The Chronicles of Henry Harper

by Jacen Aster

  They were rescued from their bewilderment by a gruff voice, filled with humor. “Well, now that we know you aren't smuggling dquira fruit aboard, and we have your t-shirt sizes, welcome to disaster station!” The sarcastic voice came from another Tralzeen, kitted out in mechanics overalls and flanked by another clip-board wielding minor functionary of some indeterminate sort. He waved them the rest of the way through the large loading doors and waited, clearly expecting the startled pause as they broke through into the outer ring proper of the station.

  There were tents everywhere, some housing families, others food or supply distribution. Still others seemed to hold portable hazard showers and medical gear. Children of all species huddled close to parents and everywhere an air of dismal resignation hung. The Tralzeen engineer spoke, “As much as the bureaucracy is a nuisance, you have to admit that they’ve managed to keep the docking area in relatively good order to process and control the new arrivals and departures. In here is a refugee city though. We set them up in every area we can make safe enough. With over three billion permanent residents on this station and another three hundred million transients, no evacuation can get them all. In truth, we've barely scratched the surface, removing less than a tenth of the total population.”

  Henry found the numbers hard to wrap his head around, even having been here before. A station with such a population, let alone an evacuation that could move three hundred million people, was insane in scope. Even so, there were so many more still in dire danger. Worse, Henry knew the evacuation efforts were slowing, because even if you could transport them all there was still the matter of where to take the refugees, and most of the nearby planets had already accepted the maximum number they could support on short notice.

  As if reading his thoughts, the engineer continued, “You can see why such an enormous effort is being made to save the station, or at the very least to slow its destruction. Follow me and I'll give you a crash course on what we need of you, then we throw you into the deep end.”

  ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

  Henry wiped his brow as he half collapsed into a canvas pseudo-chair at the tent-bar some enterprising fellow had set up. He was much deeper into the station now, three layers in and working out of one of the few safe areas that had been established that deep. The tent city here contained far fewer refugees, though simple lack of safe spaces meant there were still thousands. No, this area reminded Henry far more of some Middle Eastern bazaar back on Earth. Profiteers, both local and non, fought for off worlder business. Selling everything from lucky charms and food, to souvenirs made out of station wreckage. There was even a brothel of sorts if the rumors were accurate.

  Henry had no idea how that last one worked in a tent city, let alone under the nose of the ever-present bureaucracy. That thought, the bureaucracy not the brothel, had his gaze sliding sideways to their unit's “local guide.” He was a stuffed shirt Tralzeen who was very obviously little more than eyes for the bureaucratic machine. Though he was at least useful in cutting through the red tape to get the supplies they needed for repairs.

  Henry shook thoughts of bureaucratic pencil pushers out of his head, turning instead to watch the surprisingly vibrant movement of the tent city. He relaxed, letting the stress of his previous shift bleed away as he listened to the calls of merchants and took in the smells of foods from a dozen worlds wafting through the air of the enormous storage hold. This place was fascinating. It would almost be a tragedy if everything went back to normal and this rather unique experience was lost.

  His eyes were abruptly drawn to a little Rashanta girl with snow white fur, dressed in rags. He frowned. Why was a child dressed like that, even in this place? He kept an eye on her as he reached over and tugged at the sleeve of Rilirta, their watcher. “That girl, she looks like she's not being cared for? I thought children were given high priority for supplies?”

  Rilirta followed Henry's pointed finger. Spotting the girl, his body tensed for just a moment when he saw her, then relaxed again. Henry might not have noticed at all, it was so fast, if he hadn't been physically in contact with the bureaucrat at that exact moment. “All children are given the highest priority by the Tralzeen Council, of course. However, there have been gangs of young hooligans formed in this trying time and they love to use helpless-looking children for their crimes. I shall alert the guards to pick her up and get her away from such—there! See!”

  Rilirta sprung forward and pointed. The little girl had darted towards the food tent she had been watching avidly since Henry first spotted her. She lunged in and grasped an armful of food at the precise moment the proprietor looked away. The girl dodged away into the crowd, ignoring shouts and grasping hands. Henry frowned, almost dismissing what he was seeing in light of Rilirta's words. But then, for just a moment, he caught sight of the girl's eyes. Anger. Fear. Determination. Henry was nearly physically rocked back by the raw emotion in the small child's gaze. He continued watching as she escaped into a side tunnel, well ahead of any pursuit.

  “See! See! She's just a petty thief.” Rilirta spat.

  Henry hesitated, remembering those eyes. “I'm not so sure. She looked harmless, desperate even.”

  The bureaucrat snorted. “Children have the highest of priority. If she is committing a crime, it is simply because she is a bad sort.”

  Henry said nothing, but promised himself he would keep an eye out for the girl.

  ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

  He saw her again a week later. There she was, scoping out another stand. Curiously, it wasn’t food this time. This one sold basic medical stock. Nothing restricted, just standard issue pain killers and the like. That brought a frown to Henry's face as he watched her. What did she need those for? She didn't look injured. Was she really part of some gang and thought medical supplies had value? He checked behind him. Rilirta was busy flirting with Miss Busty the Barmaid. Henry didn't know her proper name. He knew only that she flirted with anything that moved, any gender, for bigger tips. Well, and that she had an impressive figure, of course. Hence his mental nickname.

  Making up his mind and internally promising to tip Miss Busty generously for her well timed, if unintentional, distraction, Henry casually slipped from the rail he had been gazing into the city from. Suppressing any nerves with decades of experience doing what he really ought not to, he sauntered out of the tent-bar and immediately made several turns to lose himself in the crowd. He flipped his favorite jacket, a gift from Vivian and needful with the environmental controls on the fritz today, inside out. The tool pockets, filled as they were, disappeared artfully against his body, concealing his usual look and altering his style to a slightly more high-class but non-descript appearance as the different pattern and color of the jacket's reverse side showed its value.

  Where Vivian had gotten the thing, or had it made, Henry didn't know, but he was once again glad for her practical gift and mentally promised to send her another gift basket. Ironically, he was pretty sure she liked the dquira fruit that the entry forms had been most worried about. Maybe he'd track some of them down for her. Since they were banned on the station, he was almost certain to find a few of the rare delicacies. If he looked in the right places.

  A half dozen more quick twists and turns later placed him less than twenty meters from the little white furred Rashanta girl. She looked even smaller and more haggard from this close. She also looked like she was about to make her move. Henry eyed the nearest tunnel and moved a few dozen meters down her path toward it.

  She darted forward, grabbed her armful, and...yes! His guess was accurate, she was making for the tunnel. Walking a parallel path as quick as he could without running, he made the tunnel just a few steps behind her pursuers, who gave up quickly. They couldn't see which path she had taken where the tunnel split a few meters in. Henry, on the other hand, casually dodging around them, pulled out a sensor from a now-inside pocket. With the environmental controls busted today, her heat pattern should...there! A clear trail. Henry set off at a quick w
alk that became a light jog as he rounded the first corner. He had to stay close, her heat trail wouldn't linger long in these conditions. When he caught sight of her a few moments later, he deliberately dropped back. He didn't want to catch her. He'd rather see where she was going first.

  They were well into the forth layer, nearly to the fifth, when the girl, who had long since slowed to a quick walk, stopped outside an abandoned storefront and looked around furtively. Failing to spot him, she knocked, and the door shot open. Henry made a snap decision and lunged forward before it could close, grabbing the edge and forcing the safety sensors to engage. He slipped through the door and halted in shock, barely hearing the noises of alarm and distress around him.

  There were children everywhere. All ages. All species. All of them looking worn and ragged. The intact storefront masked the fact that bulkheads had been knocked out or cut through, expanding the area through a half dozen such shops and a few storage areas. There were ragged patchwork tents, a couple of hazard showers, and even what looked like a makeshift cafeteria. Henry was jolted back to reality by the flare of a welder, alarmingly held in the hands of one of the older residents.

  He was human, looked roughly fifteen, maybe seventeen at the oldest, and was holding the welder threateningly towards Henry. “Who are you? How did you find this place?” he bit out harshly.

  Henry slowly raised his hands into easy view, showing them empty. “My name is Henry Harper, and I don't mean you any harm. As to how I found this place, I followed her.” At this last he carefully pointed a raised hand at the small Rashanta girl. She was hiding behind the leg of the young man, and at his words her eyes grew distressed and watery. Henry hastened to add, “Not her fault! I've seen her a couple of times and didn't like the answer our group's watcher was giving me. I tracked her heat signature, staying far enough back that she couldn't spot me. I wanted to make sure she was okay.”

  The young man looked shocked, he hesitated and lowered the welder slightly. Henry could almost see the gears churning at lightning speed as the youth processed everything he'd heard. Without the harsh glare of the welder between them, Henry could see his features were gaunt, marred by stress lines that had no place on a face so young. Finally, he lowered the welder a bit further, but did not place it aside. Hesitantly, almost hopefully, he asked, “Wait, you're not from the station, are you?”

  Henry shook his head slowly. “No, I'm a relief volunteer.” Looking around, he asked, “What is this place? What exactly is going on here? Our bureaucrat watcher said there were gangs taking advantage of the disaster, but this surely doesn't look anything like that.”

  The boy turned the welder off and hung it from his belt, though it was still in easy reach. His tired eyes were wary and his voice was bitter when he answered, “This is the home of the Forgotten.” He gave a sardonic grin. “Cliché as that name may sound to you, it is simply descriptive to us. We are no gang, though I've heard those bastards call us that before.”

  Henry chose his words carefully, very carefully. “The Forgotten? If you aren't a gang, what are you? The bureaucracy swears that children are given the highest priority, when anyone asks.”

  His host snorted. “Is that what they say?” He ran a hand through his short, wildly untamed hair. With a resigned sigh and a shrug, he continued, “I suppose it's even true in a way. The children who still have parents, or have inheritances, or are even just from upper class or talented backgrounds, are all given extremely high priority because the bureaucracy’s estimate of their future value is high.” He suddenly waved his arms in a huge gesture, encompassing all that surrounded him. “But we...we aren't from backgrounds like that. Orphans of the lower classes, lost children with no ID, those too young to tell the bureaucracy who they or their parents are. Runaways. Pickpockets. Street kids. Homeless. The bureaucracy has another name for us, for all of us. They don't call us ‘children’ or even ‘forgotten.’ No, they call us worthless. The bureaucracy on Trabella Station rules all, and they have deemed that we have no value to the future of the station. Therefore, we have nothing. We will never receive help from them. In better times, they might make at least a token effort, for appearances. But now? Nothing. Not only will they not help us, they forbid anyone else to waste resources on us. They even drive us away from the safe areas when they think they can get away with it. Just pests they hope the radiation will kill, nothing more.”

  Henry was appalled. Appalled and furious. It must have shown on his face, for the boy – No, the man, he deserved that much at least – the man in front of him studied Henry intently. Henry was about to speak when he was preempted by his host.

  “I think it's alright, Vix. Come around where he can see you.”

  Henry shivered as the edge of a knife whispered against the back of his neck for just an instant before a small female Veraseen slipped from behind him with silence enough to make a ghost cry in envy. Her sure, confident movements, and the blade she flashed, undoubtedly on purpose, before slipping it into some hidden sheath, nearly unsettled even Henry's iron nerve. She glided into place beside her apparent leader.

  Beautiful and clearly deadly, he had to wonder what the dark-skinned telekinetic was doing on Trabella. Cousins to the Tralzeen, or so some whispered such where none of either species could hear, they were even smaller and slighter of build. It had been the four hundred years of war between their species that had destroyed both their homeworlds, making Trabella station necessary in the first place. As they were all but a subjugated race to the Tralzeen now, it was almost unheard of for an adult Veraseen to be on Trabella, let alone a youth as this one clearly was.

  The young man grinned at Henry's expression. “Vix makes an impression, doesn't she? She'll never tell me where she came from, but she's most of the reason we're all still alive. She was a talented little thief even before the station went to hell and she's taught most of us how to survive being ‘forgotten’ by the powers that be. Don't let the scary persona fool you though. She's a big softy on the inside.”

  Vix glared at her leader, but when the little white furred Rashanta threw herself tightly around the Veraseen's waist from her previous position hiding behind the young man, her hard face melted to something softer for an instant before hardening back to a mask. She still put a comforting, and clearly protective, hand on the younger girl's shoulder, despite the mask. Her voice was gruff but she couldn’t quite hide the undertones of kindness in it, not when confronted with the little Rashanta's big eyes. “It's alright Rhaye. You did good.”

  The little girl’s eyes widened and teared. “But I—”

  Vix put a finger to her lips. “Shush. You might have done something important even if you didn't know it. Isn't that right, Erond?” With that last, she looked at the older teen, finally giving Henry a name for the Forgotten's apparent leader.

  Erond nodded grimly. “She might have just saved us all, and the rest of the station. If Mr. Harper will help us.” Turning to Henry, he partially explained, “We've never been able to get to someone from off station before. The ‘watchers,’ as I think you called them, always kept us away by any means necessary. Wouldn't look good to the outside for the bureaucracy, I think.”

  Henry nodded firmly. “I will help you any way I can. I've got a few ideas on that, but you would know better than I what you truly need.”

  Erond sighed and motioned for Henry and Vix to follow him. Leading them to a small area with proper bulkheads, perhaps the former shop's office, he motioned again, this time for Henry to take a chair across a small table from himself and Vix. Once Henry was seated, Erond leaned forward. “While what we really need is to get off this deathtrap of a station and away from the bureaucracy, I doubt any one off-worlder can help us with that. Barring that, we need the station functioning again, so we can put more resources into scavenging rather than repairs.” He gave a rather grim smirk. “And it just so happens that the Forgotten know what's causing all the fuel lines on the station to be irradiated.”

  Henry
nearly lurched to his feet. Half out of his chair in shock, he stared incredulously at the Forgotten's leader. “What! Some of the best and brightest of the galaxy are stumped. No one on the station has a clue what's causing this. That's why it's such a terrible disaster.”

  Erond grimaced. “I know that. But we found out what was wrong over a month ago. We tried to tell people, but no one would listen to us. They just ran us off.” His visage morphed into a proud grin. “We've been trying to fix it though. Sort of. I'm sure someone's noticed that there’ve been a lot fewer spikes in the last couple of weeks, right? That they only show up for an hour or so at all, then fade for a day or two. That's our doing.”

  Henry, sinking back in his seat, managed to wrestle past his shock to ask, “That was you? Engineers all over the station have been trying to figure out why it backed off like that.”

  Erond's grin widened. “Yep!” Face falling slightly, he added, “But we're really in over our heads here. We can't stop it, just choke it behind a regulator until it breaks through again.” He sighed. “I know it's asking a lot of you, but what we really need is to get an engineer in here to look at it. Maybe you can convince one of the other off-worlders or something?”

  Henry grinned. “Oh, there's no need for me to do that. After all, I am an engineer.”

  Erond gaped and Vix made a little choked noise. Surprisingly, it was the so far mostly silent Vix who spoke up. “Wait! What? But the off-world engineers are never let out of sight of the bureaucracy. That's why it was such a big deal to ask.”