by LeRoy Clary
After that incident, she’d met with her crew and offered a new deal to them. The deal she offered her crew was for long-term profits instead of daily wages. Stability. A path to a comfortable retirement, and possibly riches. Most of her old crew had left for other ships at the next port, unwilling to accept her proposal, but four remained. She recruited two more on the next planet where they sold tractor parts and consigned a load of oats to sell at a barren mining planet that grew no food but had excess cash and rare minerals.
The idea she had proposed to her crew was the idea that nobody on the crew would be paid again until the ship held fat bank accounts on several worlds, each large enough to operate the ship for a few months. They were safety nets. After that was achieved, her crew would earn shares of profits, not salaries.
No profit, no pay. That was the sticking point with many. Those who had departed wanted salaries plus a share. That wouldn’t happen.
Those few who had remained with her back then were still aboard. Good times or bad, the ship had the resources to continue. Her present crew had foregone paychecks for almost a year. They now earned several times the annual amount of the wages they would have collected. Compared to the crews of other traders, hers were now relatively wealthy, and solidly loyal.
There was also her ship, the Guardia. It was far larger than the ships operated by other traders, it had room for her crew to use their credits to buy independently on one planet and sell on another without paying freight costs. Each had a personal mass and cargo allocation. It was part of her deal with them.
“Looking for a good time, Miss?” asked a barker with a mustache that drooped on either side of his mouth to nearly his chest. He stood outside a gaudy tavern that advertised real homemade hard cider. She doubted that it was real, homemade, or even cider, but it would be hard liquor and therefore acceptable to those inside. After a few drinks in there, she’d wake in the morning with a legendary hangover and find she had transferred her entire bank account to someone she didn’t know.
Her eyes went to the building he stood before as she shook her head and ignored him. They were not the imitation Roman style near the Colosseum and tourists walking the street were not wearing togas and drinking as hard as if they were at a street party. These were working people as you’d find in the industrial part of any city.
She saw a welder with tiny scars burned into his skin, a man wearing a leather apron at a forge that had two streaks down its sides from where he’d wiped his hands on his thighs so many times. Another wore a toolbelt holding primitive hammers and pliers, neither of which had changed much in thousands of years.
A human woman leaned seductively against the wall of a building and eyed passersby. Instead of her desired come-hither expression, she simply looked tired. Next to her stood a female Octi of some kind, four arms, four legs, and prettier than the human woman beside her, by far. Most of the Octi races laid eggs, but that didn’t stop them from pleasing men of several races—for a steep price.
Not to be outdone, a red-haired Trager sat in a wooden chair and balanced on two legs as he leaned back and rocked, his expression seductive, his eyes greedy. His cape was scarlet inside and shimmered in the light. Outside, it was soft gold. Several local women gave him the eye as they strode past. The Trager eyed each one with obvious lust as if they were the only one he was interested in, but then did the same with the next female to pass by.
The noises were of people working, the smells of food cooking. These were the people employed in the inner-city opulent hotels, the arena, the restaurants serving dishes from a dozen worlds. They were the backbone of Roma.
The Captain was getting closer to the part of town that was her goal according to her wrist-comp. The girl who had been at the arena was female, young, uneducated, and poor. She had recognized the signs of all that in her brief exchange of thoughts. She was a fringe inhabitant. The girl would live near the edge of civilization—on the fringe. All cities had them.
Perhaps it was not how much the empath could help her, but that the empath reminded her of her own youth—but without the mind-powers to send her wishes to sway people and their ideas. She hadn’t realized that she recognized and blocked empaths until she had been well into her late teens when a romantic encounter she hadn’t intended had occurred. The aggressor was her first empathic contact.
She paused at an outdoor café and ordered a tall, cool, popular drink with the younger crowd. She overpaid and asked, “Is it safe to explore this part of the city?”
Huge freckles covered the male’s face, hands, and bare arms. His sour demeanor told of a job he didn’t care for. “No.”
She pointed, “Does it get better down there?”
He seemed to relent enough to shake his head and mutter, “Worse.”
Captain Stone smiled her thanks. She knew the right direction. The girl wouldn’t be far. Maybe even close. More barkers called out as she strolled casually along, searching for an unknown person, but certain she would recognize her when she saw her. A sneak thief charged from her rear, intending to rip anything of hers free that he could grab on his mad dash.
She had expected such an encounter and heard him. The eyes of several locals shifted to watch the fun because they had seen it before. He shoved her as he ran past, hoping to make her fall so he could take what he wanted and sprint away. Captain Stone had ideas of her own. As he reached her, she jabbed out with an elbow that caught him in the stomach. He was still lying in the street moaning as she calmly walked on, ignoring the cheers and jeers from those nearby. Nobody liked thieves.
Trash littered the pavement and had mounded at the base of walls. People wore mended menial work-clothing, their hair was unkempt, and she drew attention with her flashy outfit. With a flick of her shoulders, the cape she wore opened in the front and revealed a tight vest adorned with the handles of seven knives, sheathed at different angles, unmatched, and each deadly. Displaying them was a warning the locals understood.
People moved to either side of her intended path, their eyes wary and fearful. Her eyes searched the alleys, makeshift roofs, and the lounging youths looking for their next meal in the form of a careless passerby.
The one she searched for would be thin, her eyes narrowed and assessing. The girl would be one of those living near where she now stood.
The buildings grew shabbier. Lean-tos beside ramshackle buildings became common. This was where she would locate her prey. What then?
The captain hadn’t thought that far ahead. She would play it by ear.
A commotion drew her attention. A Scan and a Molder wrestled in an alley, not unusual because the races hated each other. The Scan had an upper tentacle wrapped around the Molder’s throat, but the Molder held a knife against the thorax of the Scan. It was a stalemate.
The small crowd urged them to continue fighting, but each mutually relaxed their grips, stood upright, and backed away from the other defensively. They would be at it again in a day or two. The captain walked on.
There was no way for the gladiator to call out to the girl. She couldn’t inquire if anyone knew her because that would draw attention to the girl and perhaps bring harm. Besides, you don’t go into low town on any planet and ask questions about locals, not if you wished to live a few more days. Locals took care of their own.
She was finally in the right area of town—she could feel it. Any farther would be too great a distance to travel to the Colosseum on foot. Those with more money lived closer in. The Coliseum, gaming establishments, hotels, entertainment portals, and the spaceport were located at the open end of a funnel-shaped valley. She had traveled to the far narrow end.
Now, to find the girl.
She stood and observed, a slight smile of satisfaction on her green lips. It was only a matter of time.
CHAPTER THREE
Kat
A few of my friends still call me Kath, but I’d soon change that. In my mind, I hissed and spat like the fierce little orange creature I’d seen a matron carrying
at the spaceport. Kat suited me better and I liked changing names to fit my moods.
I poured another drink and lifted it in mock salute even though it was only a weak beer made by a member of a furry race from a cold planet near Pixar, one of the original Disney Destination Colonies. How it’d ended up on Roma was probably an interesting story.
Bill lifted his mug in return. His wide toothy grin made him look more attractive than he had in weeks. We’d had a run of bad luck and it showed. Today was different.
We were a team. Always had been. Getting romantic would ruin that relationship no matter how handsome he’d somehow become. A new kind of relationship might be better—or not. I didn’t want to take a chance and lose my best friend.
Memories flooded back. He’d protected me since we were small, eight or nine, maybe. No, longer than that. He had first appeared when two boys had tackled me and tried to wrest a slice of dried meat the vendor sold as beef, but everyone knew how expensive beef was and street vendors couldn’t afford to buy it. Their customers couldn’t afford to buy it either.
So, the dried meat was from an unknown creature, but affordable. I had spent a full quarter-credit on a large, roasted slice, the first real food I’d eaten in days. The boys, neither of them human, had seen me hide the purchase in the front of my shirt and they had followed me into the forest where my camp was hidden.
Bill had pulled the attackers off and sent them packing, not knowing about the “beef” hidden inside my shirt, wrapped in a sheet of thin plastic. Instead, the stranger had offered me the unburned end of a small, stale, loaf of bread he carried as if it was a treasure. It was not just the offer of the bread, but the offer of the unburned end. That had been nice of him, one of the earliest instances of someone treating me well that I could remember.
I had said with a sneaky smile, “It would be better if there was a slice of meat to go with it.”
“And mustard,” he’d said as he smiled. “I tasted mustard once. Yellow.” He rolled his eyes in fond remembrance.
While he did those boyish antics, I casually pulled the thin slice of meat from inside my shirt and offered him half. After a squabble, he had accepted a third. That was the beginning of our friendship. I ate the unburned end of the load and he ate the meat I’d squandered so much money to buy. We were rarely apart after that; he the brawn and me the brains, although he spun that tale differently.
“To Bill,” I said and lifted another glass as I brushed aside the old memories from a decade earlier. While weak, the beer was beginning to make my head spin.
“And to Kath,” he laughed, then at my scowl, quickly corrected it to, “Kat.”
A friend of ours who typically burrowed a home in the soft dirt close to our ever-moving campsites shook a little sand from its fur and cautiously sniffed the pitcher of beer before munching loudly on a root that looked like a carrot and smelled like old socks. We called his race Diggers. Its name was Bert. I had no idea why it had such an ordinary name, or if it was a male, female, or both. However, Bert was a male name, so I thought of him as a male.
Beside Bert sat a member of the Train race; tall, thin beings that universally believed stealing was better than working. Many humans agreed with their ideas and often worked together. The Train was either male or female depending on the mood, changed its name on a regular ten-day schedule, and constantly peppered us with ideas of how to take what belonged to others and make it ours. Oddly, the Train never stole from us—or family or friends.
They were all three like family. There were limits, even to family. For instance, only Bill knew about my empathic abilities. He understood little of them except to never speak about empaths or attempt to research anything about them on any computer or tablet, and never mention them in public. The authorities searched the info-dumps for keywords. Words, phrases, and even hints of the existence of empaths drew their attention. It was the single taboo subject on all civilized worlds, and even asking for scant information was enough to get you arrested and questioned.
There were the three of us. Bert, Bill, and me. Bert had been with us almost as long as Bill and I had been together. I couldn’t even remember how or when Bert had joined us.
Out of nowhere, Bert said, “You shouldn’t have wagered so much, you know. You could have lost.”
The Train nodded in sage agreement. “Worse, your bank accounts will show the deposits the betting commission made. Both of you have now exceeded the tax threshold and not only will the banks deduct those taxes from your accounts, but you will now be reclassified as a taxpayer because of your income improvement, and next month they will expect you to pay as much tax or more.”
Bert picked up the conversation again, “When you fail to pay that, they will consider you delinquent and add fees and penalties that you cannot afford.”
The Train added, “Best to go to the tax office in the morning and confess to winning so much and pay the bonus tax and penalties as a one-time fluke. Maybe you can keep half the winnings.”
“Half?” I cried.
“Probably less,” Bert corrected. “Still, that is better than having you dive into my burrow and hide every time you see a Roman uniform near our camp searching for tax violators. Not that I do not like you and welcome you into my home, but please remember, it is my private space you would be invading without invitation, and I do occasionally entertain guests of the opposite sex.”
I let that pass. I had never sensed another similar creature close to Bert but couldn’t say for sure it had never happened. My mental powers were increasing with age. Some races were undetectable or resisted my mental abilities. It would be nice to know those things about what I could do or not achieve, and to have a source of information—or even better, a teacher. As it was, my powers were often of little use and I was constantly afraid of discovery, so used them sparingly.
Our present camp was located at an old favorite location behind a strip of bars, taverns, stim-shops, and gambling houses. Intruders seldom bothered us. I usually stayed away from gambling houses because winning in one of them would trigger alarms of all sorts, and they actively searched for empaths who were patrons, according to the rumor. Besides, there were few winners in those places.
“I don’t even have half of my winnings left,” I complained. “I paid off debts and bought stuff for the party.”
“Maybe Bill has been more discrete with his winnings?” Train asked.
Bill sadly shook his head without explanation.
Bert extended two eyestalks and rolled his eyes in disapproval.
“What?” I snarled.
Bert said, “It’s going to be off to labor camps for the pair of you when they catch up. Not paying your fair share of taxes is a high crime on Roma. You should know these things, Kat.”
I said, “We’ll move again.”
“And leave your wrist-comps behind so they can’t track you with them? How will you pay for food, clothing, gambling, sex, alcohol, or entertainment without them? You cannot travel on public transportations or . . .”
“All right! I get it,” I said angrily.
Bert said, “Turn yourselves in tomorrow morning. Agree to let the authorities strip your accounts and agree to a repayment plan. You may avoid public construction crews that way. I hear they need more workers for building the new Circus Maximus. Horses are already being bred and chariots are built. A year of labor should just about make you break even if you manage to stay out of trouble.”
I turned to Bert. “For a creature that digs holes in the dirt and lives alone, you sure do a lot of talking. Can you lend me enough to pay the taxes? And don’t pretend you don’t have it.”
“I may extend you a few credits. Perhaps I should pay for the party. But those are my private burrows, not holes in the ground, and I’m justifiably proud of them. While alone, I do research using one of my several computers, as you well know.”
“Then use them to figure a way out of this for us,” Bill said.
“You could die,” Ber
t said evenly. “That would wipe the slate clean, so to speak. Leaving the planet would also work, however you could never return. The Romans will never forgive a debt. It’s part of their culture.”
“What else?” I asked. “Any more good news?”
“Nothing I can think of,” Bert said. “It may be time for me to enter my burrow instead of ruining your celebration.”
“To get away from me or because you are scared of the Coliseum police?” I purred like a cat in a video I’d looked up to see them in action.
Bert eased closer to the flap that served as a door. He paused and spoke in the accent and manner of a currently popular VID star, “You know I ain’t scared of no cops from the city.”
I stamped my foot in his direction and he scuttled outside with a chuckle. I directed the urge to be somewhere else to Train. It also stood.
“Leaving?” I asked.
“For a while,” it said.
When the flap had closed and we were alone, Bill said, “You sent Train away with your mind-thoughts, didn’t you?”
“Bert, I trust like family. He is my family. The members of Train are different, a good friend, but that’s not the same. I’m wondering if Train would turn us in for a reward. Since I’m wondering that, I’m also wondering why we’re letting it drink our beer and eat our food.”
Brill said, “Trust isn’t all there is. Bert is smart, more than you and me. He’s been educated. He is constantly on computers in his burrows, not watching flicks or porn, but studying. Do you know he holds seven degrees from universities and colleges? Ones that we’ve heard of?”
Bill moved and sat on a stump of a tree that had been cut down years earlier. Our camp was just inside the veil of small trees hiding it from low town, along with a hundred other similar camps. He rested his chin in his palms while his elbows rested on his knees. The mug of crude beer sat beside him, a picture of unhappiness.