ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/harrison/har12

Text File | 1991-10-01 | 42KB | 874 lines

               Copyright 1991 by Jim Vassilakos.
                      All Rights Reserved.
           Permission is hereby granted by the copyright
           holder to copy and freely redistribute copies
         of this work, so long as no commericial or barter
       consideration is obtained in exchange for such copies.



                        Chapter Twelve



Yellow dandelions swayed within the smooth, evening breeze, their
thin stems lingering in silent dance for the dying rays of a dim
red sun. Above, the scent of sweet honey floated gently through
the faint current, stirring the petals with a quiet cacophony of
hushed whispers, carelessly catching the tips of her curls and
caressing the thick patch of grass where she lay. The fireflies
began to play, little winged faerie, or so she'd imagined. They
darted about in circles, one teasingly pursuing another, whilst
below, another host of insects went about their evening business,
foraging for sustenance amidst the damp, loamy terrain. These
fellows seemed dark and ominous, great pinchers perched atop
their frames as they straggled about in the abject slumber of
community, a congested mass, grinding together, crawling over and
beneath, their limbs twisted about each other in ignoble
partnership.
   A tall bell tower rose from the hillside, its chimes ringing
with tempestuous abandon. Vilya watched the bell work back and
forth, its clamor growing in intensity. She reached out, her arm
elongating into the elastic distance as the waning light slowly
settled into black.
   "Hello?"
   "Hi. Did I wake you up?"
   She groggily tried to place the voice.
   "Johanes?"
   "Umm... no. Mikael."
   "Oh... you."
   "I need a favor," Mike gulped down, glad that he was too cheap
to pop for a visi-link.
   The dawn was misty and cold, precipitation gradually forming
into a dense fog along the coast. Her green eyes, though not so
sparkly, were a welcome sight. Mike cautiously climbed into the
back seat, checking to see the driver's face.
   "What happen?"
   "I decided to go swimming again." He stripped off his shirt,
letting its ullage collect on the seat and slide in slippery
droplets to the carpeted floor as the cab's warm air glided along
his chest.
   "Like cold water too well. Should hitch ride from now on...
less danger."
   She gave him a not-so-gentle squeeze at the end, her eyes
scintillating with wicked intent as Mike's crossed involuntarily.
He let out a deep groan, packaging the pain instead of striking
back. "For waking me so early," she finally explained, and Mike
wondered if it was some new custom as he slowly recovered.
   "That was dirty."
   "Justice never clean."
   "Justice? You call that justice? I'd hate to feel revenge."
   "Pray you don't have to."
   "Vil... I don't blame you for being mad, but I really didn't
have much of a choice."
   "Everyone have choice. I take you in home, I give to you food,
I give to you key, and you go and you no leave scratch-marks..."
   "Look... I'm sorry, okay?"
   "No... you look..."
   Mike just nodded as she continued, her speech quickening and
reverting in and out of slang so fast that he could no longer
keep up. He knew that the Calannan women had a way of laying the
guilt pretty thick, but this one was in a class by herself.
   "Vilya, I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you, I promise. What
more do you want?"
   "Now you want know what I want."
   She produced the dodecahedron from her wet, paper bag, its
black surface glimmering dimly in the scattered light.
   "Maybe I show you, eh?"
   Outside, the murky air rushed against her window in pale
gusts, droplets of moisture forming along its plastic surface,
skidding steadily toward some common goal, and finally flailing
blindly into the cab's interior. Beyond, the vague shape of the
cliff's edge coursed by.
   "What are you doing?"
   "I want see how much you care for the pretty cermic. You jump
for it, yes?"
   "Vilya... I said I was sorry."
   "Say again. I no hear so well."
   "I'm sorry."
   "Eh?"
   "I'm sorry. How many times do you want me to say it?"
   "You want pretty cermic too much."
   "Yeah, well... it's important."
   "Why?"
   "Because."
   "Because why?"
   "It's a long story, okay?"
   "We seem to have long time together."
   "Yeah, well I'll explain it over breakfast."
   She grumbled brusquely, but Mike could tell her stomach was in
favor of the notion.
   "C'mon, I'm buying. How'd you like to eat in Xekhasmeno?"
   "So now I have choice..."
   Xekhasmeno was known to locals as the forgotten city, a place
given away to Imperial commerce as a settlement of war. Offworld,
the appropriation was viewed as a no more than a slap on the
wrist, but for the Calannans, the city was a brand of shame and
defeat, a place forsaken and rarely spoken of except to provide
adjectives for their more colorful slang. To hate Xekhasmeno and
those who dwelt within it was part of Calanna's unspoken creed, a
thing as real and as often underestimated as the thin, electrical
barricade which protruded around the city's boarders, forbidding
entrance except to megacorp personnel and the starport authority.
   They entered at the north-east gates beneath the Tizarian
embassy. Work crews were in the process of finishing the new
building. A guard wandered the line of vehicles, knocking on
windows and stamping clearance stickers on various hoods. Mike
recognized him as one of the old-timers who stayed on after the
incident.
   "Identification."
   Mike opened his window as the guard peered within, his eyes
widening in surprise.
   "Why, Mister Harri...?!"
   "Keep it quiet. You never saw me."
   "Uhh... whole right, sir. Heard you were dead." He whispered
it as though saying so more loudly might lend it truth, eyebrows
wrinkling in confusion as he backed cautiously from the taxi,
waiving them through with a stamp of the sticker machine.
   "What he say?" Vilya was rendered oblivious by the Galanglic.
   "Huh? Oh... he said to have a nice day."
   "Nice day?"
   "Where to?" The cabby's eyebrows were furrowed in mild
irritation.
   "Tyberian Compound."
   Suite 112J turned out to be on the ground level of a small
technical complex. The suite was really more of a repair shop,
and Vilya seemed altogether confused by her new surroundings.
Spokes rounded a corner from the back of the room, his headgear
gleaming in the fluorescent light.
   "You're late, man."
   "I ran into a little bit of trouble along the way." Mike
handed over the dodecahedron, and Spokes inspected the casing,
his blue eyes gleaming as though it were a birthday present.
   "Bonded cermic?"
   "Made to look that way. It's survived quite a bit."
   "I'm sure it's not the only one."
   Spokes said it with an air of either respect or inveiglement.
Mike couldn't tell which for certain.
   "You gonna be okay with this?"
   "Sure. What exactly am I supposed to be looking for?"
   "At this point, anything that seems interesting... if you
manage to get in that is."
   "Don't worry about that. It may take a little time, but I'll
get in. You wanna hang around?"
   "I promised somebody a square meal. After that, I need to get
the shoulder fixed."
   "There's a cafeteria on the 3rd floor. If you're looking for
something nicer, there's the starport."
   "We'll hit the starport."
   "Suit yourself. Oh, take this." He handed Mike an SPA
maintenance overcoat complete with tinted-bubble hood and IR
goggles. "Unless you wanna be a celebrity, that is."
   "Not after this morning; thanks."
   The starport was not much different than he remembered, a
mishmash of technicians, cargo-hands, and jaunty, third-rate
brokers strewn in pairs and trios along a sea of polished floor
tile. Various shops lined the walkways between the Outworld
Market and the shuttle bays. Interspersed between, wide, circular
planters rose from the gleaming tiles, forming benches for all
the old people to sit. They studied the drifting masses with
sardonic glares, their garish glad rags explicating a backward
dive into altricial helplessness.
   Mike let down the hood once they were seated in a corner of
the Zardocha Cafe. He remembered it fairly well, and by some
coincidence found himself at the same table he and Tara had sat
not so long ago. His shoulder began aching again as the food
came, the pain sharpening as an indication that the stabilizer
was failing, and Vilya's mood seemed to improve as she used the
gravitic waves of her utensil to thwack his wound beneath the
hardened castfoam.
   "Gee... thanks."
   "Why you hurt?"
   "I was wondering when you were going to get around to asking
me that."
   "On Calanna, is impolite to ask such thing."
   "Why?"
   Her eyes seemed to search the corner of the ceiling for an
answer.
   "Is like saying you small."
   "Small?"
   "Like baby."
   "I could stand some babying."
   That got her. Mike figured it was something about the language
he didn't understand. Finally, she tapped the wound again with
her grav-utensil, this time on a sharper focus.
   "Ow!"
   "Ha! You are baby. Tell me who is Cole."
   "A friend. Oww..."
   "Good friend?"
   "Not really."
   Mike grabbed the utensil from her hand before she could cause
him any more pain. She fought tenaciously for several moments,
and then suddenly let go, causing him to almost topple backwards.
   "Be careful you silly boy. Waiter?! May I have a thing to eat
with other than fingers?"
   She turned back to Mike, her wicked smile returning as she was
brought another grav-utensil.
   "Ha ha... I win."
   "Vilya, I'm not in the mood."
   "Too bad... I am."
   "Look, I don't want you messing with it. I'm gonna get it
taken care of right after this."
   "But I hate you, and I want to hurt you."
   "I'm sure you do."
   "Why you come to Calanna?"
   "I'm a tourist. I like to go sight-seeing. Ow!"
   A couple heads turned, and Mike tried to keep his face angled
toward the wall. Vilya giggled at his predicament and motioned
for another stab. She was interrupted by the arrival of the
edibles, however, and consoled herself with squirting tiny
packets of bean sauce on the bubble hood of his SPA suit and the
soggy shoes he'd borrowed. Mike regarded her mood with all the
patience it deserved.
   "Stop it you brat."
   "Make me."
   "What's the matter? You don't like the food here or
something?"
   "They no have haggis."
   "Oh wah."
   "I see your face on three-vee after the work last night. It
say you are dead Tizarian."
   "A foul rumor that's been greatly exaggerated."
   "Is that purpose you hide face?"
   "I told you... I'm a tourist. You calling me a liar?"
   "What sights you will see, tourist?"
   "I dunno. Maybe the coast."
   "Maybe you will swim with shoes off this time?"
   Mike smiled, "Maybe."
   The starport's sick-bay seemed more like a recovery hall for
low-berthers. Several stood around popping fizzies to kill their
morning breath while others were slowly revived from days or
weeks in cryogenic suspension. Cold sleep wasn't so bad, Mike
recalled. It was the waking up part that was so unpleasant.
Cole's signature bubbled away with the dissolving castfoam, and
the pharmacist administered the regeneration formula while a
medic finished examining the wound. She held a thin fork in her
hand, prodding the mesodermal layers as his blood flow slowed to
a trickle.
   "Passed right through. How'd this happen?"
   "It was an accident."
   Two shuttle attendants brought in a dozen more of the
freezerinos as a feminine voice sedately announced the new
arrivals. Her tone was collected, almost dull, enunciating each
syllable of their names as though they were items of inventory
and not actual people. Included were a few John and Jane Does,
each accorded a separate number for the ledger. Mike charged the
expense to Linden's account, including an all's well message on
the assessment. The nurse swathed the numb shoulder in a fresh
bandage as Mike finished typing in Linden's access code.
   "We're gonna need some ID on this."
   "Check again."
   "Huh? Oh... guess not. Interesting insurance you've got."
   "Yeah... Bank of Chuck."
   Vilya sat with her back against the antechamber wall, her eyes
glossed over with holographic images of interstellar medical
technology. The promo featured minimalist cybernetics, nothing
too scary or complex yet still fascinating for the uninitiated.
   "Fixed?"
   "Yeah... I guess."
   They exited through baggage claims, climbing into a tram on
the way out. Spokes was still fiddling with the dodec when they
returned. He wore a staid expression, his eyes narrowing to thin
slits as they entered.
   "What's the matter?"
   "You see these things?"
   He pointed to two sets of bulbs at the base of his jacks, half
of them shattered and fused.
   "What about 'em?"
   "Electrical inhibitors... without which my brain would be a
toasty critter. The overload wiped my entire deck."
   "I had no idea," Mike tried to make it sound sincere.
   "Uh huh."
   "What did you find out?"
   "It tried to fry me is what I found out."
   "Immediately?"
   "It asked for some kind of ID clearance. I tried to burn out
the active circuits, and it gave me auto-feedback except about
ten times stronger than what I flushed in."
   "So in other words it fought back."
   "To put it mildly."
   "Well, what did you expect, a cakewalk?" Mike tried to churn
up a wholesome expression.
   "I expect you to pay me four thousand for new inhibitors and
software, credits not drin."
   "No money until you get in."
   "I almost got torched, Harrison! I think that qualifies me for
working expenses."
   "I'll try to get you the money."
   Spokes turned and looked away, his eyes following a long,
jagged crack in the wall plaster.
   "Really hope you're joking, man."
   "Finances are a little tight right now. It occasionally
happens when you die, but I'll get the money somehow. Don't worry
about that."
   Spokes smiled, "I won't. I'll be keeping darkie as collateral
until you do."
   Mike considered the proposition, wondering if he had a choice
in the matter.
   "Spokes, I'm not trying to rip you off."
   "Nor I you, Mister Harrison, but if you want trust, you're
gonna have to show some in return."
   Mike found himself nodding, almost stupidly, like some Joe
Public listening to the big-time politician. Vilya sat idle,
ignoring the Galanglic, her eyes casually roaming the technical
hardware. Somewhere above her head, the blades of a humidifier
kicked in, and a sudden current of musty air bathed her dark hair
within its cool, transparent tendrils. She looked upward,
squinting. The tall shaft rose above her, dark and imposing,
lending a slight echo to their voices.
   "Whatever."
   "What are you trying to get out of this thing anyway?"
   "It's a little hard to explain."
   "Try me."
   Mike took a deep breath, the musty air sucking through his
nostrils as he inhaled.
   "This thing, as you call it, was once the brain of a Draconian
android. Her name was Robin, and she served what I believe was a
sleeper agent sent to work for the Galactican before she got...
somewhat dismembered... by this former friend of mine who decided
to start working for the Imperials. For some reason, she decided
not to wipe her memory, maybe because she wanted somebody to look
at it. I don't know."
   "I take it this is gonna be a long story."
   Mike nodded, apologetically.
   "The Imps have gotten their hands on one of my... subjects,
for lack of a better word. He seems to be rather important to
both them and the Draconians, and I'd just like to find out why."
   "What's his name?"
   "They call him Erestyl."
   "What do you call him?"
   "When I found him, he didn't have a name. His brain had been
mangled by an Imperial mind-scanner. He didn't know who or what
he was. The SPA found him in a galley stabbing people with a
fork, one of the non-gravitic kinds you sometimes find in
starport medical bays. He was transported to a local facility on
Tizar and was snatched back by ISIS and brought here."
   "ISIS? On Calanna?"
   "I know. It makes no sense. If he was a criminal, I'd maybe
have expected them to take him to the 47th. Instead, they opted
for secrecy, even from their own people."
   "Where does he come from?"
   "Unknown. He was shipped to Tizar in a low berth. Another John
Doe... transported on some tramp freighter that was no longer in
port."
   "And you feel it's your occupational duty to get involved."
   Mike shrugged, "We dropped in five days ago. Me, Robin, and
two others. Air defense was alerted to our mission. They
destroyed the ship, and to make a long story short, me and this
hunk of cermic are all that's left."
   "Does ISIS know you're still alive?"
   "I had a little run-in with them this morning outside
Gardansa's. I'd hoped it might be safe, seeing as how I'm
supposed to be dead and all, but apparently not."
   "And who's the woman?"
   "A friend. Native."
   "Obviously."
   "I've been encircled ever since I got here. I needed a safe
place to stay."
   "Get a flat."
   "I'm a little short on funds right now."
   "Does she even know anything about this?"
   "She knows something strange is going on. That's about it."
   Spokes winced, his eyes darting between them as an awkward
smirk played across his lips.
   "That's cold."
   "I've made more than my share of mistakes on this drop. If I
get caught, anybody who knows anything about what's goin' on is
gonna be fair game."
   "Oh... you're a real hero."
   "If I disappear, I'd rather she just think I got up and
vanished."
   "Well thanks for telling me all about it, Harrison. That's
just was I need... a bunch of offworld police homing in on me."
   "You're the one who wanted trust. Besides, why should I care
what happens to you? You're nothin' to me... except... maybe a
possibility."
   "A possibility to get yourself killed."
   "I need your help to get this brain cracked. If you wanna bail
out, I'll take Robin and leave right now. You can bill the
Galactican, but you'll never hear from me again."
   "And what if I decide to stick my neck out for you? What do I
get?"
   "The Galactican will cover your expenses. Maybe with luck
you'll be able to land a cushy job there, I dunno."
   "Weak."
   "Yeah, but right now it's about all I can promise."
   Spokes backed away from the dodec, his shoulders slumped and
eyes wandering the walls. Mike tried to read his posture, the
movement of the bony ends of his elbows as they scraped against
the desk. Mike rubbed his temples, exhausted from the long night.
   "Look, it doesn't take a genius to realize something very
strange is going on. If we can find out what it is... who knows?"
   "I'd like to help you, Harrison. But what you're doing is
dumb."
   "What would you have me do?"
   "Back off. Get uninvolved. If I was you, I'd make a beeline
for Tizar and forget this whole thing ever happened."
   "Spokes... the key to this `whole thing' could be sitting
right in front of our noses... literally."
   "So that you can write a story about it or get yourself
martyred?"
   Spokes shook his head, his scowl softening into a dreary stare
as the dodec's black surface glimmered in the dim, artificial
light. Once again in Mike's possession, it's surface felt icy
cold, as if the recent skirmish had plunged her into some deep,
cryogenic dream. Spokes wandered to the back of his workshop, his
head still shaking in mild contempt. Outside, Calanna's great red
sun bathed the forgotten city in hues of amber and gold. Vilya
said nothing, somber, green eyes speculating as to the mood of
the alien conversation.
   The ride back to Xin passed quickly. Their driver was a old
man, apparently from the local area. He assumed they were
tourists, who had become increasingly common since the post-war
domestication. He pointed out various roadside landmarks as he
drove, switching back and forth between Galanglic and Calannic
and occasionally a mishmashed fusion of the two. Vilya remained
silent for most of the ride, only speaking near the end to
correct of minor point of history.
   "You make good story, but that is not how it happen."
   "No?" The driver's deep brown nose wrinkled in embarrassment.
   "Varilion is no crafty as you say. It was Priestess of
Snagarth that give him idea."
   "Ha! Why should the Priestess care about Imperial garrison?
Eh?"
   "She not care, such as negrali mind own business. They refuse
this courtesy, to pillage her temple and to murder her harem,
that she make revenge.
   "Ah... the lady is of the light."
   "The light?" Mike inquired.
   "She is Calannan, yes?"
   "What do you think, Vil? You of the light?"
   She shot Mike a sidelong glance, amusement brewing within
anger.
   "What you know of the light, Mikael?"
   "What should I know?"
   The driver's voice broke into a hearty, belly laugh, the cab
weaving and bouncing with the spasms of his merriment. Vilya
concentrated her gaze out the window. The sun's thick rays seemed
to fall down as crimson shingles, baked and plastered along the
dry, ruddy terrain.
   "You children are pleasant, but where to go?"
   "Take us to Erfalas."
   "Hah! Good choice."
   The cab snaked around the back roads of Xin's underbelly,
crossing the highway to Pinnath Carach and continuing coastward.
The air grew perceptibly cooler, and Mike spotted a flock of
gulls on the horizon.
   "Hey Vil... where're we going?"
   "Erfalas. You like it, trust me."
   The road came to an abrupt halt at the edge of a long rocky
bluff. Forty feet below, the waves bore past beds of green kelp
and red coral, shooting headlong into the stony grey cliffs.
Beyond, the blue sea, Aeluin, stretched past the buoyant sudd,
extending to infinity, its waters sweet and young, curling softly
into the expansive horizon as they kissed the crystal sky, their
colors shared, mixed together in some strange yet benevolent
duet.
   Every liter was similar in chemistry, undulating together
beneath cool sheets of air, but where the water touched the
shore, so it assumed it's character, relentlessly hammering the
broad cliffs, foaming against the lush coral, and settling
quietly along the flat, sandy shores. Aeluin was young by
geologic standards, bearing only a tenth the salinity of Tizar's
ocean, safe for drinking in the short term and unmolested by the
pollutants many other civilizations had carelessly scattered. Its
waves gamboled amongst each other, simultaneously diverging and
emerging in continuous, everlasting succession.
   Vilya began descending the sheer face, her movements unusually
agile, as though she'd memorized the rock's most minute features
down to the texture of its skin. Mike followed, taking arduous
care to mimic her steps and holds. He'd climbed rocks on Tizar,
but never without gravitic momentum restrainers. Minus the
security, he felt strangely naked, his nerves jittery and clumsy
while a cool perspiration broke along his hairline. Dozens of
steel eyehooks cut into the stone just above where the sea
cascaded into the stone. Vilya rested on one of them, allowing
sprinkles of foam to catch in her long, dark hair.
   "Why are we here?"
   "Sightseeing."
   "Oh... right."
   "Give me hand."
   "What?"
   "Give."
   Mike stretched out his arm, and her thin fingers wrapping
gracefully around his wrist. She tugged for a moment, and
suddenly he was slipping, flailing against the stone to regain
his balance as he toppled backwards. In an instant, he found
himself hanging by a pair of cuffs firmly secured from his wrist
to an eyehook.
   "Vilya!?"
   "You always such easy to snare?"
   He cursed as the steel cuff bit into the flesh of his wrist.
Frantically, he scratched at the wet rock beneath, his borrowed
shoes nearly falling off his feet as the waves came crashing in,
pulverizing his legs against the stone. Mike clawed with his free
arm, still bandaged, for a nook in the rock on which to hold
while Vilya watched, unsympathetically, her eyebrows arched in
contemplation of something devious. Finally, she spoke, her words
following fluidly with the rushing waves.
   "After war, the Count of Tyber make to crush Calanna of her
pride. He take her children and chain them here. For long day,
they thirst, and Aeluin is at the stomachs of them. But when the
sun sit down, Aeluin rise up to mouths and noses and drown them."
   "Thanks for the guided history tour. Will you please let me
out of these?"
   "The light keep life that darkness take. Thus is why Calanna
consent to domestication."
   "Vil..."
   "Are you so full of the pride you cannot say the travel of
you? What is secret that shame you?"
   "It's a long story."
   "Is long time to night."
   Mike tried to grab her with his numb arm, but its movement was
too clumsy and slow, his grip on the cliff's face failing again.
He finally gave in to gravity as the waves pushed his legs into
the grey stone.
   "Okay. I'll tell you, but not now. Not like this."
   "You have choice?"
   "I can ask please, can't I?"
   She smiled, a mischievous sparkle entering her continence.
   "You look so sad... you are ticklish?"
   "Vil!"
   "Tell all... or suffer fate worse than castration."
   The climb back went more quickly than the coming down, and
Mike managed his release without getting into the gory details of
his travels. In fact, he'd told her fairly little, and yet she
seemed already to understand everything, asking only those
questions which were necessary. Even his mention of the Imperial
police didn't faze her, nor his mention of the Draconian robot
brain. She simply listened as though he were going through
motions which were without consequence.
   When they returned to the cab, the old man asked earnestly
whether or not they had seen the light. Vilya's smile seemed to
confirm the suspicion, and she generously popped for the fare as
they pulled up to her small flat in Xin. The cat was nowhere to
be found, but a warm breeze blew through the red twill curtains
betraying his escape. Outside, the hot afternoon sun seemed to
bleach all color from the sky, mysterious grey clouds mixing with
the amber-blond vapors billowing in lumpy puffs from the tall,
black smokestacks of the inner-city. Mike half expected her to
throw him out as she pulled a small taser from her pocket,
Instead, she set it, with the cuffs, in a bedside drawer before
falling roughly on the center of the sheets. Mike wondered if it
was an invitation or a dismissal.
   "When are you going to work?"
   "Tonight. If I wake."
   She turned to the alarm counter and set it forward twenty
cents.
   "I not know that I want to go."
   "How long have you had that job?"
   "Too long."
   Mike sat at the edge of the bed, kicking off his water-logged
shoes. He stretched the top sheet over her, and allowed his
fingers to brush quietly through the soft ends of her hair.
   "You don't like it?"
   "I not like being groped by strangers."
   "Hmm... wake me up before you leave."
   Mike crashed on the couch in front of the three-vee, the
muscles in his shoulders loosening as he closed his eyes and
tried to feel the onset of sleep. The sweltering heat closed upon
him quietly, forming moist patches of perspiration on his chest
and forehead and beneath his knees. He threw off his shirt and
pants, turning over several times, ignoring the little bits of
food particles in the cushions which stuck to his skin. Outside,
he could here a wryneck, hissing as it darted from the window.
   The cat sneaked inside several minutes later, meticulously
licking its fur in front of the couch. Mike listened as it
scratched on her door and was promptly allowed entrance. He tried
to suppress the slight twinge of envy as the sweat continued to
gather, slowly, finally cooling as it evaporated into the thick,
clammy air.
   In the back of his mind, he could here the clicking of
hundreds of keyboards and the cluttered conversations of dozens
of gatherers on the Galactican's main floor. Linden sat in his
huge leather chair in the central office, his entire body tilted
backward, reading the obituaries column. He came across a name he
recognized, circling it with a lightpen as he hit a cut and paste
macro with his left hand. Into his scrapbook it went, along with
all the others.
   "You know what I like about you kid? Persistence. You keep
coming back."
   He should have called it luck, a strange kind of luck that
forgives all mistakes and then comes slapping you back in the
face when you least expect it. His father had called it the luck
of the space cadet. The cat continued licking its fur, its yellow
eyes searching his, forming accusations as they met somewhere in
the space between, animal and human; they were not so different.
It curled its head backward to lick a spot on the back of its
neck, but the head just kept going around and around as though it
didn't matter.
   Its feet were coated in a soft, white sand which it spread
about the carpet. Outside, the surf swept up toward the windows,
rushing through the cracks in the seams as the roof began to
leak, water dripping from a thousand tiny holes, all scattered
about. He could only watch, immobile, as the water sloshed around
him, pressing over his nose and mouth in warm trickles. It tasted
vaguely salty, and he battled to spit it away before realizing
that he no longer needed air to breathe, and the cat swam freely,
its instinctive fear reduced to an occasional "Hissssss...."
   He woke, drenched by a slick envelop of oily sweat. The
evening was likewise coated in a murky haze, and Vilya was gone,
save for a note stuck in the crack of her bedroom door. It said
he looked peaceful, too peaceful to waken. Mike clumped the
flimsi-leaf into a ball, and tossed in on the kitchen counter.
The cupboards were empty save for a moldy loaf of rye and two
cans of prickly nopal sauce. The flimsi slowly unfolded of its
own volition, the luminescent Calannic flickering across its
surface.  Mike pressed the corner, releasing the message into
electronic oblivion.
   "Show contents."
   "Done."
   Nothing?
   "Retrieve all."
   "Done."
   "Show contents."
   "Unnamed1. Done."
   "Read Unnamed1."
   Vilya's message returned to the leaf, her tall, slanted
letters seeming to mock him as he read it again.
   "Set date by age reversed."
   "Done."
   "Show history."
   "Manufacture: 01.149.968. Last initialization: 01.149.968.
Done."
   In the shower Mike wondered what sort of girl would have a
flimsi-leaf for over a year and save something to it only once.
The cool water flowed smoothly over his body, falling in dirty
puddles to the yellow-stained porcelain tiles. The pipes emitted
a stern squeak, and Mike imagined the sound rustling through the
entire flat. He shuffled into his smelly pants and shirt and the
pair of shoes he was still borrowing, pocketing the flimsi and
Bill's body pistol as an afterthought.
   The evening had descended into night, and the dark purple sky
glittered with spangles of illumination. The streets were fluid
with movement, motor cars weaving carelessly around the herds of
pedestrians like a pack of hungry wolves as volumes of voids and
pleasure junkies sat fidgeting in the gutters, playfully groping
the wires which pumped streams of electric illusion into their
punctured skulls. The food vendors engaged in fierce shouting
matches across the streets, defaming each others culinary
creations while exclaiming the virtues of their own.
   "Lissi mituvoreva!"
   "Git yer stinkin' paws off me, ya weirdo."
   "Hey... you wanna echailmet some ywalme?"
   "Hirer quaggahaggis!"
   "Haggis?"
   "Try it. Viuvalye, yes?"
   "Two please."
   Traffic on the underway was fairly busy going down, and Mike
felt lucky to find a seat. He set the two thermoplastic
containers between his legs, the thick scent of stewed meat
rising to his nostrils as the tram rattled along its narrow
course. A bloody-nosed teenager stood in the center of the aisle,
his lips puckered as he whistled some ancient melody with
meticulous precision. He held his dirty, brown mug with a jittery
grip, and drooped over his back, he wore a large, canvas bag.
Inside the bag sat, an elderly, legless man, with a black,
conductor's baton and a pair of painted-out spectacles. Each
instant a note fell from place, the man slapped his stick sharply
across the boy's face, angrily cursing the younger's stupidity as
he continued to wave the baton around like a deadly sabre.
Occasionally, the man's face glowed with appreciation when he
heard a clink from the mug. Then he mumbled a few kind words in a
hoarse voice regarding generosity and alms for the poor, smacking
the boy' ear to make him shut-up and then cracking him across the
blue welts on the back of his neck to summon forth another round
of profitable music.
   A wide-screened viewer sat blankly in the corner, its glass
window shattered and half its speakers inoperable. Beneath the
boy's sporadic whistling, the vague din of casual muttering, and
the tram's sharp rattles, a faint, monotonous voice loomed
somewhere in the distance, clear and without all the slang
structures and difficult intonations so familiar to spoken
Calannic.
   "...Gardansa had no comment, except to state that his unknown
assassins had obviously failed. The site of the wreckage was
examined this morning by police investigators, and the remains of
at least one body were discovered. Zared Dir, a local fisherman,
was driving his motorbike along this cliff when the incident
occurred. ...and I see dis great ball of fire on da cliffs, and
da noise is someding awful, and den dis aircar droop down to da
water and someding fall out, and den da car ekzplode into dousand
pieces and..."
   Mike hopped on the rollers as the tram drew to a halt, logging
the Temple as his destination and allowing the slavebot's traffic
computer to choose the most appropriate route. He found himself
weaving around the main channel, narrowly avoiding the other
rollers before being deposited in front of the Temple's wide,
phallic arches, their peculiar decor never failing to entice
newcomers. The receptionist was a young man with soft, ill-
defined features. He handed wrist locators to a pair of girls who
could not have been older than sixteen and then neatly unfolded
their wad of drin as they hurried past him, down the staircase
and to the lockers below.
   "Welcome to the Temple of the Wrything Mermaid. You make visit
us before?"
   "Yeah... I'm bringing some dinner for a friend who works
here."
   "Employee?"
   "Is that all right?"
   "Is the employee name?"
   "Vilya."
   He shot Mike a strange glance. "I no think such person work
here. You certain you have correct..."
   "Positive."
   He tagged several keys on his computer console, smiling as he
discovered the name.
   "Ahh... she apparently is new, yes?"
   "I don't think so."
   He swiveled the console toward Mike. Vilya's picture sat in
the upper left hand corner beside various employment statistics.
   "She was hired yesterday?"
   "No hired, she volunteer. Is custom to get job, you know.
There is problem?"
   Mike shrugged, uncertain.
   "When yesterday?"
   "You go, and you ask her... go in. No jump in water."
   Mike hesitated, fear wrapping slowly around his mind like some
blurry sort of hunch.
   "Do you have a service entrance?"
   "Yes, but is no need, you see..."
   "All I really need to do is drop this off."
   "You able to see her from the ledge, right that way."
   "Well, it's actually sort of a surprise."
   "Surprise?"
   "Uhh... yeah, special occasion."
   The receptionist's eyes inspected Mike with a stare both
deliberate and curious.
   "Is against rules."
   "Well, if you don't have the authority..."
   "No... of course I can, but... have we meet before?"
   Mike smiled, "I don't think so..."
   "Yes... I see your face on three-vee. You are in
entertainment?"
   "Well," Mike shrugged, "some folks call it that. I prefer to
think of it as organized gossip."
   "You are the famous gatherer. Now I remember. Harrison, yes? I
must have autograph. My sister reads all the scratch marks of
you."
   The employees' entrance was around the side of the structure,
down a hallway which was itself nestled between a series of old
maintenance supply rooms. The receptionist walked with a jaunty
air, unlocking the door with a twirl of his wrist as though he
were showing off for somebody. Inside, three employees worked the
central office controlling water conditions, accounting for
nightly revenues, and watching some sort of location monitor on
the far wall while taking turns receiving calls and eating from a
pile of stale pastries. A young woman in a black one-piece walked
purposefully down the corridor carrying a large bottle in her
left hand.
   "Justin says Mister Antonius is asking for kirsch, and the
tap's just about dry."
   "Oh... real emergency, eh, Pauli?"
   "Get some."
   "Where?"
   "Anywhere and fast. Also, Corlissa says her receiver's getting
kind of funky."
   "Pauli... here's another. Say to her someone is lost in
gallery again."
   "Sure."
   "Miles... what are you doing down here?"
   "I take breather. This gentleman asks to see new girl... ah...
Vilya."
   "Right this way."
   Mike followed her back along the corridor. She slowed down to
look at him again, an air of concern crossing her eyes.
   "Have I seen you before?"
   "Perhaps... I was here last night."
   "Ah, then you must be the gentleman friend who brought Vilya
here last night. I must admit, she certainly has a talent for the
gravitics."
   "Really..."
   "I've never seen anyone take as swiftly to zero-gee as she
has. And as for finding her way around the caverns... you know
she followed some poor fool into the gallery last night. We
thought we'd have to talk her out, but she brought him right out
without so much as a moment's indecision."
   "She's a good learner."
   "Where did she meet you? You must be foreign."
   Mike paused at a cross-section in the corridor, the right
passage lined with machinery rooms and the left descending into a
staircase.
   "I'm visiting a friend. You sound as though you're from off-
planet yourself.
   She smiled, "My accent is that bad?"
   "No. Not at all."
   When it came to Calannic, Mike figured that there were two
varieties, that which was theoretical and that which was actual.
The same could be said of many other languages, except that with
Calannic the discrepancy was particularly pronounced and often
varied with respect to region. It was the natural result when a
government failed to standardize education.
   The corridor ended in two, broad-swinging doors. A cacophony
of laughter and music could be heard seeping in from the other
side, and Mike paused as the woman swept the doors open, peering
from around her shoulder to orient himself with respect to the
main entrance. She turned slightly when she realized that he
wasn't following.
   "You don't want to come in?"
   "Bring her to me. It's a surprise."
   The doors swept open again, and Mike fixed his eyes toward the
main entrance and the wide corridor stretching to the
receptionist's desk. A thin mist permeated the space between,
diffuse streams of purple and amber bathing the small, round
tables squatting between the large hexagonal planters. Dozens of
people sat clothed and not-so-clothed in various fashion apparel,
sipping their beverages and occasionally diving from the terrace,
through a series of gravity nullifiers and into the pool below.
Some jumped in teams, crashing into each other on the way down,
using the fractures in the null-gravity to practice a little
impromptu acrobatics to the delight of the spectators and even
the light clutter of guards lining the walls.
   Except one. She sat with her back against the wall, her long,
white mane drenched within the thick vapor. A scowl crossed her
lips as she watched the main entrance, unblinking, and Mike knew
he'd seen her before.
   The doors slapped shut after a moment's wavering, and Mike
backed away toward the cross-section in the corridor. The short,
cement staircase dropped to a green door, its paint peeling away
in the humidity. A steam drenched window was built into its
frame, clear beads of water cutting jagged lines in the fog. Mike
stepped cautiously down the staircase and peered within. Long
rows of lockers occupied the floor space, as both men and women
changed into and out of their clothes. Some distance away, a man
sat within eye shot of the room's foyer, one hand casually
resting within the baggy pocket of his waterlogged coat.
   Mike retreated up the staircase, reaching the cross-section as
Vilya emerged between the wide, double doors. For a moment, she
stood silent, a strange smile forming on her lips as she saw the
takeout containers dangling limp from each of his hands.
   "This is great surprise?"
   "I'd figured you might be hungry..."
   She approached him, still dripping from the pools. Mike let
his hand fall to the back of his pants, gulping down a lump of
air as the body pistol's fiberglass frame became vaguely tangible
beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
   "That's far enough."
   Vilya stopped, her smile giving way to a blank expression as
she began to open her mouth. Mike drew the gun, cocking the
barrel as he centered he aim.
   "You scream, and I'll blow you away."
   "What is matter?"
   "Just tell me who's side you're on, Vil."
   "What you are talking about?"
   "No more bullshit. Don't even move."
   Her eyes seemed to glaze over with a moment's uncertainty, and
then she smiled, almost comically.
   "This is Tizarian joke, yes?"
   "No, this is ISIS joke. Now you either tell me what the hell
is going on, or I pull this trigger and send your brains flying
in ten different directions."
   The doors behind her suddenly swung open. It was Pauli, a
sedentary expression glazed on her face until she saw the gun.
   "Guards!!!"


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