Penny

The Sinful Stars

Annika opened her mouth to tell Orion that she didn’t know how to use a flight suit but before she could do so one of the pilots shouted a startled oath and there was a sudden tremendous blast of wind and sound. Annika screamed as there was a confused sensation of light and ripping wind and she was tumbling through black empty space. The sky wheeled kaleidoscopically and she had a momentary glimpse of the runt shuttle breaking apart and disintegrating in a fireball, though she could hear no other sound over the deafening roar of the wind as she tumbled in freefall. The whipping wind tore her habit away and her braided hair snapped like a torn halyard on a sailing ship. Ice cold fear gripped her as she plunged downwards toward the dark earth. A distant analytical part of her mind registered that the shuttle had been hit with some sort of anti-aircraft weapon that had torn its belly open like a gutted shamene. Desperately she tried to form a prayer to the Pancreator but the rushing air stole the word before they could sound.

Suddenly something caught her around the waist and she felt like she was wrenched upwards by some mighty force. For a disoriented moment she thought the Pancreator had provided a miracle, and perhaps he had because, incredibly Orion had his arms around her, the wings of his flight suit deployed at full breaking thrust. The suit was designed to carry a knight and his full armament so her slight additional weight proved of little consequence. Orion shouted something to her and she had to read his lips to make out ‘hold on’. Convulsively she closed her arms around him and he let her go, snatching up the controls of the flight suit and breaking hard. The wings flared out to maximize the deceleration and the rush of the wind died away for a few heart beats.

“Hold on!” Orion shouted though she couldn’t possibly have tightened her grip around his armored torso. She had a fraction of a second to glance downard to see the green canopy of the massive trees which covered much of the surface of Gwynneth racing towards them. The weight might not be a problem to the flight suit but maneuverability obviously suffered as Orion desperately tried to steer them through the massive branches. Much of the maneuvering time that would have allowed him to pick a safer landing ground had been wasted in his neck of nothing dive to catch her and he hadn’t had sufficient altitude left to bleed off his airspeed. Branches whizzed past them as the plunged through the canopy. For a moment it seemed like Orion might manage the impossible feat and then the wing of the flight suit clipped a branch with a crack like a rifle report. The world corkscrewed and there was another crack as Orion hit a branch, his armored back taking the brunt of the impact and then they tumbled down, slapping against the limbs of trees over fifty meters tall. Orion lashed out with his arms in a primitive effort at parkour as Annika clung to his chest and screamed. They hit the ground with a crash, Annika landing atop the armored knight with enough force to drive the breath from her lungs and silence her scream.

For a moment they lay on the loamy forest floor as Annika frantically tried to draw breath. A rain of blade like needles rained from the trees above like winter snows and the shrieks of irritated forest creatures slowly died away. Annika finally made her chest work and gulped down a lungful of the cool moist forest air. It was mildly inappropriate to be laying atop the knight, but it was several more moments before she could force her bruised arms to release Orion and roll onto her back staring up at the hole they had torn in the canopy. Blood trickled into her eye for a shallow cut on her eyebrow, but it was a miracle that she was alive, much less able to use all of her limbs. She tried to form a prayer of thanks but all she managed was an insightful:

“Ouch.”

@POOHEAD189

The Sinful Stars

Annika glanced back at the city behind her. Orion’s quest certainly seemed doomed. Rumor had certainly spread regarding Rochfort. It had been big news in the first few weeks of the voyage of the Farsi, the al-Malik cruiser that had brought her to Gwennyth. Debate had been furious and wide ranging. Some claimed that Rochfort had been touched by the hand of the Pancreator himself and was burning away evil, others that the man had lost his mind and bathed in the blood of his slaughtered subjects. It probably made sense to take him up on his offer, to slip away into the crown and keep her rendezvous with Logan Christopher. What one man could do to quell a rebellion was beyond her comprehension but one thing was certain, if someone needed spiritual guidance, it was Orion Pentecost.

“We are taught to look for the hand of the Pancreator in paradox,” she told him as they slipped through the security cordon and onto the tarmac.

“Perhaps this task is such a sign,” she added as they approached the runt shuttle. A few crewmen in shapeless gray jumpsuits were making the final preparations for take off. They stiffened at the sight of Orion and one of them pulled a lever which lowered a ramp to the deck. Annika followed the knight up the steps and into the shuttle. Though it could comfortably hold dozens of passengers, it had been reserved for a scion of the planet's ruling house. Low, Orion's stock might be with the bishop and his liege but he was still a Hawkwood.

“Don’t you have any equipment?” Orion asked, glancing back at Annika. She shook her head slightly.

“We are a mendicant order,” she explained, “we dont accrue much in the way of possessions.” She tapped her palm on the leather satchel partially concealed by her robes. Without preamble she sat down on the deck resting her straight back against a bulkhead.
@POOHEAD189

The Sinful Stars

“I am pleased to meet you Sir Pentecost,” Annika began but abandoned it immediately as too formal, “Orion that is.” They moved down the cobbled street away from the cathedral. Lamps of some kind of photo luminescent crystal cast a soft illumination over the nearly empty streets. Once they had been much brighter but since the fall of the Second Republic the technology to replace the bulbs had been lost and, like the stars, they were slowly fading. In the distance there was the occasional yell of anger and crack of gunfire as the aggrieved party of the Judgment sought to redress themselves by one method or another.

“As for my order, I fear the Orthodox and the Avestites enjoy painting us with a fanciful brush. We are simply clergy who believe that one can save one's soul through individual effort as well as the Pancreator’s grace. We also believe that the Pancreator can be found in exploring the mysteries of the universe rather than on our knees in prayer,” she explained. She doubted that Orion was deeply interested in theology so she kept the explanation simple. Truthfully she too found the theological debates somewhat tedious, it had always been obvious to her that the Pancreator’s miracles were to be revealed through the miraculous rather than staring at the mundane. The fact that there were horrors as well only made the search more important, with no risk came no reward. Out of politeness she kept her psychic senses shut off, unwilling to pry into the thoughts of her new charge.

They turned a corner into a small plaza where a body lay sprawled across a fountain depicting a man on horseback in a martial pose. Blood gleamed in the moonlight from a cut which had spilled grey ropes of intestines from the man’s belly. A few onlookers watched carefully from restaurants and taverns but this was far from an unusual occurrence on the Night of Judgement. She considered her next words carefully, unwilling to give Orion the wrong idea.

“Where are we being sent, and why if I may ask. From what I can put together the bishop expects you to get into some kind of trouble, maybe even intends that you do. He must have been instructed to provide you with a confessor and seized me so he didn’t have to entangle one of his own people in what he expects to be a scandal.” That was speculation, but it wasn’t a huge leap from what she had seen and sensed in the bishops chamber. Pentecost’s cybernetic eyes marked him as a radical among a fairly conservative group. If your eye causes you to sin, better that you pluck it out and all that. Cranmer probably hoped that her addition would not only spare one of his own acolytes, but possibly push Orion over the edge into something that might be considered heretical.
@POOHEAD189

The Sinful Stars

Annika turned to examine her new charge with some interest. Cranmers comments suddenly made a good deal more sense. This knight, Orion Pentecost apparently was a handsome man with the statuesque features she had come to associate with the Hawkwood family. The al-Malik had always been cosmopolitan but since the accession of Alexis to the Imperial Throne there had been an increased number of intermarriages. No scion of one of the great noble houses could claim to be ignorant of politics, but it had never been of particular interest to Annika. Still she understood that most of those marriages had been somewhat disappointing as Alexis had distanced himself from his family since taking the throne. To the cultured al-Malik the Hawkwood had a rugged, almost brutish marshall simplicity, something that had served them very well in the wars preceding Alexius’ succession. Orion certainly fit the mould with a muscled armored frame and chiseled jaw. The electronic eye was simple and obvious, something that would have been crude in the League friendly halls of the al-Malik was none the less surprising to find in a Hawkwood fief where ties to the League and their borderline heretical tech was far less common.

“The blessings of the Pancreator be upon you Sir,” Annika said formally, the slightly musical lint of her Isktar accent particularly prominent in the formulaic phrasing of the blessing.

“Get out of my sight,” the bishop sneered, sitting down and pointedly returning to his paperwork.

Annika exchanged a look with Orion and then offered a formal bow to Cranmer. The bishop made a flicking gesture with his right hand sending droplets of ink spattering over a nearby decree about the evils of Pagan Freethinkers. Annika shared a look with Orion who gave a somewhat less respectful bow and then turned and lead the way out of the office and into the knave of the cathedral.

Although it was by now local night, Gwyennth’s bright spring moons poured silvery light through the great stained glass window in the nave of the Cathedral. Beams of light colored gorgeous rose and gold shone from the ceiling painting the Celestial Flame on the stones of the basilica. Even the Orthodox, hidebound and half blind as they were, did not seem to be completely blind to beauty.

“My apologies,” Annika tried again, “it appears that neither of us are in Bishop Cranmer’s good graces. I am Sister Annika.” It was not necessary to mention her house as that would have been a sin of pride.

“The bishop told you to get out of the cathedral,” snapped a voice from behind them. Annika turned to find the obnoxious novice who had accosted her in the square. Despite her best efforts she felt her anger rising.

“That is quite enough sirrah,” she snapped, her voice like a whip. The novice recoiled as though slapped, but after a moment his shock was replaced with indignation.

“How dare you…” he began but Annika didn’t allow him to continue. Instead she stalked towards him, eyes blazing. She wasn’t a physically imposing woman but the look on her face and the fury in her eyes gave her a presence she would otherwise have lacked.

“Perhaps things work differently among the Orthodox, but in my order one speaks with respect,” she observed in a deadly voice. Confusion and anger warred on the novices face for a moment.

“According to the Edict of…” he began but she cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“According to the Edict members of the Eskatonic order have to obey members of the other sects of the same rank, yes. However, as you appear to be deaf as well stupid, allow me to remind you that your own Bishop just granted me the rank of Deacon,” she blazed. The novices face flushed as the realization took hold.

“If you do not apologize at once I will file charges with the Curia. As you are probably too ignorant to know, cases are decided by members of the sect of the senior member in any dispute. I suspect that will mean a trial would not go well for you.”

“The bishop…” the youth stuttered.

“Is not here, I am the ranking member of the clergy here and if you are not out of my sight in the next thirty seconds I will have you whipped for insolence.”

The novice broke and fled, the fall of his heavy leather shoes ringing on the stone floor. Annika turned back to her new charge, her anger melting into embarrassment.

“My apologies Sir,” she repeated, “it has been rather a long day.”

@POOHEAD189

The Sinful Stars

The Bishop, a sour faced fat man by the name of Arcturus Cranmer, sat behind a vast desk of polished ebony inlaid with contrasting scrollwork of silver and gold. It was the sort of desk that screamed to the world that the man who sat behind it mattered. Scrolls of vellum were piled high bedecked with seals and scrollwork. Bishop Cranmer was, as indicated by his desk, too important to actually engage in the laborious task of writing and illuminating the documents which surrounded him, but each one required his imperial consideration and, if found worthy, his august signature. Annika and the priest who had accosted her sat on an uncomfortably austere pew along the back wall, clearly designed to engender the proper feeling of penitence before the Bishop. As nearly as Annika could tell they had been here for over an hour without so much as a word being spoken. She took some small pleasure in the fact that the priest who had all but dragged her from the market was similarly forced to wait in a silence broken only by the clinking of the Bishop’s many jeweled rings and occasional bouts of intestinal upset. Like many Estakonic’s Annika had practiced the rite of Idetica, a meditative technique that allowed the practitioner near total recall of anything she had seen. Thus she was able to pass the time by ‘reading’ a salacious tale of a young Hazat noblewoman’s fictional exploits in the realms of eros while her escort could only shift uncomfortably. She was just enjoying the vivid description of Sir Hernando’s rippling abs when another novice entered the room and hurried up to the Bishops desk. He spoke a few quiet words and then retreated without further comment. Cranmer put down his quill and looked at Annika and her escort, his face twisting with distaste.

“Approach cretin,” the bishop commanded, his voice surprisingly high pitched for a man of his girth. Annika deliberately glanced at her escort implying that the remark had been directed at him. The young priest’s face darkened with anger.

“Now Sister,” Cranmer growled, betraying his impatience with the petty act of defiance. With the grace of an al-Malik courtier she stood up, ignoring the pain in her legs from her long repose and climbed the small dais to stand before the desk. Cranmer looked her up and down with exaggerated disdain.

“A woman, a witch, and an al-Malik Republican all in one, the Estakonics really will ordain anyone,” he glowered. Annika made no reply, Estakonics were well used to such abuse from the other clergy and learned early on there was little use in getting into a theological debate. Fortunately the bishop hadn’t asked her a question so there was no need to respond with anything other than serene silence, which just might have been the most irritating choice she could make.

“Well as it happens I have a use for you, perhaps the only use the Pancreator in his wisdom could find for you,” Cranmer sneered, leaning back on his chair which creaked in protest to being forced to carry his porcine bulk.

“I am going to be assigning you as a Confessor to a Knight who has recently been bought to my attention,” the bishop said with a self satisfied smirk. Annika blinked in confusion, it didn’t sound like a bad thing, though it obviously was in Cranmers mind. She opened her mouth to protest, she hadn’t come to Gwennyth to be tangled up with a noble and it would certainly interfere with her purpose here. She closed her mouth before she could say something she would regret. Bishop Cranmer was straopsherically her superior and though the Estakonics valued independence they probably wouldn’t look kindly on trouble started out of sheer dumb insolence. Instead she tried logic.

“Surely you have your own priests who might be better suited to providing the kind of guidance you would wish,” she ventured in what she hoped was a diplomatic tone. Cranmer smirked again.

“I think that you will suit the needs of the Church perfectly in this matter,” he replied, clearly enjoying her reluctance to take on the task. It was already late and unless she missed her guess Logan was already free and looking for her.

“As a novice, I am too junior to serve as a Confessor,” she tried, attempting to inject a tone of disappointment into her voice. Cranmer waved a pudgy hand in dismissal.

“Rejoice Sister, for the Pancreator has seen fit to raise you to the rank of Deacon so that you may undertake this vital task,” Cranmer told her. Annika couldn’t hide her confusion. Cranmer was acting as though this were some kind of coup but she couldn’t see why. Of course just because she couldn’t see it didn’t mean there wasn’t another shoe waiting to drop. No one reached the rank of Bishop without a great deal of skill in political manoeuvring, which meant that there was, without doubt, another shoe. Lacking other options she effected a slight curtsey.

“I am pleased to serve Him in any way you deem necessary your Grace,” she replied. At that moment there was a polite knock on the door and the same attractive novice who had entered before appeared in the doorway.

“He has arrived your grace,” the boy reported.
@POOHEAD189

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Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

Lithyll’s gaze paned to Rene with the precision of an electronic lathe making a cut.

“You are a soldier Colonel,” the alien observed, “do you believe that trouble is likely to spread into Kalderi space?” Rene paused for a moment. He was not a trained diplomat and he wasn’t entirely sure what answer Solae would like him to give to the question.

“I cannot predict what the rebels might do,” he said after a moment.

“But it is possible that as they grow desperate they may make some move in this direction. Also Tan has pulled his fleets away to the galactic west, fleets that would normally be in charge of suppressing piracy. I’m even less able to predict what bandits might do while Tan neglects his duty.” It was no diplomatic masterstroke but he hoped it would keep the idea of danger alive in Lithyll’s mind and perhaps help move him to assist Solae in whatever way he could. Lithyll bobbed his head in what might ave been the equivalent of a sage nod.

“Wise words Colonel Quentain,” the alien replied before turning his head back towards Solae.

“We do not choose leaders in the same fashion as you do Duchess Solae,” he told her, “but it is our experience that those best suited to exercise leadership are those who least desire it.” Lithyll stood up and Solae and the other humans followed suit, exchanging bows with the alien.

“You have given us much to think about, I will discuss it with the others,” Lithyll declared. Rene had no idea who ‘the others’ were in this context but he assumed it was however the Kalderi on this planet made decisions.

“Rest, and in a few hour we will see you at the ball, you will have a chance to speak with others. Many are curious about you Duchess,” Lithyll told Solae with a toothy smile before turning and walking from the room, leaving the humans and their Syshin friends alone.

The Sinful Stars

Kolmar, Gwynneth, July 22nd 5005 IC

Knowing things is not the same as knowing people - Unconventional Saints and Unlikely Heroes

The early summer sun beat down on the Square of Judgement like a hammer. By nightfall, the food sellers and junk vendors opined, there would be a great storm which would sheet the city with rain and rend the air with lightning. For now, hundreds of men and a smaller portion of women sweltered in the heat, miserable at the end of the short chains that bound them to the iron rings in the center of each ancient flagstone. Advocates, or at least those who claimed to be advocates, bustled among the prisoners exchanging quick words before moving on. Many other people just came to gawk and jeer at the presumably condemned.

Gwynneth was a Hawkwood Fief, but by ancient treaty those accused of capital crimes were brought to they city of Kolmar for an audience with a judge from the Reeve’s guild. Few people who received such an audience were pardoned, but the influx of money both from the family of the accused and their victims both seeking to ensure justice was done, ensured that the nobility of Kolmar did not allow the practice to die out. It also made the city a dangerous place, particularly after dark, as grieved citizens of one type or another sought to settle scores with fists, knives, or whatever other weapons were available.

An accused murder could increase his odds of aquital by engaging the services of an advocate. In theory the advocate would plead his case to the Reeve, using his knowledge of the law to win freedom for his client. In practice however the advocate usually did little more than offer a bribe to the judge, a tactic that was somewhat more effective than impassioned speech making. The majority of the accused had no way of paying an advocate in coin or property, but the advocate could recoup his effort by compelling the accused to sign a letter of indenture that would allow him to work off his debt. This too was more ideliesed than practical, as in most cases the advocates simply sold the indenture to the Chainers at a reasonable markup. The Chainers promptly lost the letters of indenture as soon as they got their new employees off planet and away from the prying eyes of the Church, and the luckless individual was likely to spend the rest of their life as a slave in some backwater hellhole. Such was the course of Justice in the Known Worlds.

Sister Annika moved quietly among those awaiting trial. The chains that held each of the accused were of a precise length, about half the length of the vast granite flagstones. Thus even a berserk madman was of no danger provided one walked along the seams between the stones and didn't stray into reach. Most of those who would try such a thing had been to badly beaten in transit to attempt it here but it never hurt to be careful. Guards in Hawkwood blue and white, emblazoned with the golden stag of the Wilde family, stood at regular intervals around the edge of the square hefting rifles. They were not impressive men, mostly unshaven and with their livery poorly washed and Annika certainly wouldn’t have wanted to chance her life on their marksmanship if one of the prisoners made a sudden lunge.

To the Estakonic Priestess the square was a babble of voices both auditory and mental. Her telepathic ability would not normally have been strong enough to pick up anything beyond surface thoughts but as the ancient Urth saying went, nothing concentrates the mind like the prospect of being hanged. Each prisoner she passed dwelled almost entirely on their crime, replaying it over and over as judgement approached. Here a potter smashed in the head of a lover who had spurned him, there a drunk relived the horrible sensation of finding himself standing over a corpse stabbed in a bar fight. Some few of them were even innocent, puzzling over who had framed them or what series of unhappy accidents had lead them to this dire impasse. There was little she could do for them, not without revealing how she had come by the information or engaging an advocate of her own, for which she lacked any form of payment. Like all Estakonics she was sworn to poverty, expected to beg for her sustenance, a practice that didn’t lend itself to extravagant legal expenses.

It took her perhaps an hour to find the man she had been seeking. He was wiry and bearded and his left eye was covered with a leather patch. His hard angular face made him look untrustworthy but Annika sensed that wasn’t as true as he liked to pretend. He had been framed, a fact clearly apparent from the meticulous detail in which he had recreated the events after it was too late. She didn’t doubt he had killed before, but of this particular crime he was innocent, set up to take the fall by the gang of thieves with whom he had been working. The revenge he was planning was colorful and a little more detailed than Annika wanted to picture.

“My Son,” she said, the words a trifle ironic when addressed to a man old enough to be her father. The prisoners head jerked up as she stepped closer to him. His right eye was a surprisingly bright shade of blue, cool and piercing.

“Oh bugger off priest,” he snapped with pro forma animosity.

“You know it is a sin to think about a priestess that way,” she added tactfully, fighting down a blush from the sudden mental images she had lifted from the man’s mind. Priests were supposed to put away such worldly thoughts but the man's imagination was vivid. She was an attractive woman, long limbed and with smooth olive skin and dark eyes though most of the rest of her was concealed beneath her conservative robes and habit.

“What do you…” he began but then changed his mind, closing his mouth with an audible clop before regarding her for several long seconds.

“What is this,” he demanded, scowling at her.

“Confession,” she told him simply as she knelt down beside him, her hands assuming an attitude of prayer.

“I don’t have anything to confess,” he snapped glaring at her with his one good eye. Annika giggled and he looked at her as though she had just sprouted another head.

“That isn’t even remotely true,” she chided him, full lips curving into a smile.

“But as it happens, it is me who needs to confess,” she told him.

“Confess?” he asked, his bushy eyebrows knitting as his puzzlement began to give way to annoyance.

“Yes, I actually came here to offer you a job Logan,” she told him with a beautific smile. He barked a short laugh which died in his throat as he realized that she knew his name.

“How do you..,” he began but then shook his head dismissing the thought. Instead he lifted his chained hands and rattled the metal links.

“Do I look like I’m in any position to take a job?” he half sneered.

“That depends on how you do in your interview I suppose,” she returned. Logan shook his head.

“You must be out of your mind,” he commented. Annika wondered if that were true, she had already given the Avestite who had been following her the slip in order to meet with Logan, while it wasn’t technically against Cannon Law it wasn’t going to win her any points with the Inquisition.

“Pray with me,” she directed. For a moment it looked like Logan might object, but instead he rolled onto his knees and clasped his shackled hands before hers.

“Merciful Pancreator, bless this child, Logan Christopher, forgive him any sins he has committed or omitted. Grant that if he is worthy he find me at the Church of Saint Athelia at midnight,” she continued, altering the words of the litany but not it cadance. As she spoke her hands parted slightly and a slender metal rod about the length of man’s finger protruded from between her clasped hands. Logan’s eyes widened for a moment before he lifted his own hand slightly and drew the lockpick between them, making it vanish as if by magic. Annika concluded the prayer of forgiveness and then stood.

“There you are,” a voice snarled and a hand grabbed her from behind. Annika gasped as she was spun around to find herself facing an unfamiliar man in the vestment of an Orthodox priest. He was a Novitiate like her, though unfortunately as an Estakonic, this meant she was required to obey him.

“What are you doing here sister,” he snapped. The novices eyes burned with puritnical superiority through the stink of garlic on his breath and his pimple marked face didn’t exactly lend him grandeur.

“I am hearing confessions,” she responded acidly.

“You might try it some time,” she added with a wave at the square intended to convey the lack of orthodox clergy.

“The Bishop wants to see you, you will come with me,” he snapped grabbing her by the arm and physically turning her towards the western gate. At least he tried to. Annika had grown up in the courts of the al-Malik family and was no stranger to bigger stronger cousins attempting to push her around. Instruction in Paranu Bindi, a combination of meditation and martial art hadn’t hurt either. She continued to turn with the momentum of his shove, gripping his wrist with one hand as she pivoted around behind him, her other hand thrusting hard up into his arm pit, pinching the nerve painfully. The other novice let out a pained squawk that choked off on a rising note.
“Let us be polite about this,” she hissed in his ear, “But make no mistake, if you touch me again we will have cause to visit the Sanctuary Aeon before we visit the Bishop. Am I understood?”

“I will tell the Bishop about this!” the novice squealed tears running from his eyes from the painful hold.

“Good, I’m certain he will be very impressed,” she responded tartly. Convinced she had made her point she gave the novice a shove in the direction of the western gate.

“Lead on then,” she told him, “we wouldn’t want to keep his grace waiting.”

@POOHEAD189

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