“One o’clock tomorrow afternoon,” the man pointed out. “You’re twelve hours early.”
Ostara glanced at her wristpad, tapped the screen and sighed. Fornax gave her a look reserved for idiots. Teiresias appeared more amused than annoyed.
“I still haven’t got used to the long days and nights,” Ostara confessed. “Do you take milk and sugar?”
“Yes please,” the man replied. “But you won’t find any tea in there.”
“I always have a few sachets of Yuanshi blend in my bag!”
“Yuanshi tea?” Teiresias smiled at the sound of a clinking teaspoon from the kitchen, earning him a puzzled look from Fornax. “We ran a story last month about how some of that stuff was found to be tainted with egg. Do you think I should tell her?”
“The mood drug?” she asked. “If it gets me through the day, I won’t complain.”
Ostara emerged from the kitchenette, carrying a tray upon which were three mugs of steaming tea and a small plate of biscuits. Fornax caught Teiresias’ frown at the sight of the packet of ginger creams and guessed he had not planned to share them with guests.
“Are you not local?” Fornax asked Ostara, taking the offered mug.
“I’m from the hollow moon,” she replied. Fornax responded with a blank look. “The Dandridge Cole? It’s an old asteroid colony ship, where we have proper days and nights. Well, not any more. Not since we crashed the Platypus into the sun.”
“A moon? Which planet does it orbit?”
“It orbits Barnard’s Star,” Ostara told her.
“Hardly a moon, kid.”
“Poetic licence!” snapped Ostara.
“And now she’s just one of the hundreds of refuges who have poured into Newbrum begging for food and shelter,” added Teiresias, taking a mug and a couple of biscuits for himself. “They had to abandon their asteroid, you see. It turns out that living inside a small rock is no better than squatting beneath a dome on the big bad rock that is Ascension.”
“I am not begging!” Ostara retorted. “I have my own business!”
“Yes indeed. What did your message say? Newbrum’s premier detective agency.”
“Are there any others?” asked Fornax.
Teiresias smiled and shook his head.
“You’re both being horrible,” complained Ostara. “I made you tea and neither of you said thank you. I’m here in good faith, trying to find out something about the Dhusarians for a friend of mine, who is worried his sister may be involved in something not quite right. Perhaps I was expecting too much when I came here for help.”
Teiresias pursed his lips and frowned. Fornax wandered to the holovid wall display, bemused that the man seemed moved by the trace of a tear in Ostara’s eye. Fornax imagined Teiresias was more used to dealing with journalists, holovid crews and other hard-headed broadcast professionals who had cashed in their morals long ago.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said. “The tea is rather good, thank you. You are welcome to what little information I have on the Dhusarian Church. As I recall, there was a lot of interest around the time of the peace conference on Daode. A colleague of mine started to put together a report on the Dandridge Cole and your altercation with that Yuanshi priest, but the network controllers did not want to run any upbeat news stories about you refugees. They err... only wanted the bad stuff. What she did is still on file though.”
“How fascinating,” said Fornax, with a mock yawn. “I’m not here to discuss old news. I’ve heard a rumour about alien artefacts from the Falsafah dig, turning up on the local black market. What have you got on that?”
“Hoping for a scoop, are you?” teased Teiresias. “Looking for the big exposé that will finally make the holovid world sit up and take notice? I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Ascension is where journalism careers come to die.”
“Yours maybe,” muttered Fornax.
Ostara looked at the wall screen, which Fornax had already noted showed various holovids, pictures and other items about Sky Cleaver and the fate of its crew. Some of the clips were of Teiresias standing in the departure lounge of Newbrum spaceport, talking to the camera as mystified travellers passed by. Ostara lingered at a clip that in the background had two men and a boy pointing into the hangar and laughing about something.
“Are they dead?” Ostara asked. “Those poor people out at Thunor?”
Teiresias paused. “That report is embargoed,” he said cautiously.
“A scoop of your own?” sneered Fornax. “Don’t worry, I won’t steal it.”
“There’s not much to tell. The police are on their way to investigate and Verdandi has asked us not to run the story until she knows more,” he replied. “It’s a shame, really.”
Ostara nodded solemnly. “Those poor mine workers.”
“I meant it’s a shame my report has been put on hold,” snapped Teiresias. “I’ve put a lot of work into it! I’m trying to convince the head of the network back in London to commission a regular current affairs show for the Barnard’s Star system.”
“Are you hosting it? You could call it The Daily Prophet,” quipped Fornax. “What with you having a name like Teiresias.”
“Why would a prophet need news?” he retorted. The reference to his name was lost on Ostara, who gave them both blank looks. “That’s a ridiculous idea!”
“To see if prophecies came true?”
“I don’t understand,” Ostara said weakly.
“And I haven’t got time for this!” snapped Teiresias. “Ostara, my dear, I will send you the report on the Dhusarian Church. Miss Fornax, you can do your own journalism and keep out of my way. Alien artefacts indeed! Is that really the level you aspire to on Weird Universe?”
Fornax gave him a hurt look. In her world journalists stuck together and were not renowned for helping private investigators or the police. When she realised Teiresias was not joking, she stepped towards the door and faced him with a glare.
“I don’t need your help!” she declared. “I’ll get my scoop! I have more journalistic instincts in my little finger than you have in your entire body. That goes for you too,” she added, seeing Ostara’s baffled expression. “A private detective from a hollow asteroid? Don’t make me laugh! This planet is a madhouse!”
With that, roving reporter Felicity Fornax pulled open the door and stormed noisily down the stairs and back onto the street.
“Crazy dome,” she muttered. “There’s a story here somewhere. I can smell it!”
* * *
Many millions of kilometres away, Momus, Quirinus and Wak were in the main airlock of the Dandridge Cole, each clutching the wall rail to stop themselves drifting away. Momus had reluctantly accepted Wak’s arguments for not sending the Indra on automatic pilot, though suspected it was really because Quirinus wanted rid of him for a day or so.
“Crappy pile of space junk,” he declared. “Why do I have to do the refuelling run? The frigging thing is as old as my granny.”
“Then you’ll know how to handle an old girl like the Indra,” Quirinus replied wearily.
“I’m not a pilot,” Wak pointed out. “And Quirinus has things to do here.”
The tanker before them swayed upon its moorings, sending faint knocking sounds echoing around the airlock. The asteroid spun upon its long axis once every minute, which was enough to create a centrifugal force equivalent to Ascension gravity upon the inner surface of the cavern. The main airlock was supposed to be at the zero-gravity point, but the Dandridge Cole had developed a slight eccentricity in its rotation and the axis of the hollow moon had become askew, leading Momus to curse more than usual when he earlier brought the Indra down the kilometre-long tunnel through the nose of the asteroid and into dock.
“Can’t you fix that wobble?” asked Quirinus irritably.
“The missing engine and reactor has put the asteroid out of balance,” Wak explained. “The venting fuel line didn’t help, nor that those idiots who came for the Raja managed to destroy a contro
l bunker in the process.”
“It’s about time you frigging sorted it out,” Momus muttered.
“I’m doing my best!” Wak retorted. “There’s a lesson to be learned though. It was the height of stupidity to take something like power generation for granted. In my defence, those reactors were designed to run at maximum efficiency for a century or more with little or no maintenance. I had the access tunnels sealed to stop people meddling! Believe me, I do regret not sending my team to check the engine rooms straight away, instead of wasting my time trying to diagnose the problem via remote systems. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.”
Quirinus shuddered. “What Ravana found was far from wonderful.”
“Anyway, the robots finished rebuilding the bunker and spin thrusters a while ago,” Wak told Momus. “It’s just that with the fuel situation and everything I left it wobbling. Why waste power on that when we have heaters and lights to run in Dockside?”
“It’s making me feel sick,” complained Momus, but it was more the sight of the Indra oscillating gently before him that he found disconcerting.
“You’ll be fine once you’re aboard!” Quirinus told him. He patted his pilot-for-hire on the back. “Captain Momus, your ship awaits!”
Momus pulled a face and reluctantly pushed himself from the railing towards the open airlock of the Indra. By the time he was inside and pulling the hatch closed, Quirinus and Wak had made a hasty retreat to the elevator back to Dockside and were out of sight.
“Frigging space tankers,” Momus muttered, strapping himself into the pilot’s seat.
It took a few minutes to run through the final pre-flight checks. The huge airlock chamber opened and the Indra began its slow reverse along the rectangular shaft that led to the outer doors and deep space. Despite his complaining, Momus was secretly quite content at having a ship to himself for a change. His failure to progress as a pilot beyond short-range shuttles was almost entirely down to his extreme dislike of taking passengers. When the Indra finally emerged into space some five minutes later, he almost managed a smile.
The ship backed away from the immense rocky bulk of the asteroid and the dwindling narrow slot of the outer airlock door. The Indra left the shaft spinning at the same rate at the Dandridge Cole, but after a quick blast of the tanker’s correction jets, the asteroid filling the view through the flight-deck window began to rotate once more. Further jets fired and the Indra turned away, leaving Momus with little to do other than to await the main engine burn that would take him to the distant gas planet of Thunor.
“Just me and the stars,” he murmured. “Bliss.”
A sudden noise made him jump. He could have sworn that above the background murmur of onboard equipment he had heard the pitiful meow of a cat. Slowly, he turned in his seat and was greeted by the sight of Ravana’s electric pet, wearing a pained expression as it drifted between the ceiling and the floor.
“Crap,” Momus said glumly. “Just me, the stars and a frigging mental cat.”
* * *
Chapter Six
The woman in black
[Chapter Five] [Contents] [Chapter Seven]
THERE WAS A SHARP WHITE LIGHT, silhouetting a fleeting image of a tall figure in black, then Ravana clamped her eyelids shut once more. It hurt to breathe and as she tried to move her chest muscles went into spasm, making her wince. Yet the air was warm and alive with the unmistakeable hum and clicks of life-support systems, subtly different to the background noises she had become used to in their stolen vehicle.
Her eyes still closed, she ran a hand across her blanket covering and felt the soft mattress beneath. When she flickered her eyelids open again the figure remained next to her, unmoving yet watchful in the stark light of the room. Ravana’s thoughts went back to the nurses in her cell and in a panic she tried to lift herself up, then crashed back into the warm embrace of the bed as a renewed bolt of pain seared across her chest.
“Please,” she whispered. “Let me out of here.”
“You’re going nowhere,” replied a kindly voice. “Your lungs have been knocked for six and you need to take it easy for a while.”
It was a woman who spoke, using reassuring crisp English tones that were a long way from the Indian accents of the nurses. Ravana’s eyes slowly adjusted to the brightness and she stared warily at the tall figure standing at her side. The pale-skinned young woman wore a black jumpsuit of an old-fashioned design, made of a denim-like material with dramatically flared legs and shoulder straps instead of sleeves. Her hair, several shades too red to be natural, was bundled into an untidy knot on top of her head that highlighted a squareness to her features more handsome than beautiful. Her bare arms were marked by numerous white scars, with an indistinct tattoo below her left shoulder. The woman looked back at her with a curious expression that revealed both caution and concern.
Ravana lifted her head. She lay inside the passenger cabin of a personnel carrier, one larger but otherwise not dissimilar to their own crashed vehicle, though they did not seem to be moving. Behind the woman was another bunk, upon which she saw Artorius lying tucked up and apparently asleep. There was no sign of the greys.
“You rescued us,” Ravana murmured. “You said you couldn’t. Who are you?”
“My name is Kedesh,” the woman told her. Reaching over, she took Ravana’s hand and squeezed it gently. “Try not to talk. Asphyxiation’s a sticky wicket for the lungs!”
“Kedesh,” repeated Ravana. “My name...”
“I know who you are,” interrupted Kedesh. “Rest a while, Ravana. Then we’ll talk.”
* * *
By the time Ravana felt recovered enough to climb out of bed, the long Falsafah night was coming to an end and the faint glimmer of a Tau Ceti dawn was upon the eastern horizon. The other bunk was empty and upon investigation she found Artorius and the greys sitting at a table towards the front of the cabin, tucking into a variety of food packs laid out by their host. Kedesh stood nearby and as Ravana approached, the woman greeted her with a smile and motioned for her to take a seat.
Ravana caught a glimpse of the scene outside the nearby cockpit window and paused. Barely twenty metres away, the rear end of their stolen transport rose over the edge of the crater with its airlock door hanging open. As if the sight of the crumpled vehicle was not enough, her bruised ribs and headache were doing their best to remind her of their brush with death. Artorius too looked slightly worse for wear. The greys were as fresh as ever.
“Ravana!” greeted Artorius, speaking through a mouthful of food. “You’re alive!”
“Am I?” she murmured, taking a seat. “I haven’t died and been sent to Naraka?”
“Thraak!” protested Nana.
“I apologise,” said Ravana. She looked at Kedesh. “My grey friend says I should be grateful that you came to our aid, which of course I am. It’s just that after what we’ve been through, dying in a ditch in the middle of the desert seemed almost inevitable.”
“Artorius kindly gave me a copy of his amazing translator programme,” Kedesh told her, indicating the greys. “Would you like some tea and cake?”
“Tea!” exclaimed Ravana. “You remind me of a friend back in Newbrum.”
“And cake,” the woman reiterated. “Your blood sugar levels would have taken a hit after that trauma. Besides, tea and cake is so civilised, don’t you think?”
Kedesh moved to the kitchen area. She returned carrying a tray, upon which were a couple of antique ceramic cups and saucers, a china pot with a spout and a small plate upon which were slices of dark fruit cake. Ravana did not know whether to be more amazed at the presence of tasty confectionery so far from anywhere or at the wisps of steam rising from the pot. Kedesh lowered the tray to the table and Ravana watched in fascination as the woman added a dash of milk and sugar to each cup, placed a tiny metal sieve upon the first and poured the dark brew. Ravana had never seen anyone make tea the old-fashioned way before. Artorius already slurped on a juice carton.
“I’v
e heard a little of your trials,” said Kedesh. “You’ve had a rough time.”
“You could say that,” murmured Ravana. She eyed the cake hungrily.
“Fwack fwack,” Stripy intoned solemnly.
“Thraak,” agreed Nana.
“And we don’t want to go back,” Artorius added stubbornly.
Ravana took the offered cup and sipped the tea with a hesitation that turned to gratitude as the sweet comforting nectar slid over her taste buds. Kedesh smiled, took a step back and leaned against the transport’s curved wall. She nevertheless seemed ill at ease, as if unsure of what to do with her unexpected guests.
“It is I who should apologise,” Kedesh said eventually. “You would never have ended up at the bottom of a crater if I hadn’t bowled a googly. My response to your plea for help was also rather poor. I’m sorry if my actions came across as just not cricket.”
“Err... okay,” said Ravana, slightly disconcerted by the odd turn of phrases.
“Rest assured I’m playing for the home team. I have no truck with Dhusarians!”
“Truck?” asked Artorius, puzzled. “What truck?”
“Then who are you?” Ravana asked Kedesh, ignoring the boy’s question. “You said you knew who I was. Why did you think you weren’t allowed to help?”
“Too many questions!” Kedesh looked flustered. “We should get moving. Where were you heading? There’s nothing out there within a thousand kilometres of the Dhusarians’ dome,” she added, gesticulating towards the windscreen.
“Ravana is taking me home,” Artorius declared.
“I’m trying to get back to the Arallu Wastes,” said Ravana, seeing Kedesh frown at the boy’s unhelpfully vague reply. “I came to Falsafah with the Bradbury Heights University archaeology dig. I don’t suppose you have a convenient spaceship nearby?”
Paw-Prints Of The Gods Page 14