by Joe Vasicek
“What do you see?” he asked Mira. Her face was pale, but her eyes were glued to the window.
“I see—I see lights. Buildings, or maybe mountains—no, buildings. But they’re falling away—oh Lord, we must be more than a thousand feet up.”
“Wait,” said Jalil, tilting his head to get a better look. “Out there. What’s that?”
Something was definitely moving up there—and moving fast. It was hard to make out in the darkness, but it seemed to fill the sky.
“I don’t know,” said Mira. “It looks like—latticework?”
The ceiling of the dome, Jalil realized. We’re up against the inside wall of the glass mountain. No wonder the voice called it a “skyway.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Mira. Her breathing came in short gasps, and her face was rapidly changing color.
“Here,” Jalil said, taking hold of her hand. “Close your eyes and try not to think about anything. Nothing’s wrong; you’re perfectly safe. Take a deep breath—in, out. In, out.”
She gripped his hand and breathed deeply. The train soon leveled out, and her natural color returned to her face. Still, she continued to hold onto his hand as if for dear life.
As she gradually calmed down, Jalil leaned over her and looked out the window. A curious sight met his eyes; above, the sky turned to darkness, still obscured by the thick glass of the dome. Out on the horizon, however, the lights of the endless cityscape stretched out like a carpet made of stars.
“Masha’allah,” he whispered.
Above them, a second train hurried by on another rail, much like a satellite. With a little imagination, he could almost believe he was flying upside down, with the ground overhead and the sky below. It was beautiful.
Beautiful, yes, he told himself, but it still isn’t home.
* * * * *
The skyway ended at the top of a giant pylon that towered almost five miles above the cityscape below. A dense fog had arisen beneath them, partially shrouding the city lights, but the pylon rose out of the midst of it like a tower reaching up to heaven.
Like the tower of Bab-el, Jalil thought to himself as he and Mira rode an exterior elevator from the train station down to the mid-levels, where food was supposed to be cheaper. Though it was still night, the view of the endless cityscape was fantastic. The tops of the highest towers poked up through the fog, while the lights from below created an eerie reddish-yellow glow that reflected faintly off of the glass ceiling above.
The elevator came to a jolting stop, and Mira grabbed his arm in fright. He patted her hand for reassurance and picked up the bags, squinting in the dim light at the display panel next to the door.
“Level 3015,” he read. “This should be it.”
The door hissed open, and he and Mira both stepped out into a wide but windowless corridor. The ceiling was low, and the only lights hung along the center, leaving the edges in shadow. Several of them flickered, as if in need of repair. Jalil thought he saw someone staring at them from the shadows to his right, but when he turned, he realized it was just another pile of garbage.
“Let’s move quickly,” he said, remembering the robbers in Aliet Dome. His stomach growled like a roaring beast, and he hurried forward into the darkness, Mira close behind him.
The cantina was right where the station attendant had told them it would be: at the end of the corridor. A handful of dusty, long-abandoned booths stood in front of the cantina doorway, while all the other shops along the wall were caged or boarded up. A bead curtain hung from the doorjamb; above it, a neon sign flickered on and off, written in a language that Jalil couldn’t understand.
“Heyyou!” muttered a scruffy drunkard, lying next to the door. Mira froze, but Jalil quickly parted the beads and led them in before the man could make any trouble.
The air inside reeked with the sweet smell of hookah smoke and flavored cigarettes. Red-tinted glowlamps illuminated the room in the color of blood, while rhythmic electronic music pounded out a steady pulse like a heartbeat. Almost every table in the room was full, and every seat at the bar was occupied. A few heads turned as he and Mira entered, their eyes bloodshot and vacant.
Jalil knew at once that he didn’t like the place.
He led Mira through the crowd to the last empty table. It was a little large, but sat up against the corner, where he could keep an eye on the rest of the room. He dropped his bags and unslung his rifle before sitting down, making way for Mira to sit on the far side.
“Anything particular you want?” he asked.
“Maybe some beans and flatbread, if they have any.”
Jalil glanced up at the menu on the wall, written in New Gaian; he didn’t see it listed, but figured it wouldn’t be hard to get something similar.
As he opened the rifle’s chamber, he became aware that someone at the bar was staring at him. Without looking up, he loaded three bullets and rose to his feet, snapping the chamber shut. A few people at one of the nearby tables raised their eyebrows, but most of the cantina’s patrons paid him no mind. That was fine by him, so long as they knew he wasn’t defenseless.
Keeping Mira in the corner of his eye, he slung the rifle over his shoulder and walked up to the food counter. “A platter of beans and flatbread,” he told the small boy at the front, pulling out the last cash datachip. “Enough for two.”
“Four credits,” said the boy. He turned to the portly cook and shouted something in a language Jalil didn’t understand.
Not sure whether to wait or to sit back down, Jalil glanced casually around the room. There didn’t seem to be any waiters in the place; only the boy, the cook, and a very busy bartender. Keeping one eye on Mira back in the corner, he leaned over the counter to wait.
“I’m telling you, that’s not possible,” said one of the men at the bar, speaking in New Gaian. Though his voice mingled with the others, he sat close enough that Jalil could just pick out his voice from the background noise.
“Believe what you want,” said his companion, “but that’s what the survivors told us.”
“How did they know?”
“Simple. They answered the summons to the council at Tenguri but refused to join forces. A few months later, a fleet of Hameji warships jumped into their home system and massacred everyone. No prisoners, and damn few survivors.”
Hameji? Jalil wondered, his curiosity piqued. He didn’t know why, but that word sounded strangely familiar.
“We’ve all heard stories about the Hameji atrocities,” said another man. “What makes this any different?”
“Easy,” said the first. “You ever been to the Outer Reaches? It’s a hardy breed that lives beyond the civilized worlds—a New Gaian battle group wouldn’t last six months out there, let me tell you that.”
“Your point being?”
“According to what the survivors told us, they’d put together a tribal alliance nearly three times larger than the Hameji war fleet. Three times larger—and all of them warrior captains. Should have been an easy victory, right?”
The men were silent. Jalil shifted so that he could hear them better.
“They didn’t have a chance. The Hameji fleet was too coordinated—met them like a hive of drones, all thinking with the same mind.”
“I still think it’s impossible. Those survivors must have been deluded.”
“Their ship’s log backed up what they were saying. The details of the stories matched. Yeah, they might have been a bit skittish when we picked them up, but they certainly were in their right minds when they wrote up the log, I can tell you that.”
“Here you go,” said the boy, sliding the steaming hot platter across the countertop to Jalil. The beans were mixed with an assortment of strange herbs, but smelled palatable enough. He thanked the boy and took the platter back to his table, leaving the men to their strange conversation.
He and Mira ate ravenously, not bothering to talk. They were both too tired for that anyway. In a few minutes, they were wiping the last of the
beans from the bottom of the platter with the last few pieces of bread.
As they finished off the simple but satisfying meal, the lights in the cantina grew dim, while off to the side, three large, tubular showcase windows lit up with warm, yellow light. Jalil didn’t know why he hadn’t noticed them before; perhaps he’d been too preoccupied.
As the electronic music grew louder, a man in a long, dark coat stood up from the bar and strode over to their table. Jalil realized it was the man who’d been staring at them earlier. He tensed and gripped the rifle in his lap.
“Good morning,” said the man, pulling up a chair across from him and Mira. “Mind if I take a seat?”
“Yes,” said Jalil. “This table is occupied.”
“The peace of Earth be upon you too, brother.”
Mira gasped, and Jalil struggled to hide his surprise. The man knew the language of the high desert.
“Who are you, and what do you want?”
“My name is Gregor Luczak,” the man answered, still speaking the desert tongue. “I am what you could call a businessman. I wish to speak with you because I believe we are both in a position to provide something that the other needs.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jalil saw a girl step into the central showcase. She was about Mira’s age, with long black hair that stretched to her waist, and wore a provocative red dress that revealed more than it covered. Though his eyes were naturally drawn to her slender, feminine figure, he forced his attention back to the man sitting across the table.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Gregor gave him a sly, calculating smile. “You’re pilgrims from the high desert, are you not?” he asked, reverting to New Gaian. “Looking for a way to the temple, but running low on funds—so low that you can only afford to take the night trains. And, being from the high desert, I expect that you have a certain set of skills that most people in these parts lack.” He eyed the heirloom rifle meaningfully. “Am I right?”
Jalil stared at him without answering. On the stage, two girls stepped into the other showcases, their bodies swaying to the steady electronic beat.
“What are you proposing?”
“Simply this, my friend: passage through Etilan Dome in exchange for your services on my convoy.”
Jalil tried to focus, but the dancing cantina girls made it all but impossible. The sensuous way they moved their hips and slid their hands across their bodies made his cheeks blanch and his heart pound. He’d never seen so much uncovered skin on a woman before, and it was hard not to stare.
“Huh?” said Jalil. “Our route goes through Waszik Dome, not Etilan.”
“Ah, that is where most pilgrims make their mistake,” said Gregor, pulling out a cigar as he leaned back in his chair. “The Temple of a Thousand Suns is surrounded by a number of smaller ancient domes, each about four hundred miles in diameter. If you continued through Waszik Dome, you would have to pass through five of these smaller ones to reach your destination. But Etilan Dome is significantly larger, with its furthest border only eight hundred miles from the temple. Once through Etilan, you will only need to pass through two more.”
The woman in the center showcase slowly unwrapped a long stretch of cloth from her waist, revealing a wide stretch of midriff. Intricate henna tattoos circled her navel, undulating seductively with the movement of her belly. Jalil swallowed, and cold sweat began to form on the back of his neck.
“And what do you want from us?” he asked.
Gregor put the cigar in his mouth and lit it with an ornate silver lighter from his breast pocket. The foul-smelling smoke rose around the edges of his mouth, momentarily obscuring his face.
“I have a small convoy carrying several valuable goods that need protection. Your duty would be to ensure our safe passage from Raya Dome to Terra 4 Dome, a journey of less than twenty-five hundred miles. Once we reach our destination, you’d be free to go—and generously compensated for your trouble.”
“How much?”
“Five thousand credits.”
Jalil’s eyes widened, and he failed to suppress a gasp. Five thousand credits—that was more than enough to get them to the temple. There might even be enough left over for offworld passage.
“That’s all we have to do?” he asked. “Escort your convoy twenty-five hundred miles?”
“Yes. Care for a cigar?”
“Not so fast—what’s the catch? What do you need your convoy guarded from?”
Gregor Luczak grinned. “I see you are a cautious man. Etilan Dome has been mired in civil war for several years. That will not be a problem; the cease-fire between the rebels and the government shows no sign of breaking, at least in the next few weeks. However, a number of warlords and bandits have risen to power in the border territories. Our convoy guard is more than adequate to deal with this threat, but we have need of an advance scout. Your experience in the desert makes you perfect for the job.”
Jalil frowned. “I don’t know…”
Gregor bit on his cigar and reached into his vest, pulling out a cash datachip. “I’ll pay you two thousand up front, with the other three thousand on arrival.”
He tossed the chip across the table to Jalil, who picked it up and examined it. It looked real enough, though he’d have to plug it into a kiosk to make sure it had the full two thousand credits. Still, it seemed Gregor was telling the truth.
“Any conditions for the other three thousand?”
“So long as at least three-quarters of my cargo gets through safely, I’ll pay you in full. And if we arrive with the full hundred percent, I’ll give you an extra two thousand on top of that.”
Seven thousand credits, Jalil thought to himself, his heart pounding. That’s more than enough to get us to the temple—I could even pay for Mira’s flight back home.
Regardless, they weren’t in a position to say no.
Jalil glanced up and froze in his chair. The black haired girl in the central showcase stood with her back to the audience, arms wrapped around her body so that it looked as if someone was embracing her. Swaying erotically, she hiked up the top half of her dress and slipped it over her head. He stared wide-eyed at the sight; had she really—
She turned around to face the audience, baring her naked breasts for all to see. Catcalls filled the air, and a drunk man lunged forward, hitting the glass with a solid thud that made the other cantina-goers roar with laughter.
Jalil stared as if transfixed. His heart pounded in his chest like a caged animal, and his breathing came short and quick while his hands slackened and went clammy.
“Jalil?”
It was Mira; he started at the sound of her voice.
“What?” he asked, turning to face her. He blinked and swallowed, sweat pooling behind his ears and on his forehead.
“What are you two talking about?” she asked softly, glancing past him at the girls in the showcases.
Jalil’s cheeks turned red as a wave of guilt and embarrassment washed over him. “We’re, ah, discussing a matter of business,” he stuttered, trying in vain to recall any of Gregor’s words. “This man, he wants to, ah, pay us, and, um…”
“Pay us?”
For half a second, Jalil clenched his eyes shut, but the image of the half-naked girl would not flee his mind. Her breasts stared up at him like a grotesque pair of sightless eyes, the henna tattoo around her navel an open maw. The headiness of his arousal made him feel dirty and ashamed.
“Well?” asked Gregor, speaking the desert tongue. “Is it a deal or isn’t it?”
“What deal?” asked Mira.
In that moment, the girl in the showcase slipped out of her dress, spreading her legs as she arched her back erotically. The others girls followed suit, stripping off the last of their clothes until all three of them were naked.
Jalil felt trapped, as if the walls were closing in on him. He should never have come here, never have brought Mira to this evil place. They needed to get out—now.
“Yes,�
�� he said, reverting unconsciously to the desert tongue. “We’ll take your offer.”
Gregor leaned back in his chair and smiled. “We leave in ten hours for the border,” he said, smoke curling around the edges of his mouth. “Meet us at gate twelve.”
“Good,” said Jalil, awash in dizziness as he rose to his feet. “We’ll see you at twelve then.”
* * * * *
Mira stared in mesmerized shock at the three cantina girls dancing in the showcases. The way they moved, undulating their bodies to the rhythm of the beat, pulsating with such raw, unabashed sexuality—it made her feel profoundly ugly.
“Come on,” said Jalil, standing over her. “Let’s go.”
His cheeks were flushed, his body tense. She rose and took his hand, only to find it warm and clammy. It’s because of the girls, she realized with a start. The thought simultaneously repulsed and frightened her.
There is holiness within you. Even though she wanted to believe it, there was no way she could anymore. She’d naively thought that with time, Jalil would come to notice her, fall in love with her. But those whores had caught his attention—stolen his attention from her—in only minutes! Perhaps her mother was right; perhaps the only way to convince him not to leave was to get into his bed.
When you’re alone together, you’ll know what to do.
Part III
Chapter 8
Mira squinted as she stepped out into the bright, clear sunlight of Etilan Dome. The sky was blue and the land was green, but the air smelled slightly of smoke—not clean campfire smoke, or biting gunpowder smoke, but the sticky smell of burning oil. It was so faint that she would probably get used to it, but still, it made her nose tingle with each breath.
“Well, that checkpoint was easy enough,” said Jalil. He set down her bag as if expecting her to comb through it, and gave her a puzzled look when she made no move to do so.