Auxiliary's Revenge

Chapter 3 – Plans Gone Awry

Chapter 3 – Plans Gone Awry

Kajora walked down the hall of the Brewer family mansion, her uniform boots sinking silently into the carpet with each step. The hall was lined with portraits of the family's ancestors, and they went back centuries. It really was a fascinating structure from a historical and architectural standpoint, and the inquisitive part of her nature would have loved to study it. But duty came first, so she headed for her own guest room instead. There would be time after the war for self-indulgence.

She knew Jerry Harper's medical history better than anyone, and Ealdorman Brewer had invited her to move in so she could more easily monitor him. The room he had given her served as both a bedroom and as a sort of headquarters for her work. The household staff had brought her everything she requested. She was as impressed with them as she was with the house. Everything about the mansion was a far cry from her days of scrounging in Locus. She swore to herself for the millionth time that she would never take her new life for granted.

“Captain,” said a gruff voice from behind her.

Kajora stopped and turned. General Gardener was striding towards her. She waited for him to catch up. “Yes, sir?”

“I'd like to have a word with you in private.”

“My room is just right here, sir. We can talk in there if you like.”

“Good enough.”

He followed her into her room and locked the door behind him. He turned to face her and folded his arms across his chest. “All right, Captain. Tell me how he's doing.”

Kajora's face fell, and she sighed. “I'm afraid things are worse, sir.”

“You said last time that he had one to three years to live. Is that timeline still valid?”

“No, sir. He pushed himself too hard on his war patrol. I've taken samples and examined the numbers in every possible way. I get the same results every time.”

“And?”

“Jerry Harper's body is failing, sir. His organs are consuming themselves in what I can only conclude is a result of his electrokinesis. His bones have degraded, too, and they're not healing as I thought they would. He requires constant injections of nutrients and medicine. His nervous system has been damaged, and localized paralysis is a risk.”

“Prognosis?”

“He has six months to live, sir, at the maximum. And if he overexerts himself as he did on Sherin Ch'taia, then that number falls to three months. Maybe less. I'm doing everything I can for him. My efforts can keep him going and in something resembling fighting shape right up until he keels over dead.”

“Six months,” Gardener mused. “Three if he pushes himself.” He grunted. “He's a soldier in a war. He'll almost certainly end up pushing himself.” He sighed. “All right. We'll go with the three-months estimate and plan our strategy accordingly. As I've told you before, Captain, this information is classified. You are to report it to me and Auxiliary-General Coldstone only. You are not, under any circumstances, to tell Harper he'll be dead by mid-summer. As far as he knows, he's healing and will eventually be as good as new. Understand?”

“Understood, sir.”

“I don't like this any more than you do, Captain. I've always taken pride in the way I've valued the men under my command. I've never thought of them as disposable. Jerry Harper, though, is a unique case. His electrokinetic ability is a powerful weapon, and we simply can't afford to not use it, or even to use it sparingly for the sake of his health. There are too many lives at stake. We have to put him to work in the most effective way possible. I'll protect him as best I can, but I won't coddle him. I can't.”

“I know, sir.” Kajora swallowed. “Duty must come first. Jerry Harper is my friend, but he's also a patriot, and he would want you to put Homestead first.”

“Don't give up on him, though, Captain,” Gardener said in a softer tone. “Keep searching for new ways to help him. You're a genius. If anyone can find a way to prolong his life or even heal him, it's you.”

“I appreciate your confidence in me, sir. I'll do everything I can.”

“Good. Then that's all for now. We'll talk again later.” He exited the room.

The door shut behind him with a loud bang of finality, leaving Kajora in sudden silence. The room took on a stuffy feeling, as if the walls were closing in. There was a sensation of numbness, almost like dizziness, and she stumbled over to her bed and sat.

Jerry Harper had saved her life. She couldn't save his. It was unfair, and gut-wrenching, and a humiliating indictment of her intellectual prowess. Back on Cortex, after the Mentarch had cut her off, she had lived like a vagabond, full of rage and fear. Now that old mindset was returning. She was once again helpless in the face of overwhelming challenges. Her friend, the man she admired like an older brother, the man whose music made her spirit soar and whose courage made her heart swell, was dying, and she couldn't even tell him, much less save him.

She stared out the window at the skeletal trees of early winter. They looked the way she felt: bare, cold, and lifeless, stuck in one place and unable to do anything other than endure whatever came.

* * *

Irylia sat at her desk in her office in her small-arms factory. She zipped through the data on her monitor, checking production figures, delivery deadlines, shift schedules, and so on. Her few days in charge of the battleship project at the graving dock had been exciting, but she was glad to be back in her little shop. It was hers, not the government's, and that made it more special. She had liquidated her holdings on Skytower and sunk all the proceeds into her new company on Homestead, and the factory was a big part of that investment. It was her baby.

And as far as she could tell, her baby was doing quite well. Other than the sabotage scare a while back, there hadn't been any disruptions. Tier 3 Industries continued to crank out rifle magazines and Chevenite sword blades for the Homestead Volunteer Rifles. She suspected some of what she made was being shipped off-world to supply foreign militaries on other Commonwealth planets. That was just a guess, though, and Homestead's government was naturally tight-lipped about that sort of thing. It didn't really matter. She was doing her part for the war effort, and that was enough.

There was one concern, and that was the matter of s*x with her foreman. She hadn't planned on being exclusive with him—there were many sodbuster men around, and she had intended to liberally sample the local fare—but things had worked out weirdly. So far, John Riverside was the only man in Stonefell County she'd had s*x with. It was strange, almost as if she was adopting Agrarian notions of propriety.

She shuddered. It was a sobering thought. She'd have to go on the prowl soon just to remind her body that it was indeed Paragon. She loved her adopted world, but she wasn't about to go completely native.

She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of wine. Nothing like a label from home to remind her who she was. She removed the cap and took a long gulp.

There was a knock on the door.

Irylia wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Come in.”

John Riverside opened the door and entered.

“Hey, love. What's up?”

He frowned. “There's something going on outside.”

“What?”

“I'm not sure. Some kind of protest. You might want to call the sheriff.”

“The sheriff?” Irylia blinked. “Wait a minute. Why would anyone want to have a protest here?”

John grimaced and look away. “Well, it's... I mean, it's complicated...”

She gasped. “Oh, no! It's because of me, isn't it?”

He nodded, obviously embarrassed.

“Well. Hmm.” Irylia took another gulp of wine. “Well, I guess I could try to talk to them.”

“I don't think that's a good idea. Just call the sheriff and let him deal with it.”

“No. Sorry, love.” She stood and headed for the door. “I'm not going to hide in here like I'm guilty of something. I'm making stuff for the war effort! I'm doing my duty as a patriot here!” She wrenched open the door and strode towards the front of the building with John hurrying to keep up. “I'll just explain everything to them. I'll answer their questions. We can sort everything out.”

“I hope you're right,” John said, not sounding optimistic.

They made their way out the factory and across the grounds to the chain-link perimeter fence. A few guards in winter coats and hats stood near the fence, watching the crowd with nervous eyes and gripping their rifles tightly in gloved hands. A small crowd of Agrarians had gathered on the opposite side of the fence. Most seemed to be women, though there were a few men and children mixed in. They were chanting some slogan or other and pumping their fists in the air. When they saw Irylia, the chants turned to chaotic yelling and cursing and whistling. A few of the children began to cry.

Irylia stopped a few feet from the fence and raised her hands in an effort to shush them. “Let's all settle down, all right? Whatever the problem is, we can talk it over.”

They responded with a cacophony of shouts.

“Go back to Skytower!”

“She's a Paragon spy!”

“Death to traitors!”

“Paragons are s*x addicts! She'll steal all our men!”

“She'll wreck every marriage in the county!”

“She's probably using her Suasion on us!”

The prospect of Suasion inflamed the crowd further, and they began to push against the fence. Rocks began to fly over it in lazy arcs.

“Come on,” John said, taking her by the arm. “Let's get out of here.”

“Right,” Irylia said. A rock hit her on the head, and she cried out.

A man began to climb the fence.

“Get off the fence!” one of the guards yelled, aiming his rifle. “Get down or I'll shoot!”

The man kept climbing.

The guard fired, sending a plasma bolt burning its way through the man's chest. The man fell lifelessly from the fence, his charred body sending up a wisp of smoke and steam.

Several people screamed. Some began to run. Some fell to the ground and stayed there, paralyzed with fear. A few remained at the fence and pounded on it even harder than before.

Irylia stumbled back towards the factory with John's strong hands to help her along. She rubbed her head gingerly; a welt was already forming. She sniffed and wiped a tear from her eye. The rock had really hurt, but the real damage was to her feelings. After all she had done for the community—providing jobs for the locals, investing in other ventures on the planet, supporting the war effort—to be treated by her neighbors like that... it was a bitter turn of events. She couldn't remember having ever felt lower.

They made their way back inside and headed for the office. Once there, they shut themselves in and locked the door. Irylia called the sheriff, and then she collapsed into John's arms and wept.