Army of the Goddess: A Bona Dea Novel (Stormflies Book 2) (22 page)

Crossing his arms over his chest, Narone considered what bare information Sampson had supplied. “You suspect that the Prophets have evolved during their time on Bona Dea. In doing so, do you believe they have become superior? What do these new organs do?”

“I don't think evolved is the right word for it,” she floundered, her hands busy twitching in front of her as her mind sought out the reasons. “Evolution carries with it certain markers that don't exist here. It's like a normal human being just grew something that wasn't there before, something that isn't found in their DNA, but something that exists in each of them. It's more like a transplant. And I'm not sure what they do. One of them secretes an enzyme I've never seen before. You see my dilemma? It doesn't make sense.”

“I'm not going to pretend I understand what you're talking about. Please just give me your honest opinion of what you've found.”

Sampson breathed out loudly through flaring nostrils. “Commander, these people are old and they've been altered. I think it is very good that they are dying off because they shouldn't be alive in the first place.”

8
^th
Quadrember (Turnsday)

Axandra literally let her head bang upon her desk at the thought of looking at one more dreaded report about the casualties of the Stormfly attack. Sheets of names littered the lacquered, slightly scratched surface. Even more sheets of photos of unclaimed, unidentified dead accompanied the report, as well as many faces still missing. Every photo was captioned with estimated date of death and location where the body was found. Bruised, pale, blank faces, were devoid of substance like masks of newly kilned clay. Looking at them pained her heart and her head, and her eyes stung with dry tears, for she'd cried all her body would allow. She wanted to sink to the floor and become one with the stone and let herself become cold.

Quinn came in, pulled over a side chair and sat with her, a hand comfortingly upon her back. He had nothing to say, but he did not wish to leave her alone, not with the weight of the world upon her shoulders.

His eyes surveyed the foul messages, the pages of the dead, their faces washed of color, lips blue, eyes closed in unhealthy rest. Women, children, men, no two alike, nothing in common except that they were human beings whose lives were robbed by heartless parasites.

His heart dropped when he saw his face—at least a face like his. It could be only one person.

Pulling the sheet closer while his heart kicked up a rapid pace, he studied the face, hoping to find any feature that would discredit his assumption. He found only stark similarities.

The face of his brother, Holton.

As much as he detested his family, he never wished them harm. And seeing his brother's dead face reminded him of his own mortality, something he could put away most of the time. Holton was the first of the six to go beyond to meet their father on whatever plane a released human soul existed. The others would follow in good time, hopefully decades in the future.

Axandra plunged so deeply into guilt that she failed to take notice of his sudden distraction. She laid her head upon her folded arms and sobbed miserably against the desk blotter.

For now, he set aside his unease. Tomorrow, he could settle the matter with his family.

+++

9
^th
Quadrember, 308

Dear Rosemary, Canna, and family,

I am writing to inform you that we have located Holton Elgar Hannely. Unfortunately, the bus carrying Holton was abducted by the Stormflies and all of its passengers died from infestation by the parasites.

Holton's body is being transported to North Compass for cremation.

While we have not been able to share much time together since the marriage, I wish you to know that I consider each of you members of my own family, and I truly regret not having the opportunity to meet Holton before his death. I hope, in time, I will be able to meet each of Quinn's family members on amiable terms.

You are invited to visit us in Undun City at any time you wish. Please let me know when you wish to make the trip, and I will arrange private transportation and adapt my schedule appropriately.

My condolences for your loss.

Sincerely

Protectress Axandra Saugray

+++

10
^th
Quadrember (Moonsday)

“Welcome friends, family, and our Esteemed Matriarch,” stated Gregory Stockers with a wan upturned curve of his pale lips. He tilted a favoring nod in the Protectress' direction, acknowledging her appearance. “Thank you for joining us. Today, we remember Miri, our beloved daughter, sister, and devoted attendant. We are saddened greatly that she has been taken from this world prematurely and under such tragic circumstances.

“But instead of dwelling upon her death, we are here to celebrate Miri's life.”

Miri's father was a thin wisp of a man, tall yet lithe with blonde hair that seemed to glow with a heavenly aura. His long face still possessed a youthful smoothness except for a trace of crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, a credit to his jovial personality. In the carefully manicured garden of their family home, he faced his guests seated in loose rows of chairs on the green lawn. Beside him stood his wife, Miri's mother, and their older daughter. Behind him, a large framed photograph of Miri stood on an easel.

“My favorite memories of my daughter are…innumerable. Ever since she was a baby in my arms, her very presence filled my heart with joy. Her smile was an elixir whenever my heart felt sad. Just a week ago she came home to see us, and I had to tell her again how proud I was of her for the work she has done at the People's Hall. Ever so humbly, she countered that her work was no more important that anyone else's. I would like to invite anyone and everyone to share your favorite memoires of Miri. Even if you don't want to share with everyone here, share it with someone. Let's celebrate Miri.”

Those who knew Miri the longest began to form a queue to speak aloud. Others began to pass around mugs of ale to the guests. Axandra accepted a mug, though she rarely drank beer. The heavy mug felt cool in her hands and provided a common element between her and those around her. Because of her status, she felt separated from the other grievers. No one would stray too close to her. No one sat next to her. Quinn hadn't come only because he attended another memorial elsewhere in the city, celebrating the life of a long-time friend. The effervescent bubbles in the beer irritated her tongue and nose and the bitterness washed across her tongue like a reminders of how her life was once again wrecked like a storm-torn ship. She listened to the stories and allowed herself brief moments of enjoyment to hear about Miri's lifelong dedication to serving others without complaint.

Mr. Stockers made his way to her across the lawn. “Do you mind if I take a seat?” he asked at a low volume, careful not to disturb the current speaker. The queue diminished and soon those willing to put themselves on display would return to their seats or begin to mingle with the guests.

“Please,” she permitted.

He sat with his spine straight, elbows on his thighs, and laced fingers relaxed between his separated knees. His expression changed as he listened to the stories of his daughter. Clearly, he remembered many and these brought him solace for his loss. Other stories surprised him.

When the last of the speakers finished, Gregory turned to the Protectress and gently touched her arm. “Esteemed Matriarch, I want to try to express my gratitude to you and your mother for giving Miri a place to belong. She spoke highly of you and alluded to the fact that you promoted some promising changes. She wouldn't tell us too much, of course. She respected your privacy.”

“Thank you. I am grateful for Miri's dedication and expertise. But she wasn't just my aide. I considered her my friend.”

“She knew that,” Mr. Stockers assured.

Axandra's wan smile expressed her appreciation. “When I first arrived at the People's Hall, Miri was the first to greet me and the first to understand who I was and why I had come. She accepted me immediately and made me feel welcome. Everything she did from that moment on was in my best interest, even if I didn't know what that was myself. Thank you for inviting me.” She began to rise and offer a respectful bow.

“Please stay,” Gregory pleaded. He looked up with eyes that nearly stopped her heart. They looked just like Miri's eyes.

“I really…shouldn't,” she denied. Except for Mr. Stockers, the guests remained distant, both emotionally and literally. “I don't wish to disrupt your celebration anymore.”

Mr. Stockers began to protest, but he sensed the discomfort radiating toward the Protectress and her security detail. “I understand. I would like for you to visit us again soon. Leslie and I will invite you and your husband for a quiet dinner.”

“Thank you. I will gladly accept the invitation,” she promised with a sincere smile. She had only met Miri's parents one other time and she adored them. She would enjoy spending more time with them.

For now, she walked away, leaving the gathering to their remembrances.

+++

11
^th
Quadrember (Tinsday)

The Councilors disbanded further meetings of the week to get to work on the newest plans. Radio calls went out to work groups, individuals were called up to participate. Few reservations were spoken about taking part in attempting to annihilate another race of creatures. Perhaps the willingness to volunteer came from the fact that these parasites did not appear to come from this world, but from somewhere off-planet. The Stormflies didn't belong here nor were they welcome here. Leaders took immediate accountability for the work. Time was limited to prevent further fatalities. Within the week, the Council hoped at least one of the work groups would have something to offer. Until then, security forces were increased three-fold, as many volunteers as possible were supplied with stunners and detaining authority. Everyone was advised to remain in groups of at least two, so that the moment of possession might be observed, if not deterred. Unfortunately, the Stormflies were not deterred by much at this point. They moved as they desired, choosing victims as each current host passed on, some more quickly than others. Hundreds of people fell ill and nearly five hundred Stormflies were accounted for within the ailing members of the community. An undetermined number were at large. The mass feeding had begun. Most assuredly, the parasites would be able to decimate some villages in just a few weeks.

Evening came with the binary suns dropping below the jagged horizon west of Undun City. Night set in with a deep purple-black hue. Faint stars emerged in the deepening dim of the dusk and a thick splash of the Milky Way bisected the celestial sphere.

In her residence again Axandra stood on the balcony while the suns disappeared, staring across the eastern prairie, lips in a tight line as she admonished herself for giving Casper's crazy story any life in her imagination. She half expected his people to come to their rescue. Why else would he offer the truth? No one was coming. The Stormflies continued to abuse the humans.

And Casper could not be located. Ben reported to her that no one had seen him since their early morning conversation in the bunker, nor was he located at his apartment or at any inns or shelters in the city. She worried that he might be found dead, his aging body finally expiring.

At least she had kept the story to herself and behaved as though the people of Bona Dea were on their own—which in fact they were. She managed to do something right this time, but something only Quinn would know about. She wondered how often a person of such authority as hers succeeded in a choice unacknowledged by her constituents, unknown to the majority. A question with no written history to research, a solution she might only infer through her own experience. Not even a year at this job and this was the third time? Three per year multiplied by forty years of service. One hundred-twenty secrets. One hundred-twenty moments left unnoted. She hoped she lasted that long.

“Wine, Dearheart?” Quinn offered as he came behind her from the open French doors of their bedroom.

Accepting the violet-glazed ceramic chalice with her good left hand, she inhaled a whiff of the liquid's bouquet. Tart apples, honey, and spice “Yes, please. I've had enough of this week already, and it's only Tinsday.” The first taste bit her tongue, then a sweet, floral finish prevailed like a flower blooming instantly inside her mouth. She gulped down half the cup after the first sip and let out a satisfied sigh. “Thank you.”

“I figured a bit of mind numbing would help take the edge off the disappointment.”

“Is it that obvious?”

Quinn nodded succinctly.

“Part of me really wished Casper was telling some sort of truth,” she admitted. Of course, a visit by another foreign species would pose its own set of dilemmas but being rid of the Stormflies would be worth the headache. She downed the remaining liquor and signaled for a refill, which her husband obliged from the green glass bottle.

“That poor old man,” she went on. “At least he's happy. I'd hate to be crazy and unhappy.”

“That's a heart-warming sentiment,” Quinn chortled wryly.

“My heart is not warm right now. It's tired and cold.”

“Libations and sleep might warm it up,” he suggested.

“I hope so.” Axandra leaned upon the balustrade with her elbows and stared farther out into the night.

Everything appeared still and quiet from this vantage point. Axandra willed her mind to imitate her environment, to let go of her obsessive thoughts about Stormflies and death, to put aside her worries about what would happen tomorrow. She stared into the spreading darkness and inhaled deeply, relaxing her shoulders as she exhaled.

“Do you want to know something I've been thinking about?” Quinn inquired, easing his body close to her, mirroring her posture of leaning on the stone rail.

“Yes, as long as it doesn't have anything to do with tragedy.”

“Far from it. I know we've only been married for a few weeks, and we've known each other less than a year—wow, putting voice to those numbers makes me realize just how fast everything moves around here.” Straying from his original thought, his eyes wandered to the nearby tree where a nightlark belted out a song of hoots and whistles, claiming his territory and encouraging willing mates. In the dark, these nocturnal fliers had only their voices to accomplish the main purpose of life.

With the wine draping her brain in a pleasant haze, she reached over and ran her fingers through his delicate blonde hair. “Sometimes it is good to slow down.” As she said “down,” her finger provocatively traced the outer rim of his ear. “What were you saying?”

“I believe I was about to head down a slippery slope I didn't intend,” he sidetracked, veering away from his original purpose to entertain her lusty thoughts. “That wine is really doing the trick,” he noted.

“Yes, it is,” she agreed with a beaming smile. “If only it worked on those damned parasites. Get all the infected people drunk and see what happens.”

“Now that is an interesting thought,” Quinn said. “Very interesting. You didn't drink much while you were infected.”