Yes, the rules had all been broken. Desert always worked, sweet beget sweetness. The girl from the canteen was still asleep, her supple body beside him hot to the touch. Fired from within by the heat of her blood, skin warmed by a sprinkling of foreign blood. The result of Minmatar blood on her mothers side, he knew from their hushed conversation as they lay in the early hours before sleep. Long blond hair accented her skin so it seemed she was surrounded by a glow of light. He wouldn't see her tonight. She danced at the weekends she had told him, he reached to the cabinet beside the bed and retrieved the red flower bought from a street urchin on their way home. Gently placed it to one side of her hair, and parted himself from her with the touch of a kiss. He eased himself away and went into her bathroom, splashed his face and studied himself in the mirror. Coffee and then he'd wake her before leaving, swap promises of seeing each other again sometime, before leaving without looking back. He went through to the kitchen hoping there was some proper milk for a cuppa, imagining a fridge full of salads and soya and other healthy delights that she'd think would keep her looking trim. He put on the kettle and searched the cupboards for coffee. Added 3 big spoonfuls of sugar to help taste the amount of coffee he'd just poured in for that first caffeine hit of the day. No, salads and veg wouldn't settle him, he'd need a girl with bacon and eggs in the fridge. And huge lumps of red meat sitting ready for the dinner. There sure was only one way to the heart, and nothing says loving like something from the oven. He opened the fridge in search of milk and found it sitting next to a carton of cream, and a shelf with bacon, eggs, and all manner of full fat treats. He closed the fridge softly, tipped the evilly black coffee down the sink and slipped quietly out of the house. Maybe he catch up with her some other time. Walking through the streets to the port he thought of when he'd walked away before, maybe she'd found the peace and religionshe had spoken of back then, so many years ago. He hoped so, he hadn't seen much of either in the years in space. Maybe this one would keep dancing for others, bringing them a little peace and happiness. He was going back to the open hostility of space, time to get back in a ship and bring his own brand of peace. He drop by his old friend Ali up in the station before heading out. A quiet chat over a few drinks and a game of chess would order his mind before he decided for certain.
In moments of crisis the disciplined human mind works as a thing detached, refusing to be hurried or flustered by outward circumstance. Time and its artificial divisions it does not acknowledge. Instead it is concerned with preposterous details and with the ludicrous, and it is acutely solicitous of other peoples welfare, whilist working at a speed mere electricity could never attain. Thus with Arth, when he - together with bath, bedding, clothes, and assorted items of furniture - were precipitated through the spare room's doorway and into the living area. The station heeled violently, and the stunning sound of the explosion died away amind the uproar of voices along the corridoor and the tinkle and clatter of broken crockery in the kitchen.
"Torpedoed!" said Arth, and was in his conjecture entirely incorrect. He peered from beneath the debris of what was the contents of Ali's spare bedroom, shaken and bruised, and was aware that the corridoor (now visible through the unhinged door) was filled with figures rushing past. The variety of dress and undress, the expressions of grim anticipation in each persons face set Arth's reeling mind upon it's feet. He reached out for the remote lying beside him and switched on the local news. Ali, clad in boxer shorts, a crimson streak running diagonally accross the lather on his cheek, suddenlyappeared crawling on all fours through the doorway of his suddenly re-arranged room. "I always said those safety razors were rotten things," he observed ruefully, "I've just carved me initials on me face. Have we been torpedoed, or what, at all? An' what game is it you're playing under that bath, Arth? Are you pretending it's a giant tin-foil hat?" Arth pulled himself together and stood up. As Ali joined him in the living area they stood in awed silence as they stared at the live news report from outside the station. "So," inquired Ali, as they observed the approaching fleet of foreign ships, "Decided if you're getting back in the pilot seat then, Arth?" Arth rested a hand on the shoulder of his must trusted friend, "I'll meet you at the undock."
"The dancer, my Mother, is very sad. She sits with her head on her hands. She looks into the emptiness. It is frightfull to watch. I have tried to make her pray, my Mother, but the poor girl - she does not know how; she has no belief. She refuses even to confess herself. She is pagan - but quite pagan. What could one do for her, my Mother - to chear her a little during these hours? I have tried to make her tell me of her life. She does not answer. She sits and looks always into the emptiness. it does me harm in the heart to see her. Is there nothing one can do to comfort her a little before she dies? To die so young - so full of life; for her who has no faith! To be shot - so young, so beautiful; but it is frightful, my Mother!"
When she had finished speaking, the little elderly Sister raised her hands, and crossed them quietly on her brown robed breast, as if to shield her heart. Her eyes, mild hazel and emerald, looked up, questioning the face before her, wax pale under its hood and smooth grey hair. Straight, thin, as it were bodiless, beneath the dark brown of her robe, the Mother Superior stood pondering. The spy-girl in her charge, a dancer with Minmatar blood they said; who had wormed secrets from an Amarrian naval officer she had seduced, and sold them to the Gallentes. At the trial they said there was no doubt. And they had brought her to the Covenant saying, "Keep her for us till the fiftenth. She will be better with you than in prison." To be shot - a woman! It made one shiver! And yet - now it was war! It was for Amarr!
Looking down at the little Sister with the soft eyes, the Mother Superior answered: "One must see, my daughter. Take me to her cell." Along the corridoor they passed, and went in gently. The dancer was sitting on her bed, with legs crossed under her. there was little colour in her skin, save the saffron sprinkled into it by Minmatar blood. The face was oval, the eyebrows slanted a little up; blond hair seeming almost unnatural against her skin, formed a V reversed on her forehead; her lips, sensuous but fine, showed a gleam of teeth. Her arms were crossed, as though compressing the fire within her supple body. Her eyes, colour of Malaga wine, looked through and beyond the whitened walls, through and beyond her visitors, like the eyes of a caged leopard. The Mother Superior spoke: "What can we do for you, my daughter?"
The daughter shrugged her body from the waist: one could see its supple shivering beneth her silk garment. "You suffer, my daughter. They tell me you do not pray. It is a pity." The dancer smiled - that quickly passing smile had sweetness, as if of something tasted, of a rich tune, of a long kiss; she shook her head. "One would not do anything to trouble you, my daughter; one feels pity for your suffering. One understands. Is there a book you would read; some wine you would like; in a word, anything which could distract you a little?"
The dancer untwined her arms, and clasped them behind her neck. The movement was beautiful, sinuous - all her body beautiful; and into the Mother Superior's waxen cheeks a faint glow came.
"Will you dance for us, my daughter?"
Again the smile, like the taste of sweetness, came on the dancer's face, and this time did not pass.
"Yes," she said, "I will dance for you - willingly. It will give me pleasure, madame!"
"That is good. Your dresses shall be brought. This evening in the refectory, after the meal. If you wish music - one can place a piano. Sister Mathilde is a good musician."
"Yes, music - some simple dances. Madame, could I smoke?"
"Certainly, my daughter. I will have cigarettes brought to you."
The dancer stretched out her hannd. Between her own, fragile with thin blue veins, the Mother Superior felt its supple warmth, and shivered. Tomorrow it would be cold and stiff! "Au revoir, then, my daughter..."
"The dancer will dacne for us!" This ws the word. One waited, expectant, as for a marvel. One placed the piano; procured music; sat eating the evening meal - whispering. The strangeness of it! The intrusion! The little gay ghosts of memories! Ah! The dramatic, the strange event! Soon the meal was finished; the tables cleared, removed; against the wall, on the long benches sixty brown robed figures waited - in the centre the Mother Superior, at the piano Sister Mathilde.
The little elderly Sister came first; then, down the long refectory, the dancer walking slowly over the dark oak floor. Every head was turned - alone the Mother Superior sat motionless, thinking: "If only it does not put notions into some light heads!"
The dancer wore a full skirt of black silk, she had silvery shoes and stockings, round her waist was a broad tight network of gold, over her bust a green and silvery tissue, with black lace draped; her arms were bare; a red flower was set to one side of her striking blond hair; she held a jade and ivory fan. Her lips were just touched with red, her eyes just touched with black; her face was like a mask. She stood in the very centre, with eyes cast down. Sister Mathilde began to play. The dancer lifted her fan. In that gallentean dance she hadrly moved from where she stood, swaying, shivering, spinning, poised; only the eyes of her face seemed alive, resting on this face and on that of the long row of faces, where so many feelings were expressed - curiosity and doubt, pleasure, timidity, horror. Sister Mathilde ceased playing, the dancer stood still; a little murmur broke along the line of nuns, and the dancer smiled. Then Sister Mathilde began again to play, an Amarr dance; for a moment the dancer listened as if to catch the rythm of music strange to her; then her feet moved, her lips parted, she was sweet and gay, like a butterfly, without a care; and on the lips of the watching faces smiles came, and little murmurs of pleasure escaped.
The Mother Superior sat without moving, her thin lips pressed together, her thin fingers interlaced. Images from the past kept starting out, and falling back, like figures from some curious old musical box. That long ago time, she was remembering, when her lover left for the wars in space, and she entered religion. The supple figure from the heathen world, the red flower in the blond hair, the whitened face, the sweetened eyes, stirred up rememberance, sweet and yearning, or her own gay pulses, before they had seemed to die, and she brought them to the church to bury them.
The music ceased; began again a Minmatar dance, reviving memories of the pulses after they were buried - secret, throbbing, dark. The Mother Superior turned her face to left and right. Had she been wise? So many light heads, so many young hearts! And yet, why not soothe the last dark hours of this poor heathen girl? She was happy, dancing. Yes, she was happy! What poer! And what abandonment! It was frightening. She was holding every eye the eyes even of Sister Mary - holding them as a snake holds a rabbit's eyes. The Mother Superior nearly smiled. That poor Sister Mary! And then, just beyond that face of fascinated horror, the Mother Superior saw young Sister Louise. how the child was satring - what eyes, what lips! Sister Louise - so young - just 20 - her lover dead in the war - but a year ago! Prettiest in all the Covenant! Her hands, how tightly they seemed pressed together on her lap. And, but yes, it was at Sister Louise that the dancer looked; at her she twirled and writhed those supple fiery limbs! or Sister Louise the sweet smile came and went on those enticing reddened lips. In dance after dance, like a bee on a favourite flower, to Sister Louise the dancer seemed to cling. And the Mother Superior thought: " Is this the Blessed's work I have done, or the Devil's?"
Close along the line of nuns the dancer was sweeping now; her eyes glowed, her face was proud, her body supreme. Sister Louise! What was it? A look, a touch with the fan! The music ceased. The dancer blew a kiss. it lighted - where? "Gracias, Senoras! Adios!" Slowly, swaying, as she had come, she walked away over the dark floor; and the little old Sister followed. A sighing sound from the long row of nuns; and - yes - a sob! "Go to your rooms, my daughters! Sister Louise!" The young nun came forward; tears were in her eyes. "Sister Louise, pray that the sins of that poor soul be forgiven. But yes, my child, it is sad. Go to your room. Pray!" With what grace the child walked. She, too, had the limbs of beauty. The Mother Superior sighed as she though of what was done...
Morning, cold, grey, a sprinkle of snow on the ground; they came for the dancer during Mass. A sound of firing! With trembling lips, the Mother Superior prayed for the soul dancing before her God...
That evening they searched for Sister Louise, but could not find her. After two days a message came: "Forgive me my Mother. I have gone back to life, your daughter, Louise."
The Mother Superior sat quite still. Life in death! Figures starting out from that old musical box of memory: the dancer's face, red flower in the hair, dark sweetened eyes, lips, touched with flying finger, parted in a kiss!
