“Hey, Iden.”
“Lord Bray has a ship,” said Iden.
“So I heard,” said Burr.
“It’s a modified pocket destroyer, one of the last made before the fall.”
“I’d heard this too,” said Burr, pretending not to care.
“With a cargo bay.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes, really. Have you asked him, er, Lord Bray, yet?”
“No. I will do so when the time is right. Tact must be employed, Iden.”
“I’m right here, you know,” said Galen. “What are you two talking about?”
Burr shot a stern glance in Iden’s direction. “My apologies, Lord Bray, I have something important to talk to you about, but I don’t yet know the proper way to say it. Will you indulge me for a bit longer while I sort things out?”
Galen blinked. “Sure.”
“You have my thanks. Ah, here we are.” They stopped in front of a large building that, to Galen, looked more like a barn than the workshop of Dob’s lead scientist. “Lord Bray, if you would honor me by stepping into my humble workshop, Iden and I will show you a small sample of the wonders of Ruam science and engineering.”
Chapter Eight
Deep in the bowels of the Lingering Death, Dur watched with interest as a medtech administered a heavy sedative to the struggling Ruam girl. She was strapped onto a gurney and looked like she was stretching the straps to their limit.
“Let me go!” screamed Trem. “I was eating the food!”
“You were also causing much grief for your caretakers,” said Dur, glancing at the dour woman in white. “This is for your own good. The quieter you are, the less likely it is you’ll be silenced by my Lord Mohk. His discipline can be quite severe.”
“Thrust off, you stupid mudhead!” spat Trem. “You and your master can go to Namf.”
“Such a big mouth on such a small child,” said Dur. He watched as the sedative took effect and the girl’s eyes rolled back in her head. “She will feel no pain?”
“None at all,” said the medtech. “The sedative is quite potent.”
“Good, put her in the control tank and keep her medicated. I don’t want her to suffer until she absolutely has to.”
**
Galen followed Burr and Iden into the workshop and was blown away. As backwater and rural as Olor appeared outside the walls of his workshop, the inside was the polar opposite in terms of pure scientific architecture and high-tech eye candy. The walls were sleek and clean, and glowing with light, too. Various hover bots and Ruam assistants hurried about working on machines, transports, and a whole lot more utterly alien tech that completely mystified Galen. “This place is so cool!”
“Not bad, eh? The artisans insisted I make the exterior look like a barn, all part of their silly peasant aesthetic, but I won’t let them anywhere near the inside,” said Burr. “The bots have shoot-to-kill orders if any of them gets in and tries rusticating the place.”
“He’s joking,” said Iden.
“Am I?” said Burr flatly.
Galen’s head was on a swivel as he took in the sights. “I don’t blame you. It’s amazing in here. Everything about it is . . . perfect!”
Burr was pleased. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it, Lord Bray. There’s not enough appreciation of the sciences on this art-ridden world.”
“Now don’t start that again,” said Iden. “The artisans rely on us.”
“Wait . . . is that . . . Hex?” said Galen.
He ran to a hover sledge where two techs fussed over Hex.
The bot tried to levitate but stayed put; he was attached to the sledge. “Greetings, Lord Bray.”
“You’re calling me that too?”
“It is proper etiquette for any bot or commoner to use a noble’s title when speaking with them. However, I was forbidden by your late father, the esteemed Lord Nolo Bray, to do so.”
“Everyone knew I was a Ruam lord except me?” said Galen.
“Not everyone. Your parents did, of course, as did I. It was for your protection.”
Galen sighed. “So I’ve heard.”
Burr and Iden joined them. “This Hexa model was one of my earliest designs,” said Burr.
“He’s a Ruam bot?”
“Yes, modified to look like a standard bot. Take away all of this extra sheet metal, and you’d have a design similar to what you see on the streets of Olor these days. I must say,” Burr said to Hex, “you have held up remarkably well considering the life you led on the outside.”
“My esteemed Lord Nolo Bray always made maintenance of this unit a priority, doing many of the repairs himself. Your techs will no doubt notice many internal welds and . . . improvisations.”
One of the techs snorted. “That’s for sure.”
“Can you have him repaired by the time the Ghost Star is ready?” said Galen. “I’m anxious to go after my sister.”
Burr raised an eyebrow. “Sister?”
“His sister is in the custody of the Nell,” said Iden softly.
“Oh. Yes, then of course she needs to be rescued. Your bot is being overhauled, but it shouldn’t take long. There are some old components in there. These will be replaced, and he will be fitted with all of the best upgrades available to this model—increased processing capability, flex armor, and more powerful servos, to name a few. Basically, he’ll be smarter and stronger.”
“Don’t change who he is,” said Galen. “I like Hex’s personality.”
“Thank you, Lord Bray. I am humbled.”
**
Several hours later, a messenger knocked on the barn door, demanding Galen be brought to the welcoming feast. When the door slid open and the messenger came face to face with a menacing sentry bot, he changed the demand to a polite request. Galen headed for the square with Iden and the messenger, but Burr begged off, saying he had to get started on repairing the Ghost Star.
Galen enjoyed the scenery as they walked toward the town square, but even though Dob was a truly wonderful place, any joy at being here was blunted by the knowledge that Trem was aboard an Imperium battle cruiser with a murderous Nell lord. Each time he thought of his father’s death, Galen clenched his fists to the point of pain. I will rescue Trem and bring her back to Dob, and we will live out the rest of our lives among our newly discovered people, our family. Galen had to smile when he thought of Trem walking the streets of Olor. Trem would absolutely love this place—the artists and their works of beauty, the quaint buildings, and being referred to as “Lady Bray” and treated like a princess.
Oh man. If anyone can work the princess thing, it’s Trem. Mom would have loved it too, he thought, suddenly feeling a little down. Dad would’ve made sure she was treated like a queen.
The messenger stopped at the edge of the square and fished around for something in his coat pocket. Galen was amazed at the town square’s transformation. Garlands of produce and huge sprays of flowers and fabric had been artfully arranged throughout the square. Townsfolk hurried about making last-minute adjustments to the decorations and continuously adding all sorts of delicious-looking things to an immense banquet table. I’ll definitely be paying a few visits there.
A small cluster of musicians had set up to the side of a long, elevated table where Galen guessed he’d be sitting. He had to admit he was impressed they’d managed to throw together something like this so quickly. The square itself looked like it was ready to party.
The messenger finally pulled a com out of his coat pocket. “We are in place.”
Near the main table, the mayor picked up his own com. “Citizens of Olor! Your attention, please! The hour has come at last. Let us turn and welcome our Lord Galen Bray! May his rule be long and just!” The mayor gestured toward where Galen was standing, and in unison the good citizens of Olor began cheering.
“I think you’re going to have fun tonight, Lord Bray!” shouted Iden.
As it turned out, no truer words were spoken, as Galen had what could easily be
described as the time of his life. Nothing like being the center of attention of an adoring populace to boost the ego of a teenage boy. He was introduced to tons of people, all of whom were thrilled to the bone to see him. Well, technically, they were thrilled to the bone to see a Ruam lord—any Ruam lord—but Galen didn’t take that personally. They were happy to see him, and, considering the dark circumstances that had brought him to this point, he was happy to be seen.
Galen discovered one of the many benefits in attending a feast thrown in his honor was he didn’t have to get any of the food himself. Plate after plate of the best food he’d ever eaten was delivered to his place at the table by pretty girls who just happened to look around his age. Much later and after waving off the sixth or seventh plate of dessert and shaking the four hundred and fifty-third hand, Galen sank back into his chair.
The mayor took note of this. “It appears you’ve had your fill of merrymaking, Lord Bray.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Galen, sitting up again. “I was taking a breather.”
“No, no, please. I think you have earned your right to exhaustion.”
Galen sank back into his chair again. “Thanks. I think a snooze would do me good right about now. Which reminds me, where am I staying?”
“In the palace, of course,” said the mayor.
“You have a palace?”
“No, you do. Shortly after the colony was founded, it was built for the Lord Governor. She left to join the fighting, and it has been mostly unused since the great fall. I think a lot of our citizens, myself included, always felt sad when we passed it—a reminder of what was, as it were. But now”—the mayor gestured at Galen with open arms—“you’re here!”
“I sure am. How ’bout that. A palace.” He wondered what his father would’ve thought about living in a palace, and came to the same conclusion he’d come to earlier. Probably not much.
The mayor beamed. “It’s not particularly fancy—this is a small artisan’s colony after all—but I think you will find it suits your needs. I’ll escort you there myself.”
“Thank you.” Galen stood, and a wave of silence spread. Galen took a deep breath, realizing this was another of those moments when he was expected to say something grand and important. “This was, without a doubt, the best party I have been to in my whole life.” The crowd murmured appreciatively, and Galen figured he’d scored some points with that one. “But I’m tired, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to grab some sleep. Thank you, one and all, for your most excellent welcome!”
The crowd cheered, then grew silent again as Galen followed the mayor out of the square. As soon as they’d rounded the corner and were out of view, the party started again.
A few minutes later, they arrived at the palace door. The building was exactly as the mayor described it—bigger than any of the houses they’d passed, but not ridiculously so. The door opened, and a hover bot similar to Hex, except for the gold and white tassels, floated out. “Welcome, Lord Bray. My designation is Debak, and it is my honor to serve you. Your bed chamber has been prepared and awaits you.”
“Thanks, Debak, I’ll be right in.”
The mayor bowed. “Goodnight, Lord Bray. May you sleep soundly.”
A cracking noise split the air, and the ground shifted violently. The mayor was knocked off his feet, and Galen was bounced into the mansion’s doorway. After a few moments the shaking stopped.
The mayor got to his feet and took a deep breath. “That was a bad one. Are you all right, Lord Bray?”
Galen took a deep breath. “I’m fine. Now what were you saying about sleeping soundly?”
**
On the Ghost Star, Galen hurried down the central passageway. He was chasing something, or someone, and was being chased at the same time. He rounded a curve, which was odd since the Star didn’t have curved passageways, and skidded to a stop. Trem stood directly in front of him, a smile on her face. “What’s taking you so long?” she asked. Before Galen could answer, Trem frowned and pointed at something, or someone behind him. Overwhelming terror filled Galen’s heart, but he turned anyway to face his pursuer. It was Lord Mohk. The Nell grinned and plunged his foreclaws into Galen’s chest.
**
Galen bolted upright in bed, his eyes wide and his heart pounding. It took a moment to realize where he was. I’m on Dob. In a palace. In a bed. He fell back onto his pillow and stared at the room’s ornate ceiling. “Don’t worry, Trem. I’m coming,” he whispered.
Chapter Nine
Galen awoke twelve hours later, when Debak came into the room and opened the heavy shutters. Since the ambient starlight pulled in by Mael streamed down nonstop and bathed the entire planet, there wasn’t anything like morning, afternoon, or night on Dob. None of this bothered Galen in the least, as he’d grown up on a spaceship and not on a rotating rock that cruised around a flaming fireball. When it was time to sleep on the Star, the crew went to their cabins and turned off the lights.
“Good wakes to you, Lord Bray,” said Debak as he bustled around the room neatening things that weren’t even messy. “I trust you slept well?”
“I slept, but not well,” said Galen as he slipped out from under the sheets and hung his feet over the edge of a massive bed, the likes of which he had only seen in cam reels and stilpix. “I had an awful dream.”
Debak set down a fluffed pillow and turned toward Galen. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve prepared a nice breakfast for you. Maybe that will make you feel better.”
“Thanks. I think it will.” Galen glanced down at the colorful sleeping clothes Debak had insisted he put on before climbing into bed. The bot called them “pehjemmas” and assured him it was what the people of Dob put on “before retiring.” On the Ghost Star, everyone went to sleep in the clothes they worked in and put on clean clothes (usually) when they woke up. “Hey Debak, I need to get dressed. Where are my clothes?”
“I destroyed them.”
“Destroyed? You mean cleaned.”
“No, I mean destroyed. Forgive me if I’m being too familiar, Lord Bray, but the clothes you arrived in had seen better days, to put it delicately, and you had several colonies of keppa mold growing in the folds of your undergarments.”
“Destroyed.”
“There are shower facilities through that door with a selection of scrubbing tools and potent soaps. Once you are clean, I have an assortment of uniforms for you to choose from.”
“Uniforms?”
Debak paused midbustle. “You are a Ruam noble, Lord Bray, a warrior by default.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Seriously.”
“Cool.” Galen pulled off his pehjemma shirt and headed for the shower.
“Make sure you scrub every part of you with great vigor!” said Debak. “I can assist you, if you’d like.”
“Okay, okay! I get it. I’m dirty. I’ll make sure I come out of there clean,” said Galen, waving the bot off.
He stepped into the gigantic bathroom and let out a low whistle. All the fixtures were full water, not misters like on the Ghost Star. It reminded Galen that a spaceship could only carry so much water in its tanks. Sometimes they didn’t, or couldn’t, stop to refill for months. The crew was allowed a short “misting” every few days, but a full-on shower was considered insanely wasteful. Galen tossed his pehjemma pants into the corner and stepped in the shower area, only then noticing there were no controls. “Debak! How do I turn this on?”
“Verbal command, my lord. You control everything from water temperature to flow by speaking your desire.”
“Got it.” Galen grabbed a bar of smelly soap and a stick with bristles at the end and faced the shower head. “Shower on!” The water was so cold it made Galen gasp and jump out of the shower as fast as he could. “C-cold!” He stuck his hand in the water stream. “Warmer, please.” After several more temperature adjustments, Galen judged the water to be just right and stepped into the shower, where he stayed for the next hour.
Wrinkly but
infinitely cleaner, Galen emerged from the bathroom wearing a highly absorbent garment. “Hey, this towel coat is great!”
“I am pleased you like it,” said Debak. “And those are called bathrobes.”
“Good to know.” Galen glanced at the bed. Debak had laid out an assortment of military uniforms. “Amazing!”
“I took the liberty of scanning the archives and commissioning several uniforms in your size. They are representative of historical garments worn by members of House Bray.”
Galen examined each uniform closely. “Which one do you think I should wear?”
“That is entirely up to you, my lord,” said Debak. “A few, the more colorful ones with the ribbons, for example, are for ceremonial purposes—treaty signings, welcoming festivals, and so forth.”
“I guess I’m not a fan of ceremonial uniforms. Too fancy.”
In that case, might I suggest the black one there? It’s considered battle garb.”
“Battle garb,” repeated Galen as he picked up the jumpsuit blacker than anything he’d ever seen. “How does it do that? I mean, the darker-than-dark thing?”
“The battle suit is photoreactive and changes color at the wearer’s whim,” said Debak. “It can go from the black of space to the white of an ice planet and any combination you can think of in between.”
“The ultimate camouflage suit.”
“That it is, my lord. The fabric itself is insulated and provides limited protection from bladed and projectile weapons, too.”
“This is the one, then,” said Galen. “Will you let me know when I’m supposed to put on any of the other ones?”
“It is my sole reason for being, Lord Bray.”
Galen put on the jumpsuit, and Debak helped him tighten various straps and belts so the fit was good. Galen walked to a full-length mirror and struck what he thought was a noble pose.
“Well done, Lord Bray, you look quite the stilpix,” said Debak. “It’s a shame you don’t have your House’s battle knife to put in the sheath. Perhaps we can commission a new one from the artisans who work in metal.”
Ghost Star Page 5