by Travis Perry -
Rolf and Nasir smiled at him as if they shared a secret he didn’t know. Ernsto did not, could not, let himself get annoyed by them.
Days ago he’d figured out that those two doorknobs were not the source of his problem. They were not the ones causing the blanks in his memory. They were not the cause of the angel’s terror.
Hobson was the enemy, of course. The wizard’s friendly confidence gave him away.
Ernsto strolled by the door guards and waved, letting a friendly slowness pass over his face. The guards had both been raised on Avenir…they were predisposed to think someone from “down under” was a simpleton, an ignorant rustic. He let them think that—it served his purpose.
He supposed the insight into these men had come to him from the angel. He found in himself, more and more, that he longed for the information and understanding she gave him.
He entered his cubicle of a bedroom. On his person at all times he carried the only key to a lockbox. The box contained a curved tool and a signal jammer. The signal jammer he turned on, in case there were bugs or unknown video dots in the room; he placed the tool between tight fitting wall panels and cranked to the left. A portion of the aluminum wall sagged forward.
Inside the wall he eyed over his collected inventory. He added to it his latest two acquisitions. A pair of flash-bang stun grenades found their places among homemade explosives, a plasma blaster, tranquilizer gun, projectile pistol, and three razor-sharp knives.
Ernsto sealed the panel and suppressed his emotion of triumph. Soon, old man. Soon ‘nough you’ll know exactly how I’m feelin’.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
The Pilot
by Edward M. Erdelac -
Arden Pacoy was heavyset and dark-skinned, obviously annoyed to have been pulled out of pre-flight checks to sit and wait in the dim, rusty interrogation room when she should have been earning her daily bread.
As soon as Inspector Considine entered, she said, “What’s this all about? I’m due on the flight deck in fifteen minutes.”
“Put a lid on it, Ms. Pacoy. You didn’t complete your pre-flight. Your company’s already bumped you. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
“Is your office going to compensate me for time lost? I’ve got a kid to feed…”
“You’ll be lucky if you fly again.”
“Why what’s this about?”
“Tell me how you know Almer Croix.”
She blinked, then shrugged.
“Never heard of him.”
“Well he’s heard of you,” Considine said. “This morning he tried to blow up one of the habitation rings. He demanded safe passage to Avenir and picked your name off the flight duty roster as his preferred pilot.”
“It was probably random!” she exclaimed.
“If it was random he would’ve asked for any old pilot. He demanded to see the duty roster, and asked specifically for you.”
“Well, I don’t know him….he might’ve been a customer.”
“A customer? Aren’t you a company pilot? Your only customer is the people who own your ship.”
She pursed her lips.
“You’re taking side jobs?”
She nodded slowly.
“So you flew cargo for Almer Croix?”
“Not specifically for him. The way it works is, people pay for cargo space on my supply runs.”
“Does the company know you’re renting out space on their freighter?”
“I have a kid to feed, like I said. Besides, the space I leave for independent cargo is negligible. It doesn’t detract much from the company runs.”
“Would they see it that way?”
She bit her lip.
“What was the cargo?”
“I don’t peek. That’s part of the arrangement.”
“Even if it’s high explosive detonite?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, I never take suicide cargos. That’s my stipulation.”
Considine studied her face. She had blanched at the mention of the explosives. She was scared. It was obvious.
“Why would he ask for you?”
“I don’t know! I swear! Because he’d dealt with me already, I guess.”
Or maybe because had he gotten on board her ship she could’ve delivered him to somebody sympathetic on Avenir, no need for a transmission that they could’ve intercepted.
“I’m willing to believe you didn’t know what you were hired to deliver. But I want to know who your contact on Avenir was. We know the detonite went missing from a shipment bound for Sheba from Morgenstar Munitions. But we don’t know who lifted the detonite in the first place. It’s likely the same person who delivered it to you on Avenir.”
“I don’t know his name.”
“Could you pick out his face?”
“I don’t know. But he had on a Morgenstar cap.”
Considine pushed back the chair and stood. He took out his pack of cigarettes and offered her one. This was a break. There was a slim chance the perpetrator on Avenir was just wearing a Morgenstar cap. They weren’t exactly the height of fashion. More likely the man who’d delivered the package to her was the same who stole it. If he was an employee of Morgenstar that would make sense. If he was an employee he’d be on record.
She took the cigarette and put it in her lips quick so he wouldn’t see her hand shake.
“I’m going to hold you here just long enough for you to go through some pics. After that I’ll release you.”
“What about the company?” she asked, leaning in to take his light. “Are you going to report me?”
He lit her and then himself, sucked in the fishy smoke and blew it through his nose. She was just one freighter pilot trying to scrape by on a pittance.
“You’ve got a kid to feed,” he said.
She closed her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Don’t thank me, Arden. If you’ve lied, he’ll be an orphan.”
He went outside without another word, letting the hatch clang behind him. The cigarettes didn’t go with the canned air. He dropped it and ground it out with his boot.
“Any luck?” asked Galveston.
He’d asked Jelly Galveston and Brendermyer to stay suited up for the time being, watch the prisoners. The other Enforcers had gone back to their day jobs.
“Yeah, Inspector, can we go home? I’ve got a gig tonight at the Starboard I gotta get ready for.”
Brendermyer worked as a comic there.
“I’ve seen your act, Brendermyer. You’re in no rush. You stay here and guard the door. Jelly, let’s go see if Croix is ready to talk.”
“Come on!” Brendermyer whined as they went off to the hyperbaric chamber where Croix was decompressing.
“How about you, Jelly? Got some place to be?”
“Nossir,” said Galveston. “My brother can hold down the dock while I’m on duty.”
“Good. Put it in a call to Morgenstar Munitions on my authorization and have them send a transtat of their personnel files. Males only. When it comes in, see that Ms. Pacoy has a chance to go through it.”
“Yessir,” said Galveston, going off.
Arden Pacoy was heavyset and dark-skinned, obviously annoyed to have been pulled out of pre-flight checks to sit and wait in the dim, rusty interrogation room when she should have been earning her daily bread.
As soon as Inspector Considine entered, she said, “What’s this all about? I’m due on the flight deck in fifteen minutes.”
“Put a lid on it, Ms. Pacoy. You didn’t complete your pre-flight. Your company’s already bumped you. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
“Is your office going to compensate me for time lost? I’ve got a kid to feed…”
“You’ll be lucky if you fly again.”
“Why what’s this about?”
“Tell me how you know Almer Croix.”
She blinked, then shrugged.
“Never heard of him.”
“Well he’s heard of you,” Considine said. “This morning he tried to blow up one of the habitation rings. He demanded safe passage to Avenir and picked your name off the flight duty roster as his preferred pilot.”
“It was probably random!” she exclaimed.
“If it was random he would’ve asked for any old pilot. He demanded to see the duty roster, and asked specifically for you.”
“Well, I don’t know him….he might’ve been a customer.”
“A customer? Aren’t you a company pilot? Your only customer is the people who own your ship.”
She pursed her lips.
“You’re taking side jobs?”
She nodded slowly.
“So you flew cargo for Almer Croix?”
“Not specifically for him. The way it works is, people pay for cargo space on my supply runs.”
“Does the company know you’re renting out space on their freighter?”
“I have a kid to feed, like I said. Besides, the space I leave for independent cargo is negligible. It doesn’t detract much from the company runs.”
“Would they see it that way?”
She bit her lip.
“What was the cargo?”
“I don’t peek. That’s part of the arrangement.”
“Even if it’s high explosive detonite?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, I never take suicide cargos. That’s my stipulation.”
Considine studied her face. She had blanched at the mention of the explosives. She was scared. It was obvious.
“Why would he ask for you?”
“I don’t know! I swear! Because he’d dealt with me already, I guess.”
Or maybe because had he gotten on board her ship she could’ve delivered him to somebody sympathetic on Avenir, no need for a transmission that they could’ve intercepted.
“I’m willing to believe you didn’t know what you were hired to deliver. But I want to know who your contact on Avenir was. We know the detonite went missing from a shipment bound for Sheba from Morgenstar Munitions. But we don’t know who lifted the detonite in the first place. It’s likely the same person who delivered it to you on Avenir.”
“I don’t know his name.”
“Could you pick out his face?”
“I don’t know. But he had on a Morgenstar cap.”
Considine pushed back the chair and stood. He took out his pack of cigarettes and offered her one. This was a break. There was a slim chance the perpetrator on Avenir was just wearing a Morgenstar cap. They weren’t exactly the height of fashion. More likely the man who’d delivered the package to her was the same who stole it. If he was an employee of Morgenstar that would make sense. If he was an employee he’d be on record.
She took the cigarette and put it in her lips quick so he wouldn’t see her hand shake.
“I’m going to hold you here just long enough for you to go through some pics. After that I’ll release you.”
“What about the company?” she asked, leaning in to take his light. “Are you going to report me?”
He lit her and then himself, sucked in the fishy smoke and blew it through his nose. She was just one freighter pilot trying to scrape by on a pittance.
“You’ve got a kid to feed,” he said.
She closed her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Don’t thank me, Arden. If you’ve lied, he’ll be an orphan.”
He went outside without another word, letting the hatch clang behind him. The cigarettes didn’t go with the canned air. He dropped it and ground it out with his boot.
“Any luck?” asked Galveston.
He’d asked Jelly Galveston and Brendermyer to stay suited up for the time being, watch the prisoners. The other Enforcers had gone back to their day jobs.
“Yeah, Inspector, can we go home? I’ve got a gig tonight at the Starboard I gotta get ready for.”
Brendermyer worked as a comic there.
“I’ve seen your act, Brendermyer. You’re in no rush. You stay here and guard the door. Jelly, let’s go see if Croix is ready to talk.”
“Come on!” Brendermyer whined as they went off to the hyperbaric chamber where Croix was decompressing.
“How about you, Jelly? Got some place to be?”
“Nossir,” said Galveston. “My brother can hold down the dock while I’m on duty.”
“Good. Put it in a call to Morgenstar Munitions on my authorization and have them send a transtat of their personnel files. Males only. When it comes in, see that Ms. Pacoy has a chance to go through it.”
“Yessir,” said Galveston, going off.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
High Country - Gubee: Griper's Clinch
by Walt Staples -
Delbert Meeks couldn’t see them, but he could feel the eyes. He knew they’d been watching since he’d landed the hopper. He surveyed the settlement, Griper’s Clinch—nothing extraordinary, just the usual High Country village one would expect to see up on one of Eclectia’s plateaus. The enforcer snugged his ash mask as he took inventory; a couple churches, three—maybe four—taverns, a Palmer Company trading post, and six houses—two prefabs and the rest “hobbit-holes.” He decided to set out for the trading post first, figuring that the Palmer employees, or at least the factor, probably wouldn’t be locals.
A small bell tinkled cheerily as he pushed open the inner door of the trading post’s ash porch. A fat, red faced, redheaded man bustled from a back room and called out heartily, “Yes, sir, and what can we do for—“ He stopped short as his eye fell on the star on the rawboned visitor’s chest. He swallowed and spoke the eternal enforcer greeting, “Is there anything wrong, Enforcer?”
Meeks unhooked his mask and regarded the man from a pair of cool, colorless eyes. “You the factor?” When the other nodded, he continued, “Meeks. I’m investigating Fitzroy’s death.”
The factor relaxed. “Help you any way I can, Enforcer. Valentine Choker.” He cocked his head. “Something to drink?”
“Do you have some coffee?”
Choker grinned ruefully as he shook his head. “Too rich for people’s blood around here. Got some tea made.”
“That’ll do, thank you.”
The factor ushered Meeks to a rough table and returned with a tea-cozy encased kettle and a pair of large cups emblazoned with the Palmer Company’s rampant stag beetle. After they raised their cups to each other, blew on the tea, and sipped, Meeks got down to business, “I figured I’d start with you since, by your accent, you’re not local.”
Choker smiled, “And being an outsider, I’m more likely not to have a cricket in the fight.” He chuckled. “Yeah, makes sense. I’m from Christchurch. Three more years and I get a bigger posting.”
“Pretty rough, huh?”
The factor took a sip and looked thoughtful. “Well, the people aren’t bad—in fact they’re a pretty nice lot, to tell the truth. I like them. No, more the loneliness and boredom. I see the same twenty-some people day in and day out. They’re good people, like I say, but I’ve nothing really in common with them.”
“How about Fitzroy?”
Choker shook his head with a smile that was more a grimace. “Brandon Dawkens Fitzroy was a real piece of work.”
“How so?”
“He had the ability to tick off every person he met, at least here. I suspect, after the doctor slapped him, his mother probably hauled off and swatted him just on general principles. One majorly dislike-able man, the Administrator.”
Meeks empted his cup and extended it for a refill. “What’d he do?”
Choker did the honors. “He was going to fix things. Make things work better. Even when the things weren’t broke. He was pestering everybody. Telling 60-year-old bugherds how to milk bugs, where to pasture them, what to do about Ladybirds. Wouldn’t have been so bad, but it was stuff they’d tried years ago and found didn’t work. Got so’s people quit going to church just to avoid him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Every Sunday, he’s up trying to tell Reverend Charles over at the Methodists the proper way to preach and pointing out mistakes with his theology.”
Meeks quirked one corner of his mouth in an almost smile. “He was Methodist, then?”
The fat man shook his head. “Not that I know. Wasn’t a Catholic either. Father Arnwulf shoved him out St. Boniface’s door; probably would have picked him and thrown him off the front porch if his Bible hadn’t grabbed him and held him.” He shrugged. “Near as I could tell, the Administrator wasn’t much of anything. At least he seemed to always have a sneer when such things came up in talk.”
“So, he made enemies,” Meeks observed idly.
Choker threw back his head and laughed. “That trail’s going nowhere, Enforcer. While Fitzroy was meeting his maker, Father Arnwulf was dying and his Bible, Ignatius Paul, was nursing him.”
“What’d he die of?”
The factor shrugged once more. “Ash Lung, like most. And before you ask, Reverend Charles and I were carrying supplies over to the rectory for them.”
Meeks cocked his head. “Rectory? I only saw the Administrator’s prefab and the one next to the—I guess—Methodist church?”
Choker took a last sip of his tea. “The Catholics use the nearest hobbit-hole to their church as a rectory.”
“Who lives in the others?”
“Other than Dad Gesler, nobody at the moment. They’re usually used during marketing and shipment by the buyers and the flight control crew. All the bugherds and their families generally stay at the taverns.” He shook the kettle and set it down.
Meeks set his half-filled cup on the table and slowly rotated it with the tips of his fingers. “So if the clergymen and you didn’t kill him, how did Fitzroy die?”
“Accident—like we reported.”
The enforcer leaned across the table. “What kind of accident?”
The factor sighed and spoke as one not expecting to be believed, “Fitzroy, in spite of warning from just about everyone he came in contact with, went down Wazzo’s Gulch and the Gubee got him.”
“The Gubee?” Meeks voice was flat. “What’s that?”
Choker looked down, then back up at him. “I don’t know. None of us do. People go down that collapsed lava tube and just die. In ones, twos—hell, the five Sullivan brothers and their uncle Mort went down and something killed the lot.”
“Why did Fitzroy go in there?”
The other shook his head. “No one knows.” He paused, then grinned sourly. “Or…will admit that they know.”
“Uh-huh.” Meeks looked the other in the eye. “So, how did you recover the body?”
The redhead returned the taller man’s look steadily. “We used the rescue drone. Nobody flesh and blood goes down in there anymore. At least, not anybody intelligent.”
Meeks changed the subject. “What’s Gesler like?”
The factor snorted. “Dad? Enforcer, if anyone around here will tell you the truth about anything, it going to be Dad. Man’s a buzz saw.”
“How so?”
The Palmer Company man grinned. “Couldn’t care less where the chips land.”
Delbert Meeks couldn’t see them, but he could feel the eyes. He knew they’d been watching since he’d landed the hopper. He surveyed the settlement, Griper’s Clinch—nothing extraordinary, just the usual High Country village one would expect to see up on one of Eclectia’s plateaus. The enforcer snugged his ash mask as he took inventory; a couple churches, three—maybe four—taverns, a Palmer Company trading post, and six houses—two prefabs and the rest “hobbit-holes.” He decided to set out for the trading post first, figuring that the Palmer employees, or at least the factor, probably wouldn’t be locals.
A small bell tinkled cheerily as he pushed open the inner door of the trading post’s ash porch. A fat, red faced, redheaded man bustled from a back room and called out heartily, “Yes, sir, and what can we do for—“ He stopped short as his eye fell on the star on the rawboned visitor’s chest. He swallowed and spoke the eternal enforcer greeting, “Is there anything wrong, Enforcer?”
Meeks unhooked his mask and regarded the man from a pair of cool, colorless eyes. “You the factor?” When the other nodded, he continued, “Meeks. I’m investigating Fitzroy’s death.”
The factor relaxed. “Help you any way I can, Enforcer. Valentine Choker.” He cocked his head. “Something to drink?”
“Do you have some coffee?”
Choker grinned ruefully as he shook his head. “Too rich for people’s blood around here. Got some tea made.”
“That’ll do, thank you.”
The factor ushered Meeks to a rough table and returned with a tea-cozy encased kettle and a pair of large cups emblazoned with the Palmer Company’s rampant stag beetle. After they raised their cups to each other, blew on the tea, and sipped, Meeks got down to business, “I figured I’d start with you since, by your accent, you’re not local.”
Choker smiled, “And being an outsider, I’m more likely not to have a cricket in the fight.” He chuckled. “Yeah, makes sense. I’m from Christchurch. Three more years and I get a bigger posting.”
“Pretty rough, huh?”
The factor took a sip and looked thoughtful. “Well, the people aren’t bad—in fact they’re a pretty nice lot, to tell the truth. I like them. No, more the loneliness and boredom. I see the same twenty-some people day in and day out. They’re good people, like I say, but I’ve nothing really in common with them.”
“How about Fitzroy?”
Choker shook his head with a smile that was more a grimace. “Brandon Dawkens Fitzroy was a real piece of work.”
“How so?”
“He had the ability to tick off every person he met, at least here. I suspect, after the doctor slapped him, his mother probably hauled off and swatted him just on general principles. One majorly dislike-able man, the Administrator.”
Meeks empted his cup and extended it for a refill. “What’d he do?”
Choker did the honors. “He was going to fix things. Make things work better. Even when the things weren’t broke. He was pestering everybody. Telling 60-year-old bugherds how to milk bugs, where to pasture them, what to do about Ladybirds. Wouldn’t have been so bad, but it was stuff they’d tried years ago and found didn’t work. Got so’s people quit going to church just to avoid him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Every Sunday, he’s up trying to tell Reverend Charles over at the Methodists the proper way to preach and pointing out mistakes with his theology.”
Meeks quirked one corner of his mouth in an almost smile. “He was Methodist, then?”
The fat man shook his head. “Not that I know. Wasn’t a Catholic either. Father Arnwulf shoved him out St. Boniface’s door; probably would have picked him and thrown him off the front porch if his Bible hadn’t grabbed him and held him.” He shrugged. “Near as I could tell, the Administrator wasn’t much of anything. At least he seemed to always have a sneer when such things came up in talk.”
“So, he made enemies,” Meeks observed idly.
Choker threw back his head and laughed. “That trail’s going nowhere, Enforcer. While Fitzroy was meeting his maker, Father Arnwulf was dying and his Bible, Ignatius Paul, was nursing him.”
“What’d he die of?”
The factor shrugged once more. “Ash Lung, like most. And before you ask, Reverend Charles and I were carrying supplies over to the rectory for them.”
Meeks cocked his head. “Rectory? I only saw the Administrator’s prefab and the one next to the—I guess—Methodist church?”
Choker took a last sip of his tea. “The Catholics use the nearest hobbit-hole to their church as a rectory.”
“Who lives in the others?”
“Other than Dad Gesler, nobody at the moment. They’re usually used during marketing and shipment by the buyers and the flight control crew. All the bugherds and their families generally stay at the taverns.” He shook the kettle and set it down.
Meeks set his half-filled cup on the table and slowly rotated it with the tips of his fingers. “So if the clergymen and you didn’t kill him, how did Fitzroy die?”
“Accident—like we reported.”
The enforcer leaned across the table. “What kind of accident?”
The factor sighed and spoke as one not expecting to be believed, “Fitzroy, in spite of warning from just about everyone he came in contact with, went down Wazzo’s Gulch and the Gubee got him.”
“The Gubee?” Meeks voice was flat. “What’s that?”
Choker looked down, then back up at him. “I don’t know. None of us do. People go down that collapsed lava tube and just die. In ones, twos—hell, the five Sullivan brothers and their uncle Mort went down and something killed the lot.”
“Why did Fitzroy go in there?”
The other shook his head. “No one knows.” He paused, then grinned sourly. “Or…will admit that they know.”
“Uh-huh.” Meeks looked the other in the eye. “So, how did you recover the body?”
The redhead returned the taller man’s look steadily. “We used the rescue drone. Nobody flesh and blood goes down in there anymore. At least, not anybody intelligent.”
Meeks changed the subject. “What’s Gesler like?”
The factor snorted. “Dad? Enforcer, if anyone around here will tell you the truth about anything, it going to be Dad. Man’s a buzz saw.”
“How so?”
The Palmer Company man grinned. “Couldn’t care less where the chips land.”
Monday, November 7, 2011
The Offering
by Kaye Jeffreys -
Reece moved his goggles down from his forehead to cover his eyes and searched the horizon again. "The wind is picking up. Soon we won't be able to see. Do they know we are here?"
"Yes." Dad crouched down and rested his hand on the ground.
"What if they don't come?"
"We don't go back up to the Rims until we make the offering. Don't worry. They're here." Dad stood and brushed dust off his hands. "More than usual."
"Is it because we were late with the offering?"
"More likely because of the nomad you saved from the spider."
"What?"
"Come with me and keep your mouth shut."
Reece followed Dad down the hill to the meeting rock.
Several dozen mounted nomads crested the opposite hill and stopped.
A single bug with two riders broke away from the rest and descended to meet them. They reached the rock first and dismounted.
Dad put up his hand in silent greeting. The rider, Senjab, did the same. His smaller passanger stood behind him to the side, her head bowed and face covered with a veil.
"Is all well?" Dad asked.
"All is not well." Senjab pointed at Reece. "Your son touched my daughter." He motioned back toward the girl behind him.
"Dad, I didn't--"
Dad put up his finger.
Reece shut his mouth, bit his lip, and breathed hard through his nose. Why did he stop to help a nomad?
"This is a serious charge." Dad spoke loud over the wind but remained calm.
"Sanja has become a shame to her people and must be cast from us."
Sanja, so that was her name, the little liar. She stood, head bowed and speechless. The wind whipped her garments about her.
"What can be done to resolve this?" Dad clasped his hands behind his back, stepped back with one foot, and turned so that he didn't face Senjab square on but at an angle.
"She must join your people through marriage to your son."
Reece's lip escaped his teeth. "Dad!"
Dad held up his finger again and gave Reece a sharp look.
Reece put his hands on his head and turned his back to them. Stupid Nomads and their stupid, stupid laws. He should have left her to be spider food. An immediate sinking feeling hit as his insides rejected the thought. He took a deep breath. He had done the right thing and could have done nothing else. He would rather face the consequences of doing a good deed than disappoint the One who loves all.
Dad said in his even tone, "Will you receive our gift and may we continue to mine Mt. Olympus?"
"Things between us will not change if you also take Sanja because your son has shamed her."
Reece turned back around and stared at Senjab. Were the streamed accusations really necessary?
Senjab ignored Reece's glare.
Dad nodded once. "We will take Sanja to live with us."
"Then it is done." Senjab gave a shallow bow.
Dad handed Senjab the pouch of cut diamonds.
Senjab mounted his bug and rode away, never looking back at the daughter he left behind like camp debris. Sanja gave no visible sign that she had been discarded by her father. She stood rigid against the wind, all expression hidden by her veil. Maybe her people falsely accused her like they did Reece.
"Sanja." Dad's voice was gentle towards the girl, even over the fierce wind. "Come with us." He turned and walked back to their multirider.
Reece walked along side his father still needing to make his case, not just for himself, but for the thrown-away, little girl that followed them. "Dad, I didn't touch her. Nor did she touch me."
"We will discuss this later." Dad didn't scold, but his words were firm. "Right now we have to get out of this wind."
Reece moved his goggles down from his forehead to cover his eyes and searched the horizon again. "The wind is picking up. Soon we won't be able to see. Do they know we are here?"
"Yes." Dad crouched down and rested his hand on the ground.
"What if they don't come?"
"We don't go back up to the Rims until we make the offering. Don't worry. They're here." Dad stood and brushed dust off his hands. "More than usual."
"Is it because we were late with the offering?"
"More likely because of the nomad you saved from the spider."
"What?"
"Come with me and keep your mouth shut."
Reece followed Dad down the hill to the meeting rock.
Several dozen mounted nomads crested the opposite hill and stopped.
A single bug with two riders broke away from the rest and descended to meet them. They reached the rock first and dismounted.
Dad put up his hand in silent greeting. The rider, Senjab, did the same. His smaller passanger stood behind him to the side, her head bowed and face covered with a veil.
"Is all well?" Dad asked.
"All is not well." Senjab pointed at Reece. "Your son touched my daughter." He motioned back toward the girl behind him.
"Dad, I didn't--"
Dad put up his finger.
Reece shut his mouth, bit his lip, and breathed hard through his nose. Why did he stop to help a nomad?
"This is a serious charge." Dad spoke loud over the wind but remained calm.
"Sanja has become a shame to her people and must be cast from us."
Sanja, so that was her name, the little liar. She stood, head bowed and speechless. The wind whipped her garments about her.
"What can be done to resolve this?" Dad clasped his hands behind his back, stepped back with one foot, and turned so that he didn't face Senjab square on but at an angle.
"She must join your people through marriage to your son."
Reece's lip escaped his teeth. "Dad!"
Dad held up his finger again and gave Reece a sharp look.
Reece put his hands on his head and turned his back to them. Stupid Nomads and their stupid, stupid laws. He should have left her to be spider food. An immediate sinking feeling hit as his insides rejected the thought. He took a deep breath. He had done the right thing and could have done nothing else. He would rather face the consequences of doing a good deed than disappoint the One who loves all.
Dad said in his even tone, "Will you receive our gift and may we continue to mine Mt. Olympus?"
"Things between us will not change if you also take Sanja because your son has shamed her."
Reece turned back around and stared at Senjab. Were the streamed accusations really necessary?
Senjab ignored Reece's glare.
Dad nodded once. "We will take Sanja to live with us."
"Then it is done." Senjab gave a shallow bow.
Dad handed Senjab the pouch of cut diamonds.
Senjab mounted his bug and rode away, never looking back at the daughter he left behind like camp debris. Sanja gave no visible sign that she had been discarded by her father. She stood rigid against the wind, all expression hidden by her veil. Maybe her people falsely accused her like they did Reece.
"Sanja." Dad's voice was gentle towards the girl, even over the fierce wind. "Come with us." He turned and walked back to their multirider.
Reece walked along side his father still needing to make his case, not just for himself, but for the thrown-away, little girl that followed them. "Dad, I didn't touch her. Nor did she touch me."
"We will discuss this later." Dad didn't scold, but his words were firm. "Right now we have to get out of this wind."
Friday, November 4, 2011
Stroke of Luck
by Mary Ruth Pursselley -
Celia was out the classroom door before the last bell had even finished ringing. She pulled her book bag over her shoulder and headed for the superintendant’s office. She knew he could help her, the problem would be convincing him he should. Somehow, she had to talk to Robin Corpsman.
She slowed down as she neared the office, trying to buy more time to plan, but no ideas were forthcoming. She might just have to wing it.
She was five steps away when the door opened and Robin Corpsman stepped into the hall.
Celia caught herself mid-gasp; her heart felt like it had stopped completely this time. He was right there. This was her chance!
Robin passed her without speaking and started down the hall towards the exit.
“Hey.” It was the only thing Celia could get out of her mouth in time to stop him.
He paused and looked back, eyebrows raised.
“Uh…” Celia blinked, trying to collect herself. “I was in your lecture today.”
He smiled. “Oh? I hope you enjoyed it.”
His tone said he’d already fended off all the girls he cared to today. Celia knew she’d have to make her case fast.
“I wanted to talk to you about my sister,” she said. “She’s—an archaeologist.” Basically.
Robin turned around and cocked his head. “What’s her name?”
“Celeste Harper.”
Robin frowned. “I don’t recognize it. Who’s her sponsor?”
Uh-oh. No, wait—maybe that was it! “Um… I think she’s been having trouble with that. Something about lack of interest.”
“Lack of interest?” Robin’s tone was disbelieving. “Maybe landside, but aristocrats on the Avenir pay big for Eclectian artifacts. She’s just not applying in the right places.”
There was an opening, and Celia went for it. “So… could you recommend someplace she might apply?”
“Where’s she working?”
“Adagio.”
Robin dug in his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. “I’ll do better than that, then. Give me her address and I’ll contact her. Maybe I can help her out.”
Celia’s hands trembled as she wrote Celeste’s address and gave the paper back to Robin.
He glanced at the address and returned the paper to his pocket. “I’ll be passing through Adagio in the next week or ten days. I’ll look her up. Take care.”
And with that, he was off.
Celia watched him go, her heart pounding, unable to believe the luck that had just struck like a bolt of lightning. She hadn’t dared to even dream things might work out like this!
Now, she just had to figure out how to tell Celeste what she’d done.
Celia was out the classroom door before the last bell had even finished ringing. She pulled her book bag over her shoulder and headed for the superintendant’s office. She knew he could help her, the problem would be convincing him he should. Somehow, she had to talk to Robin Corpsman.
She slowed down as she neared the office, trying to buy more time to plan, but no ideas were forthcoming. She might just have to wing it.
She was five steps away when the door opened and Robin Corpsman stepped into the hall.
Celia caught herself mid-gasp; her heart felt like it had stopped completely this time. He was right there. This was her chance!
Robin passed her without speaking and started down the hall towards the exit.
“Hey.” It was the only thing Celia could get out of her mouth in time to stop him.
He paused and looked back, eyebrows raised.
“Uh…” Celia blinked, trying to collect herself. “I was in your lecture today.”
He smiled. “Oh? I hope you enjoyed it.”
His tone said he’d already fended off all the girls he cared to today. Celia knew she’d have to make her case fast.
“I wanted to talk to you about my sister,” she said. “She’s—an archaeologist.” Basically.
Robin turned around and cocked his head. “What’s her name?”
“Celeste Harper.”
Robin frowned. “I don’t recognize it. Who’s her sponsor?”
Uh-oh. No, wait—maybe that was it! “Um… I think she’s been having trouble with that. Something about lack of interest.”
“Lack of interest?” Robin’s tone was disbelieving. “Maybe landside, but aristocrats on the Avenir pay big for Eclectian artifacts. She’s just not applying in the right places.”
There was an opening, and Celia went for it. “So… could you recommend someplace she might apply?”
“Where’s she working?”
“Adagio.”
Robin dug in his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. “I’ll do better than that, then. Give me her address and I’ll contact her. Maybe I can help her out.”
Celia’s hands trembled as she wrote Celeste’s address and gave the paper back to Robin.
He glanced at the address and returned the paper to his pocket. “I’ll be passing through Adagio in the next week or ten days. I’ll look her up. Take care.”
And with that, he was off.
Celia watched him go, her heart pounding, unable to believe the luck that had just struck like a bolt of lightning. She hadn’t dared to even dream things might work out like this!
Now, she just had to figure out how to tell Celeste what she’d done.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Prize Puppy
by Joseph H. Ficor -
The Governor gave Shouhei many trivial errands to run, mostly taking things to the other aristocrats of Carlston's Cove. Everyone praised Shouhei for being so favored by the Governor. The young man's discipline was pushed to its maximum tolerances every time he heard a greater-than-thou exclaim “Here is the symbol of Bokassa's benevolence” or “Here is the epitome of rich charity.”
The other members of the security detachment chose to call him the “prize puppy.”
His “cuteness” began wearing off after a month on board the station. The Governor and other higher ups started showing disdain and boredom when he came around on official business.
Fear seized him when an Enforcer Second Class shouted at him as he passed a guard station on the Governor’s level, “Hey, prize puppy! You're going to play with the big dogs soon.”
His soul forecasted ill times ahead.
The Governor gave Shouhei many trivial errands to run, mostly taking things to the other aristocrats of Carlston's Cove. Everyone praised Shouhei for being so favored by the Governor. The young man's discipline was pushed to its maximum tolerances every time he heard a greater-than-thou exclaim “Here is the symbol of Bokassa's benevolence” or “Here is the epitome of rich charity.”
The other members of the security detachment chose to call him the “prize puppy.”
His “cuteness” began wearing off after a month on board the station. The Governor and other higher ups started showing disdain and boredom when he came around on official business.
Fear seized him when an Enforcer Second Class shouted at him as he passed a guard station on the Governor’s level, “Hey, prize puppy! You're going to play with the big dogs soon.”
His soul forecasted ill times ahead.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Experiment
by Travis Perry -
***Today we celebrate our 100th story! Can you believe it? And we're celebrating with an all-new look designed for us by Mike Rogers. Here's to the next 100! And now, on with the story :) ***
In the chamber with the pressurized angel tank, Ernsto shuffled toward Wizard Hobson against his will. The feeling was not so much his legs disobeying his orders as the part of the mind controlling his legs no longer seemed to be a part of him.
Hobson’s eyes were green-blue, he realized as drew close enough to peer into them. And then in a blur he threw his hands against the wizard’s throat.
Hobson gagged and his eyes bulged in surprise, but an instant later Ernsto found the control of his fingers no longer belonged to him. His arms dropped to the side—limp, like they were dead.
The wizard coughed and rubbed his throat. He laughed hard, as if all were a joke, but an angry glint lit his eyes. “You have very quick hands, my boy. And a quick, violent will. I was not able to detect your intent before you struck. If I had, you never would have moved a muscle.”
As if to prove the wizard’s point, his thought to bash the old man’s nose with his forehead left him feeling numb in his neck and back. He couldn’t make any movement at all.
“How?” he uttered. He’d intended to say more, but the paralysis that gripped his body hindered his mouth.
“How do I control you? Simple, my dear friend. Chemical compounds, mind-enhancing compounds which I’ve discovered from my studies of the angel cerebral cortex. This one isn’t my first…not even my first live one, but the other live one I captured, one I took myself when I was a much younger man, I moved into a pen under the sea, isolated, but still connected to the ocean. He called for help, mentally of course—after two days the facility was assaulted by hundreds from his tribe. I barely escaped with my life. But even more importantly than my personal survival, I retained the knowledge I had gleaned, knowledge I’ve been adding to and using it for decades now. All wizards use knowledge derived from angels, but I assure you, with all due modesty, I am the greatest of them all.”
“What…?” rasped Ernsto.
“What do I intend to do with you? Or the angel? Or both? I’m not quite sure what you mean. You see, I should be able to know, since I can enter your mind. But I don’t fully—which simply is further proof that there is more work to do, more discoveries to be made. In spite of all I have learned from the tools provided by the angel brain, in spite of all the corners of the human mind I’ve learned to tap into, I still struggle to do what they do with ease—communicate complete thought to thought. I wondered for a time if perhaps the human brain were simply incompatible with such a form of communication. But you, my boy, you give me hope!”
“Why?”
“Why, because you communicate with the angel. Or better said, she communicates with you. That’s why you enjoy being with her, even though you do not admit to yourself that’s how you feel. It’s because she touches your mind. I think,” Hobson chuckled, “she’s trying to heal your ‘sickness’ of violence…how quaint!”
“Now?”
“Ah, now. Now I get to experiment with the link that has sprung up between the two of you. That’s why I haven’t simply shut your mind down, by the way, or reoriented your will. I need to test you in a more natural state.” Hobson turned to the cyborgs, “Strap him to the table.”
Flat on the table, the two cyborgs finished with Hobson’s command, Ernsto felt his body return to his control. Not that it helped—the straps were tight and strong.
The wizard had opened the box. It contained some sort of advanced drill, with a very fine bit surrounded by thin clear tubes. The bit whirred in the air as the professor pressed a button. “For brain tissue samples,” he explained unbidden. “First you, then the angel.”
No, no! he heard her mind say from the pressurized tank.
As the wizard moved the drill closer to the base of his skull, Ernsto said through gritted teeth, “If you do this, you’d better kill me. Elsewise, as soon as you let me go, you’re a dead man.”
“Oh, I imagine this experiment will last weeks. You and the angel don’t die until after that. But I promise to wipe your memory of this moment. Tomorrow, you won’t even know any of this ever happened. You’ll think it’s just another well-paid day on the job. I’ve already done it to you twice.”
Great, he thought. He set in himself a determination to remember every detail.
I’ll help you, said the angel into his mind.
***Today we celebrate our 100th story! Can you believe it? And we're celebrating with an all-new look designed for us by Mike Rogers. Here's to the next 100! And now, on with the story :) ***
In the chamber with the pressurized angel tank, Ernsto shuffled toward Wizard Hobson against his will. The feeling was not so much his legs disobeying his orders as the part of the mind controlling his legs no longer seemed to be a part of him.
Hobson’s eyes were green-blue, he realized as drew close enough to peer into them. And then in a blur he threw his hands against the wizard’s throat.
Hobson gagged and his eyes bulged in surprise, but an instant later Ernsto found the control of his fingers no longer belonged to him. His arms dropped to the side—limp, like they were dead.
The wizard coughed and rubbed his throat. He laughed hard, as if all were a joke, but an angry glint lit his eyes. “You have very quick hands, my boy. And a quick, violent will. I was not able to detect your intent before you struck. If I had, you never would have moved a muscle.”
As if to prove the wizard’s point, his thought to bash the old man’s nose with his forehead left him feeling numb in his neck and back. He couldn’t make any movement at all.
“How?” he uttered. He’d intended to say more, but the paralysis that gripped his body hindered his mouth.
“How do I control you? Simple, my dear friend. Chemical compounds, mind-enhancing compounds which I’ve discovered from my studies of the angel cerebral cortex. This one isn’t my first…not even my first live one, but the other live one I captured, one I took myself when I was a much younger man, I moved into a pen under the sea, isolated, but still connected to the ocean. He called for help, mentally of course—after two days the facility was assaulted by hundreds from his tribe. I barely escaped with my life. But even more importantly than my personal survival, I retained the knowledge I had gleaned, knowledge I’ve been adding to and using it for decades now. All wizards use knowledge derived from angels, but I assure you, with all due modesty, I am the greatest of them all.”
“What…?” rasped Ernsto.
“What do I intend to do with you? Or the angel? Or both? I’m not quite sure what you mean. You see, I should be able to know, since I can enter your mind. But I don’t fully—which simply is further proof that there is more work to do, more discoveries to be made. In spite of all I have learned from the tools provided by the angel brain, in spite of all the corners of the human mind I’ve learned to tap into, I still struggle to do what they do with ease—communicate complete thought to thought. I wondered for a time if perhaps the human brain were simply incompatible with such a form of communication. But you, my boy, you give me hope!”
“Why?”
“Why, because you communicate with the angel. Or better said, she communicates with you. That’s why you enjoy being with her, even though you do not admit to yourself that’s how you feel. It’s because she touches your mind. I think,” Hobson chuckled, “she’s trying to heal your ‘sickness’ of violence…how quaint!”
“Now?”
“Ah, now. Now I get to experiment with the link that has sprung up between the two of you. That’s why I haven’t simply shut your mind down, by the way, or reoriented your will. I need to test you in a more natural state.” Hobson turned to the cyborgs, “Strap him to the table.”
Flat on the table, the two cyborgs finished with Hobson’s command, Ernsto felt his body return to his control. Not that it helped—the straps were tight and strong.
The wizard had opened the box. It contained some sort of advanced drill, with a very fine bit surrounded by thin clear tubes. The bit whirred in the air as the professor pressed a button. “For brain tissue samples,” he explained unbidden. “First you, then the angel.”
No, no! he heard her mind say from the pressurized tank.
As the wizard moved the drill closer to the base of his skull, Ernsto said through gritted teeth, “If you do this, you’d better kill me. Elsewise, as soon as you let me go, you’re a dead man.”
“Oh, I imagine this experiment will last weeks. You and the angel don’t die until after that. But I promise to wipe your memory of this moment. Tomorrow, you won’t even know any of this ever happened. You’ll think it’s just another well-paid day on the job. I’ve already done it to you twice.”
Great, he thought. He set in himself a determination to remember every detail.
I’ll help you, said the angel into his mind.
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