The Surrana Identity

by Michael Campling

  Across the loading bay, someone chuckled, and she straightened her back, glaring at Wurnzig, Queex, and Yackal. “Which one of you Kreitian assholes just laughed at me?” She bared her teeth. “Go on, do it again. Share the joy.”

  Wurnzig held up his hands in mock surrender. “No one’s laughing at you, lady. Yackal was just airing off one of his crappy old jokes, is all it was.” He nodded toward the satellite. “Say, how are you getting on over there? Would you like some help?”

  The female pursed her lips, looking at Wurnzig as a butcher might scrutinize a carcass while sharpening a cleaver. “Don’t call me lady. I thought I’d been clear on that point.” Without glancing down, she twirled the long wrench through her fingers, flipping it into the air and then catching it by its handle. In a heartbeat, she somehow knew the force needed to hurl the tool across the bay, and taking the ship’s artificial gravity field into account, she plotted a trajectory that would land the wrench between her shipmate’s eyes. He’s not worth it, she told herself. Until I know who I am, I need to lie low. All I have to do is stick to the plan: work my passage, give myself time to recover.

  Yackal’s grating voice cut in on her thoughts: “So what should we call you? Got to use something, and if you still can’t recall your name…”

  “There is no if,” the female shot back. “I have no name, no identity. I’m grateful for being rescued, but that’s all you know about me. Understood?”

  Wurnzig and Queex nodded reluctantly, but Yackal leered at her. “How grateful? Feel like showing us a little of that Gloabon gratitude, darlin’?”

  To hell with the plan. The Gloabon flicked her wrist, and the wrench was suddenly gone from her grip. The Kreitians didn’t have time to flinch, but Yackal collapsed on the deck, his hands clutched to his groin. He didn’t cry out, he simply rolled back and forth, his eyes tight shut, his mouth gaping in a silent scream.

  “Back to work,” the Gloabon commanded. “Leave your buddy alone. He’ll be all right in a minute or two. You Kreitians spend too much time fussing and gossiping.” She brushed her hands together, adding, “I need to find a bigger wrench.” Then she stalked away, her head held high. In the corridor, she pulled a bottle of painkillers from her pocket. The Kreitian jumpsuit was not made for her slim frame, but she’d modified it with a few well-placed rivets, and at least it had plenty of pockets. She swallowed two painkillers, then she kept walking, waiting for the meds to kick in. They’re not working as well as they used to, she decided. But what could she do about it? She’d been through the ship’s limited stock of medical supplies, and most of it had been useless for her metabolism. At this rate, her arm would need a long time to recover; time she couldn’t afford. But she couldn’t sign herself in at the nearest Gloabon facility. Somehow, she knew that the risk was too great.

  The intercom on her collar beeped, and she pressed the stud to accept the call. “What do you want?” she demanded. “If it’s about Yackal, he deserved it.”

  “Planjer here. What have you done to Yackal?” A sigh. “It doesn’t matter. Meet me on the bridge. Right away.”

  “I’m not–” she started, but cut herself short. Planjer was a fool, but he was easily manipulated, and he might prove to be useful. Besides, she’d agreed to be treated as one of the crew, and it was in her own interests to maintain the facade. If anyone tried to track her down, all they’d find was a tale of an anonymous deckhand who’d lost her memory. “I’ll be right there, Captain.” She ended the call and headed for the bridge. Whatever Planjer had in mind, it had to be better than hanging around with the likes of Yackal in the loading bay.

  ***

  On the bridge, Planjer was sitting back in his chair, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. Across the room, Hamphrey flinched when she walked in, and the Gloabon couldn’t resist flashing a warning look in his direction. “Hey, Hamphrey, how’s your head today?”

  Hamphrey’s hand went to the bruise on his temple, but though there was a bitter accusation in his eyes, he didn’t say a word.

  “He was fine once we got his head out of the waste disposal chute,” Planjer said. “It wasn’t easy. You must’ve jammed him in with some force.”

  “Well, he should know better than to sneak up behind people.”

  “And then we had to get his feet out of the extractor fan,” Planjer went on, covering his mouth to suppress a chortle. “How you got him upside down like that, I’ll never know. And with one hand!”

  “It seems that I have a particular set of skills,” the female purred. “I suppose it must be muscle memory. Perhaps, in my previous life, I took a course in self-defense. That’s the only explanation I can think of.”

  “Is it now?” Planjer offered her a kindly smile. “Well, perhaps we’ll find out soon. We’ve almost reached our destination, so it’s time for you and me to take a little trip to solid ground.”

  In three strides, the female was at his side, shoving him out of the way as she peered at the navigation panel. “I know this place. What the hell are we doing here?” She grabbed hold of his upper arm, squeezing tight. “That’s a prison planet. Thinking of turning me in, Planjer? Is that it?”

  The captain tried to shrug free of her grip, but he didn’t succeed. “Relax. We’re not going to Kamalon 3. There’s a moon. They call it Krisk. We’re dropping in on a guy I know.”

  She released the captain’s arm. “Krisk is uninhabited.”

  “You remember that, huh?” Planjer asked. “Funny, the things that come back to you, and the things that don’t.”

  “The mind is a complex machine,” she retorted, “some more complex than others. But I know that Krisk is devoid of life. It’s a simple fact.”

  “That’s precisely why my old friend set up shop down there. His operation isn’t exactly official, but being a Gloabon himself, he knows how to stay below the scanners, know what I’m saying?”

  “Not really,” she replied. “What is his name?”

  “He goes by Grawk, but I wouldn’t bet on that being his real name.”

  The female tutted. “Of course it isn’t. Grawk is Gloabon slang for a small furry animal. A pest. Something like the rats they have on Earth.”

  “So, you’ve been to Earth,” Planjer said. “Interesting. Mind you, I’ve never visited myself, and I don’t want to. Far too dry, and virtually no decent forests to speak of. Makes me shudder.”

  “Just because I know about a place, doesn’t mean I’ve been there,” she pointed out. “There’s such a thing as education.”

  “Oh, you’ve had an education, all right.”

  The Gloabon pursed her lips. “So, what does he do on Krisk, this mysterious Grawk character?”

  “Trades, mostly. Your government likes sending people to Kamalon 3, but then they seem to forget all about them. My friend Grawk takes his shuttle down there from time to time and sells them whatever they need to make their lives a little more bearable. You know, soap, fluffy pillows, bolt guns.” He caught her expression and spread his hands wide. “Hey, who am I to judge? There are criminals down there.”

  “He sounds sweet, but I’ll pass,” the female said. “Get back to your salvage route. Go about your business as usual. I’ll help out on the ship while I recover. Later on, you can drop me off somewhere. Not here.”

  “But your memory doesn’t seem to be coming back, and we don’t know what to do about it,” Planjer insisted. “You need to talk to one of your own kind, and Grawk is the only Gloabon I know–at least, the only one who won’t report you. No offense, but your people are kind of rule-following. It’s a cultural thing.”

  “No. We’re not going to Krisk. Didn’t you hear me the first time? Perhaps you’d pay more attention if I delivered a little physical reinforcement.”

  “Give Grawk five minutes,” Planjer countered. “That’s all I’m asking. You need help, and this guy is the best I can offer.” He paused. “Unless you want me to swing by a Gloabon space station. I hear they have all kinds of fancy gear on The Gamulon.�
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  “You know, I’m starting to hate Kreitians,” she snapped. “You think everything is up for negotiation, and you never give in.” She scraped her hand across her brow. “All right. I’ll give your rat-like buddy a try. Maybe he has some painkillers a little stronger than the pathetic candy you carry.”

  “Good. We’re just going into orbit around Krisk, so we can zing down to the surface from here.” Planjer turned to Hamphrey. “Keep her in orbit, keep the crew busy, and call me if anything happens.”

  “Perhaps you should warn your friend of our arrival,” the Gloabon said. “I have the feeling that black marketeers tend to be trigger-happy, and if he points a weapon at me, it’ll be the last thing he ever does.”

  “I already told him I was coming, but don’t worry, I didn’t mention you. I’m not stupid.”

  “That remains to be seen,” she replied. “So what did you tell him? You must have given him a pretext for your visit.”

  “I offered him a bunch of old photo-electric modules. They’re junk really, but I offered him a good price, and he’ll make a good margin when he sells them on to the inmates on Kamalon 3. If there’s one thing they’re not short of down there, it’s daylight. The heat at midday could take the hide off an Andelian Fire Lizard.” Planjer ran his hands over his console. “I have to program the coordinates at the last second. Grawk has a force field over the whole place, and there are only so many windows you can use. Anyone who doesn’t know the right combination of time and place gets redirected.”

  “Where to?”

  Planjer’s only reply was a stony stare, and the female got the message. She stood back, rolling her shoulders. Since she’d been aboard The Twang, she’d listened to her body, maintaining a strict regimen of exercise and diet, but the ship was small and ill-equipped. Her muscles felt dull, unresponsive, and the pain from her injury clouded her senses. I’m ready, she told herself. I’m more than a match for a seedy little criminal.

  “That’s all done,” Planjer announced. “Here we go. Ready?”

  The Gloabon put her left hand in her hip pocket, cradling the small bolt pistol she’d taken from the ship’s armory. She nodded to Planjer, and as her limbs began to tingle, the ship’s bridge vanished.

  ***

  The Gloabon’s gaze pierced every corner of the gloomy room, and she found that she’d drawn her pistol. The room was some kind of storage area, the space filled with ranks of freestanding metal shelves, but her senses told her that no one else was present except for her and Captain Planjer. “It’s safe,” she murmured.

  Planjer nodded appreciatively. “You have the reflexes of an Andelian slip cat. I could use someone like you on my crew. Not you, obviously, but someone like you.”

  “Nothing is obvious except that which is stated,” she muttered. “Now stay quiet. Someone is coming.”

  As if on cue, a reinforced door slid open, and a tall Gloabon swept into the room, a long, red cape draped from his square shoulders, and his dark eyes glittering beneath his hood. “Well, well,” he whispered, “look what the mongrel dragged in.”

  Planjer bristled. “Watch your mouth, Grawk. Sling any more insults at me, and I might let my friend make you regret it.”

  “Fair enough,” Grawk replied. “But I think I must be paying you too well for the trinkets you bring. If you can afford to hire an assassin, business must be good.”

  “I…I didn’t hire her,” Planjer protested, although the bluster had gone from his voice. “I brought her here to see you.”

  “Quiet, Planjer!” the female snapped. “Don’t say another word.” She leveled her pistol at Grawk’s head. “You know me?”

  Grawk’s eyes glittered. “Of course, Surrana. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me already.” Slowly, he pulled back his hood, his green skin gleaming in the dim light. “I was still a captain back then, but I haven’t changed that much, have I?” When he received no reply, he added, “It’s Zorello. From The Gamulon.”

  “Surrana,” Planjer murmured, “like your tattoo. You had it all along.”

  Zorello frowned. “What’s going on here? I don’t have time for games.”

  “Why should I believe a word you say?” Surrana demanded, tightening her grip on the pistol. “Prove that you know me.”

  “I don’t see how.” Zorello held out his arms. “We never met in person. We’ve only ever conversed via a screen. You had a secure link. Let me see if I can remember the access code.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Surrana said, her voice rising to a strident pitch. “I don’t know anything about an access code, and I am not an assassin. I think I’d damned well know about it if I was a hired murderer.”

  “Think about it,” Planjer said gently. “Your instincts, your fighting skills, the way you handle a weapon. These are all a part of you, imprinted on your core. I thought you might’ve been Special Forces or something of the kind, but this makes so much more sense.”

  Surrana shook her head, but when her gaze went to Planjer, there was fear in her eyes. “What…what am I going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Planjer replied. “What do you want to do?”

  Zorello chuckled darkly. “Ah, she’s wiped her memory. I’ve heard an assassin can do that, but I always thought it was a myth. Priceless. I wish I’d known beforehand, I could’ve played my hand very differently indeed. Planjer, you are a sly dog, springing her on me like this.” He cut off Planjer’s protest with a raised hand. “Okay, how much do you want for her? You’ll have to bear in mind that she’s damaged goods. That arm doesn’t look good. I’ll expect a discount.”

  The bolt from Surrana’s pistol grazed the side of Zorello’s head, carving a neat notch across his temple, just deep enough to bleed profusely.

  “Gagh!” He pressed his hand to the wound, blood seeping between his fingers. “Damn you! What the flek do you think you’re doing?”

  Planjer tapped Surrana gently on the shoulder. “I think you’ve made your point. Don’t finish him off just yet. You might need him.”

  “I need no one,” Surrana stated, her voice edged with titanium alloy. “Talk, Zorello. What do you know about me? Why do you say I wiped my own memory?”

  “I should set my guards on you,” Zorello replied. “They might not beat you, but it would be fun to see them try.” He pinched his wound, wincing as he pressed the torn skin back together. “I need to get this fixed, so talk fast. What do you want, Surrana? I gave you your name, and that ought to be worth something. But if you want any more help from me, you’ll have to offer me something in return.”

  “I don’t make bargains with scum like you.”

  “That never bothered you before,” Zorello retorted. “I paid you handsomely for your services, and you had the nerve to bill that poor sap Tsumper at the same time, even though you were working for me.”

  “I have no recollection of that.”

  “And what’s more, you didn’t even finish the job properly,” Zorello went on. “You let that fool, Rawlgeeb, go free, and that’s how I ended up banished to Kamalon 3. It’s a damned good thing for you that I managed to escape, because you’re in deep trouble, Surrana. You never delivered on our contract, and now the Guild will be on your tail. They don’t like it when their members break the rules. That’s probably why you wiped your memory. You needed to disappear.”

  Surrana’s lowered her weapon as slumbering memories stirred deep in her mind, and her lips formed a single, silent word: “Rawlgeeb.”

  “Yes. I thought you might remember that idiot,” Zorello said. “He’s like the grain of grit in an Andelian blood limpet.”

  “You mean he’s the trigger that brings out the best in people?” Planjer asked. “We have a lot of pearls on Kreit. They’re one of our primary exports.”

  “Have you ever seen a blood limpet?” Zorello asked. “Have you even been to Andel?”

  “No. Not many Kreitians have.”

  Zorello’s thin lips curled in a sneer. “Then shu
t the flek up. Most things on Andel will kill you as soon as look at you, but once grit gets into a blood limpet, it sends the critter clean over the edge. They’re slow, but they’re vicious little bastards, and once they stick their bony teeth into you, they never let go. Get the picture?”

  Planjer nodded. “No pearls. Shame.”

  “Quiet!” Surrana commanded. “I’m getting something…something I’ve heard about, or perhaps I’ve seen it myself. I can’t be sure. It’s gray…an odd shape. A hat. But that’s an Earth thing. Rawlgeeb wouldn’t have a hat, would he?”

  Zorello shrugged. “Wouldn’t put it past him. I always figured there was something wrong with him, but despite my best efforts, he remains stubbornly alive.”

  “He’s mastered the art of self-preservation,” Planjer said wisely.

  “No, he’s just been plain lucky,” Zorello replied, “until now.” He leered evilly at Surrana. “It looks as though our needs are aligned. I can help you get your memory back, and I’ll find out who captured you. In return, you can finish what you started. Once the contract on Rawlgeeb is complete, the Guild will welcome you back with open arms. Everybody wins.”

  “Except for me,” Planjer put in. “And this Rollyglib character.”

  “You, I can help,” Zorello said. “I think a finder’s fee is in order. I’ll send, say, five hundred credits to your account, and then you’ll forget that you ever saw Surrana. If anyone asks, you spin them a line and send them on their way. But if you so much as mention Surrana’s name outside this room, you’ll suddenly find that the galaxy is too hot to hold you.”

  Surrana’s bolt gun cracked, her shot thudding into the ceiling directly above Zorello, showers of dust billowing down around his shoulders. “I’m not for sale, Zorello. If I agree to your proposal, I’ll do it on my terms, and I’ll compensate Captain Planjer myself. If what you say is true, then I must have resources of my own, and once I can access them, I’ll make a fair payment. In the meantime, I’ll need medical facilities, somewhere to train, some good Gloabon food, a change of clothes, a bath, and eventually, a ship out of here. Those are my minimum requirements–there may well be more. It depends on how long it takes to get my memory back.” She tilted her head. “Also, if you’ve lied to me, or misled me in any way, I will terminate your existence in the most imaginative and entertaining way that I can devise.”