Calling Tower (The Calling Tower Saga Book 1)

by Josh Leone

  Unless Vashek could convince the Council to let him use the Tower as a conduit for his consciousness, they could shut him out at a moment’s notice. His ascension would take time, precious minutes in which he would be vulnerable. But the Council had vetoed his proposals time and time again, citing possible damage to the Tower as their reason. So Vashek had spent decades stymied by the Council’s pedantic fears. It had been maddening.

  Then the Pash data device had come to him and changed everything. If there was another tower Vashek might be able to use it. He would be able to entangle his consciousness with the second tower and the other Callers would be none the wiser.

  Vashek directed his vast resources to the accumulation of the largest collection of Pash artifacts ever assembled. Hundreds of millions of credits were secretly transferred to thousands of agents, collectors, and salvagers. Vashek had arranged entire careers for Legionnaires just so they might find themselves in a position to intercept items of interest.

  The prices offered for Pash items grew so much that even Pash prides had been known to trade family heirlooms for supplies, arms, and secrets. It had been a minor inconvenience when followers of the latest fads had decided Pash artifacts were must have items. Vashek squashed that fad by pushing through a law against unrestricted trade in such things, which served to make the black market the major source for them, putting them mostly out of the hands of those who’d only wanted them as home décor.

  Finally, Vashek found what he was looking for. Franks had confirmed the final piece of the puzzle. Vashek was nearing his ultimate triumph, and nothing would stand in his way.

  ◊

  Pietra awoke to her internal alarm informing her of an incoming call. The ID told her it was a call she’d want to take in private. Extricating herself from the bed she shared with her husband, Pietra made her way downstairs to the kitchen. She knew Sha’s enhanced brain registered her movement, but they’d been together so long that the part of his brain that remained always awake informed the rest that there was no threat and no need to rise to full consciousness.

  Pietra also knew that, had Sha been paying attention, he’d have been able to hear her conversation clearly, as though she were speaking into his ear from inches away. But again, his trust of her was such that his mind would not bother eavesdropping. She opened the channel and took the call.

  “What do you want?” Pietra said.

  “It’s time, darlin’. Do you have it?” The voice was calm, with a slight southern accent. Pietra knew nothing about the man’s past, but she suspected the accent was an adopted one.

  “Benny’s Grill, on Ninth. Thirty minutes. Don’t be late.” The channel closed, ending the call.

  Pietra dressed and went to the garage where her lovingly refurbished antique ground-cycle waited under its tarp. The ancient thumbprint scanner activated the vehicle, the power plant coming online with a bass hum Pietra could feel in her bones.

  The morning streets were clear of traffic and she arrived at Benny’s ten minutes early. He was already there and waiting, sitting in a booth near the back, but not at the back. Just far enough to be able to watch everything without looking like that was what he was doing. She studied him as she approached. He was handsome, in a rakish sort of way. Black hair, blue eyes, athletic build. The kind of looks that might be described as ‘disarming.’ There was nothing about him to indicate his true predatory nature.

  “Hello, darlin’. Have a seat.”

  “Skip the small talk, Dravik.”

  “Have it your way.” He leaned forward and smiled at her obvious discomfort. “Did you bring it?”

  Pietra felt the cryotube in her pocket, slightly cold against her body. She brought it out, but did not give it over.

  “What are you going to do with it? The genome of an Honored Returned can’t be cracked without specific chemical code keys. And you can’t get those, no matter who you know. Only the higher ups in the Ministry have access and you don’t strike me as the Ministry type.”

  Dravik kept his smile in place, but something in his eyes changed, became dangerous.

  “Darlin’, you shouldn’t worry about such things. Not good for you to get too smart about this. Give me the sample.”

  Pietra held the small cryotube out to him but did not let go when he took hold of an end.

  “This clears me, right? You lose the data you have on me.”

  “Darlin’, data is immortal. But yes, this clears you. The data will be buried deep.”

  Pietra let go of the portable bio-storage device. She had no choice really. She had to accept his assurances. She knew enough to understand that people like Dravik, people who made credits off the mistakes of others, couldn’t risk developing a rep for lying. It was ironic actually. When you were a criminal, especially a career operator like Dravik, you had to have a rep for being good to your word. Otherwise, people would simply stop doing business with you. It was the basis of ‘honor among thieves.’ Lie too often and pretty soon the well would run dry.

  Pietra left the restaurant, trying to put the ugly business she’d just been a part of out of her mind. The important thing was that she was free of it. The incoming call alarm rang. Pietra saw it was the secure Legion channel, one only used by her handler. She connected.

  “What’s up, Jim?”

  “Sorry to bother you on such a find day, but you’ve been called in.”

  “Come on, Jim. I just got back.”

  “Sorry about that, but you know how it is. Some data-pusher probably got his files crossed. It’s not a big deal, just a quick shakedown cruise. You’ll be back by dinner.”

  “Why would my ship need a shakedown? She's probably still in dry dock?”

  “Not your ship. A new carrier out of Pluto station. They want someone experienced to iron out the kinks. Your name was drawn.”

  Pietra knew there was no use in arguing. She knew carriers like she knew her own name. It wasn’t vanity to recognize her talent. A new carrier was a complex machine. They’d want someone who could tell by feel if anything was wrong.

  “Alright, Jim, I’m on my way.”

  She closed the channel and opened a new one to home. She left a message with the house computer, letting Sha know she’d be home for a late dinner. Pietra brought a map overlay into her field of vision showing the fastest route to the nearest Legion base from which she’d be able to shuttle out to Pluto. She dialed up the cycle’s power and accelerated.

  ◊

  While she waited for her tracer to signal that The Enduring Journey had exited phase space, Iyanna caught up on some other business. Mostly, it was the usual stuff. Job offers, only a few that really interested her. She flagged those for later review. There were messages from her network of contacts, each trying to convince her that they had information worth laying down credits for. Otherwise it was the standard junk mail, including another invitation to join the Void Runners, the largest of the loosely organized freelancer guilds.

  Iyanna had avoided joining any of the guilds because while they did offer some benefits, she’d yet to see one under whose rules she’d be willing to exist. Besides which, Iyanna hadn’t gotten into this line of work to be an employee. If she’d wanted that she’d have stayed in the Ministry PoPros and become a data-pusher. No, thank you very much.

  The tracer’s alarm chimed. Iyanna noted the location of the Journey and plotted a course. The Gathering Storm was faster than the Journey by a good bit which, despite the fact that phase space was not the same as real space, did matter. A ship traveling through phase space entered at a certain speed. The ship maintained that exact speed in a straight line through phase space, and exited that strange dimension at the same speed, going in the same direction.

  What made phase travel useful was that distances in phase space were extremely condensed. That’s why careful plotting was required to get from point A to point B. Once you entered a gate at point A, you were helpless to change your path until you reached point B. The distances traveled wer
e measured in light years and even the smallest miscalculation could exit a ship billions of miles away from one’s expected destination. Worse still, a plotting that failed to take into account the latest data could exit a ship straight into a star or other celestial body.

  It was an uncomfortable truth among space travelers that even with the very best nav-comp and the very latest map data, phase travel was still something of a gamble. Advances in technology and celestial cartography may have reduced the chances of catastrophe greatly, but even assuming a proper plotting there was still around four-tenths of a percent chance that phase travel could end in a problem. Such problems were rarely survivable. Rushing a phase plotting raised the risk significantly.

  Iyanna had a bobble-head doll she’d stuck to a flat spot on her dashboard. It had been an advertising gimmick for a casino she’d visited, perhaps something for the nerves of someone who’d just lost his savings at the tables. The male figurine was wearing a tux with the bow tie carelessly undone. He had a big smile on his oversized face and was holding up a sign that said, ‘Stay Calm! Your luck will change.’ For some reason it had appealed to Iyanna. It made her smile. She called him Buddy. Sometimes, she talked to him on long phase jumps. It helped kill time. Iyanna figured that once the smiling face started talking back, it would be time for her to retire.

  “Time to go, Buddy.” Iyanna received nothing but a smile in response. “Time to work.”

  The Gathering Storm accelerated and entered the phase gate.

  Chapter Three

  She allows suffering, but She is not cruel. Pain and grief are blades of the plow that turns the soil anew.

  -Book of Gifts (19-15)

  Pietra ran final checks on the single seat shuttle she had been assigned for her trip to Pluto. The board was green. Gravity polarizers negated Earth’s pull on the small craft, allowing small gas jets to lift the weightless mass up through the atmosphere. The first sign of trouble was a sluggish response from the shuttle’s maneuvering thrusters after breaking atmosphere.

  “Legion Base E-98, this is short-range shuttle 956-283-R. I’m having trouble with my controls. Respond.” There was no response except static.

  Pietra had been in trouble before so she did not panic while she watched every warning light on her board cycle from green to yellow to red. She knew that what she was seeing was impossible. There were too many back-ups for the ship’s systems to fail all at once like this. She decided it must be a glitch in the warning relays. But then, if that was the case, why was her canopy opening?

  Pietra still wasn’t worried. Her flight suit was capable of sustaining her life for hours, more than enough time for a rescue ship to pick her up. Except that the helmet’s face mask was not sliding into place as it should have the instant danger was detected.

  ‘Now that is just impossible.’ Pietra couldn’t speak the thought out loud. Her chest hurt too much. Her brain had already begun to shut down as hypothermia set in. She could barely remember what she’d been concerned about. Her joints ached terribly, but it didn’t bother her. The pain was distant, like a memory. Her sight left her as her eyes clouded over. Pietra Meot’s last cogent thought before death claimed her was regret that she wouldn’t be home for dinner with Sha. She liked his cooking. She’d miss it. She’d miss him.

  ◊

  The supply drop had gone well. The colonists had been extremely grateful. They’d offered a bonus but Seth had a personal rule against taking advantage, especially when the bonus consisted of trade goods that he’d be lucky to unload and would, meanwhile, consume valuable space in the Journey’s cargo box. Nobility was easier when it wasn’t about hard credits. Besides, it made him and Vig look good. A good reputation was often more valuable in the long term than a token bonus.

  There were three parts to what freelancers like Seth and Vig did – find a job, do the job, and find the next job. Too long a gap between paydays and costs quickly overcame resources. Plenty of freelancers lost their ships that way. Having a good rep made part one and three a lot easier. These colonists would spread the word, saying the Enduring Journey was the ship to hire, her crew was solid.

  Seth was the one that usually handled the face to face stuff. He didn’t like it, never thought of himself as much of a people – or whatever – person. But Vig had told him that people, especially those not normally exposed to them, had certain expectations when it came to what a dashing freelancer should look like. Seth had that look. He was handsome, youngish, and had a smile that wouldn’t frighten small children. Seth had tried to argue his way out of being the public face of the partnership.

  “Okay, Cap’n. I’ll glad-hand the locals if you keep the engines running.”

  So Seth had accepted his fate and practiced his, ‘aw, shucks, it was nothing,’ smile. He got good at it, too. Plenty of robust, young colony women and men had made that clear with inviting smiles and more obvious overtures. Seth wasn’t above accepting that sort of bonus, but he was selective, which of course made him all the more attractive. Handsome rogue was good, but hard-to-get handsome rogue? That was icing.

  The colonists waved as Seth boarded the Journey. He waved back, every inch the dashing space captain. He felt ridiculous showboating like that, but it was part of the job. The string of native flowers around his neck didn’t help, neither did Vig. The engineer was standing inside the cargo box, concealed from the view of the colonists, but easily seen by Seth. The old man was turning red from trying not to laugh. Once the door closed and he was out of sight of the locals, Seth took off the flowers and threw them at Vig.

  “Don’t you have an engine tunnel to crawl into?”

  “Sorry, Cap’n,” Vig said, though his expression did not lend credibility to the statement. “Just impressed with the job you’re doing. You could be a regular vid-star.”

  “Shut up, Vig.” Vig laughed harder.

  “No, I’m serious. You could be in the vids. Maybe you’d star alongside Kit Ras.”

  “Shut up, Vig.” The engineer was almost falling down laughing.

  “You could be all kissy kiss, with Ras. The two of you could go out on the town and the tabloids would snap stills!”

  “Shut up, Vig.” The engineer was holding his ribs, laughing hard enough to gasp for air.

  “You’re so pretty they’d think you were a woman!”

  “Shut. Up. Vig.”

  “You’d gain a little weight and they’d say you had a baby bump!” Vig finally stopped talking, not because Seth told him to, but because he was laughing so hard he couldn’t catch his breath.

  Seth glared at Vig, which only made Vig laugh harder. Seth left the laughing man in the cargo box and took the lift to the main cabin. He stomped to the bridge, sat in his chair, and initiated a q-net connection, scanning through messages and other updates that had been automatically triggered the moment the Journey had exited phase space.

  There were a few job offers that looked promising, but Seth filed them for later. He decided to calm himself with some shopping. Seth loved buying new gear. It was a simple pleasure and he enjoyed the haggling. They’d been paid well by the colonists.

  The colony had been put under penalty by the Primacy. The colonists had decided that the tribute they were required to pay was too high. The Primacy disagreed. The colonists had elected to not make their regular payment. The Primacy showed them exactly why that was not a good idea. Legion ships had been sent to spray a mix of chemicals over the fertile ground the colony used to grow their specialty crops, in this case a uniquely engineered fruit that looked like a cross between an orange and a strawberry and had some of the taste of both.

  Most colonies survived by producing some sort of specialty product. The big, industrial farm planets provided all the staples and most of the non-specialty foods consumed by the Primacy. To encourage colonization, the Primacy allowed colonists to patent specialty products and have the sole right to sell it for a period of one-hundred years.

  At the end of that time, it was assumed that
a colony would have grown and diversified its economy such that it would be able to survive without such strict protections. Even after the initial century had ended, a colony could still expect to receive residuals from any company that chose to produce the colony’s product. This was where the credits came from to pay the Primacy tribute and maintain the colony’s infrastructure.

  The chemicals the Primacy had sprayed over the colony’s fields would make it impossible for the colony to produce its unique fruit without receiving a tailor-made cleansing agent that would neutralize the growth inhibitor. In other words, if the colony failed to make good its missed payment, they would not be able to produce the product that was their life’s blood.

  The problem is that the colony had no credits with which to pay the missed tribute. In an unfortunate piece of timing, they had used their communal savings to purchase new equipment just prior to the penalty. Now all that equipment sat unused in fields that could not support life. The colony found itself in a classic catch twenty-two. It couldn’t pay the tribute without growing the fruit, and it couldn’t grow the fruit without paying the tribute.

  The colonists had petitioned the Primacy for leniency in their unmanageable plight, and while it was likely the Primacy would show mercy, perhaps even forgive the missed payment entirely, the petition would have to make its way through many layers of bureaucracy. That could take months. By then, the colony would have failed to bring in the season’s crop, which would mean they would have no credits with which to purchase essentials. By the time the Primacy reversed the penalty, the colony would be dead.