Galactic Council Realm 2: On Duty

by J. Clifton Slater

  “Justice for Zamrud! Justice for Zamrud! Justice for Zamrud!”

  Other signs were more disturbing to me.

  ‘Druids are the devil.’ ‘Investigate the Brown Robed Devils.’ ‘Druids killed Zamrud.’

  I sucked in a lung full of air and coughed. The Druids had cut off this section from the Heart Plant’s rich air. Instead of the pleasant sea salt aroma, the air had a slight antiseptic odor. They’d more than likely also cut off the Heart Plant from Orange. Druids aren’t given to doing things half orbit.

  Growing up in space, I’d experienced ships without Heart Plants. They used stored air. I’ve even been on a large station without the soothing aroma. But, I’d never encountered such a strong smell of the antiseptic used to clean the filters. Construction Station, because of its large size, might need a stronger cleaner. It was usually masked by the air from the Heart Plants. Today, it wasn’t. A few people gasped and coughed between chants.

  “Justice for Zamrud! Justice for Zamrud! Justice for Zamrud!”

  Cutting off the rich air wouldn’t endear the Druids to the population but it wasn’t my job to point that out. My job was to, what?

  Chase down Gennaro and Ignaz, and question them about harassment and treason. No, my instructions came from the Druid Elders and as a Knight of the Clan, my job was to protect Druids and Clansmen. So, I put aside the search for the unknown language, my questions about treason and formulated a plan to protect the Druids.

  The plan carried me to the Justice Deck. As I left the tram, my ears were assaulted by a chanting mob.

  “Justice for Zamrud! Justice for Zamrud! Justice for Zamrud!”

  The atmosphere here was also sans blessings from the Heart Plants. It was further out from the center of the station so the antiseptic aroma was stronger. More people in the crowd were coughing and coughing harder.

  I shoved my way to the front of the yelling throng. Security in riot gear ringed the entrance to the Justice deck holding back the masses and blocking my way. Off to my left, a corridor of uniforms provided the only access for people assigned to the Justice deck.

  She had her head down and her face partially covered. Probably trying to maintain some anonymity from the crowd. But, I saw her and moved to intercept Judge Birthe’s bailiff.

  “Please, I need to speak with Birthe,” I said catching her elbow and halting her progress.

  “Let go of me. The Justice Deck is closed today,” she said while attempting to dislodge my hand, “If you haven’t noticed, there’s a demonstration going on. Nobody is seeing Judge Birthe or any other Judge today. Now, let go of my arm before I call security over.”

  “Look here,” I said drawing the right hand fighting stick from the Clan strap.

  She shrieked when I shook and extended it. The deadly alloy tip seemed to drink the mid-morning light while the black shaft with its alloy bands withered in as if it were alive. I admired the weapon for a second. When I looked up, the bailiff’s hands were up in a defensive posture and she was screaming for help.

  Bad move Knight Protector of the Clan, bad move. I’d forgotten that civilians didn’t see weapons as tools. They saw them as what they were, killing implements.

  I flipped the Knight’s stick upside down and handed it to her.

  “Take this to Judge Birthe,” I said clasping her fingers around the handle, “I’ll wait here for the Judge’s reply.”

  Shaking as if the temperature had dropped to orbital zero, she stood looking first at me then at the black stick. The stick then me, after a few revolutions, I grabbed her shoulders and gently shoved her towards the line of security officers.

  I could only imagine her reaction had I handed her the left fighting stick with the additional alloy tip on the butt end. She would have dropped the stick and passed out. Now, at least, she had reached the line of officers. Once passed the line, she turned, studied the crowd until she located me. I had the pleasure of receiving an ugly sneer. Then, she turned and disappeared into the Justice Deck.

  As I waited, I studied the protesters. Older or out of shape members seemed to be the ones having trouble breathing. They coughed more. A few were easing their way clear of the crowd trying to get some fresh air. I hoped, I could get the Druids to stop their protest.

  My attention was drawn by the jingle of riot gear. Two extremely large security officers burst through the crowd. I couldn’t see their eyes hidden behind their tinted face shields. I took a guess at which way they were headed and moved to step out of their way.

  They mirrored my move. Before I could shift again, they grabbed my arms, spun around and dragged me backwards to the security line. They didn’t stop until we were up the steps and inside the Justice deck’s entrance. Then, they dropped my arms and walked away.

  I turned around and was greeted by the bailiff. Her sneer had been replaced by a huge grin.

  “Was that necessary?” I asked flexing my arms to restore circulation.

  “Friends of mine,” she said shrugging her shoulders, “I told them about the scary man and they volunteered to return the favor. Judge Birthe is waiting in his chambers.”

  We took a lift up two decks, existed right, walked silently down a broad hallway and stopped before a massive door. She knocked and without waiting opened the door.

  “The judge will see you now,” she said with a wink.

  Combine a little danger with some fear and a safe out come and you end up flirting. It’s a pressure release mechanism. Or, as some call it, survivors’ euphoria. Call it what you will, it was a nice side effect to the abutment of adrenalin.

  “Asthore’ Judge Birthe. Thank you for seeing me,” I said stepping into the room and closing the door behind me.

  He was standing beside his deck. On the wall behind him was a collection of fighting sticks. Some old bent or broken, other sets showed deep gouges from hard use. Slung on the back of his chair was a set of custom Druid sticks. He might be a well-respected and experienced judge but under the legal façade, Birthe was a warrior Druid.

  “You have words for me?” he asked going full Druid on me.

  If I doubted his experience as a warrior before, the demonstration he was putting on with my right fighting stick, decided the question. The stick was a blur in one hand before almost mystically appearing in his other hand. He ran all of the single stick drills again and I waited for his demonstration to end.

  “Would you like to try it with both sticks?” I asked indicating the Clan strap.

  “You are generous Knight Protector of the Clan,” he said flipping the stick around and offering it to me, “But there is something unbalanced about this one and I believe the other stick as well.”

  “It’s not the sticks that are unbalanced,” I replied, “It’s what comes attached to them. But that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Speak your words,” he said as he moved over and stood behind his desk.

  “There was a man arrested with me,” I explained, “I was accused of brawling with him.”

  “Hippolyt is his name,” Birthe replied.

  “I need to speak with him about the death of a young shop worker, named Zamrud,” I continued, “I believe Hippolyt may have knowledge about the attack. I need to speak with him.”

  “I am aware of Zamrud’s death and the citizen’s response,” the Druid Judge said flatly, “I cannot help you in speaking with Hippolyt.”

  “He was injured. Is he dead? In another hospital other than the brig’s infirmary?” I asked.

  “The infirmary, yes. A bribe, an attendant and Hippolyt vanished,” the Judge admitted, “Security searched the Squatter’s Camp on BCDE. Owning to the disorder by the citizens, the security search was recalled, before Deck A was cleared.”

  “The gift of the White Hearts is being isolated,” I said easing into my next item with the Judge, “I noticed a medicinal small in the manufactured air. What is that?”

  “The Council’s office of Station Maintenance sent a new filter cleaning solution,” the well
informed Druid said, “It is unnoticeable when the air is mixed. By itself, the odor is strong.”

  “In strength the solution is debilitating to the old and the ill. I request an investigation into the chemical, the manufacturer as well as the committee responsible for recommending it,” I said, then slowly and with as much respect as I could shove into the words added, “We need to speak about the disorder by the citizens. Withholding the gift from the Heart Plants is extreme.”

  He stiffened and his eyes grew cold.

  “Druids teased, accused, harassed, our young and old threatened,” the Judge stated, “and you, a Knight Protector of the Clan, say it is extreme. Defend the statement.”

  “There is more to the troubles,” I said, “I’m sworn to protect the Clan and Druids from harm. I will find out who killed Zamrud and prove it’s wasn’t a Druid. But, I am also looking into a propaganda attack on the Galactic Council Realm. If the Brothers and Sisters withhold the Heart Plants’ air, the enemy wins.”

  “For a Knight of the Clan, you are long winded,” Birthe said sitting down and exhaling loudly, “The Druids will lift the ban on the Heart Plants’ gift. And, Phelan Oscar Piran, the enemy must not win.”

  Chapter 25

  I sent a message to Sergeant Bima when the tram left the BCDE deck platform.

  ‘Warning. Watch your posts. Escalating threat,’ I typed, ‘Need old clothing. Semper Fi.’

  ‘Clothes waiting,” he typed back, “Meet in pink dress shop, Semper Fi.’

  I hoped the battle tested Sergeant had a sense of humor. If not, I might have to investigate the Squatter Camp on Deck A in a pink cocktail dress.

  There were only a few civilians out shopping when I descended the escalator. No protests but a substantial security presence patrolled the street. The pink dress shop was just down from Hotel Regal.

  “Sergeant Bima?” I asked the lady standing behind the counter.

  “Oh, your color is perfect for a cerise gown I have,” she said eyeballing me from head to toe, “But it’ll take a lot, I mean a lot, of altercations to fit you properly.”

  She had a cloth tape measure dangling from a finger and was gentle waving it back and forth. I was getting nervous.

  I relaxed when I heard a familiar voice, “Lieutenant? Sorry I’m late. We had four drunks approach one of my Marines. They started to make trouble. Oh, not the cerise gown bit. I swear.”

  He was speaking as he walked in the door. The shop keeper wore a huge grin and was putting away her tape measure.

  “I’m sorry about that Lieutenant. She pulls that on every guy who walks in.”

  “No harm done Sergeant. Say, what is cerise?” I asked.

  “Pink, what else,” the proprietor said indicating the racks full of pink dresses.

  “What’s this about four drunks?” I asked turning to face Bima.

  “They weren’t drunk. They were trouble,” he said holding out a bag for me, “After your call, I put extra Marines on each post. When the drunks attempted to take my guard’s weapon, my Marines were ready. Thanks for the heads up.”

  “I need your help,” I said, “I’m looking for a guy named Hippolyt. Big, muscles, not too bright, has bad teeth and likes to fight.”

  “If by bad you mean missing teeth,” Bima replied, “I don’t know him but I know the type. A few of my Marines participate in unsanctioned combat fights. We drug test them because the unlicensed promoters don’t. Heck, they encourage the fighters to juice.”

  “Where do they hang out?” I asked looking in the bag.

  “Two gyms are near the Squatter’s Camp,” Sergeant Bima said, “If your guy is into combat fighting, he’ll be at one of them.”

  I stepped into a dressing room and put on a patched blue uniform. Bima was still waiting when I emerged in the ragged clothing.

  “How do I look?” I asked.

  “No comment Lieutenant,” Bima said, “I’ve contacted two of my Marines who frequent those gyms. You wouldn’t know them but I’ve given them your description. If you get in too deep, you’ll have at least one Marine in your corner in each place.”

  I followed Bima’s directions and walked passed the Hotel Regal until the shops gave way to a series of light industrial complexes. These were in business assembling goods for the workers. The really heavy and hi-tech assembly facilities were several decks above me closer to the exterior of Construction Station.

  The nearest entrance to the Squatter’s Camp from the pink dress shop was a double airlock adjacent to the last complex. I pushed hard and one of the solid doors swung inward slowly as I’d expect from an airlock. Weak light stretched downward lighting a rusty and neglected cargo tunnel. Stepping onto the steep ramp, I realized the civilized world of Construction Station ended at the air lock.

  I trudged carefully downward, side stepping trash and avoiding dark spots where the overhead fiber optics had been either stripped out or the disperser had crusted over. In both cases, the lack of light hid obstacles on the ramp. For what I figured was about four decks, the ramp corkscrewed around and around at a steep angle. It wasn’t for foot traffic, rather, it was designed for a power cargo tug with a grip on the edge rail of the ramp. I didn’t have a tug.

  I was almost dizzy when the tunnel ended and the overhead disappeared into the gloom above me. The storage deck spread out empty except for an occasional stack of long forgotten shipping crates. Following Sergeant Bima’s instructions, I did a U-turn around the cargo tunnel and headed towards the first gym.

  I walked around a stack of cargo crates. The bright lights reached me before the noise. Suddenly, the lonely sound of my boots on the deck and the floor lighting were overwhelmed by shouting and beams of light that overshot the top of a tall curved wall of cargo crates. This was either the Realm’s most exuberant Squatter’s Camp or I’d found the first gym.

  It looked like a small stadium with stacked crates creating a curved blank wall. From the empty storage deck, I tugged around the structure until I reached what I assumed was a flea market. I stepped between two tables and emerged in the middle of a busy market place. Rows of vendors shouting out the benefits of their wares greeted me. Some selling odds and ends of equipment and clothing, some offering slightly sketchy food while others were peddling weapons.

  One end of the market approached an opening in the curved wall of the stadium while the other end stopped just short of the actual Squatter’s Camp. I could see paths leading between cloth tents and structures that spread out creating a town for the destitute, depraved and discarded. I turned around and pushed my way towards the opening in the curved wall.

  “That’ll be 15 Pesetas, Boss,” a man standing at a table informed me.

  I’d been focused on the multicolored strips of cloth covering the entrance. The cloth was only anchored one crate up but it made an efficient curtain. From the deck, I couldn’t see inside.

  “I’m not a tourist or a customer, I’m just passing through,” I informed him, “looking for a guy named Hippolyt. Do you know where I can find him?”

  “Hippolyt you say? Why he’s inside,” the man sneered pointing towards the barrier with one hand and holding the other out for payment, “That’ll be 15 Pesetas.”

  “I’ll make you a deal,” I said knowing the man would say anything to get my money, “I’ll pay you 5 Pesetas. If, I find Hippolyt inside, I’ll pay you 15 more when I leave.”

  He hesitated before asking, “And if you don’t find him?”

  “If I come out without seeing Hippolyt,” I said, “I’ll break the hand you’re hold out for my money, then, I’ll break the arm you’re pointing with. Fair enough?”

  “Ah, give me two Pesetas and we’ll call it good,” he said.

  “Is Hippolyt in there?” I asked.

  “Honestly Boss, I don’t know the guy,” the man admitted as he took my two bills.

  My mother, as she was tending the ill in Squatter’s Camps, drilled her tag along son on some of the cons used to separate fish from their money
. I always wondered how a gentle Druid soul, like her, knew so much about scams and cons.

  I brushed the curtain aside and stepped into the structure. The wide outer curved wall of crates provided for a lot of real estate inside. Center of the area was a raised combat ring. Rickety bleachers raised from around the ring. The bleachers were full of bored looking people. Beyond the bleachers were sections for workouts with identical mats and equipment. I turned to enter one of the segments.

  “You’re new here, aren’t you, Hoss?” a man asked. He was dressed in a shimming purple work uniform with a red silk tie.

  “Yes, first time here,” I replied looking up at a purple top hat that completed his strange attire, “Just looking for someone. Thought, I’d take a look around.”

  He eyed me up and down, shook his head, and said, “A tourist? We don’t get many of those around here. Yes, you’ll do. Let me show you around.”

  He motioned me to follow. We ducked behind the bleachers and passed a circled area. Men and women were wrestling on mats, lifting weights, hitting heavy bags or standing around sweating after completing their workout. I looked for Hippolyt among the trainers and while there were a lot of missing teeth, none fit the description.

  We wandered through two more sections and I didn’t see my man. Just for fun, I eyed some of the trainers with short hair trying to spot Bima’s Marine. Several carried themselves well but I couldn’t tell which one was my backup.

  “Here, let’s take a short cut,” my guide instructed pointing at a ramp, “We’ll just cut across the combat circle.”

  I followed him up and a woman, just a little shorter than me, meet us coming down the ramp. As she drew abreast of me, her left hand reached out and she double tapped my upper arm.

  If I’d been with a fire-team of Marines, the signal was, ‘you take the point position.’

  I think I’d just found the Marine. Or rather, she’d found me. By the time I came back from the ‘what was that’ mind trip, the purple uniform was beckoning me to join him.

  I am not smart sometimes. In fact, I can be completely dense.