That Distant Dream

by Laurel Beckley

  She pulled herself into the present.

  Zhoki and Major Dar’Tan were arguing, the first protesting the overt presence of IASS guards within the city and the marketplace. It was blatantly obvious to post soldiers in the marketplace for the first time in months when they were simultaneously running an operation. Melin understood Major Dar’Tan’s caution.

  He wanted to gain information and also avoid another death—specifically, another headless body swinging on the bridge.

  No one had ever found the heads.

  More importantly, no one had ever found the implants—which all had built-in, unbreakable tracers. Someone had been able to deactivate them, which meant their most likely fate was being smashed into smithereens. Whether the implants had been removed before or after their destruction was another disaster of a thought sequence. Melin shuddered.

  Zhoki sighed and gestured to her. “You. Soldier spy. Come.”

  Melin turned to Major Dar’Tan. Her mind was stuck on the image of headless bodies hanging from a bridge. “I want a weapon. I am not going anywhere without some protection.”

  “You need to blend in. Rifles and stunners are outlawed among the citizenry and will mark you as an offworlder immediately,” Sorem objected. “We’ll be posted throughout the area—within a five-minute response window—and you have your wire and the mayor’s guards if you are in immediate trouble.”

  “If shit hits the fan, I want something,” Melin replied stubbornly. She did not mention it would take less than five minutes to kill her, particularly if Zhoki or his guards decided to do away with her in a back alley.

  “Anything we give you will put you in more danger than you already are,” Sorem said. There was the barest hint of apology in her tone. Major Dar’Tan and Elihu nodded in agreement.

  Melin bit her lips to prevent a retort. No wonder the others had all died if this was the backup she was expected to receive.

  Zhoki glanced from Melin to her handlers. At his barked order, one of the guards darted forward, unbuckling her knife-belt from her hips and unsuccessfully hiding a smirk as she gave Melin the belt and dirk. Melin took it.

  Their hands brushed during the exchange.

  Energy rushed through her, sparking sharply with static electricity.

  The guard’s smirk vanished, and she stared into Melin’s eyes.

  “Thank you,” Melin said in Saturan.

  “Csira,” the guard replied, beginning a bow and catching herself. She rejoined her comrades, looking unsettled. One of the guards muttered something, and she shook her head, adding a slight negating slash of her hand for emphasis.

  “You can use that?” Zhoki asked, drawing Melin’s attention away from the guard.

  Melin pulled the dirk from its sheath with her right hand, the left protesting at holding the scabbard. The hilt was worn leather, smooth, the blade well sharpened and meant for thrusting instead of slashing. “Well enough.” She sheathed it and buckled the belt about her hips.

  Zhoki removed his robe and handed it to her. Melin stared at the proffered garment. “Please,” Zhoki said. “It will help.”

  Melin took it reluctantly, careful not to touch his hand, and pulled it on. It was tight about her shoulders but loose in the arms and didn’t constrict her mobility. She’d have enough trouble with the skirt.

  “Shall we?” Zhoki asked in Saturan, offering her his arm. His left arm, leaving his sword arm free and her weaker arm exposed. She would not be able to draw the dirk at all.

  She adjusted her sword belt so she could draw from the left, and took his offered elbow, walking beside him out of the gates. There was no spark or hum as her hand touched his soft tunic. The two guards that had been standing beside the house joined them. The IASS patrol fanned out and dispersed, leaving only her and the mayor’s guards walking behind them.

  “Do you often work for the IASS?” Melin asked, trying to mimic the new dialect, as the gates to the compound closed.

  Zhoki winced. “Often enough,” he replied in the Saturan she spoke. “We shall catch a wagon from here to the marketplace. I do this quite frequently, so it will not be remarked upon. Also, you clearly can’t walk in that skirt, and I wish to avoid attention.”

  “Thanks,” Melin replied dryly.

  They entered a more trafficked section of the streets. Melin wondered if the embassy had put a freeze on all outdoor activities or if people stayed away when the IASS was about.

  One of the guards hailed the only wagon traveling down the street. A rapid exchange, and money passed between guard and driver. Zhoki motioned her to get on the contraption, which was little more than a vegetable cart. Melin pulled the constricting skirts up to her thighs, ignoring the dismayed groans from the mayor and guards, and scrambled aboard. Zhoki and the guards jumped in easily, and the driver clucked at the horses to continue. They moved down the cobblestone road, wheels and wagon bed bumping and jostling. Melin carefully settled herself among the lumpy sacks of…whatever. Zhoki did the same. The guards stayed alert, one sitting beside the driver, the other perched at the edge, eyes lifted toward the rooftops.

  The back of Melin’s neck prickled as they moved. She was exposed to any crossfire on the streets.

  “So why do you wear a glichi if the others cannot understand what you say?” Zhoki asked in Saturan. At Melin’s raised eyebrow, he tapped his chest, then pointed at hers. Her wire. “What do they hope to learn?”

  “It’s so I can call for help if needed.” She wondered how he could tell she had one. Had Major Dar’Tan mentioned it while she’d been tuned out?

  “It will only attract more attention. I suggest you take it off.” Zhoki bared his teeth, clearly daring her to do it.

  “It’s hidden under my shirt,” she said. The feeling of uneasiness grew. “No one will be able to tell.”

  “I can tell,” he replied. “If I can, others can. At least turn it off.”

  She paused.

  Zhoki huffed. “You have my word that we’ll protect you.”

  Melin glanced at the guard at the end of the wagon, who had turned to watch their exchange. He rolled his eyes, clearly unhappy with this assignment.

  Melin sighed and reached inside her shirt. If anything happened while she was out there, she’d be dead long before the security force found her. “I’m turning off my wire,” she said in Standard, maintaining eye contact with Zhoki to ensure he understood. “Will meet in three hours at the mayor’s house.”

  “Concur,” replied a tinny voice. She couldn’t identify the speaker.

  She flipped off the receiver-transmitter.

  Instantly the guards and Zhoki relaxed. The guard in the back stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it, grunting in relief. Even the civilian driver, who had been quiet on his bench seat at the front of the wagon, sighed.

  “Thank you,” Zhoki said in Saturan. “That was…an annoyance. Like a buzz, buzz, buzz in the ear.”

  “You could actually hear it?” she asked.

  He tilted his hand. Yes-no. “It is difficult to explain.” He leaned forward. “What do you hope to do out here, csira-hrathi?”

  “I don’t know. Talk, I guess.” Melin leaned back on her perch, hoping to project a comfort she did not feel. “Why do you call me csira-hrathi?”

  “You do not know?”

  “I wouldn’t ask if I knew.”

  “Hm.” He leaned back, mimicking her pose. Sweat beaded his upper lip. “Where are you from?”

  “Hwesta.”

  “Where is that?”

  “It’s a colony planet on the outer rim. The other side of the outer rim.”

  He nodded with the perfect understanding of someone who has no concept. “So, you are not born here. That answers questions. Your parents?”

  “Hwesta. My great-grandmother is from here.”

  “And she taught you the Old Tongue?”

  “Yes. She was a refugee from Satura after the incorporation.”

  Interest sparked in Zhoki’s eyes. “Her name?” />
  “Anikki Grezzij.” Melin massaged her left hand. “Don’t know how that information will help you—she was a child when she left the planet.”

  “Very true. I don’t know that name. Her parents’ names?”

  “I don’t know.” That was true at least. They had died shortly after arriving on their new planet, and Anikki had been raised by some of the other colonists, who were from different parts of the IASS.

  “Grezzij,” Zhoki murmured. He turned toward the guards and exchanged something in that funny dialect. She understood one word in about twenty now, but the words she caught meant nothing. When he faced her again, the interest remained. He tapped his head behind his ear. “You are not like them.”

  “I lost mine,” she explained. “I cannot have another.”

  “It is better you do not have one,” he said. “Those things mess up your thinking.”

  “Were you born here, in Jidda?” Melin asked, trying to turn the tables. He was far too interested in her for her liking. Not that her past mattered. She was a nobody.

  “Jidda.” Zhoki chuckled bitterly. “No one has called this place Jidda in a long time.”

  “What do you call it now?” Melin asked, interested.

  “Veskie,” he spat. “As you people call it.”

  “Were you born here then?” she repeated.

  “No.” His tone brooked no further discussion on his background.

  Silence stretched between them for two blocks. Melin examined her surroundings, noting the shutters on the houses, the way the houses were crammed together. They were headed deeper into the city, away from the bay and relative safety.

  “These homes seem new,” she ventured. “I thought Jidda was thousands of years old?”

  “Jidda was that old. It burnt down many years ago,” Zhoki said. “Veskie rose in its place.”

  “Ah.”

  “Enough talk.” Zhoki leaned forward and grabbed her right hand. Energy crackled and subsided. His grip was hard, his palms callused. “Rumors of a strange csira-hrathi who speaks the Old Tongue have been spreading throughout the city,” he told her, voice low and fierce. Melin jerked her hand away, sharply, and glared at him. “I do not know what you plan or what your people know, but attention will be drawn here when more learn of your presence.”

  “My presence?” Melin asked. “I’m a general assistant. I’m not important.”

  Zhoki snorted. “Perhaps not. But they will be interested anyway.”

  “They?”

  He waved his fingers. “Pray to your gods you do not find out.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The wagon pulled to a stop outside a marketplace, and the guards jumped out. The driver didn’t look at them as if to avoid drawing attention to his passengers. Zhoki hopped down as well, wincing as his right leg took the full impact. One guard steadied him with a discreet hand.

  Melin stared at the rough cobblestone road in dismay. With a sigh, she bunched the hem of her skirt up and prepared to follow suit, but the other guard stopped her with a raised hand, pointing at her exposed legs with a subtle shake. Melin lowered her skirt, but crouched low, ready to jump—or fall—out of the wagon at any moment, propriety be damned. The guard held her gaze, smirking slightly as she pulled on a pair of gloves and offered her hand to Melin.

  Melin took it and let the guard help her down, grumbling darkly in Standard. The guard shot her a quelling glare, and Melin stopped, lips thin with frustration.

  Zhoki held up his elbow, and Melin scuttled away, nerves alighting with tension before realizing he was offering to escort her again. The major sighed and wiggled his elbow. Melin’s faced reddened, and she took a step away, instinctively gaining space for freedom of movement. She was already hobbled by her skirt and these pinching shoes; she didn’t want an arm pinned too. Zhoki dropped his arm with another sigh, his face becoming schooled neutrality as he turned and led her into the marketplace. Melin hurried to catch up, mentally cursing herself.

  The only thing she had proved so far was her inability to be a spy—or observer—or whatever it was Dar’Tan wanted her to be. She had to try harder—or. Or what, indeed. What did she want? She couldn’t answer that anymore.

  She shook her head and followed Zhoki through the crowd, the guards trailing behind them.

  Stalls with faded awnings lined the streets, breaking every so often to allow access into shops. Their booths had pithy offerings—most had fruits, breads, cheeses, and fish, items of basic sustenance. She did see several stalls with bolts of clothing in both bright and muted colors. People moved about freely here, packed into an area not much larger than the courtyard in Zhoki’s compound. Boisterous haggling and shouting in Saturan filled the square, compressing her brain and sending her into spasms of unease.

  Something nagged at the corner of her mind. Something was off about this place, different from the other slum markets she’d been to on other planets, but she couldn’t quite put a finger to her discomfort. It wasn’t the lack of Standard. It was something else.

  It was crowded, but she was thankful the guards were there to create a bit of space for them.

  She did not do well in crowds.

  She hadn’t since… It had been a long time since she had done well with anything involving people.

  Zhoki noticed her discomfort and spoke to the guards, who increased their distance and gave them more space, creating a small bubble of calm in the packed confusion. Melin was grateful for the new room, but now they were even more conspicuous. The space between her shoulder blades itched, both from the sense of wrongness and the feeling of being watched.

  They toured the stalls, more than a handful of people stopping to stare at her. Several bobbed their heads at the mayor, and then, looking at her face, paused in shock and alarm and bowed deeply to her. A couple made to do the same, then checked themselves and glanced about sharply. Zhoki swore under his breath.

  Melin’s stomach clenched. “What’s going on?” she asked, trying to tamp down her rising panic. “Why are people acting like this?”

  An old woman rushed forward, her basket bouncing on her arm until she slid to a stop before Melin. Shocked at the boldness, she froze as the woman took her hand and cupped it between both of her own.

  The contact of skin on skin broke her surprise and Melin jerked back, but the old woman’s grip was tight and unyielding. Fingers dug into Melin’s palm, slicing into new flesh as the other woman stared into her eyes, whispering fiercely. Melin only understood csira, and open.

  Melin tugged away, caught between wanting to rip the woman’s arm off her body and avoiding attracting even more attention. The woman didn’t let go, her tone changing from warning to demanding. Zhoki stepped forward, placed his hands atop the old woman’s over Melin’s trapped hand, and leaned forward to whisper something that caused the woman to straighten, stare at Melin with curious understanding, drop her hand, and walk away without looking back.

  “What was that?” Melin asked, tucking her hand against herself. Her entire body shook, still completely wired. She felt eyes on her everywhere. Someone was going to kill her. “What did you tell her?” She took a deep breath, trying to settle her nerves. She felt like she was going to fray apart, split down the center and burn into a million pieces.

  “The truth,” Zhoki replied. “She mistook you for someone…else.”

  Her panic spiked. “Who else?” Melin asked.

  Zhoki shook his head, clearly not willing to answer.

  “Who else?” Melin repeated.

  Zhoki glanced at her and swore. “Close your eyes and take two deep breaths.”

  Melin stared at him.

  “Trust. Me. Now.”

  She obeyed, feeling the tightness in her chest ease a fraction. Regain control.

  The woman’s touch lingered on her hand, dry and crackling.

  She inhaled again and opened her eyes.

  They had stopped in front of a shop selling some sort of dried and salted bird, hanging headless by its
feet from the stall frame. The pungent smell of rotting meat drew her eye down. More meat was displayed to the open air without ice or any other coolant to keep it fresh. She looked behind the booth, past the intrigued shopkeeper, searching for a refrigerator. There wasn’t one. Her nose wrinkled.

  “Doesn’t anyone monitor the hygienic codes?” she asked, dropping into Standard for “hygienic.” Anything to take the focus off the old woman. Off her rising discomfort.

  Zhoki barked a laugh. “There is no one like that here. Food is food, and people buy what they can purchase legally or steal.”

  “What about police?”

  “Nonexistent. Veskie is a lawless town, thanks to your people. I manage what I can in my area with my people, but there are others who thrive in the lack of a city guard.” He took her elbow and steered her away from the meat section past a row of bread sellers. There was a long line before of each one, all comprised of older and middle-aged women. There were few men of any age, and no children at all in this marketplace. “The IASS’s idea of policing and government is to descend every so often with soldiers and guns and bombs and pamphlets in words my people don’t understand,” he added conversationally.

  “Is it like this in other areas?” she asked, carefully stepping around a pile of dung lying right there on the ground. No telling if it was human or animal. Her breathing settled, her focus turning toward situational awareness and operational security instead of barely repressed panic. The dirk at her hip was heavy, a pathetic safety blanket in this mass of people. Fuck, her feet hurt.

  “Not as bad.” He tapped his fingers against his lips. “The other provinces have a damir.”

  “If you’re not a damir, what are you?” she asked. A mayor should have the ability to protect his people.

  “The IASS’s figurehead.” His hand dropped to his side. “What do you think?”

  Shouts shifted their attention a fraction of a second before a group of men rushed toward them, swords flashing in the sunlight. They headed straight for her and Zhoki, mouths twisted in snarls.