One

by Sollai Rhys

  ~~~

  Murky Tradings

  Dedicated to Nic Masman

  Nebula Harris took a step forward into the light of the hatchway that connected his commercial “trading” barge, the Mary Instant, to the hulking military sola jumper, the MURKY 12.

  His bare chest showed between the open edges of his flight suit, a relaxed grin on his face. Open, wide perceiving eyes peered into the near perfect dark of the innards of the solar jumper.

  His information unit hummed lightly as it scanned constantly for gases, heat signatures and unstable pressures in the air. He wasn’t afraid of the “ghost” ship. He’d been here before. The old vessel, seemingly lost or forgotten in the gassy astroid field known for its greeny mist as the Putting Green, was near impossible to find unless you already knew where it was.

  It had found its way, centuries ago, into the cavernous cave of one of the asteroids with enough mass and gravity to keep the MURKY 12 in place.

  It was a meeting place and trading port for shady, often illegal, dealings. According to most spacers who visited MURKY 12, it was lawless, but to those species with large enough perceptions, it was clear the port wasn’t so laissez faire. Security was tight yet subtle. Few knew who owned MURKY 12 and fewer cared. Adrian Hunt, the Strut, owned it. And like all Struts, he was as cruel as he was out of sight. If or when some creature broke his unspoken alien law, they’d be gone and, due to the understood lawless environment, no one had cause to question it.

  Nebula Harris was in one of the new docking bays. It was almost pitch black for the respectful sake of light-sensitive beings. He’d only taken up this odd little park due to it being the only one no one would want soon.

  The darkness played slightly on his nerves, despite his eye upgrades and information unit working in a million different ways to keep him safe and, above all, aware to all he could be.

  His thumb felt the edge of his hand cannon strapped to his thigh and he peered behind to regard The Body. As per usual, The Body strolled a perfect two point five meters behind, in full body combat suspenders and bionics.

  The Body was useful, loyal, and above all, human in essence. Though there were next to no written emotions in a Body, the ‘next to’ would easily be predictable to behavioral pattern predictors. Surprising to most and most of all to The Body, (though he suppressed this, as surprise scared him), was that he could be surprised. He was often in such a state of considering his existence as more than just ‘The Body’ , that it could keep him for hours in silent thought, fooling those around him into believing that he wasn’t actually thinking anything. Then he’d kick himself for thinking in circles, forgive himself and continue being rather confused. Nebula Harris would reassure The Body, however, that he was living a happy existence.

  Other than this, The Body, when found on the abandoned entity stone mining planet of ENTITY number 4, was thinking nothing else but combat. He was fighting for his freedom, Nebula had told him, though the Body thought he was fighting because he didn’t feel quite right becoming the slave of those masters that had wanted to rule him. Nebula was different. Nebula reassured the Body that this was because he, Nebula, was a nice person while the others, Greener Grasses Company, were actually a bunch of immoral bastards. The Body's combat capabilities had secured his place on Nebula’s ship and for this The Body was quietly grateful.

  A bright light formed the silhouette of an opening door that, in turn, framed the silhouette of a body. It was Humanoid, save for the head that was purely, perfectly round and rather large.

  Nebula’s information unit corrected the light for his eyes under one silent command. The man (mostly man) in the door was a Smiley. The round head was yellow and marked with two spots for eyes and a crescent moon for a mouth. The mouth and eyes could have been drawn on, but they moved in simple animation across the yellow surface, like some ancient cartoon.

  “Hello, Nebula Harris.”

  “What’s your business with me, Smiley?” Nebula barked back. The Body, at the same moment took a step to the side and crouched in an open display of battle readiness.

  The Smileys. They were the new leading illegal race in legal space. Their piracy was vast and indisputably powerful. They owned a third of the mineral systems in sector 3 of human space. Terra-forming colonies were inclined to pay vast sums of galactic currency to be left to their work, or “smiled upon” as Smileys put it. Their threat was too powerful to be handled by official government recognised or privately owned organizations, though not powerful enough to force the government into their favours. They were a nation and a way of life, near enough a religion. They recruited thousands upon thousands of new recruits into their ridiculous, round-headed, smiley-faced ways every standard year. They were building an army and most intelligent and survivalist businessmen had secret bonds with them.

  “Tell your Body to relax, Nebula.” The mouth animated before returning into that stupid smile. The Smiley's voice was that of a normal human and seemed ridiculous coming from such a happy child-pleasing image. Despite that, the eyes glowed red as he warmed up his eye beam lasers.

  “Settle, Body.” Nebula said over his shoulder.

  “The Body settles.” The Body replied, regaining his standing position, settling his body cannons and Bio-exoskeleton arms.

  “Good.” The Smiley said. “I don’t have time to fuck around with rebellious free traders, slash smugglers, slash pirates, slash, in the end, the good guys, so I’ll tell you what I’m here for, then you and I can go about our very separate, individual ways. You know I don’t enjoy killing people Nebula, but if you become too rude, too crude, too hurtful to me, I will kill you. DON’T MAKE ME KILL YOU MAN. DON’T MAKE ME FUCKING KILL YOU, BECAUSE I FUCKING WILL! I WILL HURT YOU! I HAVE DONE IT TO OTHERS! I HAVE HURT PEOPLE, MAN!!!!”

  “…ok.”

  “We want your services. Your reputation is rather outstanding and the stories that surround you inspire younglings from multiple races to take to the stars like heroes from books, save damsels in distress and dabble in old magics and secrets as old as the stars.”

  “What can I say?”

  “Well, you're brilliant. Really rather brilliant.” The Smiley went slightly red with embarrassment at the cheeks.

  “Thank you.” Smileys' random mannerisms, accompanied by their bizarre features, ruined behavioural-pattern-prediction-programs in one's information unit.

  “I don’t know how to say this… I’m a little turned on by you. You're sexy, soooo sexy. Sex me?”

  “Get on with it.”

  “Oh? Not Smiley inclined are we? Well, fuck you man!”

  “What do you need my services for?”

  “Stop asking questions and I’ll tell you, you rubbish bastard!”

  “….”

  “We need you to deliver a box. It contains a race called the Key.”

  “How big is the box and how fast does the race multiply.”

  “It’s hardly more than a shoe box and they require about 1 cm every hundred years or so for growth and should take 0.01 of a blip in your ship's power core… shouldn’t be much of a problem for you, as this shouldn’t hold you up longer than a year or two.”

  “Good, good. Where am I going to?”

  “System Freedom.”

  “Ahhhh, so you need someone who can get past the Free Space Guild.” The Free Space Guild was a military alliance, consisting of over one hundred warrior civilizations, all striving to keep space clean of pirates and general troublemakers. The Smileys hadn’t been seen in that part of space for many decades. System freedom was its centrepiece of Free Space Guild ideology.

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  “I’m not exactly the most innocent spacer you could hire for getting past the Guild's security forces, but probably the best at carrying out outrageously dangerous plans; which is why, I suspect, you hired me… So how much are you gonna pay me?”

  “Irrelevant. We’ll give you a worthy incentive, enough to keep your crew happy and perhap
s a nice little holiday for yourselves after. But otherwise, your family’s lives will be your biggest reward, hmmm? Your sister's life is at stake.”

  “I guess we understand each other, Smiley. I would hope you keep her in good care.”

  “Naturally. Finish your drop-off here, collect your crew, and I’ll have the Key sent to your ship immediately.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Any necessary expenses can be paid for by myself. My name's Mr Robertson. I’ll be making regular checks on your progress throughout the mission. We can supply your ship with whatever you need… vaguely. Understood?”

  “Riiiight.”

  “Good, I’ll also update you on exactly where to drop off the box, closer to the time. Now, fuck off.”

  The Smiley spun around and marched off into the light of the passageway beyond.

  By the time Nebula reached the doorway, the Smiley was gone. It was time to meet Mr Gosmer.

  The egg shaped corridors wove on into the ship, passing cleaner-unit robots and the odd shady figure, either prostitute or hall-lurker. They saw no other Spacers in this sector.

  Doors swished out of their way automatically and vents hissed here and there. Little signs above the sliding doors told them where they were going. They’d met an intersection; one way to docks 3, 4, and 5, the other way to Grizzies cook up.

  They turned to Grizzies. Music made quietly out to meet them. Soft female vocals sensually riding the smooth jazzy tune.

  A hired guard stood outside the restaurant and stopped Nebula with a gnarled old hand to the chest.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Nebula Harris. Who wants to know?”

  “I do.”

  “And your name is?”

  “Don’t have one. Show me your identity card.” It was a Bigot. Arse-hole, mouth-hole, eating-hole, hearing and visual receptors all in the same ugly spot, on four legs and strong enough arms to tear steel.

  Nebula pulled forth his security card along with a few currency chips. The Bigot didn’t even look at the security card, but counted the chips one-by-one into his body pouch.

  “More!”

  “You’re not getting any more, you ugly shit eater.” Nebula growled while The Body extended his battle suit rifles and, for the second time, got ready to make combat. Nebula knew Bigots just liked to be arse-holes, which were literally all Bigots were.

  The Bigot regarded the suited Body, his mean guns and bio-exo-boned arms.

  “I respect your dominance in the situation.”

  The door swished open, revealing a gloomy little restaurant. A human singer was on a little stage, in a red dress. Very hot. The odd assortment of tables accommodated for most races, though most creatures in the room were humanoid.

  Mr Gosmar sat in one of the many dark and unassuming corners of the room. The middle ground of the bar had few customers sitting at all, save those who watched the Jazz singer. Shady, untrusting atmosphere, his information unit determined.

  “Enjoy the music Body, there’s no need to mistrust Mr Gosmer. I’ll call you when we have to go.”

  “The Body will listen to the music carefully.” The Body replied.

  Mr Gosmar was also seemingly alone, though Nebula guessed he had half the space pilots in the bar under his payroll. He was human and handsome. He wore a suit of purple Ron-Ron material with armour memory systems hidden into the fabric, almost too well to notice. He was a genetics man and his robotics were few and (again) well hidden. He had a sharp nose and cruel smile. His eyes were hard and rather intense. It would have cost him to look like such a predator.

  “Its nice to see you again, Harris.”

  “Same goes, Gosmer.”

  “Would you like a drink, my friend.” Silky, silky voice.

  “Hardly.”

  “Good, let’s get onto the business side of things.”

  “Money.”

  “Goods.”

  “Very well, Mr Gosmar. We have your goods.”

  “Do you have them with you?”

  “They are in my ship.”

  “Were they much of a nuisance?”

  “They were nuisances only until I let one out of the air-lock for a brief instant. It was rather funny! You see I grabbed the biggest of them and…”

  “Yes, I’m sure it was very amusing. Are any of them hurt?”

  “Maybe some hurt feelings, but…”

  “Good, good. Have your Body escort my men to your ship to pick up the cargo and in the meantime we can discuss further employment.”

  “We’ll be discussing money first. Believe me.”

  “Agreed, for the next pick-up you’ll be paid twice as much as this.”

  “I haven’t received this payment, so how can I be paid anything except two times nothing.”

  “Oh very well, Mr Harris, your money…”

  “Just Nebula please, Mr Gosmar.”

  “I do apologise.”

  “No, please don’t. My money.”

  “Indeed.”

  “How much?”

  “Two million in Guabish currency.”

  “That’s a lot.”

  “I’m glad you’re satisfied.”

  “I’m not. I only deal Galactic currency. Its hard to find a cash-converter who won't call officials on that kinda dosh.”

  “Surely you know someone?”

  “I do, but it’s out of my way.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “System Freedom.”

  “By God, why? That’s no place for you, Nebular. They’ll have your head dangling from one of their justice ships.”

  “Probably.”

  “Someone’s got you in a twist, Harris, I mean Nebula. Who?”

  “Smileys.”

  “Rubbish.” Gosmar took a moment to read his behavioural-pattern-predictor. “What do they want from you, then?”

  “I’m carrying live cargo to Freedom. I don’t know why, but they’ve found my relatives and their lives make a pretty good bargaining chip.”

  “Probably. I’ll pay you one hundred thousand Galactics for the cargo.”

  “They’ve got my family.”

  Gosmar just laughed.

  “What’s funny about that?”

  “Interesting, because I have your beloved Sabrina!”

  “Why the space balls do you have her?”

  “What do you think? I don’t want my money in your hands.”

  “Well, you can have her.”

  “Fine.” He raised a ringed finger and talked into it. “Kill the girl!”

  “NO! You let her go or I’ll kill you, Gosmar. I couldn’t get away with killing that Smiley, but you’re not a Smiley, are you? You're just wealthy.”

  “True, but you're wasting time. She’ll die, unless you do what I tell you.”

  “Which is?”

  “I need you to locate and secure a micro-race, known as the Key Hole.”

  “How big?”

  “A shoe-box and they don’t really get much bigger.”

  “Where?”

  “Find a terra-former by the name of Remus Loreems. He will show you the way, though he may need some persuading of the type you’ve needed.”

  “Where?”

  “He’s currently on a flight to New Foundations, taking the trade lanes. If you leave now you should be able to meet him… I will upload you co-ordinates. It’s in the G-bug system. Good luck.”

  There was little more to say. “You're gonna die arse-hole.”

  Nebular's Information unit detected the sound of guns being drawn and readied from below tables. It was time to go, there was little to be done from here. Uncompromising opponents had forced him into a corner and it irked him no end. Nebular Harris was a man living primarily by the principle of freedom. It was his true value. It was what made him the great spacer, what had him exploring the unexplored or unexplorable, the driving fuel that pushed him beyond the limits, beyond the common ground. It was freedom that taught him he was beyond other men, that in fact, b
rought from him his true manhood.

  “We shall see, Nebular.”

  “Yes, we shall see, Gosmer. I shall see the length of my arm, the barrel of my cannon covering your eye and you shall see a bright flash followed by infinite dark.” Nebular turned and walked for the door. “Lets go, Body.”

  Back aboard the Merry Instant, already in the cargo-hold, sat a little shoebox-sized thing of dull grey metal, presumably The Key. Atop it a little screen read:

  OUR CONDITION: All’s good, thanks