Magus Star Rising

All are good. Some just do not know it.

SPIRIT WORSHIP DICTUM

A Simple Maintenance Call

Behoola stared across the busy boulevard toward the grenia. The wild, rambling greenspace was a point of pride for the Honin-Zay’s wealthy neighborhood--a large, transplanted acreage of the natural world preserved here in Frenati City.

“It assuages their guilt, you know. Believe me, that’s all it’s there for. Oh, yes. I know what you were thinking.”

Behoola looked up at Tarvinder, the taller fem towering over Behoola by almost a head. Both women stood at the seconds’ entrance at the rear of the Honin-Zay mansion, the beautiful gardens of Claudia Honin-Zay at their backs. “You can be so cynical,” Behoola said. “Not all the high-born are such money-hungry demons.”

Tarvinder smiled an equally big smile. “Oh, I wasn’t talking about our employers! We only work for the best. Contact didn’t sully their reputations. They came by their money honestly. Don’t you know that?”

Both women laughed and hugged. “Thank you for stopping by,” Behoola said to her friend. “I know you were running an errand for your mistress, anyway but...”

“Thank you for making time to see me,” Tarvinder replied. “A Head Servant’s work is never done, is it?” Tarvinder grew serious then, touching the side of Behoola’s face. “You look tired. Please try to get some rest and stop worrying. I’m sure Marka’s assessment is right. Kazrah, though strange, is just a bodyguard and nothing more, and your mistress is just going through another of the many phases the bored high-borns get so worked up about.”

“Yes,” Behoola said. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Ah, there is my jit.” Tarvinder sighed and gave Behoola another hug. “Why can’t everyone be as sensible and rooted as we two? Bright star, child. See you soon.”

“Bright star, Tar. Thank you again.”

Behoola watched her friend get into the hover-jit, which then drove off. Closing and locking the rear gate and resetting the alarm system, she turned and walked back into the estate’s rear acreage.

She hurried along the garden path that led from the seconds’ entrance to the back of the house. She stepped nimbly on the cobbled walkway, breezing through rows of ubo trees, dome plants, fello shrubs, and rhododendrons. Thanks to the below-ground sprinkler system, flowers of all types, both native and off-world, bloomed brilliantly all around her. And the smell! The intoxicating floral aroma enveloped Behoola in a giant, natural aromatica. Youdak does her job well, Behoola thought approvingly. Although she did adhere to Mistress Honin-Zay’s own design.

She stopped for a moment, not only to admire the gardener’s and her employer’s handiwork, but also to rest. She was tired. She had arrived back at the estate very late the night before and what sleep she had gotten had been restless. Thoughts of her sister (not to mention the strange Terran!) had intruded every time she had begun to drop off to sleep and, even though Master Honin-Zay had been gone all morning, Behoola had found no time to take a nap. There was always so much work to be done and she had to coordinate all of it. It was all she could do to meet with Tarvinder.

Bosettes, the famous Voofran ‘singing flowers’, hummed softly as the wind blew through their vocal foliage. Miniature waterfalls and splashing fish ponds added their aquatic luster to the mix, all illuminated by soft-hued ground-level oil-globes which twinkled even in daylight at the path’s edging.

A blurring frenzy of feathers and diaphanous wings created a palette of moving color as birds and insects rummaged through their feeding ground. This is so lovely, Behoola thought, not for the first time. It is no wonder Mistress spends so much time out here. She realized she was losing herself to the garden’s spell. It was easy to do. Here, one could relax and escape from the pressure of the outside world. Mistress Honin-Zay had even managed to talk her husband into forbidding any camera-eyes to wander this part of the manicured acreage.

But despite Tarvinder’s urging, recent memory brought her up short. Her mistress had actually been spending less time in her garden the past several suns. Lately she seemed to find refuge in her sitting room and the library, her nose buried in a book or eyes glued to a vid, her hand always holding a quill as she took notes for some literary project. I wish I knew what bothered her and I pray the retreat will help as it’s done in the past.

Still, as she remembered the errand at hand, she knew her and her mistress’ problems would have to wait. Four bottles of Ecronian wine rested securely in her shoulder sack, wrapped in ice-cloth to keep them cool. She had retrieved them from the wine cellar located underground beneath the garden’s eastern corner. The Master is back so early, Behoola thought sourly. Except for the wine, he had almost caught me unprepared.

It was true. Master Honin-Zay had returned from another of his ‘outings’ shortly after mid-sun. He had not been in a good mood and had taken out his displeasure on his Head Servant with insults and tirades. Did your slag withhold her ‘gifts’ from you? Behoola had wanted to ask, wished she had the courage to ask. No matter. The wine would calm him, as it always did. He had certainly drunk enough of it lately, so much that his private stock was running dangerously low. Behoola only hoped he wouldn’t unleash his anger on any of the servants as he did on his wife.

Beast, Behoola thought. He too has changed. I remember when he doted on her and found the time to express at least a little kindness. Now, he sneaks off to his slag every chance he gets.

Shaking those thoughts from her mind, she mounted the stairs to the rear porch. She paused to look back at the garden one last time. With a sigh, she entered the back door, engaging the palm-lock to gain access. The camera-eyes floating overhead in the hallway studied her with mechanical indifference. She made sure she showed her face to the eyes and continued down the troyat wood hallway, her reflection looking up at her from the brilliantly polished floor.

All this... technology, she thought. Computers, camera-eyes, palm-locks, hover-jits, buzz-clubs. Has it really improved our lot? Has it helped Arshelle and others like her? Before Contact the Ancestors did without. Maybe the Inborns have a point.

She walked straightaway on the route that would lead to Master Honin-Zay’s den, whispering an order or two to the servants she passed, appraising each room with a critical eye. The interior layout of the house sat on an irregular grid, the hallways turning and branching off at odd angles and twists. In fact, Behoola passed the library twice, coming and going in opposite directions, the room’s only entrance visible on the other side by small, circular windows inset at eye-height.

Marcus Honin-Zay waited at the den door. He had taken off his formal robe, and stood in loose, casual pants, slippers and short, wide-sleeved shirt. A handsome man, he wore his hair in a newer male style--cropped short in the front with a series of braids trailing down his shoulders. Though starting to fill in around the middle, he still projected an aura of one accustomed to strict protocol obeisance. On top of that, Behoola noticed with dismay, he still wore an expression of extreme displeasure on his face. “Do you have the wine?” he asked.

“Yes, Master Honin-Zay.” Behoola kept her eyes averted as she handed Honin-Zay the shoulder sack. Honin-Zay turned abruptly and reentered the den. A moment later he called out, “Attend me, Head Servant. I need to talk to you.”

Surprised, Behoola entered the den. Her eyes quickly flitted around the room. She had been in the den many times. Like all the rooms of the house it too needed dusting and cleaning but the atmosphere it projected always seemed so... masculine to her. More than that. Masculine and... alien.

Again, conforming to contemporary Senitte fashion, the large room had been done over in an ancient Terran style. Dark wood paneling covered the walls with bookshelves rising from floor to ceiling. A thick, plush carpet the color of night completely covered the floor from wall-to-wall. The chairs, desk and couch were of Terran design and upholstered in a synthetic material once called, if she remembered right, leather. A fireplace bloomed with artificial flame in the corner while, a mounted uggit head, the only pretense to anything Senitte, hung on one wall. The desk held a computer and piles of papers and open books, ledgers and notebooks. One of the house’s ubiquitous ceiling fans spun slowly overhead.

“Yes, Master Honin-Zay?”

Honin-Zay opened one of the wine bottles and took a long, deep gulp. He set the bottle down on his desk and picked up his robe from the chair where he had tossed it.

“I’m going out again. I have some business to attend to.”

I’m sure you do, Behoola thought.

Honin-Zay looked at Behoola. “Is that disapproval I see on your face, Head Servant?”

Angry at herself for being so obvious, Behoola drew herself up and returned her employer’s gaze. “No, Master. I neither approve nor disapprove.”

Honin-Zay laughed. “How terribly you lie! And if it’s any of your business, my appointment is with a business associate.” He stopped then, rubbing his chin in an almost thoughtful gesture. His next words seemed more placating. “How long have you been with us now? What? Four cycles? Five?”

“Four, Master.”

Honin-Zay grunted. “Yes. Well, you’ve done well. My wife particularly appreciates your special talents.”

Behoola blinked. Compliments? This is not what she expected. There had been a time when Honin-Zay had been much freer with his generosity. He had even created the grand gesture or two. But not now. Not for a long time.

“And if she’s happy, so am I,” He continued with a thin smile. Behoola nodded and looked down again. Don’t push him, she thought. He hasn’t had enough wine yet.

As if to underscore that thought, Honin-Zay’s tone changed. “Your job is not to judge, Behoola,” he said, his features grim. “But to obey. Do you understand?”

Behoola nodded, her hands clenched tightly in front of her.

Honin-Zay turned towards the window. “Many aspects of my life, with my wife and without, have changed over the last many seasons,” he said slowly. “I don’t expect you to understand but Contact, for better or worse, hasn’t been everything it was supposed to be, even for the high-borns and, as a result, some of us do things that may not seem to be... proper.”

“Yes, Master.” Why was he telling her this? Did he want her approval?

He returned his gaze to her and nodded as if that explained everything. “So! I need you to do something for me,” Honin-Zay continued, apparently satisfied. “There’s something wrong with my computer system. I’m not able to access my files.” He picked up a small card from the top of his desk and handed it to Behoola. “Contact this person. He’s the one who sold me the system some time ago. Before you joined our household, in fact. Arrange for him to come to the house. He has done that once or twice before when problems have arisen so he’ll know what to do.”

Behoola quickly looked at the card. Simon Weller, Tech Hardware--Installation and Maintenance. Weller, a Terran name. “Yes, Master Honin-Zay,” she said with a bow, turned and left the room.

She stood at the top of the stairs, again wondering at the words Honin-Zay had said. Shaking her head, she looked at the card given to her. Simon Weller doesn’t have a vid-phone exchange, she noticed. Only a comm number. Hmmm! How refreshing.

She walked down to the first floor, went into the living room and punched in the number on the household comm-line.