Tarkken

by Annabelle Rex

  Kotka: about as I expected it to… sigh

  Disquord: :(

  They never got in to specifics. That wasn’t the way of the Forum. ‘Never give too much away about yourself’ was the unwritten golden rule, even for the people who kept their noses clean. Marta had classified her activities today as ‘family shit’ to Disquord, and that was as specific as she ever got.

  Kotka: Find your guy?

  Disquord: booked in to a sleazy hotel with another guy who most definitely wasn’t his husband

  That was Disquord’s line, finding people. Tracing their movements by their online presence. It was right on the edge of legal sometimes, but he contracted to Private Investigators, almost always hunting for husbands playing away from home. As long as the people he found had divorce proceedings to worry about, they rarely stopped to think about exactly how Disquord had tracked them down, and he had the protection of the PI companies when they did.

  Kotka: is anyone ever booked in to a sleazy hotel with their actual husband?

  Disquord: Not in my experience. But plot twist - the other guy was one of the other erstwhile husbands I hadn’t started looking for yet

  Things Marta knew about Disquord: he was educated, or at least read books. Evidence for this - his use of words like ‘erstwhile’. Beyond that, not much. Except one important thing. He was kind. Evidence? The way he always looked out for her.

  Kotka: cracking open the champagne tonight then?

  Disquord: I just might. You got any other plans for today?

  Kotka: Just work

  Disquord: All work and no play makes Kotka a dull individual

  Marta sighed, looking at the picture she kept on her desk - an old photograph of her and Asha, taken when they were about thirteen. Asha still looked like a little girl, but Marta had started the transition from child to adult, all awkward angles and discomfort with her developing body. Only braces would have made her look any more obviously teenaged.

  Kotka: believe it or not, I had the chance to be at an out of this world party tonight

  Disquord: and yet you’re still here

  Kotka: too far away - would have to have left before family shit went down

  Disquord: ah. Commiserations. Go find a cool local bar and dance the night away there instead?

  It was an option. Marta was generally against leaving her house, but she did like to go dancing. Something about the loud music, the darkness, the anonymous crowds appealed to her.

  Work or play?

  Marta thought of her bank balance, the likelihood that her father would have applied for even one of the jobs he’d been given forms for.

  Work it was.

  Chapter 2

  YOU’VE BEEN AVOIDING ME.

  THE WORDS on the screen could have been an accusation, or just a statement of fact. It could be hard to tell such nuances in text. The fact that Doctor Mannoran’s face gave nothing away didn’t help.

  Tarkken could have leaned a little closer, put himself in emotional reading range and known for sure, but he didn’t, instead keeping himself tight to his corner of the doctor’s office. The smile he gave definitely wouldn’t have passed any sincerity test, but Doctor Mannoran didn’t react, just leaned back in his chair and waited.

  “It’s not avoidance if you’re just too busy,” Tarkken said.

  Doctor Mannoran arched an eyebrow, reaching for his comm and tapping out another message.

  Too busy to spare me twenty minutes?

  “It just slipped my mind.”

  For three months?

  Tarkken’s jaw clenched, his smile turning more grimace. With concerted effort, he relaxed his face muscles.

  “My apologies, Doctor, I know you’re just trying to do your job.”

  Doctor Mannoran gave him a bland look. Yravvie people had very expressive faces - likely a side effect of having evolved to rely entirely on non-verbal communication - so Tarkken knew the doctor was working hard to keep his feelings on the matter to himself. Normally an impossibility when talking to an Empath, but Tarkken always tried to keep his intrusion in other people’s emotions to a minimum.

  It is important that you comply with the regular check up program. Life on a space station can take unexpected tolls in some people.

  “I stick to my exercise program,” Tarkken said. “Besides, I spend a reasonable amount of time on planet…”

  Before Tarkken could finish, Doctor Mannoran had spun his comm round to reveal his next words.

  I’m not talking about just physical effects.

  Tarkken bristled at the suggestion.

  “I quite like living on the Station, actually,” he said. “It suits me fine.”

  This wasn’t even a bending of the truth. Tarkken did like living on the Station, with its clear daily routines, the work keeping him busy, the private rooms his position afforded him. A lot of people got sick of living, working, relaxing all in the same small area, but the novelty of being able to close his suite door and be utterly alone still hadn’t worn off for Tarkken.

  Plus, somehow, he’d even managed to get on good terms with a few people. At first, Tarkken had been sure that Cael’s friendly demeanour towards him was just the Prince being his affable self. But somewhere along the line, things had changed from the polite acquaintance of two people who have to work closely together to something else. Now, Cael was about the closest Tarkken had ever come to having a friend. Randar and Angela, too.

  And you let them down, he thought, his jaw clenching.

  Doctor Mannoran considered him for a moment, then gestured towards the gurney.

  “A full scan?” Tarkken said. “I wasn’t lying about sticking to the exercise program.”

  He really wasn’t. The regimented exercise program was another thing Tarkken liked about Station life. He’d never been in to exercise before, had initially engaged with the program as a matter of necessity. But the clear and measurable progression soon became addictive, tracking the various data points appealing to Tarkken’s analytical mind.

  I can tell that just looking at you. I still have to do the routine checks. Besides, aren’t you interested to compare results from last time?

  Much as he hated to admit it, he was. Tarkken knew his body had transformed over the last year and a half. Most people lost muscle when they lived on a space station. The gravity field operated at just a little lower than most planets in order to be more energy efficient and not to over tax any people on board used to lower levels. When your body didn’t have to work as hard to do day to day things, muscle wastage was the natural result. Tarkken had gained muscle, his body transformed from average to athletic by his dedication to the exercise program.

  It would be interesting, he thought, to see the before and after information side by side.

  He climbed on to the gurney and lay back as Doctor Mannoran activated the body scan. It took only seconds, then a few moments more for the doctor to pull up the data, projecting it using a holographic visualiser. And then Tarkken was looking at himself from a year ago, and himself now.

  Quite impressive, Doctor Mannoran typed into his comm.

  But Tarkken’s attention wasn’t on the change in his body shape, the way his arms had almost doubled in size, his waist shrinking as the body fat melted away. It was on the angry red mark glowing at his jaw and above his left eye.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  Pain reading. Doctor Mannoran replied. The body scan picks up the signals in your nervous system that indicate pain.

  “I thought you weren’t interested in physical effects.”

  I said physical effects aren’t the only toll life on a station can take. He looked at the scan for a moment, face thoughtful. Besides, mental problems can manifest as physical ones. Do you wake up in the morning with jaw ache?

  “Sometimes,” Tarkken said.

  Grinding your teeth in the night, or clenching your jaw, can be a symptom of stress. As can tension headaches.

  “Stress? My whole job is about
being stressed.”

  There are different kinds of stress. Healthy stress can be a boost to performance, but long term stress can wear a person down, lead to burnout. It’s important we monitor stress levels to make sure the former doesn’t turn in to the latter.

  Tarkken scowled. “I’m not interested in any sort of therapy session, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  Bad enough that he could intrude on other people’s emotions accidentally if he wasn’t being careful, wasn’t keeping enough distance. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in a room with a load of people being encouraged to think about their feelings. When you thought about how angry or sad or happy you were, you tended to project those feelings a little stronger as well.

  And along with those feelings crept in the insidious ones you didn’t want other people knowing about. The self loathing, the bitterness, the jealousy.

  Tarkken had enough of that of his own to deal with, without taking on anyone else’s.

  Therapy can be an effective means of managing stress, but it’s not the only one. Doctor Mannoran frowned, flicking through something on his comm. You’re Hypreznian, right?

  Tarkken nodded, unsure he liked where this conversation was heading.

  Have you been getting enough emotional contact? Suppression of your empathy could be another cause of your headaches. I know it’s not always easy when you’re not among your own people. Especially in such a limited pool as the crew of a space station.

  “It’s fine, I’m fine,” Tarkken said.

  The doctor did not look convinced.

  “I’ve been perfectly fine up to this point,” Tarkken said. “It’s probably the stress thing.”

  Doctor Mannoran narrowed his eyes, and Tarkken suddenly wished he wasn’t sitting quite so obviously far away. It wasn’t helping his case.

  Monitor the headaches, he said. I’ve sent you through some information about stress reduction. If working through the exercises doesn’t impact your headaches, or if they get any worse, come and see me again.

  “Of course,” Tarkken said, and Doctor Mannoran was good enough to pretend he couldn’t tell Tarkken was lying.

  Back in his office, Tarkken drummed his fingers against his desk, staring at the empty room around him. With Prince Cael no longer on board, no Human dignitaries had cause to visit, and so there was no need for monitoring, running background checks or any of his other security team’s duties. Tarkken had given them all two weeks off.

  He was meant to be off for two weeks himself, but besides catching up on routine medical appointments he definitely hadn’t been avoiding, what was he supposed to do with his days if he wasn’t in here, monitoring Station security? The thought of all those empty hours stretching out before him didn’t relax him the way Cael seemed to think they would.

  Why Cael wanted him to relax at all after the disastrous events of six months ago, Tarkken wasn’t sure. Tarkken had failed to detect the stirrings of violent sentiment through any of the channels he and his team routinely monitored. Hadn’t had as much as an inkling of the danger the Prince and his new Match were in when Tarkken sent them both to St James’s Park. Increased vigilance was the only suitable response, in Tarkken’s mind, not this… holiday.

  He turned in his chair, looking up at the board of top security threats. A lot of the slots were empty now, as Humanity gradually came round to the idea of the Intergalactic Community and the Match test. Testing rates were on the increase, and dissenting voices were more and more in the minority. But, remaining in the top spot was the sneering face of Nick Gillespie, leader of the English Human Protection League. The EHPL claimed responsibility for the attacks in St James’s Park, and despite the best efforts of the Metropolitan Police, they were no closer to tracking down the leading members of the group than they had been six months ago. The EHPL hadn’t done another attack since, but there were grumblings, always grumblings, on the Human Internet. A hardcore group of anti-Intergalactic Community individuals who weren’t going to be swayed by the changing tide.

  Tarkken made a conscious effort to unclench his jaw. Stress reduction. It was all very well of Doctor Mannoran to suggest it, but if Tarkken wasn’t feeling stressed, then he wasn’t doing his job right.

  “Still sulking in here, then?” Cribishk said, stepping through the door.

  “Working,” Tarkken corrected.

  Cribishk glanced round at the various chairs, before sinking in to one of the comfortable ones at the side, usually reserved for guests. Tarkken might have told him to move, but for one, there were no guests on the Station, and therefore no one was going to turn up with stronger claim to the comfortable chair. And two, the comfortable chairs were the perfect distance from Tarkken’s desk to remain out of his emotional reading range. Which meant whether Cribishk leaned to the pity or the contempt end of the spectrum, Tarkken didn’t have to be privy to it.

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Cribishk said, gesturing to the empty room. “But there isn’t really any ‘work’ to do.”

  “Then why are you here?” Tarkken said.

  Cribishk just smirked. “Asha asked me to check up on you. Make sure you were getting some ‘down time’.”

  “Of course she did,” Tarkken said, his tone irritable, even as he felt a little glow of happiness at the thought that Asha cared enough to check up on him. Tarkken had got by most of his adult life as a loner. He knew he was acerbic and irritable and people didn’t normally like him very much. But his somewhat accidental friendship with Cael and Randar had proved addictive. Frustratingly, it mattered to him a great deal that Asha didn’t think him an imbecile.

  “I did tell her you don’t understand the meaning of the term ‘down time’,” Cribishk said.

  Six months ago, Cribishk wouldn’t have dared to speak to Tarkken like this. His promotion to Asha’s personal bodyguard had elevated him somewhat outside the rank hierarchy. Like Randar, he did technically come under Tarkken’s purview, but Tarkken had little power to impose any sort of discipline. Asha’s was the only authority Cribishk had to respond to now.

  “And apart from checking up on me, what will you be doing with your down time?” Tarkken asked.

  Cribishk shrugged. “I’m not sure I know what it means either.”

  Their eyes met - through Cribishk’s dark goggles, anyway - and Tarkken felt a moment of solidarity. He wondered how many Unmatched people found it difficult to switch off from whatever it was that gave their life purpose in the absence of a Match. For Tarkken, and apparently Cribishk, it was work. Others had hobbies, became involved in causes, but it was all to the same end - a means of squashing down the loneliness, distracting yourself so it couldn’t fester.

  “Perhaps we need a project,” Tarkken said. “This is the sort of situation where people who live in actual houses redecorate a room, right?”

  Cribishk gave a low laugh. “I don’t see you much as the redecorating type.”

  “No,” Tarkken said, imagining being covered in paint and shuddering.

  Tarkken could think of a great many things he was not, just not many things he was. He was the Head of Security for the Station, but was there anything else to him that wasn’t shaped by negatives?

  Not the redecorating type.

  Not a people person.

  Not Matched.

  “Well, you can consider your duty discharged,” Tarkken said. “You’ve checked up on me.”

  “I have,” Cribishk said, and Tarkken thought he looked a little lost now his one job had been completed. He rose, heading for the door, and though Tarkken wasn’t much for company, the thought of the room being empty once again wasn’t a nice one.

  “Feel free to check up on me again, if you think Asha requires it of you,” Tarkken said, just before Cribishk left. “We must keep our leaders happy.”

  “Asha does appreciate thoroughness,” Cribishk said, before closing the door behind him.

  Later, Tarkken headed down into the Station gym. It was a weights day, so T
arkken worked through the routine he’d built using the gym’s personal trainer AI. A quick five minute warm up, followed by a series of body weight exercises, then cool down stretches. There were a few others using the facilities, but they knew better than to interrupt Tarkken when he was exercising by now. While others liked the distraction of conversation to take their mind off the aches and pains that accompanied rigorous exercise, Tarkken liked to concentrate on it. He liked to fully experience the sensations of his muscles working, to analyse and catalogue them. Stiffness in his calves during the warm up meant a need to give them more attention in his cool down. An easing of strain in his triceps during pushups meant it was time to increase the reps or the difficulty.

  He’d built up a reasonable sweat when his comm rang, the jangling tone jarring him out of his rhythm. Tarkken scowled, even as part of him actually hoped this was someone calling him to tell him something had gone wrong. He grabbed the comm, turning the screen towards him, and was surprised to see Superintendent Katherine Jackson, Tarkken’s main liaison with the Metropolitan Police, calling him.

  “We’ve had a bit of a breakthrough,” she said, cutting straight to the point. “Intel has come in around a group of dealers some of whom also have affiliations with the EHPL.”

  Superintendent Jackson always sounded like she had a million and one things to do and talking to anyone for longer than a few minutes wasn’t an efficient use of her time. She always kept things short and succinct. Tarkken appreciated that about her.