Galactic Council Realm 2: On Duty

by J. Clifton Slater

  “No. Thank you,” he replied indicating the window.

  In the distance, a riot was boiling over the confines of the park. Some people were on the ground, many of them bleeding. They must have spoken out and gained the ire of Gennaro’s mob. I stuffed the yellow cap in my bag and retrieved the brown one. Leaving the warm aroma of the tea shop behind, I walked quickly back to the park.

  Chapter 23

  My first project was to get a look at the signs. I might want to break one over someone’s head. Stop that was mean thinking, without the presence of the Druid, I wasn’t that emotionally involved. What I wanted to know was how far the treason stretched. Were they bold enough to pre-make signs with damning evidence written for everyone to see?

  The G was large and stylized, the W was even taller with more calligraphy, the R matched the G and smaller letters filled in the sign, ‘Galactic Workers Realm’. It wasn’t just the treasonous sign it was the G.W.R. I’d seen those initials on the graffiti with the starving people.

  A few things rushed through my mind. The posters on the strange torpedo ship, one of those images represented by the graffiti tagged with G.W.R, in the same style as the signs. The inflammatory speech by Gennaro and the riot staged by his crew. Could I connect the elements? If I did, they created a circular path making the fat orator an associate of the mariners who’d killed my shipmates and the Swanhilde.

  The Knight of the Clan sticks seemed to just appear in my hands. Gennaro was about to join the crew of the Swanhilde. Let the ghosts sort it out, I was too angry to let him live on this plain. A quick scan of the pushing and shoving bodies gave no clue where he was in the mass of moving figures. Before I could search, sirens filled the street along with vans full of Station Security personnel.

  Gennaro would have to wait. I needed to see how the degradation of the Druids fit into this situation. Hopefully, a search of Ignaz’s quarter should yield some answers. I changed to an orange cap in the pink dress shop and exited through the Orange door.

  Light from the lanterns created pools up and down the dark street. I found a black corner between lights on the twenty-fifth block with a good view of number 12 quarters on the ground floor. The apartment was dark.

  Fifteen minutes later, a security patrol passed. They were moving slowly and the light from their flashlights just missed me. I slipped my Clan strap out of the bag and slid it over my shoulder. From the pouch, I pulled the Knight pullover and trousers leaving the alloy tipped sticks and wrist guards in their case.

  Twenty-five minutes after the first patrol passed, another security team wandered out of the night. This time their flashlight beams searched my dark corner. They didn’t separate my image from the façade behind me thanks to the Knight’s clothing. They moved off, shining light into each dark corner as they walked away.

  A few stores from me the security team found loiterers.

  “What are you two doing there?” asked one of the security offices.

  I couldn’t see their suspects due to the walls, but I could see the two officers. They were braced and appeared on edge.

  “Having dinner, loves,” a woman’s voice called from the dark.

  “Is there a problem officer?” a man asked from the same direction.

  “Orange is closed unless you’re going to work or have an emergency,” an officer replied, “Move inside the restaurant or sit outside in Brown.”

  “So much for a romantic dinner,” the woman said with disgust in her voice.

  I listened and the team waited. Two chairs scrapped the deck, followed by a flash of light, as the couple stood, opened the door and went into the bistro.

  “I don’t like this,” one of the security officers said.

  “I don’t either but our job is to keep civilians safe,” the other replied, “Even if they don’t like it.”

  “Keep them safe by taking away their freedom,” the first replied, “Just doesn’t seem right to me.”

  “Come on, let’s finish our rounds and get to Brown. I’ll buy you a coffee and you’ll feel better.”

  They were swallowed by the dark farther up the street. So, a nighttime curfew had been declared. Orange was on lock down thanks to Gennaro’s shenanigans. Was it by intent? I really needed to have a conversation with him.

  One hour later and Ignaz hadn’t returned home. It seemed long enough. I let another patrol pass then skipped across the street to apartment number twelve.

  The lock wasn’t hard to unlatch although it did cost me a pair of sunglasses. I slid the broken arm of the glasses into my pack and eased the door open.

  Ignaz lived simply. So basic in fact, the living room only had a cheap couch, an end table with a lamp and a semi-comfortable chair. No knickknacks, decorations or pictures adorned the space. It looked like a model apartment ready for move in. Except, Ignaz, if the Druids were correct, had already moved in.

  The bedroom contained a twin bed, unmade, so he did sleep here. A quick search of the end table, a wobbly dresser, the bed and the closet with a few Orange work uniforms tuned up nothing.

  A large bathroom separated the bedroom from the kitchen. I poked around even glancing up searching for loose ceiling tiles. Nothing hidden or secreted away in the personal cleaning space. I moved into the kitchen.

  Up to now, my Knight’s hood revealed only Ignaz’s tracks. Smudges from his fingers, where he wore his shoes, and especially when he wandered around barefooted. It was as if he’d left a painted trail for me. The tracks were joined by others in the kitchen.

  I counted at least five different tracks. They all clustered around a solid table with six chairs. For a guy who lived cleanly and simply, Ignaz apparently enjoyed entertaining in his kitchen. Maybe he held poker games. I searched the cabinets and drawers for poker chips and cards. Not poker, maybe just drinks and conversation. I looked in the fridge. A few prepackaged meals, and a bottle I recognized. Gennaro had one just like it in private stock at the Breached Plate.

  Six drops in a glass of water was the receipt. I wasn’t about to mix and enjoy a cocktail of unknown origin while breaking and entering. But I did uncork it and take a tentative sniff. A sharp medicinal odor burned my nostrils, race painfully up my sinuses and created a burning cap as if my skull were on fire. My eyes watered and I believe my sense of taste was destroyed for the next week.

  I was tonguing my gums when I identified the smell. They say smell was one of our strongest stimuli for recalling memories. My memory of the antiseptic odor was of a Clipper ship outfitted with a torpedo launching sleeve. The memory wasn’t old and the smell was as memorable as was the recent situation.

  So far, all the things I’d found lead back to a dead end. They bent around until ending at the strange Clipper ship and its escort of three odd Patrol Boats.

  I recapped the bottle and returned it to its former place. As I was closing the door to the fridge, I glanced down. Half a foot track, the heel part, jutted out from under the unit. It would be impossible for a heel track to be there unless the ball of the foot was under the fridge. Who walked under an appliance?

  It took a second to locate and unlock the wheels on the fridge. A gentle tug and the entire appliance rolled out. Peeking behind revealed two rows of narrow cabinets. Only two foot types had entered back here and only two sets of oily fingers had touched the cabinets. Ignaz’s, I recognized, the other prints were smaller, I had a feeling about the second set.

  The cabinets weren’t even locked. I guess Ignaz and his partner didn’t think anyone would find them.

  The top shelf was stuffed with bundles of Pesetas. Enough ready cash to buy a mansion on a planet and retire comfortably. More than enough to pay off a crew of conmen to be shrills in a crowd and pay a few graffiti artists to tag walls with a selected image. And certainly enough cash to pay workers to accuse Druids of attacking them. What other mischief could be bought with this vault of Pesetas?

  I left the cash unmolested and pulled open the door for the bottom self. There were only two items.<
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  One, a list written in symbols I didn’t understand. My hood couldn’t translate the flowing icons into words. As tempting as it was to take the list, I didn’t. But, I did focus the enhancements of the Knight’s cowl on them. I concentrated and as I watched the symbols began to glow. First one icon, then whole words, and as I strained to memorize the list, the whole document glowed and I knew I could recall it at will. I’d discovered another skill, courtesy of the Druid Elders.

  The second item in the bottom self was wrapped in crimson velvet cloth with a purple silk ribbon. It resembled a holy artifact. A small crystal pedestal held it reverently off the plastic shelf. The ribbon confirmed the importance of the item being tied in a series of alpine butterfly loops. More knots then simply securing the item required, it was ritualistic.

  Navy flight candidates studied knots for hours. Tie, untie, hitch, midshipman knots, knots to hold, tow and secure. I never realized until just now how I would ever use the knowledge. After setting the cloth package on the kitchen table, I began to unwind the knots, one butterfly loop at a time.

  A thin book lay within the velvet cloth. The front cover, spine and back were covered by grey wrinkled leather. Gilt covered the edges of the pages. Carefully, because, I didn’t want Ignaz to know I’d been in his apartment just yet, I thumbed open the book.

  There was no title page. Upon turning to the next, I saw neatly spaced lines in the strange symbol language. Unlike the list, this script was immature. It looked as if a child after a few lessons in cursive had written the symbols. I turned the page.

  On the left hand side, written lines filled the page, but the right hand page was illustrated. The art was exquisite. Deep colors, almost three dimensional in detail, depicted an emasculated man on his knees holding an air mask over the face of an ill child. I’d seen the image before. What struck me as strange was the contrast between the weak penmanship on the left and the magnificent artistry on the right.

  I’d seen the picture before so I focused my energy on the writing. I turned the page and studied the writing, only glancing at the picture of people around the empty food bin licking scraps off their thin fingers. Another page, more writing and a picture of a crashed ship with wide eyed people crawling out of a crater leaving fire, smoke and dirt behind as they fanned out into grain fields and forests.

  Flipping to the next page, I memorized the writing but paused to admire the picture. A woman in an elaborate headdress floated among bodies. Her gown trailing behind and newly risen people following in her path.

  I hesitated because I knew the picture on the next page. I tried to ignore the drawing but after committing the lettering to memory, I broke down and stared at the artwork. A brown robed devil or imp being chased by people with farming instruments. Across from them, three brown robes hung dead on gallows.

  Time slowed and I restudied the writing. It took all of my will to finally turn the page. It was just as jarring as the first time I’d viewed the picture. Men and women desecrating a Heart Plant. I spent minimal time focused on the writing then turned the page.

  A final page of the strange language ended the thin book. It took three tries but I eventually retied all the loops. The velvet cloth coved tome went back on its pedestal, the fridge I slid back into place, then I left the apartment.

  Chapter 24

  As I stole down the street moving through circles of light, I fought down the anger. The nasty taste coating my mouth and the need to wash my hands, lead me towards the park. There I peeled off the Knight’s doublet and trousers and stowed them in the Clan strap pouch.

  I took the stairs down to the lower lever and found the Breached Plate.

  “Oscar. Good morning. The usual?” Bulan asked.

  “Whisky straight with a side of whisky,” I said heading for the wash room, “Be right back.”

  Two oversized glasses half filled with amber relief were waiting for me at the bar. I tossed one back hoping to wash away the coating. The other I sipped going so far as to swill the liquid around before swallowing. Most of the odor faded and a weariness washed over me. I needed a few hours of sleep.

  “Rough night?” the bartender asked pointing at the Orange sided door.

  “More emotional than physical,” I replied.

  “Ah, woman, I know the feeling,” he said moving to serve three new customers.

  They come in the orange door and took seats at the bar.

  “Gentlemen, coffee?” he asked the Orange uniformed men.

  “Beer for us,” one said.

  “We’re on strike,” another added.

  “Yes sir, we’re on strike until the Galactic Council comes clean on what’s going on in the Realm,” the third man said.

  I couldn’t resist so I asked, “What’s the Council hiding?”

  “All kinds of things. Like what are they doing about the Druids? According to the Congress for Galactic Wrongs Righted, the brown robes are doing a lot of mischief.”

  “And how come we’re short of supplies. Even if we weren’t on strike,” he said getting a ‘that’s right’ and a ‘you tell him’ from his companions, “We’re short of plating, fiber optic cables, beams and the interior components we need to do our work.”

  Another picked up the dialogue, “We’ve been short supplied for four months. Where’s the Council? Hiding that’s where.”

  These weren’t Rebels or organizers; they were simple space ship mechanics. Gennaro had gotten to them during their idle time. Workers like troops the Realm over get carried away with rumors during slow times. Right now, they were on strike and voicing discontent. A work stoppage, I didn’t doubt, that would last until their supplies started flowing again.

  Other Orange uniformed workers entered and began to fill the tables. I paid for my drinks and headed for the Orange door. Early morning light hit my eyes and I squinted. Half way down the ramp, I noticed a circle of security personnel. The group was in the wrong direction from the stairs but I felt compelled to see about the commotion.

  “Kid’s all beat up,” one of the officers said as I approached.

  “Looks as if he was lured down here before the beating,” another added, “Look at those marks.”

  “I’ve seen those marks before,” the first officer ventured, “Not that many, or that deep. Druid fighting sticks if they asked me.”

  “No one’s going to ask you,” the second officer teased, “But I agree, differently welts from Druid sticks.”

  “I didn’t know they could break bones?” the other replied.

  I peeked between the security team. A big mitt sized hand stuck out from under a pile of boxes. I shift position for a look behind the pile of trash. His arms and head were a mass of welts and his feet pointed skyward while his knees were on the deck. Bent and twisted, the boy was dead. I’ve seen men beaten to death and it’s never a pretty sight. But, this death was beyond disturbing.

  The dead boy was Zamrud, the tea shop owner’s son. My anger returned.

  I left before the security officers could start asking me questions. As I climbed the stairs to street level, the weariness hit me. The park was busy with people milling around, not strolling and enjoying the gardens, more as if they were waiting for something.

  A couple of security officers were in the tea shop speaking with the owner. I thought briefly about investigating Zamrud’s death but until it became a direct threat to the Druids, I’d let Construction Station security handle it. My plate was full, I was tired to the core and I had other matters to work on.

  Hotel Imperial appeared in my tunnel vision and I entered, moved as if in a haze through the lobby and found myself in my room. No recollection of the lift or hallway clung to my short term memory.

  I stripped out of my cloths and was just about to fall into bed when one of those, why wait, ideas slithered across my mind. I was so tired, yet, I could get a head start on the strange language from the list.

  Slaving my PID to the hotel’s entertainment screen, I lifted a finger to scr
ibe a few of the symbols. My finger circled a breath away from the screen. My brain twisted in an attempt to recreate the letters. Nothing came to me, I couldn’t recall even one image of what I’d seen.

  For a heartbeat, I almost let it go. Out of stubbornness, I pulled the doublet from the Clan strap and pulled it on over my drowsy head. Neat rows of symbols jumped into my consciousness and not only did I write a few symbols, I put the entire list on the screen. Why not, it would help with the search for the language’s origin.

  I pulled the doublet off and stowed it in the strap. Typing in Search, I turned and crawled into bed. Bing, Bing the PID reported a hit on the search. So soon? I wanted to wait till I’d napped. I really did, but being curious, I grabbed the PID. This was easy.

  No Results! What? The search had taken maybe ten seconds. I couldn’t have searched for a pink dress shop on Construction Station in that short of time. And, there were probably only two pink dress shops on the entire station.

  Anger is a stimuli and I suddenly had a stiff dose. I logged into the military net and hit search. Nine, ten and the message popped up, No Results!

  Both searches had the same result and both neglected to offer alternative results. Not a long list of cat pictures or videos of dogs in funny hats or any of the other things a failed search usually returned, just, No Results!

  I rolled over on my back and dropped an arm on my forehead.

  Daylight poured in my window. A short nap had turned into a twelve-hour sleep. I climbed out of bed, walked to the window and stretched. Peering out, I checked to see if Brown workers were also striking. An extra Holiday would give them time to burn off some energy and reset them for their next shift. No harm done, I figured.

  On the street below, as I expected were brown hats. But spread in the sea of brown hats were almost as many orange, plus men and women in civilian clothing. They were shouting and a lot were caring signs. I jumped into my cloths and raced to the street.

  The signs didn’t all match but enough did to highlight the loud chant from the crowd.