by James Palmer
Untitled
The Heart
of the
Universe
Jeff Deischer
Copyright 2017
1 In Which A Hawk
Poaches a Wolf’s Rabbit
The gem sparkled in the bright moonlight, yellows and pinks shifting in the interior of the fist-sized jewel, which rested on a craggy stone pylon. The pattern of white gleam and pale colors was almost hypnotizing. It was brilliant.
The man studying the gem withdrew the oversized holobinoculars from his eyes, and grinned wolfishly, baring his teeth as he did so. Perched on a ridge overlooking a small village of thatched huts, he had been surveilling the area for several minutes. He wore a sandy-colored shirt, and darker brown trousers and vest; undoubtedly they had matched prior to his journey into the jungle. Now, muddied and torn in half a dozen places, they were little more than cleaning rags. If the state of his attire concerned the man, his face didn’t show it. Lined and darkened by exposure to the elements, the expression on the face was one of rapt attention, with a hint of triumph playing at the corners of the thin mouth. Golden brown hair peeked out from under a cap designed to alleviate the heat of the jungle. Several days’ growth of the same color hair on the man’s face indicated he had begun his trek some time ago. Steely eyes narrowed as he watched the village for some sign of life. Short leather boots, and a belt with various compartments, including a holster for a blaze gun, completed the man’s garb. The holster was full with a large, powerful blazer, constructed by Much Military Manufacturing, one of the more successful armaments firms in the Milky Way.
Raising a wrist, the man consulted his chrono: It was after midnight, local time.
He reached into a pouch that hung from a strap about his neck, and removed a shiny object; it was a double of the gem on the distant pylon. Close inspection would reveal the two bright jewels were not identical. But to the naked eye at a distance, his would pass for the other. Or, at least that was what he hoped. He hefted the gem in his hand, as if to weigh it, repeating an action he had taken a dozen times before. The mass of the gem seemed to reassure him.
Returning the gem to its resting place, the man began his descent down the brush-covered hill. Vines and small branches grabbed at him as he sped down the slope. Loose dirt underfoot made him nearly tumble twice, but he recovered, righting himself in a manner that spoke volumes of his experience outdoors.
Carefully pushing green branches and large, broad leaves out of his way, he crept silently toward the village, his gray eyes alert for any movement in the darkness. Fortunately, the moonlight was bright enough to serve; he dared not use a handheld lamp.
He paused at the edge of the clearing where the village, surrounded by lush vegetation, sat, and scanned the area once more, swatting at a near-invisible insect. The man hated the jungle; although idyllic in appearance, it was hot, humid, and full of bugs.
He man walked slowly, surely, into the village, wending his way between the simple thatched huts. With the grace and power of a jungle cat, he crept toward the dark pylon in the center of the village. The huts seemed to be arranged in a haphazard fashion about a central plaza, the centerpiece of which was the pylon upon which rested the magnificent gem.
The stone pylon, bright gem resting in a niche at the top, was unattended, as he had observed since nightfall. The villagers had not immediately retired at that time, and he had waited, hidden on his perch, until the coast was clear.
At the pylon, he removed his replica from the pouch, and exchanged it for the one on the stone column. For the first time, he noticed a ring of inscriptions around the middle of the genuine gem. Though versed in a smattering of dozens of languages, he didn’t recognize the script, although it seemed vaguely familiar. It did not appear to be Movaru, the language of the natives of Jabareen, this backwater world situated in the outer Orion Arm of the galaxy. The thief turned the stone over in his hand, then stowed it in the leathery pouch.
The dark hairs on the back of his neck stiffened. He turned, and found one male villager watching him. The bronzed native, dark-haired and nearly naked, was unarmed. The two watched each other for long moments, which likely seemed longer than they were. Silence sat like a great weight upon the two, then shattered suddenly as the native yelled for help.
The thief sprinted between two huts, swearing softly under his breath at his misfortune. Behind him, the clamor of men arming themselves with primitive weapons rose from the village, and his swearing redoubled as he ran up the rise. The variety of words and languages that issued forth from his lips showed the thief’s experience at cursing.
Dark-skinned natives, bronzed by a lifetime under a hot sun, poured from the village like ants from an anthill, waving spears over their heads. These sliced the air ferociously as they flew, and clattered around the thief as he scrambled up the hill, losing his peaked cap. The hill hadn’t seemed so steep nor so tall on the way down, he reflected grimly. Villagers close behind, he topped the rise, and kept running.
The natives streamed up the hill behind the thief, those who had thrown spears now drawing knives. As they neared the top of the slope, lightning seemed to strike in front of them – a flash of light blinding them, and the roar of thunder deafening them. The natives fell back, some tumbling down the slope, as the light rose into the sky, tremendous roar following it.
The natives had never seen a skimmer before, reflected the thief, in the seat of the oblong-shaped flying vehicle. He laughed a laugh full of relief as the ship rose above the treetops, turned, and sped away from the angry villagers, who were still angrily waving spears in the air.
The sun peeked over the horizon, streaking the lightening blue sky with amber, by the time the skimmer arrived back at the spaceport. It gently set down beside an ungainly-looking starship, oval-shaped, with two thruster nacelles poking out of the rear. The oval was domed, and came to a dull point underneath, upon which it now rested. Like the clothing of its owner, the ship looked like it had been through hard times, with paint peeling in numerous places, and the occasional blast mark scoring its hull, denoting that it had been the pursuee in a chase with some world’s Atmosphere Guard. On this planet, the ship was registered as The Vagabond Lady.
At the rear of the ship, between the two huge nacelles, a hull plate lay on the ground, beside various parts and tools. Bile rose in the throat of the man who had piloted the skimmer as he approached the starship.
“What in the Thirteen Hells is this?” he yelled at the exposed area of the ship, hairs on the back of his neck bristling.
A skeletonless starfish-shaped being poked an appendage out of the opening. Its lack of features made it difficult to tell if this was an arm or head. A holotronically-synthesized voice that originated from a Vox Box translator, echoing slightly from the interior of the ship, explained, “It was a bigger job than I thought it was going to be, sirrah Tabarin, it was.”
“It’s always a bigger job and costs more with you spaceport mechanics,” Bal Tabarin retorted, his voice thick with a Corrubanian accent. “You promised me – promised me – this would be done yesterday – yesterday.”
“I will be done in two chronons, sirrah Tabarin, I will,” said the emotionless, generated voice coming from a small synthesizer attached to the starfish being’s tool belt, inside the compartment. “Have a long breakfast, and when you come back, your ship will be ready, it will.”
Bal eyed the featureless appendage, wondering if it could sense his anger. Visible pores on it dilated, indicating that it sensed something. “All right,” he said finally. “But I’m not paying one econ more than you quoted me.”
And if I do, you’ll be short one appendage when I leave, Bal Tabarin swore to himself as he left the landing area.
Fuming over the delay, the adventurer walked into the restaurant concourse of the spaceport, “restaurant” being a somewhat generous term for the establishments located there. These were primarily cantinas, cafes, and saloons, and most were nothing to brag about. B
ut they had three advantages over better class dining establishments located outside the spaceport, in whatever town on whatever planet: location, being open all day and all night, and liberal policies of behavior and attire. Catering to the galaxy’s undesirables, these types of businesses only cared about two things: Don’t kill anyone inside the place, and pay your bill. Other than that, anything went.
Bal Tabarin entered the first eatery he came to.
The saloon was filled with smoke and Aliens in equal parts, the smoke being bluish and the Aliens being almost every conceivable color of the spectrum, in a variety of shapes and sizes. There were plenty of humans – with a small “H”, any Sentient who could pass for a Human with a capital “H”, which denoted an Earth origin – in the place, too, none of whom you’d trust a moment longer than you absolutely had to.
Neither Bal Tabarin’s entrance nor attire raised an eyebrow, not even from one of those in the saloon who possessed several. He seated himself at a table, and gestured to summon a waitress. At a glance, she looked Human, and attractive, in provocative garb, but four-breasted and middle-aged, the curves of her youth were fading, and up close, the tone and texture of her skin suggested she’d spent not an inconsiderable amount of time in a labor camp. The life of a barmaid in a spaceport saloon was a hard one, composed of equal parts of remembering orders and avoiding the pawing appendages of patrons.
Bal ordered a Maltos ale and a sandwich of roast targa – a local pig-like beast – and idly fingered the gem in its pouch as he waited for his meal to arrive. He recalled stories about inscripted gems, and decided to research the stone further before selling it as he had originally planned. The jewel could turn out to be more valuable than he’d thought, and waiting a bit would cost him nothing.
His drink and sandwich arrived shortly, and he proceeded to eat. The ale was watered down as much as the barkeep could get away with, and the targa meat dry, though not spoiled. The bread matched the meat. He’d eaten worse in the past, and would likely do so again, Bal told himself by way of consolation.
Abruptly, there was a gentle tug at the strap around his neck, and Bal jerked away in response, spinning to inspect the cause of the disturbance. A short, pudgy, yellow-skinned alien had one four-fingered hand in Bal’s pouch. The little alien scampered away, gem in hand. Bal started after him, drawing his weighty blaze gun as he did so, ignoring the prohibition against indoor gunplay.
Suddenly, the little pickpocket crashed to the ground as if tripped, although no one was near enough to have done so. The gem flew into the air, and seemed to hover there for a moment, then dropped into the hand of a man sitting in a nearby booth. A quizzical look passed briefly across the man’s hawk-like face as he held the gem.
Ignoring the alien thief, Bal Tabarin spotted the human who had his gem; he was studying the strange inscription with hooded eyes. His long, dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail high up atop his head. His nose was long and thin, and reminded Bal of the beak of a predatory bird. A royale- or Van Dyke-style beard crowned his chin. Above high, hard boots, a long, black, heavy collared cloak obscured the rest of the man’s garb. As he approached the man, Bal recognized the attire as that of a Sabour Monitor; the greatcoat of the Monitors could repel the blaze gunfire of personal hand weapons.
Bal had never met one before, but their reputation preceded them: Feared by the lowest criminals to the most powerful, Sabours fought injustice wherever they found it, armed with psionic abilities and some sort of weapon unique to the Brotherhood of Sabours. This one appeared to be about Bal’s age, in his middle thirties, or perhaps a couple of years older.
Emerald green eyes in which the flame had died but still smouldered like embers bore into Bal as he came up to the Sabour. “This belongs to you?” the Monitor asked, holding the gem up. There was an undertone of suspicion in his voice.
“It’s mine,” replied Bal, contemplating the possibility that the Sabour was reading his mind. They knew all sorts of mind tricks, not all of which were known to outsiders. The Brotherhood had used these abilities to save the galaxy at least twice, during the so-called Sabour War, more than four thousand years earlier, and the Sund War, only a generation earlier.
The Sabour smiled grimly, as if he knew how Bal Tabarin had acquired the jewel. “It’s very unusual. Where did you get it?”
“I’m an explorer,” answered Bal firmly, holding his hand out for the gem, “of sorts. I discovered it on an expedition.”
“Is it for sale?”
Bal didn’t answer immediately, wondering why a Sabour would want such a gem. He didn’t think them collectors in the usual sense. It confirmed his decision to investigate the gem more fully. “Perhaps for the right price.”
“That being?”
“Fifty thousand econs,” said Bal Tabarin, naming a sum far in excess what he thought the gem worth; he’d originally hoped to get a tenth of that from a dealer in jewels.
Through the smoke of the saloon, the Sabour’s green eyes glittered like emeralds. “I suppose you have papers to prove you own such a valuable gem ... insurance certificates and the like.”
Bal’s face was expressionless for a moment as he digested this challenge, then he replied, “Of course I do. On my ship.”
Bal Tabarin’s offer had been calculated to drive the Sabour away, not entice him further. He turned the situation over in his mind, examining it from all the angles, and decided the challenge was intended to make Bal lower his price; the Sabour probably knew Bal didn’t legally own the unusual gem, but on a planet like this one, small and insignificant in the Galactic Union, possession determined ownership.
The gem must have been worth much more than fifty thousand econs to the Sabour, whose kind were generally regarded as frugal, being, as they were, ascetics of a sort, for him to agree to pay that much, Bal realized. Then again, the gem might only have worth to Sabours, who were part philosopher and part warrior. He wondered how much the Sabour would pay, since he accepted Bal’s price without quibble.
“I’m sure you don’t mind showing me those papers,” offered the Sabour, “so that I know what I’m paying for.”
Bal remembered the thoughtful look that had passed across the Sabour’s face when he had caught the falling gem, and wondered what the Sabour thought he was buying. “It’s for sale, as is,” Bal said cannily, hoping to avoid the unpleasantness of having to produce non-existent documents.
“Or we could involve the police, who will demand to see your certificate of ownership,” countered the other, “since you claim this is an archaeological artifact.”
Bal said, “Showing you the certificate will not be a problem, since you insist.”
“Then, conditionally, I will buy the gem,” the Sabour said, retracting the hand holding the gem back beneath his cloak. Both hand and gem disappeared within its folds. The action was not lost on Bal.
“Conditionally?”
“I don’t have fifty thousand econs with me. But I can get it shortly.”
“How long is ‘shortly’?”
“If you can wait until I book passage to the next system and back, I will bring it with me. Jabareen is not known for its banking system.”
Bal Tabarin frowned. He had no desire to challenge a Sabour Monitor, but wasn’t about to let his next paycheck out of his sight. He was going wherever his gem went. And he thought of a way to raise the price of the gem with incidental expenses. “I happen to have a ship. I can fly you there personally.”
“That’s acceptable to me,” answered the Sabour, a grim smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The man seemed incapable of a full smile. “I am Rebani Kalba of Udehle.”
That explained the Sabour’s demeanor. The Udehe were an intense race, confidant to the point of arrogance, and obsessive. To Bal’s perspective, they took themselves – and the Universe – too seriously.
“My name’s Bal Tabarin.” He quickly paid for his meal, and the two of them left the saloon, the pickpocket forgotten, and walked toward the hanga
r bays. “Of course, you’ll have to pay your own way like any other passenger.”
2 In Which the Rabbit
Becomes a Peacock
Its body was an elongated capsule made of duraluminum which had been decorated to look like clothing. Its hands and feet, oversized at the ends of spindly limbs, shifted and shuffled in a manner that would have been termed nervously, if it had been human. A nubbin head protruded audio and visual equipment superficially resembling the sensory organs of a humanoid.
“This is JSF-480, my manservant,” Bal Tabarin explained to Rebani Kalba the Sabour as they entered Bal’s ship. Eyeing the metallic being somewhat ruefully, he added, “And I use that term loosely.”
Conspicuously observing his master’s disheveled attire, the valet-bot said in a not unpleasant holotronic voice, “I see things went well. As usual.”
“See what I mean?” asked Bal. “Have you ever heard of an insolent ‘bot?”
The valet-bot turned to Rebani. “Welcome to The Desperado.”
“It’s The Vagabond Lady,” Bal interrupted in a peevish tone, hoping that the Sabour would not understand what was meant.
“Of course, sir,” JSF-480 replied with a holotronic sigh. He continued, “You may address me as Josef Four-Eight-Zero. Contrary to my programming, I currently function as ship’s mate.”
Rebani Kalba decided the voice could pass for Human, to an untrained ear. “A pleasure to meet you, Josef.”
“I am sure it is,” replied Josef Four-Eight-Zero. “Allow me to take your cloak, sir. I am programmed to assist Sentients who are perfectly capable of stowing their own belongings.”