“They are not animals,” Phoebe hollered but no one could hear her. No one was even looking at her.
“Evidence gathered by United Research and Technology seems to indicate these creatures have some kind of telepathy, possibly something my client is especially susceptible to. She may, even now, be under their control. In any case, more study of the creatures is certainly warranted, unfortunately the bounty hunter that captured Miss Callista was not able to recover the original specimens.”
Phoebe’s heart sank. What was he doing? This wasn’t at all what they’d talked about for her defense.
“Greetings, Miss Callista.” The voice came from a speaker inside her security tube. “We’ve never been formally introduced. I am Captain Djon le Piere, and that was my data warehouse you and Rigel Antares destroyed on Vega 7. That wasn’t a very nice thing to do. I lost a lot because of you, and now you’re going to pay. I am not without recourses. You see, Mr. Gnorstine isn’t your attorney. He’s mine.”
A chill crept up Phoebe’s spine. “Damn you, Pirate.”
The man chuckled. “Actually, the plan is to damn you, Phoebe Callista, to spend the rest of your miserable life on a prison planet. Your parents never received your mailing, and by the time they find out, this little trial will be over. But count your blessings, little lady. At least you get to live. I can’t promise the same for Rigel Antares.”
The speaker in the security tube went dead, as Clarence O’Callaghan strolled suddenly into the courtroom, his hair freshly washed and brushed, and his uniform clean and pressed, looking every inch a galactic marshal. Well, at least as close to one as the portly redhead could look.
On the stand, O’Callaghan wove a tale of lies and deceit. He told of how he’d tracked Phoebe across the galaxy, and almost had her cornered before some hot-shot spacer bounty hunter swooped in to take credit for all his great accomplishments. Of course, Clarence was happy that justice had been served, and a hardened criminal had been brought to justice.
Phoebe sat in shock through it all. Her trial, lost before it had even begun. Her message about the Blarmlings never delivered. Why had Mr. Gnorstine betrayed her?
Then a look passed between O’Callaghan and Gnorstine, and Phoebe knew. They both were working for le Piere. The pirate captain must have had influence throughout the galaxy, and obviously had no problem using it.
As the trial progressed, Phoebe watched her life fall apart, piece by piece.
Chapter 32
Over the next weeks Rigel monitored the spacenet reports, gleaning what information he could about the trial and what was happening to Phoebe. His thoughts were never far from her, and he chaffed at the confines of his new home world. There was nothing he could think of to do that would help her, and there was so much he needed to do on Blarm, but still he had to fight the urge to fly to her.
Phoebe’s plan to bring the Blarmlings plight to the galaxy had somehow failed, but that didn’t mean her cause was over. Rigel was determined to make sure the Blarmlings were recognized as people. He just wasn’t sure how he was going to make that happen.
When the news came through that Phoebe had been sentenced to the prison worlds of the Theiler system, his heart dropped. Even the defense that the Blarmlings had somehow mind-controlled her hadn’t stopped the courts from sending her away ‘for her own protection.’
The only positive footnote to the trial was that Phoebe was headed for Theiler 4. At least she wouldn’t be put with the more violent types on the higher-level planets. He even had one very special connection living there, his mother. It had been a while since he’d mailed her, and she always seemed to enjoy it when he did.
With a slim ray of hope, he brought up his mail program, wrote his message, and sent off the post. He wondered how this message would be received.
“Ri-jel, a shhhip landz to thee nnnorth.”
He was still getting used to galactic common speech coming from Lart’s mouth. The Blarmling had been working hard to force out sounds that his vocal cords had never evolved to make.
Oolo joined Lart in the control room of The Blarmlings’ Hope. “If whee are to bee-come part of thee Fed-er-ash-on, whee must bee able to com-oon-ee-cate.” She spoke slowly, stressing each syllable, but was completely comprehensible.
Rigel hadn’t realized Oolo had also been learning.
Lart nodded. “Whole plan-it learns. Thee young do bet-ter than el-dars, but we all learn.”
The whole planet was learning to speak a new language? How was that possible?
Rigel could tell Lart was struggling with something. With a sigh the Blarmling switched back into speaking Blarm. I learn from you. The planet learns from me. We will work hard to be ready to join the Federation. But a ship has landed. They have come to capture more Blarmlings. We are wiser now. They will not succeed.
Rigel smiled. No, United Research and Technology would not succeed. “Well, let’s go see what we’ve caught.”
He closed the hatch and lifted off, sending scans to the north searching for the invading ship’s signature.
He’d expected this, after seeing the results of Phoebe’s trial, and had warned the Blarmlings. When U.R.T. had first touched down and taken Oolo and Lart, they’d been naïve and trusting, with no understanding of the language in the invader’s thoughts. They would never be taken by surprise again.
By the time Rigel landed next to the U.R.T. ship, the trappers had become the trapped. Four men and two women sat, looking none too pleased, in a cage made of Verril wood. Disarmed and disheveled, the trappers grumbled amongst themselves.
Rigel wished he’d been here to see the surprise in their eyes when the cuddly looking Blarmlings suddenly pulled blasters on the trappers and ordered them into the cage.
He’d made a quick trip off planet weeks ago, and used the remainder of his resources to buy arms and defenses for Blarm. He and The Blarmlings’ Hope couldn’t be everywhere at once. He knew U.R.T. would be coming for more Blarmlings, but he didn’t know what exactly to expect.
As Rigel approached the six humans, a big burly man jumped to his feet. “What’s going on?”
Well, he now knew who their leader was, but that wasn’t who he was looking for. He scanned the other five. They all looked pretty scared, but Rigel had an idea of which one it would be.
A younger man sat, head down, arms folded across his chest. His head shook quickly side to side.
“That one,” Oolo said, pointing.
Rigel nodded, and pulled his blaster and moved to the door of the cage. “You!” he said. “Come here. The rest of you back away.” He motioned the others back toward the far end of the cage with the barrel of his blaster.
The young man rose, wide-eyed, shuffling toward Rigel, as the others obediently backed away. Rigel opened the door and motioned him out of the cage, then closed and relocked the door.
It is his first tour of duty with these people, Oolo said. He is very scared.
Rigel lowered his blaster and spoke softly. “I’m not going to hurt you. What’s your name?”
The young man was shaking. “Th . . . Thombre.”
“Okay, Thombre.” Rigel put his hand on the young man’s shoulder, trying to calm him. “Here’s what you are going to do.”
Thombre raised his head, looking Rigel in the eyes.
“Get back on your ship,” Rigel continued, “and fly to the nearest galactic security facility. Tell them exactly what happened here. Tell them the Blarmlings are demanding an emissary ship be sent here, with a Senator who has full planetary negotiation rights. The prisoners will not be harmed, and will be released when the ship arrives. Do you understand?”
Thombre nodded, and Rigel looked at Oolo.
Yes, he will do his part.
Rigel took a step back. “Go.”
The prison ship touch
ed down and the doorway hissed open. Phoebe joined a line of eight new prisoners disembarking. Heat and humidity washed through the opening. Theiler 4 was a tropical planet, but far from a paradise.
Gray clouds billowed overhead as she was prodded down the ramp—the air so thick she could barely catch her breath and so humid her clothing was drenched with sweat before her feet actually touched the surface of the planet.
“You’ll get your welcome and indoctrination in there.” The big prison officer indicated a large gray building across the weedy cracked concrete landing pad.
Phoebe joined the others shuffling toward the rusty, iron-bound door. “Any of you ever been here before?”
“Yeah,” a scruffy looking bearded old man said. “Took me twenty years to get off this blasted rock the first time. You’d think I would have learnt my lesson.”
“It only takes one year of good behavior to get moved off to the next planet,” a younger woman next to Phoebe said. “Weren’t you even trying?”
The old man just shook his head. “I tried every frackin’ day of the full twenty years. Bein’ here ain’t like they show it in the holovids. You’ll see. Don’t plan on going home anytime soon.”
Rigel had warned her of that, and now the old man had confirmed it. Phoebe sighed. She’d do what she had to do. There wasn’t any other choice.
She missed Rigel so. They’d had so little time together, yet she’d come to know him so intimately. She worried about him constantly. Le Piere’s words at her trial haunted her every thought. “. . . At least you get to live. I can’t promise the same for Rigel Antares.”
Chapter 33
The wrench slipped through Phoebe’s sweaty fingers as the rusty bolt finally gave way. Struggling to retain her balance on the pitched roof she reached for the only available handhold, the jagged metal flashing along the chimney. She felt the flesh on the palm of her hand rip, but managed to retain her balance.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She’d been rushing, hoping to get this job finished before the real heat of the day moved in. Now she was behind and had a cut on her hand to tend. Still, a cut hand was far better than a three story drop to the concrete below.
She grabbed a rag from her pocket to staunch the flow of blood, clasping it tight in her throbbing right hand, then lifted the access panel of the air conditioning unit with her left.
Thirty-nine measly Theiler dollars, and she’d almost killed herself, but she needed the money. Galactic credit was worthless on the Theiler worlds, which had their own currency, actual physical coins, and paper notes. Talk about back-water.
With the bolt loose and the panel raised, Phoebe could get into the guts of the ancient air conditioning unit. Yup, just as she’d thought. Roachworms, chewing on the condenser coils.
Using needle-nosed pliers she began extracting the wiggling, slime covered pests. Whoever’d serviced the unit last had not properly sealed the casing, and the little buggers got in. Well, that person’s laxness had given her this opportunity, and Phoebe meant to make the most of it.
The Laserbat Protectdroid watching her, shifted slightly in its perch on the roofing. She could hear the left pivotal piston grinding. It was in sore need of oiling.
Suffer you bastard.
The Laserbat wouldn’t have lifted one robotic finger to help, if she’d slid down toward the roof ledge, but if she happened to do one thing its programming deemed suspicious, it would instantly stun her and report the activity to the central data bank for disciplinary action.
Phoebe replaced the gnawed condenser coils and hit the reset button on the unit. She breathed a sigh of relief as the motor kicked over and the unit started chugging. The blast of slightly warmer air out the top vent, told her the unit was cooling the building beneath her.
She properly sealed the unit, packed up and shouldered the tool bag, then made her way carefully toward the access ladder.
It had only taken Phoebe a week to acclimate to Theiler 4. New prisoners were assigned a bunk and a small thumb-print ID locker. Tasteless food stuffs were available three times a day. She had two sets of clothing and access to sanitary facilities. That was it.
On the Theiler worlds one made their own way up the social and economic ladders from nothing. Phoebe’s wealth, now freed and available from her wrist chip, was worthless here. Everything that was available to buy needed Theiler dollars. For someone with no means there was the occasional odd job to be had, but there was also vicious competition.
When a man named Ghent had posted, needing an air conditioner repaired, Phoebe jumped at the opportunity. Ghent turned out to be an older, somewhat good-looking gentleman of class and stature on Theiler 4. He owned his own home in one of the nearby settlements.
“I don’t have any tools,” she’d told him.
He’d smiled. “I have a few available.”
So she’d taken the job . . . for thirty-nine Theiler dollars and the loan of some tools.
Phoebe expelled a breath as her foot hit solid ground. The ladder down the side of the building had been a rough climb with her wounded hand. She pealed back the bloody rag to check her damaged palm. Blood still seeped from the jagged cut.
“You’re bleeding.”
She’d been so intent on her wound she hadn’t noted Ghent’s approach. “It’ll heal.”
She had no money to pay a medic. She’d have to wash it out good when she got back to the dormitory and pray there was no infection.
“Nonsense,” Ghent said with a smile. “I have medical supplies in my house, and I need to pay you anyway. Please, come in.” He gestured toward the front door.
Phoebe followed him inside. The cool air wrapped around her as Ghent shut the door. She took a deep, refreshing breath. “It seems to be working properly now.”
“You work fast and seem competent. I like that.” He pulled a med kit from a drawer. “Here, now. Let me look at that cut.”
He gently took her hand into his, disposing of the bloody rag, then cleansing her palm with a stri-pad. A quick spray of synth-skin sealed the wound.
“Thank you.” She pulled her hand away when he seemed reluctant to disengage the contact.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about cordial transducers, would you?” His grin was back and he stepped away to give her more personal space. “My Cherry Zing and Passion Fruit Cooler seem a bit flat lately.”
“I’d be happy to look at it.” Phoebe’s eyes took in the expansive living quarters, which included a long wooden bar with eight high-backed stools. The cordial transducer at the back of the bar looked older, but was comparable to the one her father had at home. Similar to the food replicator, a cordial transducer produced alcoholic beverages.
“Please do, and if you can fix it, I’ll give you that tool bag.” His eyebrow shot up. “And your choice of drink.”
Phoebe pulled a microdriver from the bag. “Deal.” She’d been craving a Pintlefruit Daiquiri for weeks. So many things she’d taken for granted were now out of her reach.
It took her only five minutes to find the problem. “One of your flow tubes is clogged. It will only take a minute to clear it.”
“And then we shall drink to your success.”
There was a troubling nuance in Ghent’s voice.
It took two weeks for the Galactic Star Ship, MXX Schlising, and its military escort to muster and arrive in orbit around Blarm. During that time Rigel had assured the U.R.T. trappers that they were safe countless times. He’d taken pains to meet their every need while still keeping an eye on them. After all, they were helpless pawns in this game he and the Blarmlings were playing.
“You’re ride home has arrived,” he told Otto Berkstine, the trappers’ burly leader as the Federation’s shuttle landed.
Otto actually smiled. “You know, I’m going to miss t
his place. Nice planet.”
Rigel had shared a cup of his dwindling Andromeda Ale with him and his crew the previous evening, and felt the man’s change of attitude.
“You’ll be welcome to visit, once we’ve joined the Federation.” Rigel swung the cage door open and gestured the group out toward the waiting shuttle. Some of them actually waved goodbye to their Blarmling captors.
There was a tense moment when eight armed guards thundered down the shuttle’s ramp, weapons ready, but Otto diffused the tension.
“We’re fine. We’re fine,” he said, waving his arms. “Put your guns down.”
Otto then turned toward Rigel and shot him a wink. “And I ain’t forgettin’ I owe you a drink.”
Rigel shook his head as the group entered the shuttle. As a part of their deal, it was agreed that the Blarmlings would release the prisoners before any negotiations started. Now the Federation just had to do its part.
“They will,” Lart said. His command of galactic common language had improved tremendously, though there was still a certain Blarmling dialect in his speech.
“You can read the Senator’s mind all the way from orbit?” Rigel had never had a chance to test the limits of the Blarmling’s incredible talents.
“No,” Lart answered. “But that shuttle commander is not happy with all the things he has to do to make ready for our meetings. They will contact us soon to talk. But not too soon. First we have a present for you.”
The Blarmlings had been busy building something on the other side of the village, away from where Rigel parked The Blarmlings’ Hope. Every time he’d wondered over to see what they were doing, one of the Blarmlings would distract him away from it. Now Lart led him right to the large wooden structure.
The Blarmling Dilemma (Hearts in Orbit Book 1) Page 22