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The strike was painful enough that it brought a tear to Quaia’s eye. She managed to blink it away before it rolled down her cheek. “It is certain you are right,” she replied, finally bowing her head to end the stalemate.
It was certain she was not. Never having spread her loins for anyone, the insult meant nothing to her.
After a few more moments of glaring, High Mother turned to stare out the Mouth again.
The Andomocles had reached the entrance of the docking port. They all watched as its snout disappeared beneath them, the station swallowing it and closing around it, stilling its forward motion. They felt a tug of gravity as the station absorbed the remaining momentum.
High Mother turned to glare at Quaia again. “I shall take great pleasure at watching your impertinence whipped out of you,” she said quietly. “May you endure your Ripening with grace and dignity.” She turned and whipped out the extension on her morning wand, leaning on it as she walked toward the staircase.
Quaia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The old bitch could squawk all she wanted about impertinence and minding betters. When the moment came, when the crop bit into the soft flesh of her rear, Quaia would not give her the pleasure of a single wince or teary eye.
She’d been steeling herself for this day for seasons. Her Ripening would come, and it would pass. And when it passed she would be a freedw’omn, her obligations to the station dissolved along with what little authority High Mother had over her now. The Silent Falcon had been stocked and fueled, its bow pointing toward the entrance of the hangar and all the potential of the vast blackness beyond.
She heard the doors at the top of the great staircase hiss open. The swishing and shuffling of the dresses stopped. She opened her eyes at the sudden, unexpected silence. Her eyes opened wider at the realization that there had been no fanfare, no great proclamation of Goethen’s arrival and there were no minstrels playing now.
“What is the meaning of this?” High Mother asked, her voice even haughtier than usual.
Heavy footsteps clattered down the steps. Not the soft treading of expected aristocrats at all. Sounded more like an infantry battalion thudding down with guns drawn. Unable to resist her curiosity and momentarily forgetting her resolve, Quaia glanced over her shoulder and drew in a sharp breath.
Two dozen men of the Imperator’s Own were thundering down the steps led by a tall, broad-shouldered Voklish male in a captain’s uniform. His hawkish eyes and brow were tempered by softer features than were normal for a Vokl. High, round cheekbones, an aquiline nose and a strong jaw, with mass of burly beard that looked like that of a barbaric human. Fur emerged from beneath the cuffs of his uniform. He stopped in front of High Mother and performed the usual salute, an arm stretching diagonally across his chest and then a sharp bow. “Captain Sten Torian,” he said, his voice practically a shout.
“What is this?” High Mother balked. “Where is Goethen? Where are the nobles? This is a high feast of Ripening and not some brutish assault!” She punctuated by stamping her extended morning wand against the floor. “By what authority do you board this station and come trampling in here like a herd of muffalos?”
The captain glanced sideways at his lieutenant, who stiffened, staring off at some point far in the distance. “Was the communique not sent?” he asked.
“Sir! The communique was sent, sir! As instructed, sir! Three cycles past!” the lieutenant barked.
Quaia couldn’t resist turning to look at the unfolding drama. She thought she saw High Mother trembling as her rage took hold. Next to her Sistra turned a bright shade of red, her eyes opening melon-wide. This afforded her a clearer glance at the captain. He was two heads taller than she, his impressive physique obviously hardened by seasons of service. Out the cuffs of his uniform she saw the usual tufts of dark fur the Vokl wore as tribute to their ancient, warring heritage. His presence was imposing. More to the point it caused a very curious feeling to flutter in her middle, just above her core. For a moment her heart soared with the hope that this misunderstanding might result in her Ripening being canceled.
Praise the Sun.
The captain looked from his lieutenant back to High Mother. “At the Imperator’s wish it has been written. The high priests have been absolved of their ritual duties after an… incident. The commission has imposed their mandate on me.”
“Incident? What?” High Mother squawked. She turned and glared at all the entourage, her fist shaking with rage at her side. “Why was I not told?” she bellowed.
Sistra did her best to shrink at her side.
“You,” High Mother barked. “With your red face and your wide eyes. What do you know of this?”
A fat tear rolled down Sistra’s cheek.
The captain eyed her with his stern gaze.
“High Mother,” Sistra whimpered. “I beg your forgiveness. I beg your mercy…”
“Stop begging and out with the truth!” High Mother roared, shaking her morning wand above Sistra’s head.
“I… I acknowledged receipt of… of the communique,” she said, eyes glued to her feet.
“And then why did you not tell me?”
A slight smirk formed on Quaia’s face at seeing Sistra on the receiving end of High Mother’s scorn and fury.
“I thought… I thought it was a mere formality. A mere confirmation that the Ripening was to proceed. I… I did not read it.”
Quaia nearly felt a pang of sympathy for Sistra. With High Mother quaking in front of her, obviously about to unleash a humiliating punishment and in front of the whole assembly of clucking pettyw’omn, too. To her surprise, High Mother got control of her trembling hands, stood up as straight and tall as she was able at one hundred and seven seasons, and stared down her nose at Sistra. “Bend your back and lift your skirts,” she muttered through pursed lips.
Sistra’s eyes darted to the coterie of men standing on the great staircase, then to High Mother’s entourage behind her. “High Mother, please,” she whispered. “Please, not here?”
