Zyan's relationship with Chaka Mubata lasted three days. Out of those seventy two hours, he reckoned he spent maybe two of them alone. It was going to be a short relationship and she knew it, so she compensated by making it a pretty intense one, physically, at least. Chaka was a pretty singleminded woman. She knew what she wanted, and she wasn't the least bit shy in getting it, whether it was career related or otherwise.
It was maybe a little bit disrespectful to her, then, that when later in life Zyan thought back to that three day journey from Djiel to the FSP installation, what he would (at first) remember was a conversation with Marcus, and not his various interludes with the brawn of the ship.
He'd heard about B&B ships, of course, in the same kind of way he'd heard about the various alien races, multi-party democracy, and other such distant fantasies. They existed somewhere, but as a Djielese it was unrealistic to expect to ever see them in your lifetime. Therefore, they took on a kind of hazy, nebulous existence.
Zyan quickly found that it was easier to simply think of Marcus as being the ship, rather than a life-supported human being in an armoured chamber. To go that way with it, well, he just found it a little bit hard to get his head round. It also injected a little disharmonious note into his currently very frenzied love-life: Zyan had never felt the need for an audience, which was maybe one reason he'd been constantly on the verge of being kicked off his course. Call it narrow-minded, but his teachers had pretty much assumed that anyone studying the performing arts was pretty much going to want to be seen performing some arts at some point, whereas Zyan would've been more than happy to spend the entire time in his room. He liked to make music for the hell of it, not to impress any third parties, and applied the same rule to other leisure pastimes. Marcus had monitors everywhere and was theoretically free to pry, despite his assurances to the contrary. Chaka, however, was very good at distracting Zyan from this fact. He supposed she'd have to be, if she planned on doing any serious entertaining on a regular basis. From the dry comments Marcus aimed at her now and again, and her tart rejoinders, Zyan could tell that this was an issue for good natured bickering between the two.
The conversation occurred on the third day. In the morning, they'd be making their last jump for Barnard's Star, and the journey would be over. Chaka was involved in a long comm call with an FSP frigate on it's way to Djiel, which effectively left Zyan at a loose end. This was just as well: he'd dived straight from the frying pan into bed, and had so far been granted precious little time to reflect and think. This was great from one point of view, but not very helpful when it came to orienting oneself to a new reality. So, he wandered the ship, thinking, and eventually found himself settling into a chair on the bridge, in front of the curved, heavily armoured panel that protected Marcus' body. The viewscreen showed stars moving past - a fake image, intended only to give the impression of interstellar movement, and conveniently save the screen from degrading at the same time. Zyan knew that they were actually almost stationary, while Chaka briefed the frigate's senior officers.
He'd taken to wearing a collarless black suit of sturdy, hard wearing material, which fitted snugly around his neck. Seated, and looking pensively at the viewer, he must have resembled a priest contemplating the cosmos.
"I know what you're thinking." Marcus told him solemnly.
"Telepathy a recognised adaption of shell people, then?" Zyan asked him, a little testily. It wasn't a nice thing to admit to oneself, but up until that point Zyan had thought Marcus was going a bit far with his pointed comments. So maybe Chaka was used to it, even expected it. Zyan wasn't and didn't appreciate being referred to as 'terrorist', 'guerilla', 'agitator' or any of the other words Marcus had been using to describe him. He still thought of himself as a student caught up in important events and just trying to keep his head above water, despite everything that had happened to him.
"There've been incidences, as it happens, but that's hardly necessary in your case, herr Major." Marcus' urbane voice informed him. "You're wondering where it all went wrong, correct?"
Marcus was indeed in the right ballpark. A year ago, the government forces had seemingly been on the run. The countryside - where the intilla powder was made - had fallen largely into rebel hands. Democratic elections had been held in fourteen out of seventeen districts. Only the urban centres like Djielonia remained fully in the control of the state. The Revolutionary Council was planning to wait out the winter, and then finish the job.
Six months later and it was a losing battle. Offworld supplies of munitions, medicine, food and other materiél, which the rebels relied upon, had mysteriously dried up. The Prot government, on the other hand, had seemed generously equipped with all the equipment it could ever need - although it's policies in utilising them had become far less draconian, and they were promising to respect the results of the elections, and hold their own in the remaining three districts. At that point, most of the support for the revolution had withered away. Six months after that, Zyan had been standing on a podium, manacled to a metal railing in front of about fifteen billion annoyed citizens, all of whom wanted to hit him very hard with sticks. It was a bit of a turnaround, to say the least.
"Something like that." Zyan allowed. "Your partner not withstanding, this isn't the outcome I'd prefer."
"Name me one thing that turns out exactly as planned and I'll show you a miracle." Marcus replied.
"Point." Zyan shrugged.
"I wonder, Major Jarvis, did you ever ponder the point of exactly why you ended up like this?" The voice asked him.
Zyan eyed the smooth grey metal. "Probably I didn't listen to my mothers well enough."
"Mothers?" Marcus asked, sounding a little surprised.
"Long story." Zyan said. "Let's just say I'm the product of an unconventional relationship."
"Ahhh, right, okay then." Marcus said, and let it drop. "What I was actually referring to were the political changes instituted by the FSP. The Protectorate hegemony caved in awfully easily to the FSP's demands. Did you ever stop to ponder exactly why this was?"
"Not particularly." Zyan replied. "I assume they just strong-armed 'em. Sort it out or we send in the marines."
"That's not a tactic to which the Federated Sentient Planets usually likes to resort, Major, at least not if the planetary eco-system isn't in danger, and most definitely not in the case of a heavily industrialised system like Djiel, with considerable military might on both sides. It's not a trivial undertaking, assembling enough military strength to even register a difference in a situation like that, much less control the outcome. The FSP much prefers backroom dealings. It's less of a drain on the federal budget, you understand." Marcus explained, in tones that were definitely going somewhere.
"You're sayin' the feds chucked in with the prot government. If that's so, then why bother with this big humanitarian drive after the fact? They've lifted nearly eleven thousand people off Djiel alone - maybe another two thousand from the outlying settlements and Djiel IV. Doesn't make sense." Zyan replied, now thoroughly hooked on the conversation. He leant forward in the chair, looking intently at the casing.
"What makes sense," Marcus said, "depends entirely upon one's objectives. So, I put it to you, what do you believe the FSP's motives in this intervention to be?"
"What did the FSP want outta the deal? Political stability in the Djiel system - but we coulda given them that." Zyan replied.
"Zyan, Zyan... I expected better of you than that. You're not being nearly cynical enough, dear boy. Remember what the game was." Marcus nudged him.
"Politics." Zyan responded unhesitatingly.
"And how is it played?"
"Dirty." He smiled thinly.
"Very good! There's hope for you yet. Now - bearing that in mind - what were the FSP's objectives here?"
"Ip powder, right? Pure and simple." Zyan stated.
"Excellent, Mr. Jarvis. Without intilla powder, people all over the galaxy start dying from those horrible little ailments which everyone thought were a thing of the past. Makes the voters - not to mention medical-industrial pressure groups - very unhappy. The Federated Sentient Council reacts very badly to such things. They'll do almost anything to make sure that a hiccup like you created doesn't turn into something more serious." Marcus pointed out.
"They can't be that bad." Zyan protested.
"In truth, no, probably not. There are constitutional and humanitarian issues to be considered, so add one more objective: a return to the spirit of the original Djielese charter, that of a world which is free, if you sort of squint and look sideways at it, anyway."
"Okay so," Zyan thought, "the FSP wants the supply of IP - plus maybe their interstellar comms - back to normal ASAP. On top of that, they want a political result. They could've still just dealt with us, though."
"Getting colder, Mr. Jarvis. The FSP is an adjudicator, a mediator, an over-arching power. They can't be seen to be supporting either side in a civil war. Certainly they can intervene, but not as anyone's ally. They have to dictate terms, and without a fleet presence, that requires a docile - or desperate - party to deal with." Marcus laid it down.
Zyan cottoned on - perhaps a little slowly, but he'd always thought of the FSP as a set of beliefs and ideals, not a pragmatic, practical organisation. To a citizen of pre-revolutionary Djiel, the FSP, or at least what was known of it, had seemed very far away, and not real at all.
"The prots were desperate. Desperate enough to change their ways and give the FSP the guarantees it wanted. In return... In return they shut down our supplies from out-system, right?"
"No-one will ever know that, you understand, but that's the most likely explanation."
"They hung us out to dry." Zyan breathed, in pale-faced disbelief.
"Quite." Marcus generated a sniffing sound. "Don't take it personally, though. When the stakes are this high, someone has to lose rather a lot. This time it was you - and about thirteen thousand others. Next time, perhaps you'll be the winner. Djiel has changed, too. No more purges, no more show trials, no more thought police. The FSP won on all counts."
Zyan thought about it for a moment. It fitted together rather well. The FSP had allowed the prots to get punched up right against the ropes, and had then offered them an easy out - with conditions. The eventual price of all this was the deportation of thirteen thousand individuals - the revolution's leaders and their families. No small wonder, then, that the FSP had expended so much effort to make sure everyone escaped without being harrassed too much. He wondered: could institutions feel guilt?
"Why are you tellin' me all of this? You're FSP too."
"Not any more - as my good if over-amorous partner says, we're now firmly out of hock." Marcus sounded pleased as Zyan still reeled, and then his voice became more sympathetic. "I'm telling you, though, because I imagine you're going to spend a long time within the federal system, and you shouldn't enter into such an ordeal with your eyes shut."
"I'll appeal against this, somehow." Zyan promised, jumping out of the chair and stalking around in a rare show of emotion. "I'll go to the press. Damn it, I'll force my way into a Session of the FSP if I bloody well have to!"
"Well, by all means try, and good luck, Mr. Jarvis. I don't think, though, that you'll meet with a great deal of success. The Djielese charter has been re-ratified to the satisfaction of the Council, the magic powder is once again flowing freely, and old wars make for disappointing headlines. I'm afraid the Djielese revolution is yesterday's news."
"And so is Black Zyan." Zyan gloomed, sitting down again, although he privately thought: though that's not exactly a bad thing. He'd quite like to be just Zyan again.
"Oh, I don't know about that. I'll bet the Heptite Guild, for one, won't forget your name in a hurry."
"The who?" Zyan asked.
"The Heptite Guild. On Ballybran. The Crystal Singers. Surely you're not going to tell me you've never heard of them?"
"Not really. They a theatre group or somethin'?"
Marcus laughed - the sound reverberated around the bridge in humourous stereo.
"No, they're not that, although on occasion they're partial to dramatics. I've had the odd one aboard now and again - before Chaka's time - and they're, well, they're certainly different, are Crystal Singers. So they can advertise now and they call themselves CS whoever, but some things never change." Marcus mused.
"Okay, all this is going right over my head. Give me a definition, willya?" Zyan asked.
"To recite a very stuffy definition that doesn't even begin to describe these people, the Heptite Guild is concerned with the mining, research, development and distribution of the crystals that are at the heart of many high-technology industries and products. Without this resource, communications and powerplants-"
"I know what crystals do, Marcus." Zyan interjected, a little snappishly, because all this talk of things he knew little about was making him feel like a poor cousin and he hated it. "It just never happened to be of a great deal of importance to me where they come from."
"Suit yourself." Marcus replied indifferently. "However, now that Djiel is acessble again, all those crystals you shattered need replacing - and any that were matched to them. Someone's going to become very rich, and it's all down to you."
"They cost a bit, then?" Zyan asked.
"Through the roof." Marcus acknowledged. "I've got a set of five blues in my sublight drives - set me back eighty thousand crs. Even the pinks in the mainframe cost almost ten thousand, and that's considered cheap."
"That's a lot of money." Zyan agreed. "They hirin', at all?"
"I expect so - rumour has it they're sort of on the recovery after a bit of a slump. Certainly the FSP's letting them advertise for recruits, now. They never did that before."
"So they'd pay pretty well for a pilot, maybe?" Zyan asked.
"I expect so, but it's the singers who make the real dough, or so I'm led to believe. To be a singer, you have to be musical." Marcus answered.
"You don't say." Zyan responded, in a dry voice of his own, adding privately, not that I ever was. Being able to sing and hold a note was one thing, he could do that. Doing it in the right order, at the right tempo, without pissing off the other cast members and remembering to face the right direction - not so much.
"Not in that way." Marcus replied tiredly. "I gather that tempting the crystal out of the ground requires a set of lungs and vocal chords, plus the right genes to use them like a scalpel."
"Well, anyways." Zyan said - his usual set of words for changing a subject. Okay, so maybe he'd check out this Heptite Guild later on, (eighty large would buy a lot, like maybe passage back to Djiel to start some trouble and a whole load of kit to start it with), but right now, he had other concerns. "What should I be lookin' for when we get to this Bernard's Star?"
"Barnard's Star." Marcus corrected him. "You really are a backwoodsy type of person, aren't you?"
"On Djiel, they used to shoot people for trying to leave the backwoods. Sometimes literally." Zyan replied flatly. "You follow?"
"I apologise. Barnard's Star, among other things, has a station which is serving as a refugee camp for all your compadres and their dependents. You have family waiting there?"
Zyan shook his head. "No. Mother and mother aren't overly concerned with politics - in fact they're not too bothered by anything beyond their front gate, to be quite honest. As for my sister, who knows."
"Not a close family then?" Marcus guessed.
Zyan nodded. "Spot on. Couldn't wait to disappear off to college. A letter used to happen maybe every four months."
"What about, erm, if you don't mind me asking, your father? Or fathers?" Marcus asked.
Zyan laughed - something he hadn't done very much, until a day or so ago. "See what I mean? Unconventional. In answer to your question, my 'father' was a custom-tailored DNA sample. My mothers wanted creative, intelligent offspring who'd do something unique and interesting with their lives. Imagine their disappointment when what they actually got was a normal pair of kids who just tore around the house making a mess and breaking things. They were hopelessly ill-suited to be our parents and we were hopelessly ill-suited to be their children." Zyan shrugged. "The whole arrangement kinda imploded maybe two years before the war started."
There was very little in the way of bitterness there - after all he had far more hurtful experiences to hoard and deliberate over if he'd been the type - but all the same, Zyan preferred to pretend he'd hatched out of an egg at age 18.
"I... I'm afraid I'm not altogether certain what to say in response to that, Zyan." Marcus confessed.
"Probably best to get back on track. Barnard's Star?" Zyan prompted him.
"Ah, yes. Well, there's a refugee processing station running at full capacity, but I expect, what with you being who you are, you'll rate a slightly different reception. Maybe even an FSP agent all to yourself for a few hours." Marcus informed him.
"If that's what you're after," Chaka injected herself into the conversation, "you can have that right now."
Zyan turned around with a slight smile for her. Marcus made a sigh.
"Well, I see that any chance of further productive chat has now gone out the airlock." The brain lamented.
"Can it, Marcus. I've just spent an hour and a half briefing a group of tight-lipped military types about the situation on Djiel, and quite frankly I'm about to explode." The brawn told him smartly. "I'm also very hungry. Care to join me for dinner, Zy darling?"
"Be warned you're probably on the menu." Marcus muttered.
"Marcus..." Chaka warned.
"Very well, I'll be off then. Remember what I told you, Mr. Jarvis. Wheels within wheels, and all that."
"Yeah, I won't forget." Zyan replied. It wasn't a lie.
"He been doing his lecturer bit again?" Chaka asked him, before drawing him into a passionate kiss.
"Hmm, yeah." He replied, when they broke, and made their way toward the galley.
"You listen to any of it?" She enquired further.
"Actually, yes." Zyan told her.
"Good." She said, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "If you're smart, you'll remember it. All of it."
Which was exactly what he did do.