Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

by Anthology

  Even if he won the support of every freelancer in the Middle Stratum, Jaren’s revolt stood less of a chance than an ice cube in the Nine Circles. But the unbidden memory of his mother belting out shrill hymns as the Enforcers hauled her away overruled Teg’s doubts.

  Returning his focus to the grit-lined windscreen, Teg spotted a dark cloud on the horizon. Ozone mingled with the pervasive smell of sulfur. Each sphere had its own character, and Teg admitted that Jaren’s decision to base his operation on Tharis had some merit. The desert world largely escaped the Guild’s notice—along with most other people’s. But seclusion had its drawbacks. For one, dying in a dust storm would rule out a proper burial.

  Teg brought the drifter down in the shallows and shut off the engine. He got out and trudged around to the back, where a bit of rummaging produced the vehicle’s canvas top. After a few minutes’ work he returned to the cabin, which was now covered by a taut roof of olive drab fabric. Certain that the drifter was as secure as he could make it, Teg sat back to wait.

  Just before the storm hit, Teg saw something through the drifter's windscreen. It looked like a man standing out on the dust field. The tall, rail-thin figure wore a black business suit that cast him in sharp relief to the roiling grey cloud coming up fast from behind. The man in the suit seemed oblivious to the mountain of dust bearing down on him as he stalked toward the parked drifter.

  Teg took the stranger’s measure. The suit was custom-tailored, formal but for the lack of a tie and the white dress shirt’s unfastened top button. A shock of unruly golden hair surmounted the man’s angular face. A pair of steel-rimmed sunglasses hid his eyes. Something about those unseen eyes made Teg avert his gaze, which fell to the stranger's shoes—jet black with a mirror shine.

  Alarms blared in Teg’s head. Shoes—I can see the bastard's shoes!

  The dust was waist-deep out there. It didn't matter how skinny the son of a bitch was; he should've been up to his belt in fine grey grit.

  Teg felt a rare pang of fear when the stranger flashed a smile with all the warmth of a knife wound. The urge to look away returned in earnest, but this time, he couldn’t. He felt the fatal stupor of wild game caught in headlamps, certain that only a pair of smoked lenses stood between him and the abyss. An instant before the dust cloud rolled in, Teg thought he saw two points of pitch blackness bleeding through the dark glass. The stranger was still smiling when the dust engulfed him.

  When the storm passed, no sign of the stranger remained. Teg was tempted to blame the whole affair on heat exhaustion, but a vestige of his dread lingered, prompting him to switch on the defensive aura projector clipped to his belt. He exited the drifter and hastily cleared away the thick new layer of dust. He checked the fuel tank and coolant seals and returned to the cabin. To his relief the engine started, and he continued on his way.

  Teg had never been so glad to see Sojourner's Cut. Closer to a settlement than an actual town, the Cut had grown from an itinerant workers' camp into a semi-permanent desert community whose boundaries changed with the tents that went up every day and the wagons that left each night. What better place to fence one’s ill-gotten wares?

  What little there is to fence, he thought. The pirates’ last score had been even smaller than usual. Even if he bargained uncommonly well, Teg would be lucky to make an even trade for the parts and ammunition Jaren wanted.

  Teg hadn't asked where Jaren wanted the goods moved. There was only one fence in the Cut who offered a decent price with no questions asked. A rare sedentary member of Tharis’ traditionally nomadic Nesshin population, Dan ran a modest sole-proprietorship that specialized in having no specialty. Anything could be found under Dan's roof, and no one could predict exactly what anything would be on a given day: dry goods, untaxed alcohol, engine parts. Dan's was the world's most eclectic rummage sale, though on Tharis the title was no great boast.

  A set of wind chimes above the door shaped like a winged girl, an old man, and a set of numbers corresponding to a long bygone year rang dully as Teg sauntered into the concrete dome that housed Dan’s shop. He passed down the scrap-cluttered center aisle amid stuffy air redolent with cheap pipe tabacco and sidled up to the counter.

  The shop’s bald, bearded proprietor leaned across the desk and made a show of squinting his bright, attentive eyes. “Either you’re a shade come to haunt me,” said Dan, “or Zol Oison lied about Cadrys Customs sending you lot to Elathan’s Vault.”

  Teg’s hackles rose at the mention of Elathan. Invoking the god of shipwreck was bad luck. “Wishful thinking on Zol’s part,” he said. “And alive or dead, I’ve got no time for your grizzled ass.”

  “I doubt that,” said Dan, a mischievous gleam in his eye, “seeing as how I’m the only man on Tharis who can supply Jaren’s needs.” The shopkeeper arched one white eyebrow. “If the plan’s still on.”

  “Why else would I deal with a swindler like you?” asked Teg. “You spread the word?”

  Dan’s wrinkled face betrayed the smile hidden behind his beard. “I think we’ll have quite a turnout,” he said. “Tell Jaren to get that cave of his ready for company.”

  “All he needs are party favors,” Teg said, passing a small crystal sheet across the desk.

  Dan’s brow creased as he read the list. “What’s your end?’ he asked.

  “A set of backup Wheel cores,” said Teg, gesturing with his thumb toward the back lot where he’d parked the drifter. “Commercial grade.”

  “Transessed?”

  Teg nodded. “Alive and kicking from the Mill itself.”

  Mention of the Transessist order’s Cadrys mother house soured Dan’s expression. “That might be good for half.”

  Teg had no use for haggling. He let his hands inch toward the shoulder holsters that held his paired zephyrs.

  “Okay, Irons! Have it your way,” the old fence said, raising his gnarled hands in surrender. Teg took pride in that handle, one of many which invoked the shooting irons that had made him known and feared.

  Teg concluded his business by closing time, meaning that for once he didn’t have to turn around and rush back home. It was also the first time in a long while that he'd traded well enough to come away with a little of what his father had called “throwing-around money”.

  Teg left the drifter in Dan’s fenced back lot and locked the gate with Jaren's personal key—a privilege reserved for the shopkeeper's best customers and entrusted to Teg on pain of death. He left the premises and headed for the makeshift pub at the end of the bare dust strip that served as the Cut’s main drag.

  “Teg Cross?” a young man’s voice called from across the street.

  Teg started turning before he heard the zephyr’s muted report. Pain hammered into his back, and he toppled onto the tavern steps. A warm coppery tang filled his mouth. Blackness engulfed him like a dust storm.

  3

  Marshal Malachi didn’t rebuke the steward who told him in halting whispers that their arrival on Tharis would be delayed. Instead he asked the reason in a clear, level voice. The steward tugged at his uniform’s collar and explained that the ground crew were still clearing dust from the landing pad.

  “How long will we be detained?” Malachi asked.

  “Perhaps ten minutes, sir,” the steward said. “I could send down and check.”

  Malachi raised his hand, causing the gold-embroidered end of one black silk sleeve to recede from his wrist. Recognizing his outthrust palm as a dismissal, the steward retreated from the priority personnel cabin.

  Left to himself, Malachi lifted the glass of slightly chilled water—mundane; not elemental—from its holder in the armrest beside him and sipped, savoring the honest taste of dissolved trace minerals. The delay didn’t perturb him. The voyage from Mithgar had passed more quickly than he’d been warned to expect. But Ulger Narr was waiting on the sunbaked dust field below, no doubt eager to relinquish his post as Guild minister, which he couldn’t do until his successor arrived.

  Malachi knew that the
ship had begun its landing before the steward returned fifteen minutes later to inform him. The slight shudder that ran through the cabin was the only instrument Malachi needed to deduce the ship’s speed and flight path. His active mind formed a vivid image of the courier’s blocky hull drifting toward the desolate sphere that shared its dull leaden color. In the wheelhouse two segments forward of the cabin, the Steersman would be guiding the vessel’s descent. Even aboard such an antiquated craft, the pilot held an enviable place compared to his passengers.

  After sitting through a workmanlike landing, Malachi wasted no time presenting himself at the main airlock. The round hatch irised open with a blast of oven-like heat, presenting just the grey windswept vista he’d expected. The same bleak view must have greeted his predecessors, most of whom no doubt received their first glimpse of Tharis with melancholy. Perhaps many of them had hesitated, delaying the first shoreward step that would consummate their exile.

  Malachi savored being unlike those men. He met the sulphurous waste with an eager smile and stepped briskly from the airlock as the gangway extended. Where others had lamented their losses, he looked forward to accomplishing great deeds.

  Descending the ramp, Malachi took note of his windblown brethren standing in ankle-deep dust beside the landing pad. Three were guards clad in tiered caps and long leather coats. Worked Enforcers were so common in the Cardinal Spheres that the all-human honor guard seemed quaint.

  The last figure deserved more thorough scrutiny. Malachi saw at once that Narr had not prospered on Tharis. The departing minister appeared to have shriveled under the planet's binary suns. Cracks lined his face, and his posture was bent. Sorriest of all was his badge of rank. The fine Master's robes—priceless beyond rubies for nobler reasons than their Worked silk—had not been well kept. In fact, the garment appeared to have been snatched from a peg in some cluttered closet and hastily donned for the day's proceedings.

  Malachi faced his peer upon the dry plains of Tharis and fancied that he saw his own aged reflection. If so, Narr’s wiry, thinning mane augured poorly for his own black widow’s peak. In the afternoon heat of Zadok and Thera he remembered the suns’ namesakes in Nesshin myth: father and daughter eternally annihilating and turning into each other.

  “Brother Malachi,” Narr began in a voice like a rusty blade scraped over worn leather, “the Steersmen of Tharis welcome their new minister.”

  Malachi remained silent for a long moment. He then knelt, clasped his elder's hands and kissed them. Narr gaped at the ancient display of respect. His lips moved, but no sound emerged.

  Malachi stepped in to fill the void. “Well met, Brother,” he said as he rose. “Now let us tend to business.”

  Tharis’ de facto capital of Shabreth lay hard by the spaceport, and a short drifter ride saw the guildsmen to an ancient pile of dun-colored stone that served as its Guild hall. Narr received Malachi in a stark chamber he called the Tea Room—its lingering odor of stronger drink notwithstanding. He showed his guest to a wooden chair at a circular table of baked clay where service for two had already been set. Malachi’s seat faced the room’s only window: a rounded oblong cutout with a sweeping view of the charred mountains beyond the dust plain.

  Narr eased himself into a chair across from Malachi. “Your voyage went well?” he asked.

  “It did,” Malachi said. He sampled the bitter, weak tea. “I had ample time to examine your ministry's records, from the first report filed sixty years ago, to this morning’s entry.”

  A dry cough escaped Narr’s throat. “An odd choice of reading material,” he said with a forced grin. “Wouldn’t you have preferred something more entertaining?”

  “Quite the contrary,” Malachi said. “I consider myself most entertained.”

  Narr’s teacup rattled as he raised it from its saucer. “You found something amiss in the accounts…some fiscal discrepancy?”

  “I did not.”

  “Pardon my bluntness,” said Narr, “but what interest could a newly vested Master Steersman—among the youngest in memory—have in my humdrum affairs?”

  “You're wondering why I'm here,” Malachi said.

  “Your appointment was unusual.”

  “In the sense that I wasn’t discharged from a lucrative accountancy at the Salorien chapter house?”

  Narr gulped his tea and said nothing.

  “I came of my own free will,” Malachi said. “It was a resolution I made long before I attained the Mastery.”

  “But why? Your abilities are wasted on Tharis.”

  Malachi sighed. Then he produced a bundle of three folders from his robe and spread them out on the table. Pointing to the first document he said, “Two years ago a known smuggling ship was sighted in low orbit.” He continued, indicating the second report. “Last month, a shopkeeper in Sojourner's Cut was reported for dealing in stolen goods.” Malachi paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. Narr’s face fell.

  “Just yesterday, your office received complaints of a shooting and an alleged suicide in the same vicinity.” Malachi leaned back with his arms crossed.

  Narr frowned. “This sphere is fit for only the most desperate men,” he said, “and even those it can kill or break. How is that our Brotherhood’s concern?”

  Malachi opened the third file and began reading in a firm, measured voice. “The owner of a public house near the township limits reported a shooting on his front doorstep. Enforcers found neither suspect nor victim. The few witnesses insisted that no murder had been done but claimed selective amnesia regarding the injured party’s whereabouts.”

  “Similar items cross my desk daily,” said Narr. “You’ll ignore them if you’re wise.”

  “Where police work failed,” Malachi said, “chance provided a suspect. Redrin Culvert, the son of a disgraced Inspector from Keth, had been lodging in an elderly couple’s back room. His failure to appear for breakfast this morning aroused their concern. His door was tried and found to be locked from within. The key proved useless.”

  Narr removed his thin-rimmed glasses and scratched his hawkish nose.

  Malachi continued reading. “Neighbors were summoned to remove the door from its hinges. What they found inside prompted them to alert the Enforcers, who arrived to find locals swarming about the house yet shunning Culvert’s room.”

  “I suppose they found it a bloody shambles,” said Narr. “Or perhaps there was only a corpse dangling above a toppled chair.”

  “Neither,” said Malachi. “Nor was there any sign of a struggle or a robbery. What repelled the good townsfolk was something that hadn’t been there before; something beyond their experience.”

  Narr raised one bushy eyebrow. “And that was?”

  “Cold—a bitter chill unknown on Tharis.”

  “The desert grows quite cold at night,” said Narr.

  “One Enforcer from Crote made unfavorable comparisons to the Cocytus Glacier,” Malachi said. “The cold confined itself to the room and persisted all morning despite the absence of a door. Inside were found Redrin Culvert's personal effects, including his identification and a zephyr pistol. There was no trace of the suspect.”

  “There you have it,” said Narr. “He committed the shooting and fled justice.”

  “The room was windowless, and the lock was melted from the inside by some unknown corrosive agent. There was no escape. Someone made quite sure of that.” Malachi clapped the folder shut with a swift motion of his thumb and forefinger, giving Narr a start.

  Several silent moments passed before Narr leaned across the table. “Help my ignorance,” he said. “What do you make of these reports?”

  “What I make of them is insufficient evidence to prove your complicity,” Malachi said, “which is the only reason we’re not having this discussion in a holding cell.”

  Narr puffed himself up like an aged black owl. “You accuse me of corruption? I was asked to police a sphere with half a city’s worth of support! Did you expect me to chase every rumor of
petty larceny and dueling?”

  “Your Brothers expected you to maintain our financial, legal, and technical interests in ether-running,” said Malachi. “Now you rationalize your neglect with this ministry’s remoteness, the banality of its crimes, and your own weakness. The crimes of Tharis are petty? Such evils put every vice of the Cardinal Spheres to shame!”

  “No Master of the Guild, however lowly his charge, need abide such accusations,” said Narr, slamming his palm down on the table. “You confessed your lack of evidence. Retract your allegation, or I will hold you liable for slander.”

  Malachi leaned back, steepled his fingers, and said, “Jont Shan of Temil is dead.”

  Narr’s whole body seemed to deflate as he sank back into his chair. “Oh my,” he said before he straightened his back and hardened his face in an effort to feign apathy. “I mean, that’s tragic, but no more so than any Brother’s death.”

  Malachi suppressed a smile. He admired his predecessor’s determination, but efficiency demanded an end to the charade. “Shan’s case is somewhat more tragic, since his death resulted from dabbling in black market antiquities.”

  The shocked look on Narr’s face was probably genuine. “I didn’t know,” he said.

  “You knew quite well,” said Malachi. “Because I told you—anonymously, of course.”

  Narr’s lips moved wordlessly under his beard.

  “I uncovered our late Brother’s illicit enterprise in the course of another investigation,” Malachi said. “That he’d discovered a weapons cache dating from the Purges was a secret I shared only with you, and which you shared with Shan’s murderer. Do you deny it?”

  Narr stared at his own trembling hands. “Did you know he would be killed?” he asked.

  “I didn’t discount the possibility,” Malachi said, “considering my suspicions.”