Harmony

by C. F. Bentley

  He avoided touching his belt—a dead giveaway that he hid valuables there.

  But he was still wearing a suit. If anyone looked directly at him, they’d see a man in a suit trying to disappear and not succeeding.

  He noted that most of the other suits also went chameleon.

  The crowd kept laughing and dancing in the street.

  “Put down all weapons and stand where you are!” the voice drowned out the music.

  A few in the crowd looked toward the speakers for about a micron before returning to their party.

  Jake took a chance and slid farther along the wall.

  “Weapons down and stand in place, or we shoot all of you!”

  Still no one bothered to obey the law. Pirates one and all.

  Jake kept moving. Closer. Ever closer to the comm tower and the safety of his ship. Once off the ground, he knew he could outfly any of the local jockeys. But he had to get to the ship.

  He spotted the arched gates to the spaceport. Just beyond them, in full view, sat his merchant vessel with a real cargo masking the latest observation and communications equipment. The heavy iron gates swung shut across the port entry as he watched. Armed guards stepped in front of them.

  Jake eased to his left. More armed officials appeared in their tan shorts and shirts with broad-brimmed leather hats set at a jaunty angle. The brim on one side folded up to make way for those long, long weapons with the huge muzzles.

  “Mickey, I need some help,” Jake whispered into his helmet comm.

  “Where’s my brother?” came back the panicked voice.

  Jake gulped. No sense lying. Mickey wasn’t dumb. “Sorry, buddy. He caught a bullet in the last go ’round.”

  “He’s not dead!” Mickey protested.

  Jake winced at the volume penetrating his ears and echoing around the inside of his helmet.

  “Calm down, Mickey. I know you’re hurting, but panic now and we’re both dead.”

  “You killed my brother, Jake Devlin!” As he spoke, the hatch of the ship slid upward and Mickey, wearing gaudy shorts and shirt sprinted down the ramp. No ship suit with its gel armor. No weapons. Just cloth and very vulnerable skin.

  “Get back inside, Mickey. It’s not safe out here,” Jake said. “That’s an order.”

  Mickey must have made a noise off comm. The guards at the gates swung around, weapons at the ready. The officials behind Jake pushed past him. They opened the gates.

  “Go back, Mickey,” Jake pleaded. “Just get back inside and we’ll talk when we’re free of this. We’ll mourn Billy properly. Together.”

  Mickey kept coming. He bolted through the gates. Guards and officials followed him.

  Jake edged back toward his ship and safety. He pulled his gun. “I hate shooting people in the back,” he moaned as he took aim at the nearest guard.

  Too late.

  Rapid reports of gunfire.

  Mickey screamed. He threw up his hands and fell face first into the dirt.

  Guards marched forward. One of them kicked at the lifeless body.

  Jake swallowed the lump in his throat and bolted for his ship.

  He managed to hold back his tears and pain until he lifted to orbit and shot for the nearest jump point.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  STRANGE SOUNDS AND ODORS crept into Sissy’s awareness. Sleep dragged her back to a land of even stranger dreams.

  Exhilaration and fear made her heart pump hard and loud in her ears. Something weird and wonderful and terribly frightening . . . what?

  A sparkling purple circle pulsed before her mind’s eye. A man with stubble staining his cheeks. Days of pain and confusion all blended into one.

  A sharp tug across her chest between her breasts.

  Surgery!

  Hospital.

  Breath came sharp and short in her chest.

  “Breathe, Miss Sissy,” said a kind male voice beside her right shoulder. “Remember to breathe.”

  “Who?” she said. At least her mouth formed the words. Her ears caught only the sigh of machines and soft voices in the distance.

  No one spoke loudly in the hospital.

  “You’ve had another surgery, Miss Sissy. Filters to help clear your lungs,” the voice continued.

  Something familiar . . .

  She forced her eyes open a crack. They felt as if her Badger Metal tweezers clamped them shut. A dry crust broke free from her lids and she looked up into the gentle smile of a man with a purple caste mark.

  Not the scary man she’d dreamed about. His assistant.

  “Name?” she croaked.

  “You only dreamed I’m here. Here to make your life at Crystal Temple a little easier.” He leaned over her.

  A quick prick on her cheek, in the center of her caste marks.

  Her hand flew to cover them. Never expose them to strangers. Never let anyone know how different she was.

  “You’ll never need to hide them again, Miss Sissy. Soon you’ll sparkle with the best of them. Remember from now on to flaunt your uniqueness. That is what we must learn to value. Now remember to breathe.”

  She blinked her eyes in puzzlement. When she focused her eyes again, he was gone.

  Another blink.

  Stevie stood over her.

  She raised her arms as high as she could with all the equipment and needles attached to her. He slid into her weak embrace, kissing her cheek.

  “Stevie—”

  “Don’t try to talk yet. The nurses say I can only stay a moment. And you must remember to breathe.”

  Sissy inhaled as much as she could before the incision in her chest caught and her lungs protested.

  “That’s my girl.” Stevie smiled, but worry creased his eyes and drew lines down his gaunt cheeks. Had he lost weight in the four days since the quake?

  At least she thought only four days had passed.

  “I’ve brought you some books. We all chipped in, everyone in the apartment block, even Old Zeb.”

  Sissy frowned and felt anew the needle prick on her cheek. What had the man been up to?

  “You’ll need to do a lot of reading to become High Priestess. So we thought we’d give you a head start,” Stevie said. He tried to sound light-hearted. But she could tell something nagged at him, made him look tired and haggard.

  “I don’t like to read,” Sissy protested. Speaking came a little easier. Her throat was still dry, though.

  “You don’t like to read because you haven’t had enough practice,” Stevie reminded her. “I got you easy books. History and stories about Harmony and Empathy and their battles with Discord. That nice Mr. Guilliam, Laud Gregor’s assistant, helped me pick them out. He added a couple from Temple stores as well.”

  Guilliam. Was that the name of the man who’d just been here?

  “Now don’t grimace. I’ll be back this evening when you are more awake and help you through the first one. It’s one they use to teach Temple children.”

  Another eye blink and Stevie disappeared, too.

  Sissy stared at the stack of seven books piled on the visitor’s chair, within easy reach.

  Tears leaking down her cheeks, she turned her back on them. What had she gotten herself into?

  “Come on!” Jake coaxed the merchant ship into life. The control panel still showed mostly red systems lights. One by one they switched to green. Ten down, five to go. “Thank you, Mickey for keeping it at idle.” A horrible waste of fuel, but essential for a fast getaway.

  Oh, God. Mickey.

  Both Mickey and Billy dead. Jake choked. His hand fell away from the pilot’s screen.

  Why bother escaping?

  “Warning, unidentified object approaching from one-eighty degrees,” the soft androgynous voice of the ship’s system alerted him.

  Adrenaline shot through him. If he didn’t get out of here fast, the pirates would do the same thing to him that they did to Mickey and Billy.

  Shoot him dead.

  “Can’t just sound a proximity alarm?”
Jake was not amused by the mild voice.

  Sensor readings showed a small wheeled vessel creeping up behind him.

  He loosed a blast of burning propulsion gases. Fire and smoke ejected out the ship’s hind end, accelerating him forward and upward at two gs. They also burned his pursuers to a crisp. That should put a crimp in the trigger fingers of those pirates.

  Serves them right for killing my buddies.

  Finally the last of the red lights switched to green. Good thing. He was halfway to orbit. The blue comm light blinked at him furiously. Probably the pirates demanding his return. Jake gave them a halfhearted salute as he whizzed toward them.

  “I’m sorry, Billy, Mickey. I can’t go back for your bodies.” No telling what the pirates would do to them. Rumors had it the Marils ate carrion and relished the ripe bodies of their fallen enemies as a gourmet treat. Could the denizens of Prometheus XII desecrate their fellow humans like that? Or worse?

  No time to think about that. He had to get out of here. Now.

  “A little higher. Just a little higher.” The ship rose rapidly and angled off toward the upper atmosphere.

  A klaxon bonged and clanged with enthusiasm. “Warning. Unidentified fighter closing at one hundred fifty degrees.”

  “Now I get a proximity alarm!” Jake banked starboard and dove as the following fighter flew right over where he’d been. “Damn, they’ve stolen the latest Stingray 852 from the CSS.” He’d only seen a holo image of a prototype. Faster and more maneuverable than anything the Marils had at the battle of Platian IV.

  Shit. How was he going to stay ahead of them?

  His mind snapped him back to flight school. Play dumb as long as you can, he almost heard his tactics prof yell at him. Let them think you are wallowing in their wake. Then at the last nanosecond slide sideways and upward at twice the speed they expect.

  Jake careened off to starboard again, letting his boxy looking ship tilt and wobble. All the time he climbed at so shallow an angle he might appear level on the enemy boards. He considered ejecting his cargo. A lot of weight to carry in atmosphere. But if he could just get above the drag of gravity, all that squishy shrimp and caviar would give him a lot of mass to absorb a hit from energy weapons.

  A team of five Stingrays swooped toward him.

  “Warning. Enemy weapons locked. Acquiring target.”

  “Don’t panic, Jake,” he told himself. “Hold on just a micron.”

  “Warning. Enemy weapons have acquired target. Warning. Enemy weapons firin . . .”

  Jake trimmed his flight path and slammed to port at three gs. He pulled upward at too steep an angle. He lost speed. Five plasma cannons clipped his ship’s belly. The force sent him into a wild spin to port.

  He let the ship roll, turning it into a spiral upward.

  “Done and done,” he crowed, with a rictus grin as acceleration pasted him flat into his chair. He gritted his teeth and forced his hand onto the control screen. Slowly. Too slowly he pulled out of the spin. He picked up speed.

  So did the Stingrays.

  Another volley of laser weapons singed his port side. “Too close to the engines.”

  He dodged up and down, side to side, wild combinations of movement, slamming the vessel about without thinking.

  The Stingrays matched him move for move.

  Damn. They were as good as Marils.

  Double damn. Maybe they were Marils, or had Maril tech.

  He needed to be better.

  He needed a miracle.

  He broke free of atmosphere and headed for the jump point. Well, that was a minor miracle. At two gs he was still two hours from safety.

  “This isn’t a lumbering merchant. It’s a state of the art CSS spy ship,” Jake muttered. “What kinds of surprises did you pack this time, Pammy?” She hadn’t taken the time to drill him on the particulars. That was Mickey’s job, with Billy to back him up.

  Sorry. No more Mickey or Billy.

  No time to read the instruction manual. He pressed his hands on the screen at random, hoping a familiar icon would show itself. A massive cannon icon appeared, nearly filling the screen. He ran his thumb over it.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” scrolled across the screen. “Reports will be filed.”

  “So file a report.” He pressed the icon hard.

  The ship shuddered from stem to stern then back again.

  The Stingrays crept closer.

  The screen flashed another warning.

  “Oh, just get on with it.” Jake slammed his entire hand over the icon.

  The ship plunged forward at three gs. Jake’s eyeballs dried and flattened, trying to squeeze into his hindbrain. He slid his vision down, fighting the acceleration that brought the jump point closer and closer. An hour away.

  Could he survive that long at this acceleration? He’d be wasted and sore by the end. Maybe suffer a broken rib or two.

  The cannon on his screen displayed three shots fired. Another portion of the screen showed two Stingrays peeling off and heading home. Sensors picked up a lot of debris.

  “Damn, Pammy. That’s one fine weapon.” But he didn’t feel his usual glow of triumph. Mickey’s and Billy’s bodies were still down on that cursed planet.

  “Fuel reserves low. Recommend return to nearest port facility,” the ship said in its super-sweet and overly polite way.

  “Forget that nonsense.” He tapped into emergency reserves, shed speed, and cut life support to minimum. Enough air to breathe. No gravity. No lights. Just him and his regrets.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "THIRTY SECONDS TO HYPERSPACE,” the ship’s voice filled Jake’s cockpit. “Hyperspace transit expected to last twelve hours, seventeen minutes, and thirty-five seconds.”

  That didn’t mean much. Real time and hyperspace time rarely coincided. He ran a couple of formulas through his head. Probably five days.

  In a souped-up merchant vessel designed to be flown by three.

  He had it all to himself now.

  Damn.

  Double damn.

  “Twenty seconds to hyperspace.”

  He should put his helmet back on. Standard safety protocol when flying alone. Especially if he had to cut air to conserve fuel. Damn. He shouldn’t be alone. He couldn’t even recover the bodies.

  Damn.

  He scrubbed his face with both hands, free of gloves. Two days of stubble rasped against his palms.

  “Ten seconds to hyperspace.”

  Grudgingly, Jake lifted his helmet. At the last second he cast it aside. He’d weathered hyperspace before. He knew what to expect.

  Well, no one knew what to expect. Hyperspace treated everyone differently. Each trip was different.

  “Three, two, one. Hyperspace achieved. Computers on auto. Sleepy drugs available on demand.”

  The dim cabin lights shifted to the left of the prism. Dust motes that shouldn’t have been there swirled and sparkled like tiny insects swarming around a warm body.

  Or maybe they were faeries. Jake tried to remember childhood tales of the incredible beings that flitted through life without a care.

  Oh, how he wished to put his cares and grief behind him.

  The remnants of gravity from acceleration deserted him. But the faeries didn’t.

  The pinpoints of varicolored light continued to fly in tight spirals inward, then they abruptly reversed their pattern and spread outward, around and around him.

  He half heard faint giggles over the hum of cockpit instruments and components fighting to find a path through the realm between realities.

  The faeries changed pattern again, split in two, and tightened up. The sparks combined and became tiny flamelets, then they grew bigger and darker, more solid as they clumped together.

  Jake rubbed his eyes. Hallucinations. That’s all it was. He wasn’t seeing a bunch of faeries making two humans.

  Images born of stress and grief.

  “Nice that you grieve for us,” D’billio whispered from the form on his
left.

  Jake could almost see through him to the spark of life where his heart should be.

  Ghosts. He saw ghosts in hyperspace. The most common reaction.

  He’d never seen ghosts before. He should. He’d lost family and comrades in battle to the Marils.

  Alien enemies hadn’t killed his two partners. Other humans had. If the dear citizens of Prometheus XII were still human and hadn’t regressed to some baser life-form. Those things had killed his friends for no reason. No honor in their deaths.

  They had a right to haunt him.

  “I am so sorry, Billy. Should have been me taking that bullet.” As he spoke, a black hole gaped in Billy’s head. Right where the bullet would have gone. Did go.

  “And me? Do you grieve for me?” D’mikko sneered. “You always resented that I could navigate and pilot better than you. That Pammy trusted me more than you. Look at you, going it alone without a backward glance.”

  “Not even wearing your helmet and gloves,” Billy added. “What happens if the computers miscalculate and slam you right into a hunk of space debris?” He reached for the autopilot interface.

  “Go ahead. Turn it off. Let me die out here, lost, alone, and forgotten. Useless. My life has been pretty useless.” He recalled all his drunken brawls, his unauthorized flights to “investigate” something that turned out to be nothing more than a party. And the women. How many women had he bedded and promised “forever,” then abandoned and forgotten in the morning? Too many.

  All in his quest to run away from grief and loneliness.

  He regretted it all. Them all.

  “Your time to die has not come yet,” Mickey said quietly. “You have a bigger destiny to fill.”

  “Live, Jake,” Billy added. “Live well, and learn.”

  They faded back to a swarm of dying sparkles.

  Jake shook his head, uncertain what had just happened.

  “Coming out of hyperspace in two minutes. Two-minute warning. Antidotes to sleepy drugs available upon demand.”

  Sissy pressed herself deep into the cushions of the long black motorcar—a real car, not a cart pulled by loxen, or a sedan chair carried by Workers. A car she shared only with Mr. Guilliam, who sat across from her with his back to the driver, and Laudae Shanet beside her. They wore their formal robes—deep green for her and pale green for him. But the moment the driver had closed the doors on them, they’d set aside the heavy headdresses with the long strands of beads and crystals strung to form a veil.