Chapter 3: Burned

The Amber D’Alsace Spire was once the finest hotel and casino in the heart of Param Eon. For centuries people from the entire system journeyed there to walk amidst its bronze tiled walls and granite staircases. Fortunes were lost and won, lives spent and renewed. Everything about the building was crafted to look like wealth – from the etcho wine goblets made from the finest Garubi crystal to the aquarium walls bustling with every fish from Tancarra to Rubiyat-2. Rumors even spread that the hotel had the last remaining Ispep fish in the entire galaxy. Children of all ages followed the walls well into the night looking for it, some claimed to have seen it, others debunked it as a marketing ploy.

But something happened. Like a knife thrust into a heart, the city around the hotel crumbled into corruption and crime and the disease spread until it overtook the entire city. The one place on the entire planet that stood for life, fun and hope, degenerated into a seeping canker that no one could escape from. That was before the “Renovatio,” and the rise of Grand Minister Withryn. His revolution, his uprising took back the city and as a result resurrected the planet – order returned and he was greatly rewarded, not just on Param Eon, but throughout the entire Galactic Systems Alliance. But he had help.

Since the “Renovatio,” the hotel was refabricated, fashioned into a lightning rod of peace and order – a mighty spire that housed his entire task force of Handmen. Living and working from a central location, these Handmen kept the peace and regarded each other as brothers, sisters, as family.

On the 99^th floor, in a spacious and magnificently fashioned apartment, full of ornate portraits and Meruduu sculptures, a beautiful woman named Kristol, wrapped from neck to foot in a large robe, shuffled across the hall to the bathroom. Her head, completely hairless except for two thin brown eyebrows, held two ice blue eyes and a thin nose. Reaching into the large crystal shower, she turned on the water. Only the water flowed pink – a cillin shower, used for the severely burned.

When she dropped her towel, the reasoning for the shower exposed itself. From the bottom of her nose to her feet, Kristol was covered with burn scars. Her breasts stretched gnarled and unrepresentable across her chest. Her navel – gone. Her lips drawn tight against her teeth. Her feet held only three and four toes, respectively. Like a clay figurine left incomplete, she lacked the deft hands of an artist to arouse her nipples, indent her deft navel and pout her lips.

Entering the shower, she let the pink water spread over her body. It soothed her. Sometimes, after long stretches of work, she felt the pin pricks across her burns. Never too bothersome, when it got bad, it felt like she had fallen into a vat of needles. The cillin took that away, filled her pores with biotics to keep the pain away. Massaging her hands over her face and scalp, she wavered in the shower, pink mist floating about her and the bathroom.

After turning the cillin shower off, she stepped out and put the robe back on, then walked down the hall to her bedroom. Inside, set against the far wall was a large bed draped in white moonsilk coverings and pillows. Two knockwood endtables highlighted the head of the bed and along the walls hung small paintings in black frames. Each painting contained an ancient symbol graphed onto the parchment. Kristol walked into a closeted room and touched the light pad. A pale light flickered and shone brightly.

On one side of the closet hung different types of military uniforms: black Handmen fatigues, sandy training tunics, her gray Handman armor, thick soled black boots, and a white officer’s uniform. On the other side – a weapons cache, where she had numerous types of plasma rifles, repeaters and ammo. In a polished silver case lied a reignfire pistol. And at the very back of the closet, all by itself, hung a thin, black dress. She stopped by the reignfire pistol and ran a finger along its smooth edge, but she continued to the back of the closet and grabbed the black dress.

* * *

The porter was late. Standing there under the tiled awning, Kristol waited, the black dress hugging her body. The busy street in front of her rushed with traffic – cabs weaving in and out of the airspace above her, a tickasha lumbered by hoping to deliver someone’s tac noodles in time for dinner, people walked the street looking for the next spirit pub. A streetlight across the way hummed and flickered in the light misty rain.

She hated these things. They always felt too forced, contrived. Diplomats and dignitaries all powered up and fat, working their way to fuller political teats. She shook her head and almost considered turning back and forgetting the whole thing – but he wanted her there. And when the Grand Minister of the GSA wanted you there, you went, even it felt like someone was removing your finger nails with a rusty plasma casing.

Around the corner sped a shiny black cab and stopped erratically in front of Kristol. The driver’s door slid open and the porter rushed to the curb, adjusting his hat as he ran. When he stood before Kristol, his eyes widened and he looked at her scarred arms, hands and legs. He swallowed hard a few times before stammering, “Sorry, I’m late, Ms. Bantashe…I was…There was a lot of…”

Kristol hated the staring, hated the stammering even more. But she had grown used to it – people gawking at her skin, their eyes horrified in one instant, apologetic in another, and finally landing on sheer pity. She held up her hand, walked toward the porter and said, “You embarrass your self. Shut your mouth and drive.”

The porter shook his head and opened the door for her. “I’m sorry. I just…I can’t imagine…”

“Don’t try.” Kristol said as she got into the cab and sat down. The porter closed her door, ran around to his door and got in. Moments later they were weaving between lanes of traffic recklessly trying to make up lost time.

“I don’t want to die in this silly outfit,” Kristol said. “There’s no rush, we’re already late.”

Outside and above the cab, great spotlights cut through the night, crossing themselves and ushering people closer. Only a few more blocks, she thought. It’s just once a year. Sit next to him. Listen to the story. Smile. Shake hands. And no wisecracks about the stares. Kristol took a deep breath and held it in. Political stuff didn’t interest her. She belonged on the street, keeping the peace.

The cab skirted to a stop in front of the Aerodrome. Kristol didn’t wait for the porter. She opened the door herself and walked to the large guilded doors. Two GSA servicemen approached her. One flashed a coder in her eye and the other one frisked her for weapons, finding a pocket reaver strapped to her thigh. “No weapons allowed, miss.”

Kristol showed them the palm of her hand, where a tattoo was inked in the shape of an eye.

The other serviceman holstered his coder and pressed a button on his compad. “It’s okay,” he said. “She’s a Handman.” He turned to Kristol and waved his hand to the door. “Go on in, Ms. Bantashe. The Minister is expecting you.”

The great guilded doors swung open and Kristol entered. Enblazoned with light and crystals, the hall hummed with voices and the clatter of dinner. On the far wall, a long table sat raised above all the others. Every seat was filled except for one at the right hand side of Grand Minister Withryn. Dressed in deep blue robes, Withryn chuckled and drank emto wine. His age was starting to show, thought Kristol.

She made her way to the long table in the back, then stepped up the short staircase and sidled to her seat next to the Grand Minister. He immediately paused his conversation and stood up for her. Amazingly, the entire hall also stood up. She hated that too. Kristol glared out at everyone. Representatives from a thousand worlds within the GSA stood before her. When she finally sat down, the entire hall did as well in a dull hush.

“Sorry,” she said to the Grand Minister. “The porter was late.”

Withryn took her hand in his and smiled. “No worries dear. Better to be fashionably late than boorishly early.”

Kristol forced a smile. Boorishly early was her style – always on time, always ready. To be anything else was to be unprepared. Unfolding her napkin, she looked down the long table. The Senator from Duta was there, her head feathers ruffled in a conversation with the Senator from Cisum. She couldn’t help but be amazed at the diversity within one room, and the fact that Withryn helped a lot of these worlds come together. A servant placed a plate of greens in front of her – cerumber salad. She smiled as she looked at every other plate that had the same creamy, dundo meat dish. Despite the awkward situation, she gave Withryn credit. He knew her better than she let anyone else know her.

Half way through her salad, she heard the words she was dreading all night.

“Why yes,” Withryn said. “That is her. My ‘saint’ as they would say.”

Kristol swallowed a large leaf of her salad – it went down hard and she had to swallow again to get it down.

“Do tell us,” the Senator from Dayhol said.

Kristol reached for her wine glass and downed a full gulp of the velvety drink before she heard Withryn begin.

“It was before all of this,” Withryn gestured his hands to the large hall of people. “Back then I was just a Senator, much like all of you. Of course, as with any position of power, there were always detractors. For as much as I fought for unification and the installation of peace, there were plenty to oppose as you all well know.” He paused to wet his mouth with wine and continued. “At the time Kristol here was just finding her feet in the Handmen. Young. Clean. The very vestige of innocence on this planet. Assigned to me and my advisors, we were launching the reconstruction of a desolate wasteland of crime, poverty and filth. Draggards the lot of them.”

“Midway through my dissertation, something happened. Before our security team was able to sweep the area, someone had stashed a fioregel plasma rifle in a sewer grate.” Withryn paused for dramatic effect as the occupants of the long table held their breath in amazement. “Yes. Quite frightening. I’ve since banned the production of that vile chemical. Anyway, Kristol, being the brightest of her class and the quickest on her feet, managed to put herself, between me and that blast of fioregel.”

The gasps coming from the long table were loud enough, the whole hall took notice, staring at Grand Minister Withryn, who had every pleasure in carrying on with the story. “Yes. Yes. Quite brave she was. Burned over 95% of her body. I of course brought in the best medunit in the GSA, but despite their efforts, she suffered greatly. Dead and revived over a dozen times, dear Kristol fought and fought for life. She spent the better part of three years in surgery, rebuilding the burnt muscle tissues, retrografting new skin for her.” He paused to take another drink of wine. “The end of the third year, we had almost 80% of her movement back, but she began denying treatment. Not because she gave up, but because she just wanted to get back to her life, to being a Handman. Every year, I offer to continue the surgeries, but she declines.”

Withryn paused to look at Kristol and take her hand in his again, a slight tear in the corner of his eye. “She is humble, this one. And I owe her my life.”

Kristol quickly reached for her wine glass again. Downing a large swallow of wine, she looked out the corner of her eye and saw it again. People throughout the hall slowly stood up. One by one senators from across the GSA stood until everyone, even the Grand Minister stood. The clapping started softly, but built into a great din, the echoes ringing in her ears.

Gulping down the wine, she wiped her mouth with her wrist and slowly stood up and bowed her head. As her burns became recognizable, she heard a few faint gasps, even a lone sob came over the crowd. As it had done every year prior, the story worked. Everyone in the room was captivated with her and more importantly, with Grand Minister Withryn.

That’s when Kristol felt her left ear get warm, her COM activated and she heard a message in her ear from dispatch, “131 at the corner of Distol and Korban.”

As the clapping subsided, she leaned over to Grand Minister Withryn and said, “Sorry, sir. We have a 131. I have to leave.”

Withryn smiled as Kristol turned and stepped down into the crowd. “Always working,” he told the crowd. “She’s so dedicated.”

* * *

“I don’t remember his face that well,” said Halfsie.

Kristol stood beside him, still wearing her black dress – a team of Handmen were scouring the Shrapnel Club for evidence. “You said he had deep blue skin and white eyes?”

“Yes.”

Kristol thought for a moment and ran a hand over her smooth scalp. “Probably Saculian. Nightfighters. Good huntsmen.”

Halfsie clutched his severed wrist with his metallic hand and said, “There’s something else.”

Kristol turned to him.

“I know where he was headed.”