“Who,” Lucinda asked.
“You know damn well who! Where is Van?”
Lucinda touched her hair to make sure none fell out of place. She played with the earring on her right lobe. “Your brother could not attend the arrival ceremony. He will meet you once we arrive at the suite.”
“He should have been there,” Gregaor said.
“I think–”
“Shut up, Havish,” Lucinda said curtly. “I don’t care what you think.” She turned her attention to Gregaor who stood against the transparent wall of the lift, her anger now directed at him. “What are you wearing? You knew there would be a vidcast when you arrived, and you knew how important this was. And you come home dressed like a… like a slave.”
Gregaor looked at his mud caked flight jacket, the chill from that barren world still deep in his bones. The cold and chalky surface of Kepler 159 was once rich with vegetation. It now contained scarred remains of a powerful republic, laid to waste centuries ago. Dead and gone, like so many planets he’d visited. If it weren’t for the treasure trove of wealth found buried under several of the larger cities, Gregaor would have considered giving up the endless quest. Like a good son, he didn’t want to let his family down. He considered himself no better than the grave robbers of ancient times that ransacked the Great Pyramids of Egypt. “I’m sick of being the poster boy for this family. I’m cold, tired and dirty and I don’t give a damn how I look for the camera – or how ashamed you are of me.”
Lucinda drew back her hand to strike Gregaor, she hesitated and backed away. “I can’t discipline you like I once did Gregaor. But you won’t speak to me that way. I am your mother!”
Gregaor looked away. He watched the lift pass level after level; he looked down, but couldn’t even see the flight deck where they had been. They’d traveled so far up, that he found it nothing but a blur below.
“I’m not ashamed of you, Gregaor,” Lucinda said when she reached out and took hold of his arm. “A mother should always love her son.”
Gregaor looked at her with narrow beaming eyes, sarcastically asking, “Don’t you mean sons?”
Lucinda backed away and stepped to the other side of her husband. “Will you speak to your son?” she demanded. “Or are you just going to stand there with your absurd comb over and ridiculous grin.”
“You know I’m allergic to the hair stimulant shots,” Havish said in his defense.
“When did she do this to you, father?” Gregaor asked disgusted. “The man I remember never cowered down to anyone, especially her.”
“Hear now, I…”
Gregaor refused his father a chance to answer. He turned his back on his parents and closed his eyes.
The elevator door hissed open as it came to a stop. Gregaor shifted the duffle bag on his shoulder and turned. His mother shouted orders at the slaves as he turned and stepped out of the lift behind his father.
Several attending servants undressed Lucinda before she even made it down the stairs and through the archway that led into the great room. Gregaor stopped at the top of the stairs. He saw the backdrop of the Earth outside the transparent dome.
Havish wandered away, he said nothing to anyone and Gregaor saw him disappearing down the antechamber toward the private bedrooms. With no desire to see his mother’s naked body he followed his father down the hall to his own living quarters.
The lights in the apartment flickered on when Gregaor entered. Like the great room, he had a stunning view of the Earth out his window, but took no notice of it. The apartment was spacious – a holographic fireplace shimmered in the corner of the room, surrounded by art from all over the galaxy. Paintings, photographs, from many of the worlds Gregaor visited.
Gregaor pulled off the duffle bag and tossed it to the end of an antique sofa; it rolled off onto the taupe carpet and fell open. He removed his dirty jacket and dropped it to the floor near the bag.
Inside the lavatory Gregaor filled the sink with warm water. He looked in the mirror and stared at his reflection and rubbed his hand over the rough stubble on his face and looked deep into his bloodshot eyes. He splashed water on his face, a cold tingle run down his back.
With a tight grip on the sink he clenched his jaw. Gregaor hated the dark feeling of despair and the anxiety he got when he was home. The feelings for his mother – always distant, tightened in his chest when he was near her. More at ease in space, away from the family he loathed, because of their constant posing for cameras. They'd become caricatures of themselves, and they couldn't see it.
For over a year he’d been at ease with no worries. Home for a short time, Gregaor’s past demons returned. He took a vial from the top drawer of a cabinet. Surprised it was where he left it; he looked at the small bottle for a time and threw it to the floor hoping it would break. The glass bounced on the floor and rolled to the corner of the room.
Running water in the shower, Gregaor stripped naked, he glanced at his form in the mirror. Lean and muscular, he turned toward his image, at thirty he looked like a man of twenty years. He’d worked hard for his well-toned body, a chore that most high-born men avoided. They lacked the drive and discipline. Complacent before he’d taken command of the family’s explorer ship, Seeker, Gregaor was like most other men. He’d hang out with his friends, have sex with slaves and get high on gold. He couldn’t count the times he and his friends would test the limits of the drug. Sometimes giving exorbitant amounts of gold to slaves, to see how much would be too much. With a slave on the verge of overdosing he and his friends would rape the victim, never minding the slave’s sex. But with female slaves rendered unable to conceive a child there were no rules of how feral they could get. It wasn’t until his first trip into deep space he found that life was worth living, and to live a long productive life, he needed to hone his body. Away from gold helped. Then he would come home – to his mother and the desire for the drug returned.
Gregaor looked at the unbroken vile of the drug. His breathing tightened. He turned away getting into the shower and tried to wash away the memory of the evil things he’d done as a young man… unable to forgive himself.
The hot water soaked his hair; it streamed down his back and legs. He leaned against the wall in front of him and enjoyed the water.
The ideas that obsessed him as a young man no longer excited him. Gregaor thought of exploring alien worlds, finding the next bit of technology or wealth that could raise the status of his family. But for what? Gregaor wondered. His family didn't give a damn about him. The only love he ever saw from his mother was the pride she showed him when he found something that would increase the family's revenue.
After a long shower, Gregaor stepped out; he rubbed a towel over his wet tawny hair. Steam covered the mirror over the sink basin and he wiped it clean. Toweling off the rest of his body he reached for a synthetic cotton robe and pulled it on. Relaxed, his nerves still frayed. He reached down and picked up the vile off the floor and went into the living room. He sat on the end of the couch and looked at the gold for a minute and thought about just setting the vial down. If only he could find it that easy.
Gold found its origin from the passive drug that kept the slaves docile and obedient. Laced with galvacore, a hallucinate drug developed in the late twenty-first century that caused the user to experience uncontrollable rages. When mixed with the passive drug, the consumer could remain in control, aware of their surroundings yet walking on the edge of insanity and clarity. Given the name gold as a joke, the drug found its way into the hands of the high-born, because everyone knew they loved gold.
He removed the cap from the end of the vile. Gregaor shook the gold liquid and held it up to the light. Bubbles floated around in it and he saw a distorted reflection of him in the glass tube. Gold, the liquid drug synthesized stimulant worked in three stages once injected, rejuvenation, revitalization and then relaxation. The final stage considered the most dangerous. If a user consumed too much gold and entered a state of total relaxation, their heart would sto
p. Gregaor never thought himself an addict. For over a year he hadn’t even seen the drug. In space, on an expedition he had no desire to take any with him. It amazed him how much his mother changed his mindset.
Gregaor made a tight fist; the vein in his left arm popped out. He hated himself for what his bitch of a mother did to him. The end of the needle pierced the skin, Gregaor pressed the button at the end of the syringe, the liquid injected into his system. He felt the instant high. Before he removed the needle from his arm he saw a slave standing just inside the door of his apartment.
The thin, pale-skin girl lowered her eyes to the floor. She’d seen Gregaor inject himself. She turned to leave but Gregaor sprinted from the end of the couch and grabbed hold of her.
The slave did not struggle, nor did she call out. She made several grunts when Gregaor backhanded her and forced her to the floor. His silver eyes sparked with the outset of the gold working on his system and all he could think of was teaching the slave a lesson for spying on him. She did it for his mother, Gregaor was sure of it, and he intended to send a message to Lucinda. If he sent the unblemished skin of the slave back to his mother a little scared she would get the point. He no longer was that young stupid boy she raised.
Gregaor drew back again to slap the slave, but stilled his hand when he saw his brother standing down the adjoining hall to the next apartment. Gregaor stumbled back, dyspeptic. “Get up,” he said, jabbing a finger at the apartment door. “Get out.”
The girl stood, scared and slipped by Gregaor, her face looking away from him as she ran out of the room.
Gregaor turned toward the connecting hall and stared at his brother. “Hey little brother,” he said. His voice lightened, his demeanor changed.
Van stepped into the light. Shorter than Gregaor, he stood just over five feet tall. Dumpy, but not weak, Van had a strong upper body, large thick muscular arms that Lucinda called monkey-like and referred to him as a man de-evolving. “Are you mad?” Van asked, still standing in the veil of darkness.
Gregaor felt the gold tingling in his body. He was glad it was a small amount. “Mad – no, I’m not mad. Why would you ask?”
“You hit that girl like she deserved it,” Van said in an innocent voice.
Gregaor smiled. “You sound like mother.”
Van didn’t reply, but he stepped into Gregaor’s apartment. His large round, dark, ingenuous eyes matched his round disproportionate body. He looked at Gregaor, through a strand of dirty hair that hung over his face.
Gregaor covered his nose with the back of his hand. He could smell Van’s body odor the moment he came through the doorway.
Van considered a mutant by many, including Gregaor’s mother, who disowned the boy soon after giving birth to him. His disabilities were apparent from his appearance. However, Van spoke with clarity and knew right from wrong even though he wasn’t smart as others.
“Why were you hitting that girl?” Van asked.
Gregaor looked at Van for a moment unsure how to respond. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said walking through a side door into his bedroom.
Van followed.
Gregaor sifted through his closet pulling on a black pair of pants and a grey pullover shirt. He saw his brother standing just inside the bedroom.
“Do you think I’m too dumb to understand?”
“No.”
“That’s what I hear when you tell me that,” Van said stepping back out of the room, his head lowered.
Gregaor sighed, disappointed with himself. He’d always spoke to his brother like he would any other person. He swore he’d never degrade Van by treating him less than a person. “Van – wait.”
Van stood in the living room, his head still lowered.
“Hey, I’m sorry little brother. I didn’t want our first visit after a year to go like this.”
“Why were you hurting that girl?”
“She saw me take – take gold. I thought she was spying on me… reporting to mother.”
Van looked up at Gregaor. His round eyes held a hint of disappointment in them and he said, “I missed you while you were gone.”
Gregaor walked over and put his arms around Van. “I missed you too.” The strong odor invaded his nostrils; he pushed his brother away from him to get a good look. Van’s clothes were filthy and let off a foul stench. Gregaor wondered when they were laundered last.
Van looked down and saw Gregaor’s duffle bag on the floor. “Hey, what’s this?” he reached down and picked up a necklace that hung halfway out of the bag and held it out to Gregaor.
“I found that on the planet I visited.”
Van held it up. “It looks like a Z. What’s it for… what’s it represent?”
“I’m not sure it represents anything. I found it and thought – well I thought…”
“Da’Mira Tannador would like it?”
Gregaor smiled and nodded.
“She’s leaving.”
Gregaor looked at his brother and narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean leaving?”
“She’s commanding the Tannador exploration ship. Or at least she will be once it arrives at Earth.”
Gregaor snatched the necklace out of Van’s pudgy fingers and slipped it in his pocket.
Van pushed the long charcoal hair out of his eyes. “Mother didn’t tell you?”
Gregaor shot Van a cold look, and said, “You know how she feels about the Tannadors.”
Van smiled and laughed under his breath, giggling when he replied, “You know how she feels about everybody who isn’t a Xavier.” He sat on an arm of a chair while he watched Gregaor pull on his shoes.
Gregaor looked at Van, gave a follow motion and said, “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” Van followed.
“You need a hair-cut and some clean clothes.”
Van reached out and took hold of Gregaor’s arm. A parental stare hardened on his face and he said, “You need to promise me something.”
Gregaor raised an eyebrow, asked, “Promise you what?”
“That you won’t hit a slave like that again,” Van said with a welled-up tear in his eye.
Gregaor cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not sure I can promise you that Van,” he said. Brought up around slaves all his life, Gregaor’s behavior toward them came honestly from his parents. When he was young, the mistreatment of slaves was fun, now it just seemed natural.
Van shook his head. “I’d never hit a slave.”
Gregaor smiled. He clapped Van on the shoulder, said, “That’s because you might be the best of all of us little brother.”
Tannador House, High Earth orbit
Home of family Tannador April 15, 2442
The anger he felt for his daughter subsided, but Hek’Dara Tannador refused to back down on his decision to send Da’Mira away from Earth. The daughter he loved brought nothing but disgrace to the most prominent family of the Nine and he had no other choice. By sending Da’Mira away he protected her, and he saved face with his peers in hopes to restore the distinction to his family name.
Hek’Dara sat alone in his private suite, the only light in the otherwise dark room shined above his workstation. He shifted through layers of electronic reports beamed in from different locations around Earth, from the orbital hydroponic platforms, the protein replication stations and the food disk manufacturing plants located planet side in Australia. Tannadors had a long tradition of food production.
Producing enough food for the twenty-five million earthbound people and the eight million high and low-born living in orbit meant that nothing could go wrong. The constant production of food from the smallest of berries to synthesized protein – engineered to look like recognizable cuts of meat – could not stop, even for an hour. A misstep from any of the Tannador-ran production lines might cost a shortage of food and widespread panic throughout the orbital stations.
The only people that wouldn’t notice a change would be the breeders, who received little food as it was.
Food disks held no flavor, looked unappetizing and tasted like cardboard. Nutritious as they were, Hek’Dara couldn’t imagine living off them. High in orbit though, he didn't hear the complaints from those on Earth. The breeders needed to bare healthy offspring for either slaves, who worked in orbit, or breeders who lived their lives as cattle.
Female breeders spent much of their lives pregnant, kept in a drug induced state so they wouldn’t try to harm their unborn fetus. If they could survive on vitamin supplements alone, they would be drugged and pregnant one birth after another. Instead, allowing the women to recuperate with walk time proved beneficial, and meant healthier children. After three months the women became inseminated again, a never-ending cycle.
It seemed a lengthy process, but Hek’Dara believed that even though they were lower than slaves, the breeders had the most important job in all of Earth production.
Hek’Dara shifted to the scan reports from Australia. His thoughts of breeders always filled him with concern. Were they getting the correct dosage of lotoson? A medication added to their food disks that kept them all docile. Uprisings were at an all-time low and he meant to keep it that way. Da’Mira’s little stunt of giving them food disks free of the lotoson could cause nothing but trouble. The Orlanders would kill everyone in the facility and bill him for the loss of livestock.
If Da’Mira was right about one thing – it would have to be, why the Everhart’s would continue to breed more slaves. Numbers didn't lie. There was scarce enough food to go around, if the numbers added up, which they didn't. The increasing number of slaves coming into the population was negligible. Hek'Dara checked and rechecked the numbers and they didn’t collate. If the breeding facilities were working to capacity, how did the numbers remain so low? Where are all the newborn slaves going? Hek’Dara wondered.
“Awe!” he slapped the screen away from him and he stood away from the desk; his long purple jacket flowed behind him and he pulled at the lapel to straighten it out. He took a deep breath to clear his thoughts. Day in and day out he’d read reports, decided and thought about nothing other than food production. He’d always hoped Da’Mira would take her place by his side and help him, but that didn’t seem to be an option for her. His faith needed to lie with his son, Quinton. Even then Hek’Dara cringed at the thought. Quinton’s likeability with the public matched Gregaor Xavier’s, but Gregaor’s popularity with the Union faltered because of his flippant attitude. It played a hand in Hek’Dara sending Quinton out on Requiem. The boy was too carefree and didn’t concern himself about anything other than having a good time. Although the first born always mastered the explorer ship, Hek’Dara thought Da’Mira might have been a better shipmaster. His children made his head hurt. He rubbed the temples, just behind his eyes. The fact that neither of his children was likeable didn’t concern him. The lack of trustworthiness did.
Origin Expedition Page 5