I scoot away from the hover stop and in another ten minutes I’m at the supply hub—a drab, sand-colored, featureless building. Yesterday’s tension seems a million klicks away and I relax into the procedures I’ve done hundreds of times: ordering dehydrated meal-units, clothing and boots, space-straps for Jordi’s sweet-tooth, toiletries.
Even space travel has mundane elements. Papa would have called it, “Getting ready for another road-trip.” Despite his inventive genius, he could be nostalgic for earth-like experiences, even though he’d never been there. Humanity’s soul, I suppose. Which is rather ironic, when it occurs to me I’m buying these items on a very un-earthlike planet.
I complete my transaction with the indifferent and terse Rykkan at the accounts section, waving my holopad into his reader and confirming where the goods are to be sent. He doesn’t even raise a Rykkan eyebrow at the no-go zone location I give him. My kind of guy.
I leave and head a few kilometers across the wet and debris-strewn city blocks, populated by low-slung building after building, and pull up when I find what I’m looking for.
Fully armed, I step out of the pod and enter the code I was provided into the doorpad. There is no response, and I look to either side of me, fidgeting my weight from side to side.
I’m conscious of being the only moving entity in an otherwise deserted block; far taller than the average Rykkan, clad in a metran-equipped gravSuit ... and armed to the teeth. I’m guessing even in downtown Rykkamon no-hoper land, it could be a little suspicious.
The door slides away, and a voice barks from a hidden speaker.
“Disarm yourself and enter. Any armed weaponry will trigger vaporization of any person or people in the vestibule. You have been warned.”
I guess I have. I step in, place my weapons in the rack provided, and power them down. The outer door hisses closed and I wait. I just hope Venik doesn’t assess my suit as a weapon; technically it’s an enabler and a defense system.
No matter what its classification, I’d still hate to fight someone wearing one.
The vestibule is well-lit and decorated in muted mahogany-tones. Plush chairs are scattered in the small space, and a small, black, coffee machine blinks a welcome. Venik’s customers are not poor.
I remain standing, tapping my gloved hand against my suited thigh. I hate Venik’s theatrics.
The inner door opens.
“India! How kind of you to visit. I trust all is well with you and your brother? You know, the last time—”
“It was you who sold him Papa’s laserSword?”
“Technically, no. I merely brokered a deal for the Jovians.”
The bald, portly man motions me into his building, all the while training a stunbolt at my neck.
“And took your commission,” I say, following him into the sumptuous interior. “That’s selling in anyone’s language. But as much as I would love to see you rot in hell for handling anything of my father’s, Mitch is very happy to have it in his possession. Shame we had to leave in rather a hurry.”
Venik shrugs. “I take no sides.” He indicates two padded tubchairs positioned next to a coffee table. “Shall we?”
I take a seat and Venik lowers the stunbolt, placing it next to him on the seat. “Now, what can I do for you?”
I grit my teeth. “No games, Venik. You have a special item for me. You know full well what it is. Pretending you don’t, just to get me to beg, won’t work. I’ll pay what you ask.”
His expression falls serious. I notice for the first time he has no obvious grav-assistance. Nano servomotors built into his clothing perhaps? I meet his eyes.
“I have it. Your father would not approve of this.”
“He’s not alive to confirm that judgment, and you’re not fit to pass it. How much?”
He tells me and I would have fallen off the chair if it weren’t for my gravSuit. I hand over my holopad. “It’s preset to transfer.”
He stares at me momentarily before taking the pad and swiping his scanner. He hands the pad back with a shrug. “It’s your life. Wait here.”
He disappears through a door that opens at his approach, but closes when I try to follow him through. I stand and wait, looking around. Reproduction paintings, a full-sized wooden desk, a rack of holoscreens on one partition ... and armor-plating lining every wall.
Venik returns carrying a dark-gray plastisteel box-like container, roughly the size of a suit helmet. He sets it down lightly on the table. “Would you like to inspect the merchandise?”
“After what I’ve just paid?” I lean in to the man’s pudgy face, and to my surprise he flinches. “Even a minor problem with it risks your becoming a quadriplegic.”
I stand back. “If there is one thing you have a reputation for, Venik, it is for delivering. If you haven’t”—I shrug—“then it’s the last deal you’ll ever do.”
He licks his lips and swallows. “It is as promised. But I will suggest you keep it well out of sight until you are off this planet. My money was well-earned.” He picks up the stunbolt and aims it at my face. “And I never want to see it—or you—again.”
He motions me out, and in minutes I am in the unipod, flying back to my ship, my purchase safely hidden in the false footwell.
I wonder what has Venik so rattled.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jordi narrows his eyes at me when I load the box into the ship’s safe.
“You didn’t see it.”
He shrugs. “Sure. Where did you get to last night? That was some storm.”
“Enacting some social justice. Speaking of which, we’re both invited to dinner later tonight.”
He grimaces. “Rykkan food? No thanks. Anyway, I have to see someone in town.”
“I’m sure she’ll be delighted. Meet a nice young man, a good future ahead of him as a space pirate.” I wander into my cabin to get changed. Jordi follows.
“It’s not a girl I’m seeing.”
I twist my mouth. “Oh. That is a new development!”
He scowls. “It’s not like that either.”
“Then what is it like?” I hover my hand over the doorpad.
Jordi looks down at the deck, then flicks his gaze back at me. “Uh, I have to repay someone.”
I stare at him for a while, then slap the pad and the door closes. I should have known. Not that he’s the only one with a debt. But at least mine isn’t from gambling.
I catch a glimpse of my tall frame in the mirror as I move to pull a new loungesuit from my locker. I look gaunt, hardened ... and unhappy.
I turn away quickly, hoping that Aktip’s dinner distraction will take me away from the knowledge that I’m not fulfilling my father’s legacy at all. Like Jordi, I’m just another space pirate.
***
Refreshed from my re-cyc shower, and experiencing mild—and rare—optimism, I resolve to enjoy my evening and try to deepen my understanding of Rykkan culture. I should be lucky to have a Galactic-speaking comms engineer at my service. Perhaps Aktip can teach me some negotiation tricks I can use on the outlaw Chief.
I review my ship’s inventory and note that all the 3He has now been unloaded. I check my credits and to my surprise, I see the Chief has made good on his promise to pay the outstanding balance. I disarm the drones and hope that my optimism is not misplaced.
I leave a message on Jordi’s holopad to maintain comms silence except in an emergency, and head out in the unipod, noticing that the outlaw shacks are gone. I make a note to ask Jordi if he witnessed their deconstruction before the storm. For some reason, I think this might come in useful. I have Papa’s eye for odd detail.
I arrive at Aktip’s dwelling complex, a low grouping of ugly gray brick buildings with hardly any windows, defined by wide darker gray walkways. Presumably Rykkamon building codes aren’t conducive to palm trees and atriums. Or colored paint.
I park my unipod next to the building unit indicated, turn to the second entry door, lift my visor and raise my hand to tap the vidport, but th
e metallic door slides open to reveal Aktip.
She bares a wide red-toothed grin, one Rykkan expression I understand with no unambiguity.
“You came. Thank you.” She bobs.
I feel my brow furrow. “Of course I came. Why wouldn’t I?”
Her grin fades. “It is not important for our celebration. Come, my sisters have prepared a human feast.”
I sincerely hope Aktip is unaware of her literal translation. I follow her through the foyer and into a low-ceilinged apartment, furnished with garish low-set futon-style loungers in all color variations, a rough canvas floor covering, and fluorescent-painted plasticrete walls. To my right, there is a long, low table, also rough-hewn like the Chief’s, surrounded by low stools.
And a dozen Rykkan females, one to a stool, all staring at me.
I smile and remove my helmet.
My hair tumbles out around my shoulders, and there is a collective gasp. Three Rykkans actually fall off their stools, and everyone is talking at once, pointing at me. Or more specifically, my hair.
I’m taken aback at the odd reaction, and my face falls. Aktip tells me it is just curiosity, and motions me to sit on a stool next to her at one end of the table. I take a deep breath and remember to chill out.
I smile, sit down, and out of impulse, I grab my hair and fluff it up around my head in crazy gestures. One or two of the Rykkans chuckle, I join them in a laugh, and soon we are all hysterical, my hosts’ heads swiveling in glee.
When I was a kid, I loathed my red hair. People would point and exclaim. Sometimes yell stuff. Not nice things. Papa used to say, “They’re just jealous, Indy. They can’t walk into a room and turn heads the way you do.”
I didn’t want to turn heads; I just wanted to fit in.
Now I’m turning alien heads. Literally.
***
I gather the group is comprised of Aktip’s social network; similar status, similar mannerisms. Some also speak Galactic, so I find myself peppered with questions, punctuated by dinner, which surprisingly is a roast platter with a syrupy gravy, followed by a bittersweet pudding containing a bluish seeded-fruit I have not seen before.
“The food is very good, Aktip. Very human-friendly.” I look over at Aktip, and smile.
“I sense you are telling the truth. But it was Vikra who provided for us.” Aktip indicates a very well-built Rykkan at the other end of the table. “She is fascinated by human culture.”
I hold up my goblet to the other Rykkan in a universal gesture of acknowledgment, and take a sip from my sweet, berry-like beverage, grateful for the gravSuit’s assistance. By now, my arms would be tired just from lifting food and drink—and from using Rykkamon’s dense and heavy implements, engineered to withstand high-gravity accidents.
There is some discussion of the last Sector War against the Blood Empire. Although not involved directly in the fighting, Rykkamon, like many other systems in the Sector, was under threat of the hostile takeover. With no common enemy since the war, the Sector has been in disarray, and not all news sources are reliable. Newcomers to any planet tended to be pumped for information.
“You saw these Blood Empire battles?” Vikra asks.
I shake my head. “I was on the other side of the Sector.”
The question kicks off a memory: Papa had sent me on a lengthy exploration mission, and when I came back, the war was won, and Papa was missing. Some time later, a Galactic official tracked me down to deliver his death certificate. Only recently did I discover his death was at the hands of a man called Sloper.
“All I know of them is what my parents used to say to me when they wanted to pull me into line: ‘Better behave, or the Blood Empire will come to get you.’” I expected this to raise a smile or two, but it fell flat, and I found myself staring back at a table of confused Rykkans.
“Why do humans lie so easily?” The question comes from my left, and I am taken aback until I remember the Rykkan predisposition to bluntness.
“I’m not sure we lie easily,” I begin, but I am cut off when the Rykkan turns to her neighbor and engages in an excitable discourse.
Aktip intervenes. “Movvi believes you have just proved her point: to her, your answer is not truthful.”
I try to come up with an answer, but I am still searching when the holoscreen comes to life. A news broadcast it seems.
“It is traditional among younger Rykkans to observe and discuss the news after dinner,” Aktip informs me in a low voice. “I will translate for you if needed.”
We have a saying in our blackmarket trading community: a holo tells a thousand textuals. Right now, there is no need for Aktip to translate the headline news item.
I am spellbound by grainy images of thug-like Rykkans lining up to board a dirty and dented spaceshuttle. The footage shifts to show Takao, and heavily armed Rykkans bounding into a war not of their making, using the low-density planet’s low gravity to overcome an enemy not their own.
War in any form is ugly, but this is horrific. Whoever is using the Rykkan mercenaries as battle-currency has neither morals, nor ethics. Not to pass over the fact that interplanetary mercenary trade is illegal under the Aurora Treaty, passed more than fifty years ago. Contravention is serious. Fatally serious.
I stare at the holo, until a still image of a computer generated, generic silhouette flashes up. A cold sweat breaks out inside my suit. The silhouette is a human female. With long hair. Jordi’s warning, brought to me at great cost to him from Ganymede, is no longer just bar-room gossip.
Rykkan heads swivel to look me up and down. I hold my hands out. “It’s not me. Ask Aktip.” I turn to Aktip who is also measuring me with her eyes. I wait.
“She speaks true,” my friend says, finally, though she sounds unconvinced.
“And also not,” comes the flat retort from my previous interrogator. “What do you know of this trader?” I miss one of the words, but there is no mistaking the adjective’s meaning.
“I know no more than you,” I say.
“Why are humans so unreliable?” This from Aktip, and I flinch at her raw observation.
I stumble over my words. “We are ... different to Rykkans. We can hide from each other’s thoughts and feelings, we—”
“Lie, cheat and steal?” My left-seated antagonist finishes my sentence.
“No. Yes.” I shrug. “It makes us what we are.” I manage a weak smile. “It’s part of our mystery.”
The attention is drawn back to changing images on the holo, and I am grateful for the distraction. Then my jaw drops and I wish our conversation was back where it was, because what is now being projected from the screen now is a jerky witness video of yesterday’s fight in the park.
Our table erupts into a loud babble of Rykkan voices, arms variously pointing to Aktip. I cannot move, transfixed by the imagery, waiting for the inevitable revelation.
When it arrives, it’s worse.
A handheld device has captured me advancing on the group of thugs and drawing them away from Aktip. A sudden swivel of Rykkan faces turn to me at the table. I keep my gaze on the holo, which follows my fight, my squatting and swatting of the tattooed gang.
Then the final horror: I appear to pause, adjust something on my laserSword (my illegal laserSword!), then as the gang leader advances, the filmed angle makes it look as if I take a considered step back, swing down then swipe up my sword to cut the Rykkan’s arm off at the shoulder.
Someone at the table screams, others gasp, but the show must go on. On the holo, I advance to Aktip, who cringes, then I bend down and lift my helmet visor. Strands of red hair are clearly visible, even in the amateur footage.
I swear under my breath.
The table is now silent, and all large eyes are on me.
“This was you?” The question comes from my large chef at the other end.
I nod. Part of me is curious as to why Aktip did not tell her friends, but I assume it is to do with her pledge and my request for confidentiality.
“There
is an alert out for you,” Aktip says, trembling. “The boy whose arm you cut off is the son of an important Rykkan politician. Any Rykkan caught harboring you will be tried alongside you.”
“Tried? What about your debt?”
Aktip is still. “My debt is mine only, and not honored by any other. It cannot be extinguished. Except by death. Which means we are now both wanted.”
I open my mouth to speak, confused by the apparent mix of moral righteousness and injustice, but my antagonist on my left speaks first.
“I see your fear and your true heart. I sense you do not feel your actions were carried out for any other reason than to save brave Aktip. But now you must leave. Immediately.”
I move to stand. “What about Aktip?”
“We will shelter her until you are caught. We too have friends in high places, and Aktip is a valued worker.”
“Until I am caught?” I try not to be angry. “Those thugs would have shipped her off to—”
“It was not your concern, and it is still not your concern. Now leave this place before we are forced to report you.”
I step back from the table, seeing only frightened alien faces. “And you think humans are unreliable.” I turn on my heel and make my way to the door. Aktip follows.
“Be careful,” she says in a low voice as we stand at the open door. The street outside is dark and silent. “There will be people looking for you now. The politician has offered a reward. Try to stay out of public view.”
I pull on my helmet. “A red headed giant in a fight-suit? Sure. I’ll just concentrate on blending in.”
I bend down to her height. “Just so you know, I’d do it all again. Those grunts deserved everything they got. The arm might have been an accident, but he won’t be bothering anyone again. Stay safe, Aktip. I’m sorry for stuffing things up.”
I slide my visor down, take one look at Aktip’s wide eyes and swiveling tremors, and head to my unipod.
Constellation (Blood Empire Book 1) Page 3