by J. S. Fields
Neek ran up the dredger’s ramp, found the comm, and pounded in the call coordinates for her parent’s home on Neek. When the computer asked for her identifier, she paused. You had to have one to make a call on most comms. She didn’t know what to use. Had she been named Exile officially? If she typed “Daughter of the Tertiary Forest Preserve, N’lln,” would the operators know who she was? She could use her child-name, maybe, as each was unique, but then the operator would have to dig through birth records. Neek had a small global population, all things considered, but it wasn’t that small.
With heavy hands, her stuk all but absent thanks to the damn tears she couldn’t quite keep under control no matter what she tried, Neek typed in “Exile” and initiated the call. It was hard to breathe. It was hard to think. Her coveralls were too tight on her hips and too loose on her shoulders, and her dry feet itched inside her boots.
Answer, she begged silently. Please answer.
A sloshing sound came from the comm. Text scrolled past in Common, too fast for Neek to read properly. She tried again. Again, the sloshing sound.
Her mouth was too dry. Her tongue felt like swollen sandpaper. More slowly this time, Neek keyed in the code for her brother’s personal comm. Come on, titha breeder. Answer your comm.
Sloshing.
Neek’s stomach rolled. She felt both empty and heavy. Her hands trembled, and the tears threatening to spill made her feel like she was a toddler having a tantrum. She’d been so patient. She’d taken all those dead-end jobs and put up with all those thinly veiled insults about her homeworld, her stuk, her exile, and her religion just to get to a comm, and now…now this?! Neek ran through the numbers of everyone she knew. Her mother. Her father. Her talther. She tried the planet’s central comm. She tried the diplomatic channels, the open channels, the trade channels… Everything came back with the same nonresponse.
Neek slammed her palm against the comm and bit the inside of her cheek. The pain would keep the tears from coming. She was too old to cry. She knew what exile meant. Abstractly, she knew, but it still felt like the methane in the dredger hadn’t been filtered out. No matter how hard she breathed, Neek couldn’t fill her lungs. All she could hear was the sloshing, the sound of a rejected call. She didn’t exist to her people anymore. She couldn’t go home, and she couldn’t call home—and how in Ardulum’s name was she supposed to move forward when everything she had ever loved, and everything that had ever meant a damn to her, was locked away? Was she supposed to stay on this stupid station forever, surrounded by smelly aliens and incompetent pilots?
The comm pinged.
Neek forced herself to exhale. She rubbed her eyes, hoping that it would take away the black spots from her vision. The comm pinged again. Common scrolled across the screen, but this time, Neek caught the characters for her name: Exile, in big silvery font, followed by more incomprehensible Common.
It was enough. Neek accepted the call. There was a fluttering in her chest as hope rose from the twisting, shameful realizations that if only she had skipped that last rally, if only the other protestors hadn’t resorted to property damage, if only, if only, if only…
The face of Neek’s father filled the screen. Well, the face of her father with white hair instead of silver and a constellation of freckles across the nose that her father lacked. His skin was the same copper color as Neek’s, and they had the same high cheekbones. The man wore a golden robe with ruffles instead of the colored piping of the Heaven Guard robes, and he had the look of practiced serenity that had always made Neek want to throw something at him, just to see if he could emote at all.
“Neek.” Her uncle nodded and smiled tightly. That he’d chosen the common name over her official one was a kindness, but not one that she wanted from him.
“Uncle,” Neek managed to choke out. “High Priest.”
“You are well?”
Neek blinked. Anger rose too quickly and spilled out into her words. “I’d have died in that skiff without the Minorans. He meant to kill me!”
“But he didn’t.”
“Because you intervened!”
“Yes, I did. It’s what Ardulum would have wanted.”
Neek bit back a scream. “Uncle!” Neek pressed closer to the screen. “Forget Ardulum. I have to come home. I have to see my parents. I have to talk to my brother. Can you help me? Please? That’s what you do, isn’t it? Help people?”
Her uncle’s lips pursed. He shifted in his seat, and in the background above him, near the top of the screen, she could see a gold robe piped with green. And then, another one. And another.
“Why are they here?” Neek whispered as her face flushed.
“To remind you of what you’ve lost, I’d assume. The president isn’t subtle. Ignore them.”
But Neek couldn’t ignore them. She could only see up to their waists, but she’d spent enough time staring at the posters in her bedroom to identify footwear. The guard on the left was Guard One, the leader of the current squadron whose record time around N’lln Neek had shattered her first official day in a settee. Next to him was Guard Six, her strapped sandals and slight pigeon toe bringing a smile to Neek’s face despite the mortification that was building inside her. Building, because Neek knew who was standing on the right, without even looking. The president would not have missed the chance to include Guard Four, Neek’s personal idol. Sure enough, when Neek looked, there were the telltale knee-high leather boots, similar to the ones she wore. The clasped hands in front of the golden robe had golden nails, and the pilot’s skin was the same deep copper as Neek’s.
My humiliation wasn’t complete, Neek thought as she wiped her fingers on her legs and swallowed the lump in her throat. It wasn’t complete until just now. Even if I got to go back, even if the president lifted my exile, how could I ever look any of the Heaven Guard in the eyes again?
“Neek?”
Neek looked back at her uncle. There was some part of her that still cared about what he had to say, surely. Her wounds were deep, but he could always cut deeper.
Her uncle reached down and came back up with a rigid, transparent biofilm, which he tapped against his armrest. “Neek, pay attention. I’ve reached a deal with our president that could result in your repatriation, assuming key tenets are met.”
“Key tenets…” Neek blindly repeated. Over her uncle’s shoulder, she could still see the mix of green and gold. She should have been there with them, standing with them, flying with them. What did her shame taste like to the Guard? Were any of her cohorts there too, remembering the late-night agility drills, the early-morning mechanical maintenance, the camaraderie of belonging to the most elite group on Neek?
“Are you listening to me?”
“No,” Neek said flatly. “What do I have to do to be allowed back? Keep my mouth shut? Allow our world to be destroyed?”
Her uncle chuckled and opened the biofilm. Text in Neek scrolled across it in thick segments. “No, Neek. You could start, though, by telling me what you know about Ardulum.”
Where she had been too hot a moment before, now she was too cold. Where her rage had boiled, now her insides felt frozen. He had to be kidding. She believed in Ardulum as much as she believed in the President of Neek being a decent ruler. She’d spent her life running from religious services. There was no way she was sitting through them now without the promise of the Heaven Guard to keep her in line.
“What do I have to do to come home?” she asked again through clenched teeth.
Her uncle placed the biofilm down and folded his hands. “Not as much as you might think. You will speak weekly with me—and no one else. You will have no contact with anyone from our homeworld. When I deem you in an appropriate state to return, these restrictions will be lifted.”
“And what is that state?” Neek spat out.
Once more, her uncle held up the biofilm, The Book of the Arrival plastered widely across its surface.
Neek slammed her hand against the console and terminated the connectio
n.
Just a Bar on Mars
2050 CE
Well, he was fucked. There weren’t any other words for it.
The Cell-Tal computer had seemed like an amazing idea at the time, especially since it wasn’t like he’d had to pay for it, but this was one scheme Yorden definitely had not thought through.
His Buran shuttle was the age of dirt. Its last pilot had probably been a dinosaur. And yeah, it worked, in the way a toaster with a broken lever still worked if you pulled the toast out with a set of tongs, but he was now short a metaphorical pair of tongs. The Pledge was too old to completely give up manual control—as it was still routed through the very amusing yoke he’d installed—but now seventy-five percent of navigation went through the new computer. This meant he had to work both a yoke and a computer simultaneously to fly the damn thing, and Yorden was a big man with big hands, but he’d need a damn octopus to get the Pledge off the ground again.
So, he was out hunting.
Well, he was also drinking. And eating. And sitting. Hunting could be done in a cushioned chair if you were the “shooting fish in a barrel” type, and he wasn’t at his favorite bar on Mars by accident. A certain Oorin dredger had landed at Isidis Port just a few days after his computer installation, and the serendipity, the blind luck, was a little too much to pass up. And so, what he’d planned as just a general Youth Journey offer was about to turn into a pilot job. He hoped. Not that he was the stalker type, but Yorden couldn’t just ignore the scared teen he’d seen at Callis a few months back. He hadn’t known what to do with her then, or how to help, but damned if the universe wasn’t aligned in their favor. He hated Risalians—she hated Risalians. Neither of them had a home to speak of. They both chafed at rules, and while Yorden doubted the Neek would take charity, he knew she’d take a job. Especially a job like this.
So, Yorden sat in his favorite chair—with the carved wood armrests and sturdy back support—and half played a game of blackjack with a few other tramp captains, all while keeping an eye on the Neek glaring down at the bar counter. He was just close enough to hear the conversation.
“How are you going to pay for that?” The bartender—a human with thick, black hair, brown skin, and dimpled cheeks—tapped the countertop.
“No money,” Neek responded, refusing to make eye contact. Yorden knew how much the whole Journey youth thing inflamed her, but if she was short on credits, then his offer would be her only out. Oh, but she’d make it as painful as possible first—he was certain of it. She wasn’t even wearing the telltale green coveralls, and she had her hands on her lap, hiding them under the bar.
“No money?” the Terran asked incredulously.
“No,” she mumbled.
Yorden saw stuk flake onto the floor and shook his head. Stubborn as all hell, even after four months on a dredger—which also explained why she’d stayed on said dredger, despite Oorin food tasting like titha ass.
The bartender’s voice softened. “How old are you, friend?”
“Hey, Kuebrich, you going to hit or what?”
Yorden shook his head, not bothering to look back at the table. He put his cards down and smoothed the top of his beard away from his eyes. The gambling at the bar counter was far more interesting. The Neek could lie and get herself arrested for not paying, or she could tell the truth and watch the bar mutate around her. While Yorden valued a good liar, seeing how she dealt with what was sure to be a…loud situation was also of interest.
Flaked stuk drifted from Neek’s ears. “I’m a pilot, you know.”
Yorden nodded to himself. He knew that quite well. He knew about her skill, her awards, her exile. You didn’t make as many runs to Neek as he did for the Risalian Markin Council and not catch the gossip. The bartender, on the other hand, just looked confused.
“Friend? How old?”
Neek mumbled, “Titha crap. I’m nineteen.”
“Then, it’s on the house.”
Yorden watched Neek redden from the tips of her ears all the way down to her neck. She managed a garbled “thank you” as she pulled the glass towards her and sipped the contents, her eyes still on the counter.
“Fatal mistake there,” Yorden whispered, not intending for Neek to hear. “Look what you’ve done with your fingers.”
The bartender perked up the moment Neek put the cup back down, the incredible width of her palm seeming to unsheathe the cup rather than simply release it. This was the whole reason Yorden had thought of her for the pilot gig in the first place. The Neek people had amazing hands but were as passive as any other Charted Systems automaton. But this Neek…ah, this one he’d seen in action. Hell, he’d read the Risalian reports. Given any agency at all, she’d burn the Charted Systems to the ground.
Yorden loved that idea.
“You’re a long way from home!” the bartender exclaimed.
Neek growled in the back of her throat, which had to have been unnerving for the bartender, especially since Yorden could hear it clear across the bar.
“You’re pretty articulate, you know, all things considered,” the bartender said, unphased.
Neek’s head flew up, and the redness faded from her face. “Please stop patronizing me.”
The bartender shook her head and then smiled the most bullshit, condescending smile Yorden had ever seen. Hell, he was ready to punch the woman.
“Common must be really hard for you, huh? The Oori have tech to get around the language issue, but if Neek mouths aren’t evolved like ours, and your tech is behind…wow. You must really have it rough.”
“No, the bar floor is rough, and if you don’t stop talking, I’m going to rub your face across it.”
This time, Yorden had to stifle a laugh. Neek had said that last line in her native language, which Yorden spoke quite fluently. God help him, she was going to be perfect.
“Can I get you another drink, friend?” the bartender asked with a grin.
Neek switched back to Common and forced a smile. “Yes, thank you. That would be gloriously, beautifully lovely.”
The bartender patted Neek on the shoulder before picking up her cup primly by the rim—so as to not touch the residual stuk, Yorden supposed—and disappearing behind a swinging wooden door. Yorden watched Neek’s jaw set as she silently seethed. This was the hardest part. When to approach? If she were in a good mood, then she’d have no reason to sign on with him, although Yorden couldn’t imagine a dredger being at all fun to fly. If she were in a spiteful mood, she’d just as likely dismiss him, and that would ruin further chances.
Still, if he could get two sentences in, he knew he could hook her interest. He had the only non-Risalian ship that had clearance to land on the Neek planet. If she was looking to visit home, get away from the taunts and jabs and glares of the Charted Systems, then he was her best option. The problem was getting those two sentences in while dealing with a being who was as prickly as Yorden himself.
The bartender returned—hands reddish from what Yorden assumed was a thorough scrubbing—sat another cup of the fizzy pink drink in front of Neek, and bustled away, an awkward smile plastered to her face.
“Captain Kuebrich, you in for another round, or you just going to daydream all day?”
“Huh?” Yorden forced himself to turn around and engage with the two Terrans and the Minoran at his table. They were all men, which was boring as fuck as far as Yorden was concerned, but for whatever reason, that was how things went with tramp captains. Maybe women and other genders found better ways around the rules. Maybe men just liked the smell of bars and barely legal crime. Maybe he just had too shallow a friend pool.
“Yeah, I’ll go another round.” He flipped six diamond rounds onto the table. “I think I’m going to bring another over, too, if you guys don’t mind.”
The Minoran’s rear wiggled. “If they have rounds, I don’t care.” Both of the Terrans shrugged.
Right. Action then. Yorden sucked in some air tinged with the inevitable scent of multi-species BO and maneuv
ered to the bar, only to see that the inevitable had already occurred.
“Hey, there, gorgeous.”
Yorden backed off a bit to reevaluate. A Terran with pale skin and yellow hair, in clothes that looked no better than Neek’s, had leaned his elbow on the bar. Yorden was momentarily confused at how nonchalant the guy appeared—it’s not like anyone in the Systems had experience picking up Neek—until he realized the suitor hadn’t seen Neek’s hands yet because they were crammed into her pants.
“Buy you another?” the man asked, tucking a springy, blond curl behind his ear. Yorden thought he might vomit.
Neek closed her eyes and appeared to curse under her breath. “I’m a Journey youth,” she said, spitting the words.
Most beings, unfortunately for Neek, did not share the same level of disgust with the designation—nor did this one seem put off by the implications.
“I own a casino down the street. It’s lovely to meet you. What are you drinking?” The man slid his very firm ass onto the stool next to Neek and managed to put together a smile that was nearly charming.
Yorden scratched his own ass through his thick, beige flight suit and snorted. He’d been that young once, and that fit, but he’d always been a hell of a lot smoother with the ladies.
“No, thank you. I’m not interested. In anything.” Neek tipped her glass up and finished the drink, her eight fingers splayed across the surface. Yorden choked on a laugh. By the time the cup hit the bar again, the suitor’s face was incredulous.
“You’re her, aren’t you?” he asked, his jaw dropping so low that Yorden could have punched his fist into his mouth. “The Neek.”
“Would you please go away?” Neek sighed and made a shooing motion.
“But, I mean, you’re the Neek!”
“And you’re another weird Terran,” she muttered.