning sensation tingled between Behoola’s shoulder blades. She stopped as the car pulled to the empty curb in front of her. A man slowly got out of the driver’s side and stood in the checkered light. He wore simple working clothes but his movements were oddly clumsy, like a Terran. A shade-hat shielded his face though why he should be wearing one at night was a mystery. Behoola stared, suddenly nervous.

So? She shook her head, chastised herself for being so jumpy and continued walking, favoring the far end of the sidewalk. It had been a while since she had been here and she wanted to take in the atmosphere, revive some old memories. There were a few people on the street, the doors to the bars were open; no one would bother her. But something made her take another wary glance at the man.

Like a raptor, he had moved alarmingly closer, practically on top of her. Behoola got a glimpse of a wild-eyed face, haggard and grim in the globelight. She had a sudden, momentary impression that he walked with a limp. Before she could defend herself or even cry out, the man took hold of both her arms and steered her up against the wall of the building.

His grip was firm yet surprisingly gentle. He seemed out of breath, almost crazed-looking. A faint smell of tobacco emanated from him. “Selina. By the Third God, it is you. I... I thought you were dead.”

Behoola froze. Selina...

“It is you, isn’t it?” The man was indeed an Terran, his voice ragged and desperate-sounding. His eyes bored into hers. “I never thought I’d see you again. How...?”

“You have made a mistake, gentle sir,” Behoola said, finally, speaking flawless Terran Standard. Her muscles had tensed and it was impossible to get into her pocket where the buzz-pistol lay. But despite the man’s hold on her, her right hand had found the handle of her knife. With that small reassurance, she spoke in a formal manner, like her mistress, to show that she was not afraid and was more than just a casual visitor to the area. “You have confused me with someone else.”

“What?” He loosened his hold and fell back a step. Not so much a limp, Behoola could see now, but an injury perhaps?

“You are hurt,” Behoola said, tightening her grip on the knife. Another couple walked by, throwing them curious looks. Again, she felt confident she could raise an alarm and someone would respond quickly. Now that she had a better look at him, the Terran seemed more confused than dangerous.

At her statement, he reached one hand behind him to touch his lower back and visibly winced. “No, I...,”

“I am not who you think I am,” she reiterated, taking advantage of his hesitation. “My name is not Selina.”

The man took his hat off and rubbed his hand over his short-cropped hair. She paused in her observance of him. For a Terran of his probable middle-age, he was not completely unattractive. But his looks were... haunted. Yes, that was the word. “Right,” he said softly. “I can see that now. It’s amazing. You look so much like her. You could be her... no, no, you don’t have an accent and Selina never mentioned...”

Behoola took a couple of steps away from the wall and started to slowly back up the way she had been walking. “You need to get some help for your back, gentle sir. There is a clinic at the next block. They will be able to assist you.”

“Yes, yes. Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Behoola turned then and began walking briskly, transferring her grip to the pistol. She risked one look back. The Terran stood where she had left him, staring at her retreating back. Selina, she thought. He called me Selina. Probably one of her former ‘customers’.

She didn’t look back again. She walked purposefully, eyes straight ahead, turning right at Dalma Street. The spot between her shoulders still tingled, but she continued unabated until she reached the steps of the Mercy Hospice.

A large building of Old-Style Senitte design, the hospice had recently been remodeled from its original native architecture. Its facade now resembled some Terran construction. Rounded columns and bas-relief triptychs adorned its exterior. Huge, carved wooden doors awaited at the end of a wide staircase. With a start, Behoola noticed the clinic she had referred the Terran to was situated next door. They must have moved... she thought in surprise.

Only then did she turn around and look back the way she had come.

There was a sudden exodus of customers from one or two of the bars. More people mingled on the sidewalks in this area, no doubt a shift change at one of the textile mills contributed to the extra bodies as well. It was hard to tell but it looked like the Terran had come to his senses and left. How had he picked Behoola out? Randomly or had he been following her?

Emotions warred within Behoola. In a distant corner of her mind, despite what had just happened and the closeness of the clinic, she hoped the Terran would seek medical help. But she felt strange, as if she floated in a dream. Selina, she thought again, revising her earlier guess of who the man might be. Great Spirits, was it him?

She jumped as another man suddenly appeared at her side. “Behoola Chaut?” he asked. This one was dressed in the red and orange uniform and turban of an official escort, one which she had requested. A buzz-club was tucked in his sash.

“Yes,” she breathed, her heart racing.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I expected you to arrive here in a hover-jit. I was beginning to worry.”

“I’m sorry. Would you please wait for me here? I won’t be long.”

She raced up the steps and pushed the buzzer at the front door of the hospice. One of the attendant/nurses answered the door; the white head wrap, long-sleeved, floor-length robe and white slippers gave him the appearance of a spirit. He was a Terran. Most of the Brothers and Sisters of Mercy were Terran, its people running the hospices in various parts of the fringe districts. A Contact influence again, Behoola thought. Yet what would I have done with Arshelle without them?

“Yes, sister?” the attendant/nurse asked in broken Senitte. This one seemed familiar, older, tall, thin, dark-skinned with short, white hair, and very serious-looking. He wore a bandage across one side of his face. “How can I help you?” Before Behoola could reply, his dark features rippled with recognition. His next words were in Terran. “Ah, Mistress Chaut, yes? Come in, please. It has been a while.”

Mistress? Behoola hands fluttered nervously. She wasn’t used to being addressed so formally. “Thank you, brother. Is it too late?”

The attendant/nurse smiled thinly. “No, not at all. We’ve just checked in on Arshelle. She’s fine. If you’ll just sign the visitors’ register and come with me.”

Behoola made perfunctory small talk with the attendant/nurse as he led her down the long, wooden hallway. Behoola thought now that she had met him before. She hated to admit it, but the brothers and sisters of Mercy all looked so similar in their style of dress. Ironically, she knew most off-worlders thought the same of Senittes.

They climbed one flight of stairs to the second floor where they stopped at the closed door to the first room. An orderly, sitting at a small writing desk outside the room, looked up and nodded. For a moment, Behoola wondered again why no camera-eyes were employed in the main parts of the hospice. Maybe they, like me, don’t put their trust in all new technology, she thought. I like that.

The attendant/nurse bowed stiffly to Behoola. It looked like he, too, was having a back problem. Are all Terrans so afflicted? Behoola thought wearily. “Upon our director’s order,” he said. “We’ve assigned a permanent guard to Arshelle’s room, just in case.”

A permanent guard? “Has she gotten violent?” Behoola watched the attendant/nurse gingerly touch his cheek. An orderly always accompanied her into Arshelle’s room, in any case, and, of course, there were the room cameras. Behoola knew that somewhere in the hospice, someone was always remotely watching the more difficult patients.

“Just an isolated incident,” the answer came, much too quickly. “A medication mistake mixed in with a rare mechanical failure. It won’t happen again.” He bowed again. “I am Brother Ortega. Call me if you need anything,” he said. “And stay as long as you wish.”

Behoola thanked him. Arshelle must have tried to escape again. There had been more than one ‘medication mistake’ recently.

Taking a deep breath, she cautiously waited for the orderly to open the door. An aromatica burned within but even it couldn’t completely cover the faint smell of urine and sickness that assailed her. She gasped at the sight within though she knew what she would see. Revealed by a few candles placed around the room, Arshelle lay on a bed, her dark-shadowed eyes vacant and staring, a drop of drool bubbled at the corner of her half-open mouth. Leather straps restrained her arms and, Behoola knew, beneath the blanket, her legs were likewise anchored.

Behoola’s eyes burned. She moved quickly to the side of the bed. Forgotten was the orderly who took up a standing position at the door, his hand resting lightly on a belted buzz-club. All her attention now focused squarely on the woman in the bed.

Behoola sat down and lightly touched the side of Arshelle’s face. The tears flowed uncontrollably down the Head Servant’s cheek. Still, the incident outside with the rumpled Terran would not leave her memory. Arshelle’s chosen Terran name was Selina, she thought. And she spoke of her Terran lover.

“Arshelle,” she whispered, her voice breaking. The pitiful figure on the bed stirred, the eyes tried to focus. Would it be better just to let her pass over through the Veil? she asked herself again. Would it? “It’s me, Hooly, your sister. Your twin.”