Jo Graham: The Furies

The steel claws released him. With a snarl and a backward glance the Wraith paced away down the corridor in a swirl of black leather.

“Crap,” John Sheppard said.

The voice of the drone at the doors was loud in her mind. *My Queen, Bronze would speak with you. Shall I admit him?*

*Of course,* Waterlight replied, and sat up straighter in her chair, arranging her hands in her lap. Her mother would have told her to sit up straight, to insist upon every courtesy, even with Bronze, who might be her pallax someday, might be her Consort. There was little enough choice. Twelve blades remained to her, and one of them was Thorn, who might never aspire to that role. Twelve blades and seven clevermen, twenty six drones. And Waterlight.

She lifted her chin, her face pale as her white dress in the shiplight, a bluish tint cast by the lights above. Her hair was dark, rising from a sharp widow’s peak in the front, falling in a river down her back, held back with the silver combs that had been her mother’s, and her small hands were covered by glovebacks of fine white stones set in silver mesh. Too large for her. They did not flex as they should, but rather rang and clattered when she moved her fingers.

*You will grow into them,* the Consort Thorn said at her shoulder, and Waterlight glanced up.

His face was tight as always, pinched even though he had fed recently. The strain told on him, and she was sorry, sorry once again that she was not more ready…

*You are young,* he said, catching at her thought like wind, *and youth is not a flaw.* In his mind she saw herself as he did, at rest on some world she did not remember, breaking from his arms to run toward the waves that crashed on the shore in crests of bright foam, her laughter sparkling like light on the water.

*I am not that child,* she said, mind to mind and heart to heart. She must not be. A fruit-fed baby who trusted all… She must be queen. There was no other choice.

The door irised open, and she schooled her face to bland calmness as Bronze approached, his every movement sharp and keen. He was not so much her senior, and though she did not burn as she would, she could not help but admire the way he moved, his slender form in its leathers graceful and quick, the tenor of his mind bright. If the day came that he were pallax, she would not regret it.

*What bring you, my blade?* she asked, her voice cool.

He sketched a deep bow to her, a quick nod to Thorn, his mind voice all but bursting with excitement. *My Queen, I believe we have captured the Consort of Atlantis!*

Thorn’s voice was dry. *And how would such a miracle have occurred? We have seen nothing of the Lanteans, and have stayed far away from their allies this last dreamcycle. Besides that, he is a warrior, and always accompanied by full many blades.*

Bronze did not back down, his eyes darting to her though he spoke to Thorn. *Nevertheless, I think this is he. He gives another name, of course, but he is very like to the images the Genii circulated. I would stake my life that this is the same man!*

Thorn did not believe. She felt his skepticism at her back. Bronze would do much for attention, much to draw himself to her as she grew older.

And yet she was not a child, and a small, tight-packed bubble of defiance rose in her. If her blade brought something to her, should she not hear him out? Waterlight lifted her chin. *Show me,* she said.

His mind was golden, like the reflecting metal of his name, and the picture was sharp — one of the images the Genii had made, a dark haired human, rather ordinary looking, eyes a muddy shade between brown and green, like thousands of others. The second picture… The human rested in their feeding pens, a film of hair upon his chin rendering him more bestial, his hair threaded silver a little at the temples, but those same eyes, the same expression of fearlessness, as though he knew what was to come and did not surrender. *It might be?* she said, and did not like the uncertain sound in her own voice.

Thorn bent his head, a small flash of interest as he studied the images Bronze showed him. *Possibly,* he said grudgingly, *if this one does not distort them.* Bronze might, might in his eagerness make the pictures seem more alike in his mind than they were, exaggerate this man’s likeness to the Consort of Atlantis. *Where did he come from?*

*From my run upon Gaffen,* Bronze said proudly. *Everwind and I brought eleven, food to keep us some little time.*

Eleven, Thorn thought, and it was there in his mind — darts by the hundreds streaking across the sky, thousands scattering before them, great plazas full of panicked crowds swept clean in moments. Such had been Sateda, in the old days. Now they hunted on the fringes, poaching here and there where it would be little noticed.

*Eleven,* Bronze said, and his back was steel. *I go and fetch the food we have, not brood in solitude!*

Thorn snarled, and she felt his anger and at the same time knew the truth of his words. If all had not gone so badly, if her mother lived yet…

*I am Queen,* she said to both, her voice clear as crystals. *And I will have no quarreling, my blades.*

It was her prerogative to call the Consort to order, but she had never done thus. She did not know if he would take it. If he did not…

*Possibly it is the Consort of Atlantis, My Queen,* he said. Pride blossomed bright in his mind. She was growing. She would not be easily ruled, a weak queen who was nothing but her consort’s mouthpiece.

It made her bold. *See that this man is taken to a cell and given food and water. If it is not the Consort Guide, it will do little harm to keep him alive some few more days. And if it is…* She raised her eyes to Bronze, whose heart leaped. *We have a great prize.*

He expected to be taken to the Queen. Wasn’t that always how this worked? They’d come and get him, drag him in to where the Wicked Witch of the West was waiting, and then she’d start with the whole ‘kneel puny human’ routine. So when two Wraith came to get John, he thought he knew the drill. One of them was one of the big masked guys, and the other was the young one he’d seen before, the one who’d asked his name.

The big one prodded his back with a stunner, and John briefly wondered if he could goad him into firing. If he stunned him it would probably be a little while before they got back to the going to the Queen part. It might buy a little more time before she turned his mind inside out.

But no. This guy would probably just pin his arms or punch him. He was built like a brick wall, and wouldn’t actually need to stun him to assure his compliance.

To his surprise they went to an ordinary holding cell, the twin of the ones he’d been in before, a bleak little room in semi-darkness, the front wall a sliding grate of irregularly shaped bars. On the floor on one side was a metal dish piled with four or five pieces of fruit, while a metal pitcher held water. John looked at them dubiously.

The young one was already preparing to leave. “What’s with the fruit, Frank?” he asked. “Can I call you Frank?”

The Wraith ignored him and stalked off, not even glancing back.

“Ok.” John sat down next to the pitcher, glad to at least to be in a different position. “Planning to keep me a while then.” He wasn’t sure whether that thought was reassuring or not.

*It may be,* Thorn said grudgingly, studying the likeness of their prisoner against the one circulated by the Genii long ago. The man who called himself Han Solo did not waste time pacing his small cell. Instead he leaned against the wall, his face upturned and his eyes closed, apparently hibernating. This one had been a prisoner before. He did not waste energy weeping or pleading, or throwing himself against things that would not yield.