Planetfall, p.21
Planetfall, page 21
Dexter turned to look at Adesina, and found her still staring vacantly into space with a trace of a smile tugging at the corner of the mouth.
"Are you alright?" Dexter asked.
"That was Kenhelm One-Arm," she said quietly, in almost a whisper.
"You know who that was?" he asked in surprise.
She turned slowly to look at him. "Of course. Kenhelm One-Arm was the first Marshal. He led our people through Guards Gap and into Hvar. It is where the word Marshal is derived from - the gathering together, guiding, shepherding and protecting of our people; and he did all this just after he had lost his right forearm in battle. His courage and skill at such time inspired our people to survive, and even now he is everything that an Ashur warrior strives to be."
She looked about the hall as the other guests left in the wake of the Marshals.
"Come, it is time to leave."
The three of them stood and joined the procession now leaving the hall, and as they passed the Ward Foyer, the raised voices of the Marshals could be heard clearly. Adesina led them on and up the stairs to the second floor.
"I'll bid you a good night then," she offered.
Dexter nodded, bowing slightly from the waist. "We thank you for a most . . . interesting evening."
Seeker nodded tiredly. "If I don't get to bed soon I'll be sleeping standing up, ghosts or no ghosts." she turned and disappeared down the corridor.
"Ghosts?" queried Adesina.
"Ah . . . er, that's our word for spirits."
"Oh, I see," she hesitated briefly, "I've got something for you, I won't be a moment."
"I'll wait."
"No, I'll bring it to your room, just leave the door open," she insisted, before turning and disappearing up the stairs to the third floor.
Dexter stood for a moment watching her back, and then shrugged and made his way down the corridor to the guest suite he was using. He went in, leaving the door slightly ajar, walked through the study and into the bedroom, where one of the servants had placed a jug of clean water next to the washstand. He poured some of the cold water into the bowl and washed his hands and face, the cold water tingling on his skin, but refreshing, nevertheless. He shook his hands and then pulled one of the towels out from the shelf below the basin, and dried his face. Then sat back upon the bed and dried his hands too. What an evening, he thought, and if he hadn't been there, he wouldn't have believed half of what had happened.
The faintest of knocks on his door interrupted his musings, so he stood up and walked through to the study, still carrying his towel. Adesina had just closed the door behind her, and looked up shyly as he entered.
"I noticed the bruising on your arms," she started, and then held out a small glazed clay jar, "so I've brought you something for them." She smiled carefully, and then walked through the study and into the bedroom, where she placed the jar on the side of the washstand and pulled out another towel. As she passed by, he caught a pleasant scent of flowers that lingered and encouraged. He turned and followed her.
She patted the bed. "If you sit here I'll help you," she smiled, her voice low and husky, her blue eyes deep and alluring.
Bemused by her beauty and entranced by her . . . everything, he sat where indicated and looped the wet towel around his neck, and grinned happily as he held out his arms. She knelt beside him on the bed, placed the jar on the towel and then as she held his right arm to examine his bruises, her left knee rubbed against his thigh, where it banged against his hidden pistol.
"Oh!"
"Ah, sorry," he apologised, "let me just lose that." He reached inside his pocket, extracted the weapon and then placed it safely beneath the pillow.
She took his arm again and ran her hand gently across the bruises, then opened her jar and scooped out a small amount of the ointment and carefully smeared it on his skin, before using both hands to gently massage it in.
The touch of her fingers excited him, while the pressure of her knee against his thigh awakened feelings that had lain dormant for a long time. He looked down on her head as she concentrated on his arm. Her long blonde hair spilling out across the dark velvet green of her dress, soft and enticing, wrapping round her neck to spill across her breasts. It was all he could do not to reach out and touch it, to let the long golden strands run through his fingers - and then they were. She stopped and looked up, smiling, her blue eyes wide and moist lips parted slightly. He ran his forefinger slowly down her left cheek, with her sun-tanned skin soft and smooth beneath his touch - so soft that his finger seemed to glide effortlessly, slipping beneath her chin and gently tipping her head back, while his own bent forward slowly, their faces but a hand's width apart, as he stared, captivated by her. His heart beat loudly in his ears and time seemed to slow as if it must wade through thick syrup, while his mind protested against the wisdom of his actions, of the repercussions he would suffer if UNSC ever found out. Another part of his mind pushed away the protests with a tide of adrenaline that seemed to start in his midriff, before welling up through his chest, to wash away all restraint from his mind and replace it with a simple urgent need.
His mouth met hers, awkwardly at first - as if she had never done this before, but then her lips parted in a hot rush of passion that burnt all caution, her eyes wide with surprise, his arms encircling her tightly while hers slipped beneath his and locked behind his back. Their second kiss soft, before their heat fuelled desire scorched them into a near frenzied surrender to their passion, lips pressed hard together, hands searching desperately in a near total loss of control, in the face of such a flood of pent-up need.
Then his conscience found a chink in his armour and slipped a new thought through to strike him. He pulled back from the embrace, almost gasping with shock as his heart thundered like a storm, her wet lips open and her eyes wide in surprise.
"Uh . . . " he gasped, as he tried to form the words, but had to fight to find them. "We cannot do this - must not . . . "
Her eyes registered shock and pain, and he instantly regretted speaking, cursing himself for his stupidity.
"Why?" her voice thick and hoarse with emotion. "Why not? Do you not - "
"No! Not that," he gasped, still short of breath and awash with emotions, "I cannot stay - not if we can repair our ship," he shook his head, "it is not fair to you, to start - and then to leave . . . "
Surprisingly she relaxed and hugged him tightly, her head pressed to his chest beneath his chin. Then she released him and looked up, her eyes soft and wet, glistening in the lamplight.
"Worrying not, I have known you must leave - all Captains must see their ships home again - I accept that, but I would not that you left without my desire," her gaze was crushing, her eyes pools he could but drown in, her breathless voice impossibly tiny.
"Please -"
Her appeal crushed his resistance and his emotions swamped him as they fell, entwined upon the bed, the glazed jar dislodged and forgotten and their clothes strewn with careless haste upon the floor. Their naked bodies writhing in steamy unison as unstoppable desire drove impatient hands - his to cup firm breasts and stroke cool thighs, while hers sought and held his hard heat, before joining, gasping, as one under a tide of reckless passion.
Altar
Thanos stood with his eyes shut, facing the early morning sun as it rose over Altar, his hands resting on the wooden rail of the balcony. He tipped his head back to let the rays warm his face pleasantly while the rounded top of the timber beneath his fingers still felt cool to the touch. He breathed in deeply and smelt the pungent and slightly humid breeze, which brought with it the scent of lush palms and dry sand, the potted ferns growing upon his balcony and the horses stabled in the yard below. The noise of the city, distant and muted, was nothing more than a familiar background hum and scarcely audible from here, where the second floor apartment faced east and overlooked the courtyard that serviced the block of dwellings where he lived. He opened his eyes and looked out over the rooftops of the city, right out to the great walls of Altar where they stood in the distance. Closer by and within the courtyard, palms rose gracefully in a clustered elegance, their fronds barely stirring in the light breeze, while other balconies jutted out from the buildings with coloured blinds already unrolled against the sun.
He looked down into the courtyard, his attention drawn by the sound of voices, one the familiar rumble of his manservant, Juist, who was talking to a new stable hand. Thanos studied the man briefly, making a mental note to talk to him about his horse, but then turned and stepped back into his study through the double doors of the balcony.
The room was a comfortable place measuring some eight paces by four, and furnished with a mixture of green and cream striped sofas, some potted fig trees, a heavy hardwood desk and chair, and two bookcases filled with leather clad volumes with well worn spines. The walls of the study were plastered and painted a pleasing yellow-beige colour, while the terracotta floor tiles were covered with an interesting selection of rugs. Opposite the balcony, which backed on to his bedroom, the wall displayed his collection of swords taken as trophies during his campaigns with the Legion.
He sat down at his desk, happy that the headaches of the past few days had cleared up overnight, and picked up the unwelcome scroll from the Emperor. It was, in a way, not unexpected, even if its contents could be called unusual, and an ironic smile twitched his face as he re-read the missive.
. . . and given your leading position as a fervent supporter
in the movement for change, we hereby suggest you take a
more active role in the development of these new and replacement
technologies.
Furthermore, we suggest that you demonstrate some practical
results within a season, and to this end give you authority to call
upon the aid of the engineers, in so far as they are able while still
meeting existing commitments . . .
Thanos's smile twisted further - a suggestion from the Emperor could only ever be considered an absolute requirement. And that, together with the permitted time would effectively block any real chance of attaining practical results, especially as the engineers would doubtless find their commitments ran well beyond a season. No doubt, this was the full intention of the Emperor, in keeping with his policy of sidelining him. First by sending him to the Senate to curtail his success and popularity in the Legion. Now in order to discredit and silence his political views - since they were at odds with the Emperor's own. Thanos shook his head in disgust, the whole point of the Senate was to act as a balance to an emperor's excess, but Xerxes wanted unfettered power, and such - in the hands of a madman - was not in the interest of Colmar. At present the Emperor controlled barely half of the Senate, with a further number of waverers holding the balance of power - a situation which could only deteriorate as Xerxes continued to undermine, suborn and remove the remaining true Colmarian Senators.
So, Thanos asked himself, what could he do? He had precious few days left with which to work, and in truth, even a full four seasons would be a short time to develop anything which might replace their existing technology. He could at best dabble around the edges - and in his anger, he slapped the scroll down upon the table - when what was needed was to reorganise the Legion and the Engineers, to cut away old prejudices and to remove the idiocy and preoccupation with the bloodlines of the past. It was easy for him to preach change - him with his half-blood breeding - yet others would hold to history even though most of Colmar's Legions were half-blood at best, and without change, Colmar would stagnate and fade.
He couldn't allow that.
Thanos pushed the scroll away from him and stared at his power lance and helmet where they lay upon the desktop. They hadn't been able to take those away from him, not when he was still on the Legion's reserve list, though no doubt Xerxes was scheming to that end too. Ironic as it might seem, the weapon may provide his only chance of meeting the Emperor's deadline, though how he will fair in making progress he does not know - ironic as the power lance was the bedrock and foundation of the empire.
He needed to find a way to control the lance without the helmet - the only known way to activate and fire it. And yet, it was another example of their technology's slide into oblivion as more and more of the helmets failed. Even so, he knew the helmet was still a part of the symbolism of Colmar, as was the power lance, and thus change would not be welcomed. Worse still, he knew that all their spare equipment had been used to support the needless Wine Wars, and if the Legion remained overseas to guard new territories, as was normal, then any failed helmets here could not be replaced. So, his hope was based solely on his feeling that he could sense his lance's setting while taking the helmet on and off. Could he extend his awareness until he no longer needed the helmet? He didn't know - he could but try.
Sitting here now, he couldn't sense anything.
He picked up the helmet and slowly lowered it onto his head, trying to extend his senses so that he would be aware of the weapon before wearing the headgear.
Nothing.
It was not until the exotech device nestled comfortably on his head that he became aware of its current status - deactivated.
Now he removed the helmet, slowly, trying to retain his awareness of the power lance's setting.
Nothing.
Well, he never thought it would be easy.
He tried it again, and again, varying the speed at which he put on or removed the helmet. He tried different levels of concentration and variations of speed. Nothing - except a powerful headache, caused by the unusual intensity of his mental focus.
If it took more than this to use a power lance, he would be dead before he could fire it!
Annoyed and frustrated he rose abruptly, to seek some of the cool juice that Juist always kept in the kitchen.
As he placed his glass upon the desk and settled back into his chair, he considered his past experience with the lance. On each occasion of early or late awareness of the weapon's controls, he had made no special effort to do such. So maybe his attempts using intense concentration will never succeed and he must find another way. He thought about the weapon itself, about what the ancients had created. He knew that the lance emitted some kind of a signal that broadcast the status of the weapon. But it also listened - or so the engineers had said - for the commands that operate it. The helmet received and transmitted these signals to the lance, and somehow allowed the wearer to know the weapon's status and to send commands to it.
Thanos thought about his earlier experiences, but he could not remember how he felt at the time, tired or full of energy, he didn't know. Perhaps he'd operated on a different mentally level of some kind, if he could just relax, might he be able to reproduce the results?
He relaxed himself and reached out easily for the helmet. He placed it on his head in what he thought was his usual way, while deliberately avoiding mental activity.
Deactivated.
Was that earlier? He wasn't sure. Now he removed the helmet, again, not trying to retain his sense of the weapon's status. This time he felt sure that the link with the weapon had been maintained for a short period once the headgear had come off - unless he'd imagined it. He must persevere, after all what child could learn to speak within a day? He could not expect total success overnight no matter how much he may desire it.
By midday however, his success was quite remarkable, he could sit with the helmet on his desk and sense the status of the weapon lying beside it. Furthermore, he could switch the weapon on and off.
Activated.
Deactivated.
He picked the weapon up and pointed it carefully at the end wall of the study.
Activated.
His problem now centred on the lack of the targeting point, which would normally be displayed on the inside of the helmet's visor. Without that, he had no means of controlling the weapon's accuracy except with his hands. He could only activate the weapon, vary the strength of discharge and fire it, although he has not yet tried to do so. He moved the power lance left and right but no targeting point appeared, and he suspected that without the helmet it never would. Thanos shook his head thoughtfully, as despite his astonishing progress it was a setback, for it would certainly limit the accuracy with which it could be used - especially over long distances, turning it into a short-range weapon without the finesse of its forebears. As for its use in long-range bombardment, where the power of many lances were combined, that might be lost altogether without the targeting point supplied by the helmet, although trials and training may prove otherwise.
He frowned, unwilling to try even the smallest discharge in his study while by no means sure of the results, and he still wished to keep the activities secret. His frown deepened. The apparent lesson from his achievements would be that change would beget change - and many would not like that. They would be even less happy with the reduced efficiency of the power lance, of the need to retrain the Legions, and the possibility that not all would be able to master such new techniques. He shook his head unhappily, for he knew that many would simply not admit the problem existed, despite the fact that the exotech helmets were failing, and that eventually they would be left with useless power lances.
He shook his head again, knowing he had made but a start.
Freeport havar
In the Great Hall Adesina watched her brother Rylan as he pushed his chair back from the high table, and stood as the mid-morning sunshine poured through the open windows on his left. He was again wearing his green jacket with the gold trimming although his face was drawn and grey from the pressures of the last few days. Strange, she thought, that at a time when she too should be concerned over events, she felt that every day was like a spring morning, filled with warm promise, yet still sparkling with dew, glistening like a thousand diamonds. Ah . . . am I still dreaming, she asked herself again, her heart beating faster as her mind wandered and unaware of the slight flush to her cheeks . . . for if I am, I never want to wake - unless it's at his side. How could three days change my life, she wondered, but they have, and why did touching lips feel so good - kissing he called it; so different from her own custom of rubbing noses. Yet, even as she rode her wave of pleasure, her mind poured forth an oily caution to sour sweet anticipation. What were the mist-warrior's words - to overseas resolutions seek - did that mean Ser Dexter would leave, and if he did, would he return? The words only said to seek, and mentioned nothing more . . . cold frost encroach upon her dreams, its icy tendrils piercing deep towards her heart, and she knew she must protect herself so she could bear the separation. But wait, hadn't he warned that this might end in such a manner? How could he know! Ah - has he desired before and knows the pain? Her heart clenched with desolate jealousy, her mind clouded, swamped with unfamiliar angst until Sir Dexter’s leg touched hers beneath the table and she basked in a sudden heat, her fears melting like snow before a summer's sun, her desire safe within his remembered embrace.
