What you're on the verge of (I hope) reading here started life about 25 years ago as an idle bit of Crystal Singer fanfic. I didn't really know where I was going with it and dumped it when I ran out of steam just before (not-really-a-spoiler-alert here) the protagonist undergoes Full Disclosure.
Fast forward a few years, a wedding and 2 kids and I happened to re-read the Crystal Singer trilogy, and returned to my earlier bit of work with a slightly more mature eye (emphasis on slightly). The final book of the Crystal Singer trilogy, Crystal Line, left the Heptite Guild much-reduced and also in turmoil – Lars Dahl, aided and abetted by Killashandra and a few mostly-new characters, was pushing through sweeping reforms to try and save it, and in the closing chapters we start to see them take effect.
It got me to thinking: how would things have looked a few years after Crystal Line? Lo and behold I managed to finish what the teenage me had started. (Any typos and plot inconsistencies, by the way, you can blame on him. He was a bit of a muppet.).
Anyway, if this has intrigued you and you're about to read on, thank you for taking the time.
(PS: For those who want to know, there's no swearing in this story and while neither I nor Zyan are particularly prudish, no lurid scenes either. I'm not judging, but it's not my thing).
(PPS: Please abide by the current rules of this forum and the estate of Anne Mccaffrey regarding fanfic).
The prisoner raised his eyes to take in the imminent sunset. The primary, like the prisoner, was nearing its end - it glowed deep orange, staving off it's descent into red gianthood and the inevitability of nova. Unlike the prisoner, however, there was a fair chance that it would see the end of this day. There were a few clouds, flat, thin and insubstantial, just above the horizon. They were rose-tinged, foretelling good weather on the morrow. The prisoner couldn't really bring himself to care whether or not it would rain tomorrow. Given his current situation, he found he wasn't even bothered with the question of whether there would even be a tomorrow.
They hadn't condescended to make this trial even semi-legitimate. The judge was military, despite the fact that, legally speaking, the prisoner was still a student of the performing arts at Dutari District College (he had never received any expulsion papers - for all he knew, he was still getting his student grant). There was no jury - unless the definition of jury was significantly widened to encompass the niche normally occupied by 'howling mob'. The courtroom was not closed - it was open. It was in fact the Ancestor's Plaza in uptown Djielonia, and it was packed to the limit with the aforementioned jury.
The only thing that lent even a thin veneer of respectability to the proceedings was the presence, behind him, of the FSP rep. She was dark-skinned, slim and diminutive, but Zyan had already seen her knock one overly officious member of the State Security Force on his behind and leave another wincing in pain. She couldn't have provided a greater contrast to the Djielese, who were, by and large, a very pale people. Zyan - despite everything going on around him - wondered briefly if this had been a factor when the FSP considered who to hand this assignment. Her ship - which Zyan understood to be in some way alive - towered behind them, a solid symbol of Federal authority in this currently less than optimally civilised part of space. He briefly let his eye run over it's pilot again, and, to his (totally hidden) surprise, she returned his look with a wink. Zyan looked away expressionlessly, and faced the crowd once more.
From what little Zyan remembered of his foreshortened studies, he knew it wasn't easy to stage manage ten people, let alone a few thousand. Despite this, the Protectorate authorities had seemingly assembled every loyalist, reactionary and anti-revolutionary capable of shouting and waving a makeshift cudgel that the city had to offer. The crowd, expertly manipulated by a government that spun every fact and put a bias on every story, wanted him dead. He stood accused not only of crimes he didn't commit, but also crimes that no-one had committed. The FSP, which, after all, still held veto rights to the charter on this strife-torn embarrassment of a system, had made it clear that there were to be no summary executions, only exiles. The Protectorate had taken a great many prisoners of war and had been gleefully show-trialling them on live TV for a fortnight before the FSP stepped in. Almost all of the survivors were now transported safely away.
Almost.
Zyan. Black Zyan, as he was dubbed by the press - the last figure of importance from the troubles left to go through the circus. The FSP - conscious of a certain lack of resources in the volume of space around Djiel - were allowing them this last and most hyped show trial. Arranged between crowd and spacecraft was a podium, upon which were arrayed the essentials of a courtroom, and a massive screen showing Zyan handcuffed to the defendant's dock. Despite his shackles, the Prots considered him dangerous enough so that at least a dozen security personnel were on the stage, too. They didn't look too inclined to come to his aid should the razor-wire fence holding the crowd back somehow fail. This was a possibility that seemed more likely by the minute - it looked like a cobweb holding back an entire swarm of wasps.
The judge - a black-suited figure on a little raised platform of his own - spoke up ponderously.
"Zyan Ezekiel Jarvis, you have been determined guilty of five minor and one major violations of the Protectorate War Crimes Act." The official began. "The viciousness and barbarism of your various acts of terrorism - including but not limited to the attack on a major hospital in the Kiyon District - cannot be understated. You have figured largely in one of the darkest hours in Djielese history, and-"
For 'major hospital', read military headquarters, Zyan thought heavily, and yawned pointedly. Unless the Prots were in the habit of arming their hospitals with surface to air missiles, directed energy emplacements, and fighter cover. Oh, and building them into the side of mountains. With lots of soldiers outside. And no medical personnel.
That was why he was here. The raid had grabbed headlines, even off planet. The Protectorate HQ hadn't always been a military installation. Before the Prot brass - very much in violation of interstellar law - moved in and took over, it had been the planetary communications centre. One interesting fact about the old Djiel comm centre was that it had possessed the largest piece of black crystal ever to leave the surface of wherever it was that black crystal came from, as well as a veritable fortune in lesser equipment. Punching the place out with a jury-rigged railgun mounted on a hijacked Prot shuttle, destroying that crystal and all it's little friends, had earned Zyan the unwanted prefix of 'Black', a place on this podium, and, although he'd only just recently found this out, a starring role in the FSP news for the duration of the hostilities - any revolutionary of note was 'a possible associate of Black Zyan'. If rumour was to be believed, there was even a (badly researched) vid and an interactive holo-drama based upon the raid. It probably was the stuff of derring-do and adventure, if you were willing to overlook the nail-shredding terror and sheer bloody waste of it all.
This unwanted publicity was, ironically, not a million miles away from the actual purpose of the raid. Although it had also shut down almost all in-system comm traffic, the major goal was the silencing of an important interstellar routing station. This brought the Djielese civil unrest to the attention of the FSP in two ways: the loss of a routing station was no joke, and as a by product of bad communications in-system, Djielese exports literally halved overnight. A large part of those exports comprised of intilla powder - a very useful antibiotic capable of nuking any nasty little beasties, even those which had mutated and become resistant to penicillin and all it's descendants. Needless to say, when supplies of IP started to become scarce - it was legendarily difficult to cultivate anywhere except the surface of Djiel - the FSP started to worry. To this day, Zyan wondered if his fifteen minutes of glory had really been the boon to the revolution it was generally accepted to be, or whether it had instead heralded it's eventual death. The rebel leaders had assumed that the FSP would automatically support them - they were the ones demanding democracy, after all. Apparently, no-one had reminded them of the old saying about what one makes out of 'u' and 'me' when one assumes.
"-on the verge of a new chapter in our civilisation, we must take this opportunity to expunge the darkness of our past and look forward to the bright light of opportunity which beckons us-" The judge driveled on. Zyan ignored it, holding his head as proudly as he could - not out of vanity, but to make sure he didn't show any signs of weakness. Not so much his last duty to his dead and extinguished revolution or anything so noble - he was simply a contrary git when he felt like it.
Zyan was tall and straight, and twenty six. He was not heavily built, but neither was he thin, and he possessed a wiry, whipcord strength. Like most Djielese, he was as pale as china. Although their genetic heritage was as mixed as any other human colony, they'd been settled long enough, with little enough immigration, to have developed a quite distinctive genotype. His hair was dark brown and straight to the jawline, and his features might have been handsome, except that he gave the impression of being as cold and lifeless - and perhaps just as unforgiving - as an airless moon. His eye colour didn't help this impression, being as grey as a midwinter lake and just as icy.
"-anything to say before sentence is pronounced?" The judge finished.
Zyan looked at the crowd and wondered if there were any sympathisers there. It didn't seem likely.
"Only that I'm glad you've finally shut up." Zyan said succintly. The FSP rep giggled, earning her a sharp glare from several dignitaries and guards. She recovered herself, and smoothed down her neat grey uniform.
The Prots had other ideas, though. The screen flickered for a few seconds, obscuring Zyan's face from most witnesses, and the voice address boomed forth a (frankly poor) imitation of his habitually neutral and low intonation.
"I deeply regret the suffering I have caused in the name of anarchy, and humbly beg that the court dispose of me justly but mercifully." Zyan didn't say. He shrugged his indifference. In any case, the fakery was painfully, even pathetically, obvious.
"The court hears your words." The judge continued. "While justice might compel us to deliver the maximum penalty permitted by law - that of death by hanging - this court understands the meaning of mercy. We are not an implacable people, nor are we blinded by vengeance. Therefore, Zyan Ezekiel Jarvis, you are hereby sentenced to exile in perpetuity from the Djiel Protectorates and any embassies, territories or vessels thereof. You are directed to depart immediately by FSP transport."
The sentence was as much of a sham as the court. The Djielese charter was very soon to be brought into line with FSP norms - which didn't include death penalties or even exile. An FSP lawyer had explained that life imprisonment on an off-world rehabilitation centre was the worst that intergalactic justice had to offer. Zyan, though, knew that the Protectorate government seldom let such trivialities as the law stand in it's way.
Very nice, he thought. The state looks all fluffy and forgiving. I wonder when whatever little 'accident' they have planned is going to happen to me?
The crowd, for their part, were expressing their opinion of this judgement, and they apparently didn't think too highly of it. The fence bellied and strained like the sails of an ancient ship, their bloodthirsty baying rose to a fever pitch, and the security on the stand began to look rather nervous.
"Your honour?" The FSP rep turned to the dignitary beside her - a standard issue Prot authoritative type, clad in red - and indicated Zyan. She drew a pair of restraints from a pouch at her belt. "If I might take the prisoner into custody?" Her voice was light and melodic, with an exotic accent.
"A moment, please, Captain Mubata. There are certain formalities to be observed. The prisoner must be led off the podium and marched through processing." The rouge official told her. "If you'd care to wait in your ship, we will have him brought to the airlock."
The FSP rep took a quick look at where the processing area had been set up - less than five metres from the fence. The guards waiting there looked about ready to bolt. It was plain from her expression that she knew this was not the result of bad planning or coincidence.
"If it's all the same to you, Delegate Gerbings, I'd just as soon accompany him at all times, from now on. He is a dangerous man, after all." The rep countered, clearly not buying the man's story. She looked over at Zyan when she said this - largely, he thought, eyeing up his butt.
"Captain, this is a strictly internal matter-" The Delegate argued.
"-Which I am present to witness, as per the agreement with the Federated Sentient Planets." The rep finished for him. "I urge you to remember that these are not legitimate legal proceedings, and the continuance of your revised charter as an autonomous power rests upon such details as this. I should be most put out if my report had to include too many words like 'refused', 'denied' and 'evaded'."
That was direct enough to cause the Delegate to glare at her with the dirtiest look Zyan had ever seen violate the face of a Prot politician, and his back catalogue of those was nothing to be sniffed at.
"You haven't the faintest idea what is occurring here, have you?" Gerbings asked her patronisingly.
"On the contrary, I have a very good idea what is happening." The rep said. Before Gerbings or any of his cronies could act, she'd strode over to Zyan, whipped one end of her restraints around his right wrist, and the other around her left. He regarded them disinterestedly, and noted that the rep wore some kind of subtle perfume. "I'm going with him. Capische?"
The guards looked unsure of themselves. Gerbings was pale with fury. The judge - probably, Zyan realised, someone chosen for his oratory skills rather than his legal mind - looked confused.
She didn't seem too bad, Zyan thought. "I wouldn't." He advised her. "This could get you killed." She ignored him, and stared levelly at Gerbings.
The crowd practically keened. It was a sight and sound that would never, ever leave him. The seething mass seemed to be one single entity, flowing and ebbing. The Prots, he thought, had worked their manipulation rather too well. People were probably dying down there in the crush.
"My good woman, unless you cease and desist from this unreasonable behaviour at once, I shall be forced to pursue this matter at the highest levels. The very highest, do you understand?" Gerbings snarled, steaming over to get right in her face.
"You talk too much." Zyan told him.
"Silence, traitor." Gerbings snapped. On cue, the nearest guard drove his fist into Zyan's stomach.
Zyan didn't flinch, ruthlessly suppressed the pain, and turned his icy stare on the guard. The man was almost twice his weight, and Zyan was chained to both an inflexible metal railing and an equally stubborn woman. Nevertheless, the man backed away, looking at his slowly unclenching fingers as if they might bite him. Black Zyan had quite a reputation today. One good thing to be said for being the target of a planetary smear campaign making you out to be a dangerous mass murderer - people tended not to mess you about.
"That's enough!" The woman said forcefully. "Delegate Gerbings, you're going to lose this one. Understand that now. The crowd's starting to wonder if you're in control here. Comply with the FSP directive while you can still use it as an excuse. You." She prodded Zyan below the ribs, "If I was you, I'd be quiet."
He jerked his head in the direction of the thundering crowd. "If I was you, I'd be gone already."
The rep shot him a withering look, and he shrugged infinitesimally. The certainty of death, he thought, was a great calming influence. It was the possibility that terrified people. He vaguely remembered reading that, at some point during his abortive academic career, but couldn't pin the author.
Gerbings hesitated for another moment, unwilling to let Zyan slip through his fingers, but knowing, deep down, that the FSP had spoken up on this one. If their agent came back in a box, then there would be trouble with a capital 'Regime Change'.
"Get out of here." He hissed. "Guard - unlock those cuffs."
"Only she's got keys, Delegate." The security man replied.
"Our cuffs, you imbecile!" Gerbings told him scathingly.
The man complied.
"Well, I'll leave him to your tender mercies, then, Captain Mubata." Gerbings bowed sarcastically, then turned and stalked confidently away, calling over his shoulder: "I do so hope you enjoy each other's company."
"And idiot of the year award goes to-" Mubata muttered under her breath, then jerked Zyan roughly after her as she made for her ship, the guards and other officials melting out of the way. "Come on - let's blow this cheerless mudball before your little prediction comes true. Give me any trouble, by the way, and I'll whip your pallid butt 'til it's black as mine. Comprende?"
Zyan didn't reply, but allowed himself to be led along. Gerbings would have a backup plan. Guy on a roof with a rifle, explain it away as some madman in the crowd...
The ship was fifty yards away when there was a terrific roar and a crash from behind. The fence had given way.
"Marcus!" Mubata yelled, seemingly at no-one. She broke into a flat out run. Zyan, given no other choice, followed suit. "Tell me good news, buddy!"
Someone on the ship, maybe. The reply was by an ear-bead he had not noticed before, and inaudible to him. Mubata nodded at the reply.
"Good. Let 'em mill around by your thrusters and then blow some harmless gas, give 'em a ten second countdown. Yeah, I know it's not necessary, but they'll clear right off, trust me. Nothing like a countdown to make people nervous." Mubata went on. "Seal and lock down all your handholds and access panels, too. Why? Rule of humanity, Marcus - there's always some enthusiast with more balls than brain cells."
Mubata chose this moment to glance up at Zyan's stone-chiselled face, which he didn't take too kindly to. Like before, though, he chose to say nothing. He had very little left to say.
"Not worried, at all?" Mubata asked lightly, indicating over her shoulder to where a positive horde was tearing over the podium. Bottles and rocks were being thrown, but falling short - a molotov cocktail shattered with a whoomph, spraying fire everywhere. For the moment they were safe, but soon that would change. The lead elements of the crowd were fearfully fast on their feet. They say that fear gives men wings, but anger certainly put a spring in some people's step, too.
"No." Zyan replied simply. Any moment now, the assassin's bullet. He wondered if he should warn her, but remembered that he'd already advised her against this: duty done, then.
The ship now towered above them, a gunmetal monument to Escape. Prot guards milled around in confusion, waving away the last billowing traces of some kind of gas. Mubata shoved him forward onto a platform that zipped down the length of the vessel to meet them, and just as quickly bore them up again.
"Stop us at the midbay lock, Marcus." Mubata said into what Zyan now saw to be a concealed throat mike, then: "Yeah, well, they've got firebombs and God knows what else. I wouldn't bet against someone in that crowd packing something that could hurt you. Djielese security obviously messed up. We'll use the emergency acceleration couches, and the hell with procedure. All we've gotta do is get orbital, not jump out of here."
The rep's words were given added emphasis by a burst of automatic weapons fire from the crowd. It went high, spanging off the hull of the ship.
"Whoa!" Mubata yelped.
Zyan used the cuffs to yank her down into a crouch, and put his back between her and the crowd, for what good it would do. Neither of them wore armour, unless her uniform incorporated some. She protested with a growl, and Zyan felt her tense to push him off.
She didn't have time, though. The lift ride was cut short, terminating in an airlock panel which slid smoothly open to admit them. Inside was a large chamber, used for debarking large items in space. It came equipped with a line of crash/launch chairs on a rotating carriage.
"In!" The rep snapped, although Zyan had already given her a push and followed her in. The hull clanged with more impacts from enthusiasts in the crowd.
"Seats on the rear wall." Mubata said. "Get in the second one, there."
Zyan obeyed. It occurred to him that he wasn't dead yet, and for some reason found the thought less than comforting, because he couldn't see the Prots letting him go very easily. He'd faced the dangers of spacebourne conflict on and off for the past four years, and didn't relish the prospect of that lock door being breached the hard way. They said you had thirty seconds of utter agony in vacuum, before you finally went. He'd heard a man, over the comm, blow his own brains out rather than deal with that.
The woman hit a large red panic button on the armrest of her chair, and emergency restraints fired and deployed, strapping them both over-firmly into their seats. They rotated ninety degrees into launch position with a bone-jarring jerk.
"We're in." Mubata said.
"I'm more than adequately aware of that fact already, Chaka." Someone replied over shipwide intercom, the voice male, refined and just a little touch on the haughty side.
"So take off already." Mubata replied, her irritation plain.
"Didn't I mention I already had? Fifteen metres above ground level and rising, my dear - I do have inertials in the midbay lock, but you seemed to be enjoying the drama of the moment so much. No damage from the small-arms fire, and I can see you're both uninjured. Welcome aboard, Major Jarvis, by the way. It's always nice to have a notorious terrorist in one's cargo lock." The voice drawled urbanely. "I don't believe we've had one of you fellows aboard for nearly three whole days, now. Still, worth the wait for Black Zyan himself, eh?"
"Marcus, you think maybe you could keep quiet? Just one time tonight?" Mubata asked in a strained way.
"Certainly, oh Captain my Captain." There was a brief pause. "There. Did you enjoy it?"
"One of these days, Marcus, I'm gonna rip out your vocal diaphragm and stuff it up your-" Mubata promised levelly.
"Incoming orbital missiles!" Marcus suddenly said, all business now.
Here we go, Zyan thought.
The bay jigged and whirled as the ship started jinking to avoid the missiles. Inertial compensators could only do so much.
"Spread of ten HE tipped warheads just launched from one of their high orbit platforms. I'm receiving a message claiming it's a malfunction in the automatic targeting systems." The voice sounded slightly rattled. "They're trying to send the destruct codes."
"Yeah, sure they are." Zyan commented.
"I'm going to break orbit. Hopefully they'll run out of fuel." Marcus decided.
Don't hold your breath, Zyan thought. A few moments passed.
"Can you evade them?" Mubata asked.
"Not for much more than a minute." Marcus informed them tightly. "For missiles with malfunctioning guidance systems, they're really rather persistent."
"Damn." Mubata swore. "Countermeasures?"
"Ineffective." Marcus reported. His voice sounded strained. "Get yourself to one of the lifepods, Chaka. I can make sure that you're both safe."
Zyan looked blankly at the far wall, and then came to a decision.
"Your man there said a high orbit platform?" He asked Mubata, quietly.
"Yeah." She replied.
"Lucky for us. Want to know how to lose those birds?" He enquired.
She turned and looked him in the eye. "Any ideas would be greatly appreciated."
"Those warheads are old - they're converted from space-clearance models." He explained in a neutral, disinterested tone. "They're hard to fool, but can't deal with multiple targets. Don't try and head out, head back in, ASAP. Find yourself some unmanned junk and fly past it - I guarantee none of those missiles will re-acquire."
"First time tonight I heard him string more than maybe ten words together." Mubata commented dryly, then: "Will it work?"
"I'm already trying it." The voice told them.
Mubata turned to look at Zyan again. "I hope you're right."
Zyan allowed himself a very faint twitch of the lips. It wasn't the first time he'd heard that phrase in a stressful situation.
They felt another high-g turn which the gravitics of Mubata's ship only partially compensated for, then a series of minor course corrections.
"One down." Marcus said. "Three. Five. Eight, nine. Great - the last one just wiped out all satellite holo channels for the northern continent."
"No-one takes down a B&B ship that easily." Mubata averred. "Marcus, transmit the appropriate protests and complaints to the Djielese government, and then, let's get the hell out of here."
"Done and done. Jolly good save, there, Major Jarvis." The restraints released and wound back into their housings.
"Call me Zyan." He shrugged. He'd never wanted that promotion.
"Good call, Zyan." Mubata grinned widely at him. "Name's Chaka."
She extended her free hand, and Zyan shook it briefly. Her grip was strong and warm.
"Means we're even." Zyan hinted, and raised his cuffed wrist as a hint.
"Sorry, Zyan. I'm not taking those off right now." Chaka replied solemnly.
"I'm a prisoner, then?" He asked her.
"Oh, no. Officially you have refugee status." Chaka gracefully swung out of her seat and straddled his. "I just want you where I can get my hands on you when I feel like it."
"All refugees get this treatment?" Zyan asked, returning the look she gave him. "Or do you sometimes use the direct approach?"
"'Course not. However, shuttling your cute behind off that planet was the last part of a job which just bought us out of hock to the FSP, and saved you from bein' trampled, kicked, molotov cocktailed and generally lynched to death. Under the circumstances I feel a little celebration is in order." Chaka smiled and stretched langourously on his lap - as far as the handcuffs would allow, at any rate. "Don't you concur?"
"She's lying, of course." Marcus said. "My partner here is more than willing to celebrate the opening of an envelope, the activation of a wallscreen, or the turning-on of a tap."
"Hey, Marcus - a little privacy?" Chaka asked. "So what you wanna do, Zy?"
Zyan looked at her. She smiled.
"Tell me no if you want, Major Jarvis." Chaka told him, and smiled, a little ruefully. "Say the word, and I'll unlock the cuffs, show you to your room, and leave you the hell alone. I just favour the direct approach, as you say. Your record seems to suggest you do, too."
Zyan briefly considered calling her on that, just to see how she'd act, but then decided that since his life had recently taken an upswing - in that it hadn't ended violently - he'd see how this one played out.
"Nah." He said. "Leave 'em on."
Mubata grinned wickedly. "Knew it."
"Shower out of the question?" He ventured. The prisoner's overalls he was wearing now were the same ones he'd been issued two weeks ago.
"In your case, it's mandatory." She answered, wrinkling her nose and getting nimbly to her feet. "Follow me."
"Like I have a choice." Zyan snorted, but once more allowed a very small suggestion of a smile to flicker across his face - quicker than a swallow's shadow.
"Life is full of choices, Zyan." Chaka informed him as she passed through the door. "It's just the difficult ones you gotta watch for."
Zyan elected not to press her on what she meant. Now that he was seemingly out of trouble, he was beginning to realise his situation had improved somewhat. A lot - at least in the past two minutes.
Plus, he was mainly looking forward to a very nice shower.