Magus Star Rising

Those who conspire together, expire together.

MARSHALL BREMWORTH, BETA PICTORAN AMBASSADOR TO NEW TERRA

The Meeting

Behoola shivered. The warmth of the summer night notwithstanding, the cold seemed to emanate from inside her, clawing outward through her bones and skin. What am I doing? She asked herself yet again. Spirits protect me, have I gone mad?

“I’ve been given other instructions.” That’s what she had told Weller. But what were those instructions? A secret plan, a clandestine appointment, designs and machinations only found in conspiracy vids or in the deepest recesses of the Yharria! The caller from the hospice, Brother Ortega, hadn’t been specific, but Behoola felt as if she had become part of some sinister plot.

This situation was like nothing she had ever faced before. She considered calling Tarvinder but she didn’t want to involve her friend any deeper than she already had.

Behoola stood in the shadows of a giant Ubo tree, its huge, twisting trunk and low-lying, serpentine limbs sheltering her from any inquisitive eyes. Here, in Tresax Park, she waited, conscious of any passersby she saw, her hand nervously clenching her knife as her mind whirled in confusion. Despite the park being well-lit, Behoola found additional comfort in the Ubo’s giant size and overhanging branches.

So. The one she waited for just got out of a hover-jit. She noticed with some puzzlement that, besides a shoulder-pack, he also held a staff of some kind, not really using it but, instead, cradling it close to his side. “Master Weller,” Behoola said, forgetting her other problems and stepping onto the globelit walkway.

The Terran stopped for a moment and then walked quickly to her side. “Behoola,” Simon Weller said. “I got here as fast as I could. I had to return my rental and I had trouble getting a jit. Are you all right? I wish you would have allowed me to come with you. It might not have been safe.”

Behoola shook her head. “I grew up near here,” she said. “And I needed time to be by myself. To think. Please, let’s go. I’m anxious to get this over with.”

“All right. Let me get the jit...”

“No. Please. I would prefer to walk. I don’t think I can sit still just yet.”

Weller eyed her with a questioning look and then waved the jit on its way. “You know what happened the last time you wanted to walk somewhere,” he said mysteriously.

Behoola looked at him, wondering at the strange tone of his voice. He wore a slight smile, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “You were accosted by a madman.”

Behoola smiled, despite herself. “Yes. You were quite mad, weren’t you? But I’m filled with... with...”

“Nervous energy? I know just how you feel.”

The two walked in silence through the neighborhood, although Behoola’s mind was anything but quiet. Tresax was a small working-class community close to the garment district that mainly housed factory workers and their families, very much like the neighborhood Behoola had grown up in. The sidewalks on each side of the narrow cobblestone street were lined with miniature Terran palms and native flowers. The stone and thatch houses were small and of an old-style construction but well-kept and neat although some had been adorned with artificial lights and other decorations in celebration of the Magus Star.

People congregated on porches and stoops, talking in the elevated globelight. Some nodded at Behoola and Weller; others eyed the strangers inquisitively over mugs of wine or through a fine mist of blue smoke. At least in this neighborhood, it was not often one saw a Terran and a Senitte together.

Children ran in the street while tor-dogs and other small pets roamed freely. The small park at the end of the street was a favorite meeting spot and attracted visitors from other parts of the city. Surely, Behoola thought, there has never been such a meeting tonight as this.

“Slag. Klau-lover.”

Behoola glanced quickly to her right at the sound of those insults. Two male Senittes, garment workers probably, stood leaning against a fence, bottles of Terran beer in their meaty hands. They were both burly and strong-looking, dressed in loose off-duty clothes. Their faces, lit up in the street’s globelight, revealed them to be drunk.

Behoola noticed Weller had slowed to look also. She saw his body stiffen as he brought the staff around in front of him, holding it almost like a weapon. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Please. Don’t stop.”

“I understand a little Senitte,” he replied. “That wasn’t nothing.”

“They’re drunk. Beer has the same increased effect on Senittes as freza water has on you Terrans. A wonderful cultural exchange, don’t you think?”

Behoola looked back to see the two Senittes walking towards them. “What? Your own kind not good enough for you?” one of them said. “Slag!”

“Her own kind?” the other one laughed. “Look at her. She’s a halfer!”

“Bastards,” Weller muttered under his breath but Behoola saw he didn’t look back. She found she was shaking. And angry herself. Old prejudices and one’s reactions to them didn’t die easily. Yet she found Weller’s response interesting. He seemed genuinely upset. She risked a look at him and then quickly glanced away.

Thankfully, the two men didn’t follow them. Only their taunting laughter drifted through the night air. Perhaps we should have taken a jit, she thought with a sigh.

As if reading her mind, Weller said, “I don’t think we should walk back.”

Behoola nodded and then stopped. “This is it, I think,” she said. A small house, set back from the street, stood in front of them, its well-manicured yard surrounded by a meticulously trimmed fola hedge. A plasti-stone walkway curved from the street to the front door while the front of the house was illuminated by a decorative, elevated oil-globe.

“Yes,” agreed Weller. “This is the address.”

The two walked through the hedge entranceway, stepped up to the front door and rang the bell. After a moment, Brother Luis Ortega answered the door. “Come in,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Behoola’s first reaction as she entered the house was to the smell. The odor of the dwelling’s interior was like nothing she had ever experienced before. Not unpleasant but different--robust, heady almost, a combination, she reasoned, of some type of distinct food recently cooked, and the unique smell of the occupant himself.

It was then she realized she had never been in a Terran home before. In some respects, it didn’t’ seem all that different from what she was used to. These days, many Senittes had adopted the Terran style for their own so the carpet (though worn and frayed), the curtains (though faded), the chair and couch (though obviously second-hand) and bookshelves (though cheaply made) in the small living room almost seemed like a poorer yet still neat and clean version of Master Honin-Zay’s den.

Behoola knew the hospice brotherhood had money and that they paid their employees well. Why, then, did this particular brother live so simply? She filed those observations and questions in a corner of her mind for later perusal. Now was not the time to be distracted. It was all she could do to not think about her mistress.

Straight ahead, the hallway ran into the kitchen where a short-haired, plump woman in jeans and T-shirt rose from the table and approached them. Brother Ortega, dressed in shorts, sandals, and a casual short-sleeved shirt gestured for Behoola and Weller to have a seat. Here, without the hospice robe he always wore, Behoola realized he looked much younger, fit and trim, his white hair framing a thin face full of sharp points and angles. He turned slightly toward the woman behind him. “This is Sister Marsha Rusinovich of the Mercy Hospice,” he said. “She is a trusted friend and valuable staff member. And she is my confidante in this.”

Behoola noticed Marsha looked sideways at Ortega at this introduction. A glimmer of a smile played across the woman’s face.

“And this, Marsha,” Ortega continued, gesturing toward Behoola. “Is Behoola Chaut.”

Behoola nodded at the now completely smiling woman. She had met her before and remembered her as being helpful and kind. In some ways, it made Behoola feel more at ease knowing there were more than just Brother Ortega involved in this.

Turning again toward Ortega, she saw he stood there staring at Weller with a curious expression on his face. “And you are Simon Weller,” he said. “Mistress Chaut didn’t say anyone would be accompanying her tonight.”

“Master Weller is my confidante in this,” Behoola said quickly.

Ortega nodded. “We’ve met before.”

“Yes,” Weller said softly as he sat down on the couch. “The other night. You remembered my name.”

“I trust your back is better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Behoola sat on the other end of the couch. She looked from Ortega to Weller and back again. “I wanted Master Weller to be here with me,” she said. “He has an interest in this almost as great as my own and I believe he can help us.” Behoola glanced at Weller who, for a moment, looked nervous, even uncomfortable.

“I agreed to come,” he said slowly, looking pointedly at Ortega. “But I need to hear what you have in mind first before I commit myself. I want to help Selina, which is the name I know Arshelle by, as much as anyone, more maybe, but I need to know what’s going on.”

“And I need to know what this ‘interest’ is of yours before I go any further.”

“I’ve already told you. I’m an old friend of Selina’s.”

Ortega nodded. “Yes. I remember you said that too.”

Behoola shifted in her seat. “Brother Ortega. May we get on with this? Though, in truth, I don’t know Master Weller very well, I believe I can vouch for him. I firmly believe the Spirits had a hand in bringing us together. Surely there is a reason we are all her tonight. You mentioned there was some information about my sister that I needed to know and you said you had a plan?”

“Yes. My apologies. I didn’t mean to act so suspiciously. It’s just the information in question must remain confidential. Do you understand?”

“Would you both like something to drink?” Marsha suddenly interjected. “We’ve got beer, wine, and some fruit juice. Terran orange juice, as a matter of fact.”

As Marsha went back into the kitchen to get a beer for Weller and some water for Behoola, Ortega leaned forward in his chair. “First of all, Mistress Chaut, I want you to know we will find your sister. It’s true, I’m sorry to say, she did kill one of our staff. A volunteer. She will have to answer for that crime, whether it’s in a secular court or one of a higher plane, whether she’s in her right mind or not. And, I must tell you, the authorities were contacted.”

“But I thought you said...”

“A technicality. Because the crime was committed on hospice soil, it will take days, maybe weeks, before they move on this. There is a diplomatic piece which will cause the wheels of justice to grind very slowly, even more so than they usually do on Alpha-Seni.”

Weller snorted. “I can vouch for that although the Karda will probably post some extra patrols. There’s a lot more crazies running around now because of the Magus Star anyway so, at least, there’s that.”

“Yes, but what I propose is a parallel investigation, if you will.”

Behoola held up a hand. “Excuse me, please. How will we do this? How do we even know where to look?”

Ortega leaned back in his chair. “When you visited Arshelle in the hospice, did you stay very long, and did you talk to your sister, despite her condition?”

“Yes. To both. I often sat on the edge of her bed and just talked to her.”

“About what?”

“Everything. What I was doing. Who my friends were. My job.”

“And you, Mister Weller. Did you do the same?”

Weller shook his head. “You’re saying that despite her coma, Selina may not only have heard Behoola and me but understood us as well.”

“Yes. And I think she may have gone to look for you at some of the places you may have mentioned to her. It’s a distinct possibility.”

Behoola shook her head. “I don’t understand. You mean...”

“I don’t either!” Weller stood up and started pacing. “This is your plan? To stake out the places where you think Selina might show up?”

“There’s more...”

“There better be! I’m hoping, at least, you have a good idea where she is!”

No, thought Behoola. This is going wrong. “Master Weller. Please.”

Marsha reentered the living room with a tray of drinks. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry.” Weller sat back down but Behoola could see his agitation. She wasn’t far from that state herself. “This is all so unexpected.”

“Perhaps we should let Brother Ortega finish,” Behoola said softly.

Now it was Ortega’s turn to get up and pace. Behoola took the offered glass of water and waited. “Yes,” Ortega said. “Yes. I know. It doesn’t sound like much of a plan but there is more I must tell you. The information I mentioned. This is something that the Karda don’t know we have--a copy of the original.” He picked up a remote control lying on the coffee table and depressed a button on its black surface. A vid-player situated in a corner of the room opposite the couch flickered to life.

Behoola watched as a street scene visualized on the screen. “That is Dalma Street,” she said.

“Yes,” Ortega answered. “This is the security film from the hospice’s front entrance camera. Unfortunately, when the footage you’ll be watching was recorded, the monitoring crew were elsewhere and didn’t respond to it. The hospice was overwhelmed and understaffed that day else we may have prevented Arshelle’s escape. Watch. Please.”

Behoola watched as various staff members entered and exited the doorway to the hospice, exchanging pleasantries or complaints about their shift that night. And then, Brother Ortega came into view. He turned his back to the camera to look at the street. As he turned again to open the door, a woman exited the hospice. There was a very brief exchange between the two and the woman then walked down the steps into the street. Behoola saw her face clearly and had no idea who she was. Another staff member, no doubt.

“That woman was Arshelle,” Ortega said flatly.

Behoola started to protest. Impossible, she was about to say. That woman looked nothing like her sister. But before she could even open her mouth, the hospice nurse continued. “Keep watching, please. Marsha and I were able to edit the film from the security camera in Arshelle’s room with this footage, Marsha having experience in that process. I believe you will find what you see next very interesting. But, I warn you, it is disturbing.”

Behoola settled back down to watch. Inexplicably, she felt a fluttering in her chest. Her mouth suddenly went dry. The film continued with an abrupt shift to the interior of Arshelle’s room. Her sister thrashed in bed, struggling against her restraints. With an effort Behoola could only describe as unnatural, her thin, sickly, weakened sister broke the restraints as if they were made of dough.

“What the hell?” Behoola ignored Weller’s surprised comment as a gasp of disbelief filled her own mouth. She continued watching as if spellbound. Arshelle lay in bed, breathing heavily as if the effort to break her bonds had exhausted her. But then the door opened and a woman walked in. The camera angle was such that her face was plainly exposed. It was the woman they had just watch exit the hospice and exchange Brother Ortega in conversation.

“Keep in mind,” Ortega said then, causing her to blink. “This section was filmed before the first part.”

As the woman in the film closed the door and approached the bed, she saw too late the restraints had been broken. Arshelle leaped from the bed like a wild animal, grabbing the vase of flowers on the bedside table and smashing it into pieces on the floor. She rushed the nurse. Winding one arm around the woman’s waist and one around her mouth and shoulder, she pulled the struggling woman out of range of the camera. But only briefly. A moment later, the woman’s body flew back against the footboard of the bed and crumpled to the floor. Arshelle, like a bird of prey, fell upon the woman, a sharp object in her hand. Once, twice, the jagged piece of broken vase came down upon the back of the victim.

Behoola stifled a scream, her body trembling.

“You can’t stop now,” Ortega said, not without compassion. “You must see what happens next. You must!”

Arshelle stripped off her gown. Her thin, naked body, nevertheless, looked strong and supple. She took the clothes and jewelry of the unfortunate woman and, before donning them herself, rolled the woman over on her back and put both hands upon the victim’s chest. With her head bowed and long, stringy hair hanging loose, Arshelle began rocking back and forth, a low moaning filling the room.

Behoola’s mouth dropped open. Arshelle’s body began to change. Slowly, subtlety, her body filled out, becoming smoother, more rounded. Her hair became longer and wavier. As she raised her head in animalistic passion, Behoola saw her face wasn’t that of her sister’s anymore.

It was the face of the dead woman.

Arshelle stopped then, resting a moment as if that activity too had tired her. She then donned the rest of the woman’s clothing and jewelry and left the room.

“By the Third God,” Weller whispered.

A darkness enveloped Behoola, not of the physical world but of the soul, stealing over her like a shroud. She felt like she was falling. “A bau-bau,” she said, almost to herself.

“A shapeshifter?” Weller looked at her, his eyes glazed.

“You’ve seen it,” Ortega said. “Can you doubt what you’ve witnessed with your own eyes.”

“Still, how...?”

“The Magus Star.” Behoola looked at the opposite wall. “It’s the madness, the changing power of the Magus Star.”

Ortega turned off the vid-player and faced his guests. “I’m no scientist and most of this is just conjecture but I believe some latent gene in Arshelle’s physiological makeup may have been activated by whatever put her in the hospice in the first place.”

“A Turning Ritual,” Weller mumbled. “That’s what happened to her.”

“Ah.”

“The ritual failed.” Weller closed his eyes as if he remembered some secret pain. “Selina became what the Senittes call fenta.”

Ortega nodded. “Roughly translated--rogue.”

“Yes, yes. They use drugs. Sometimes they’re designer or custom-made, sometimes off-world chemicals obtained through the black market, sometimes combinations of both. It’s rarely the natural herbs and medicinals the ancient Senittes were supposed to have used. But, then again, it’s rarely a true honest-to-God ceremony that’s performed anymore. Most of the Turning Rituals are all fakes. Scams.”

“Of course they are.” Ortega nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps non-indigenous drugs could have had that effect depending on the situation itself. A very powerful and severe shock to the system may have awakened some heretofore buried ability the ancient Senittes once empowered. The situation would have to have been just right; all the variables involved would have to have been in conjunction.”

“It’s not unprecedented,” Marsha interjected. “Similar incidents have happened on other worlds. Dengus IV, the aboriginal mutation outbreak of 2341; Jarta’s World, the pre-Contact plague syndrome. All had something to do with racial consciousness and suppressed evolution.”

“No real permanent studies have been done on the Senitte culture per se,” Ortega continued. “Which has always been a frustration of mine. Consider the Magus Star itself. We’re not even sure if it’s a star or comet! No expeditions have ever been mounted to find out.”

Ortega looked down, hands on his hips. “You know as well as I this world is, for the most part, a layover spot in the Rim World Conglomerate, not even deemed transitional. God forbid the Galactic Nexia would weigh in, considering this far beneath their purview.

“But some of the local histories, if you’re dogged enough to sort through them, tell of the Ancients, the pre-pre-pre-Contact Senittes, as being very adaptive to any type of situation or environment, perhaps giving an evolutionary rise to a ‘shifting’ gene.”

“Arshelle is half Terran,” Behoola said, almost to herself. She held her hands tightly in front of her to keep them from shaking. “That, in itself, could have triggered this ability you speak of. I know we both contracted the usual Senitte childhood diseases more than once with more severity than most children of our world. I’ve heard other stories from other halfers. We are of two worlds but belong in neither. Sometimes our bodies would remind of us of that.”

“For now, the reason of it all is not the most important thing.” Ortega sat back down, his eyes ablaze with some inner light. “Whatever the reason, Arshelle is out there and she is dangerous. I think she will use the victim’s identity to get food and reorient herself until she decides to come to you, Mistress Chaut.”

“This is impossible,” Weller said, getting to his feet. “I’ve read stories and seen vids where bau-baus were the featured monster but those are just myths!”

“All of which,” Ortega said, “have a basis in fact.”

Weller shook his head. “Right. But I wonder if we’re already too late.”

“What do you mean?”

Weller’s eyes took on a far-away look. He seemed to be trying to formulate what he would say next as if the words had to be perfect. “Yesterday, when I arrived at the estate house, I thought I saw Selina walking in the grenia. But when I approached her, it wasn’t her at all. I figured it was my imagination, the fact that I was tired and a little burned out.”

Behoola saw Ortega and Marsha exchange glances.

“I remember now that the face of the woman I confronted was that of a Seraen. But...”

Behoola leaned forward. “But what?”

“It didn’t strike me then but I remember now, the woman seemed like she was drunk and her face was somehow not, I don’t know, completely formed or something. Her features were smooth and unlined but unnaturally, as if made of clay.”

“My mistress may be in danger,” Behoola said. “We should call the Karda.”

“No. Not yet.” Weller started for the door. “If the Karda were involved, they might shoot indiscriminately. They’ve been known to do that. Yes, Selina is a danger but if we can help her rather than kill her, we have to try.”

“Of course!” Behoola exclaimed. “I don’t want Arshelle to be killed either. I only thought...”

“Yes. I know.” Weller stopped, taking a deep breath. “I have an appointment tonight with your mistress, Behoola. It’s one I have to keep anyway, but maybe I can scope out anything that may be going on. You did say this was your plan anyway, right, Brother Ortega?”

“An appointment?” Behoola asked, puzzled.

“Yes. I’ve been working for Claudia Honin-Zay the past few days, following her husband to find out what he’s been doing in his spare time, if you know what I mean.”

Behoola frowned. “You mean his whore? My mistress already knows her husband has a whore in the Yharria.”

Weller stared at her. “She knows?”

“Yes. The entire household knows. It is no secret. But your meeting with her this-moon would certainly explain why she gave all the servants the moon off.”

Marsha spoke, her tone wary. “This is getting way too complicated. Maybe we should back off. I think calling the Karda is a good idea, regardless. They’ve seen this vid; they know the danger.”

Ortega shook his head. “I don’t know. What Weller says is true. We four and Director Namaguchi are the only other ones who know what really happened. It’s being kept under wraps from even the rest of the hospice personnel until...”

“Damn these political maneuverings!” Marsha shouted. “We should at least warn the Honin-Zay household!”

“Why would she hire me if she already knew?” Weller suddenly seemed lost, standing at the door, his eyes unfocused. Then, “What about Kazrah? The bodyguard? What do you know about him?”

“He is not to be trusted, it that’s what you mean,” Behoola said. “Why?”

“I’ll explain later. Listen. Call the Karda then. But give me an hour or so first. Let me keep this appointment and see what’s going on before the cavalry comes rushing in.”

“Marsha can contact the Karda,” Ortega said. “I’ll come with you.”

“Listen to you two!” Marsha cried. “This isn’t some vid-adventure you’re running off to!”

“No,” Behoola said. “I agree. There’s no time for anything else. But I will come with you too. I need to see for myself what Arshelle has become.”