by London, Lia
Inside the spacious common room, tables, chairs, and sofas provided comfortable options for guests. On the far side, a stout man sat at a desk, leaning so close to a holovid display that the action played out on his face. He peered up at me through the action and slapped a button. Instantly, the images disappeared into the portal.
“Greetings, traveler.” His eyes journeyed slowly from my boots to my cloak then rested on my unusual hairdo. “And where do you hail from?”
I’d reached a moment of decision. Did I say the Arxon? Ikekane? The forest? Some other place in Caren? My birthplace?
I held his gaze and smiled at his steely expression. “Think of me as a comet, streaming through your corner of the sky.”
His brow quirked upward. “Bringing devastation?”
I shook my head, broadening my grin. “Bringing a flash of light and something to talk about after I’m gone.”
He probed at his gums with his tongue for a moment before slapping the button and reigniting his holovid program. “We don’t have rooms large enough for a comet.”
“Are you sure?” From a pouch at my belt beneath the cloak, I pulled out a handful of currency chips and let them clatter from my fingers through the holographic image.
His hand again slapped the holovid button, but this time it slid the currency to the edge of the desk. There, he ticked them one by one with a finger into a drawer. “There might be a room you could rent for a month.”
“I have companions. We’ll need a suite with four beds and a table. One week.”
“Are your companions also comets?” The line between his eyes deepened.
“Not at all. We shall be very quiet as we conduct our business in town.” I crouched down to his eye level, glad no guests lingered near. “We want no trouble with anyone,” I assured him. “Just a safe place to rest.”
He leaned on his elbows. “This inn has been harassed by some radical gypsies lately. They don’t approve of the colonist merchants that frequent my establishment. What do you say about that?”
“I’m not affiliated with radical gypsies,” I said. “But I might want to meet some of the merchants.”
“The merchants don’t care much for the gypsies, either.”
“Understood.” I straightened to my full height. “Do we have an arrangement?”
He pulled open the drawer which now contained my currency and pulled out an older model digi-pad. “What’s the name?”
“Brita.” I couldn’t use the name Glenn here on the Rik Peninsula. “Artemus,” I added, my ears warming at the idea.
“Very well.” He entered the information and extended a hand. “I’m Efrem. Your suite will be the last door on the left, third floor. Key in a five-digit code followed by three zeros the first time you enter. That will set your private passcode for the duration of your stay.”
OOO
Getting Dag up the stairs proved a larger task than I’d imagined. My parents ended up carrying most of the gear up in three trips while I stayed with Dag, supporting him on one side as he trudged step after step upward in slow motion.
“I don’t understand it.” He sagged against the railing midway to the final landing. “I did so well in our training sessions. I thought I’d be fine.”
Helping him to swivel and sit on the stairs, I pondered this. “I guess the difference is you only wore the extra weight during our workouts. Now you’re having to carry it every waking hour.” I stroked his bangs back from his brow. “I still think you’re stellar. Any other spacey would still be collapsed on the floor of the ferry.”
He smiled and wiped the sweat from his brow. “I’m holding you back.”
Shaking my head, I nestled closer as a stranger passed us going down. The woman glanced back, and for some reason, I blushed.
“What?” asked Dag.
With a shy smile, I confessed how I’d used his surname to register for the rooms.
“Smart,” he said approvingly. “Prescient.”
“Huh?”
He wrapped his arm around me and studied my face. “It’s as if you knew I was going to ask you to marry me.”
“You what?” My bottom slipped down a step with a thunk, and I gaped up at him.
He slid down to join me. “That’s assuming I survive this sabbatical on Caren, of course. But…Brita? You’re crying.”
I was.
Why was I crying?
“I don’t know how it could possibly work.”
His face fell. “You’re saying no?”
I shook my head. “I’m saying we come from different worlds.”
“But you know mine. You thrived brilliantly there.” He shifted closer. “And I’m trying to know your world. I’ll thrive eventually, won’t I?”
“If you want to, you will,” I promised.
“Then isn’t it the same for you? If you want to make it work between us, it will.”
“But do you really want all of me? Colonist and gypsy?” My heart pounded. Though my brain called out these reasons to doubt, my heart stubbornly refused to yield the most important point: I loved Dag. I really did. He was different from anyone I knew, and from our first encounter on the Quarantine Deck of the Arxon to today, he treated me as though he believed I was special, too.
“Are there nuptial protocols down here?” he asked, ignoring my question.
“Typically, you wait until the woman says yes.” My father’s face peeked around the landing. “Brita, can you hurry up and give him an answer? I’ve been holding both tent bags this whole time, and my arms are killing me.”
“You’ve been eavesdropping?” I scolded.
“You’ve been stalling.” He gave me a pointed look. “I’ll support your decision either way, but my arms will disconnect from my shoulders if you don’t let me come up and pass you on the stairs now, and I really don’t want to interrupt either weeping or kissing.”
Beside me, Dag let out a nervous laugh and used the railing as leverage to pull himself to his feet.
“No, you don’t.” I gently pushed him back down to sit. “I don’t want my future husband pulling a muscle or passing out right now.”
Dag yelped with surprise as I settled myself on his lap and kissed him. Between laughing with joy, signaling for my father to climb on past us, and reeling with the repercussions of the answer I’d given, I knew I’d never forget this moment for as long as I lived.
17 ~ Mrs. Artemus
The next morning, we showered and donned our cleanest clothing. In Dag’s case, that meant one of his coversuits and boots with a borrowed suit coat from my father. I’d lost my business suit in Tye when the ferry sank, so I wore one of my floral dresses from Ikekane with a white lace chemise over the top, courtesy of my mother. She found a way to wind my hair and a matching scarf into a sophisticated twist of braids and ringlets and pronounced me “pretty as a princess”.
My father rented another transport and hurried us back to Docking Bay. The government hub there retrieved the necessary data from the ferry drop to identify Dag and perform the civil ceremony uniting us as husband and wife. It wasn’t beautiful or sentimental, but it was legally binding. In a few words spoken with conviction, I became Mrs. Brita Artemus.
“Your colleagues on the Arxon won’t be angry for missing this?” I asked as we waited for the official to notarize our marriage files.
“This?” He kissed my cheek. “I wasn’t going to let them have any part of this.” He kissed my other cheek, laughing. “I’m keeping you to myself!”
I bumped my forehead into his, giddy with excitement and trembling with uncertainty.
My parents enveloped us in a group hug, having participated in the event as spectators. The official called in his secretary and a cook from the cafeteria to be the formal witnesses. Reading the certificate, a puddle of disappointment formed in my stomach. For obvious reasons, my mother couldn’t sign as a witness. She couldn’t let her lost princess identity be known. My father, as a gypsy, did not have authority to sign. The documen
t listed Dag Artemus, ICS: Arxon and Brita Glenn, Rik Peninsula Colony. Dulcea Glenn might be a famous name, but Brita Glenn could be the daughter of any number of Carenian citizens descended from the original colonizers of the System.
Together, the four of us strode out into the sunlight, planning to enjoy the day exploring the town through Dag’s eyes before returning to the inn in Finca. My parents excused themselves and went to a restaurant that allowed gypsies.
Dag and I wandered hand-in-hand through a park, and I explained to him the phenomenon of having communal areas that combined paved paths and water fountains with wide trimmed lawns and sprawling shade trees. Whenever he grew tired, we’d sit on one of the benches, and I’d use the time to point out the different kinds of birds or explain the clothing options. He’d never imagined anything as simple as a picnic, or children playing tag or throwing a ball back and forth outdoors. The variety of human behaviors seemed to surprise him as much as sitting on real wood or walking on real grass.
He still squinted much of the time, trying to focus in the varied lighting.
“What’s that?” He pointed up into the tree that acted as an awning of shade over our bench. “I saw something moving.”
I swiveled and peered up into the branches. “Where?”
“About four meters up to the left and—”
I squeaked and scrambled to my feet.
“What? What is it?” Dag bolted, and we both scuttled out from under the leaves.
“It was a fanep.” I shuddered. “Two of them, I think.”
“Faneps?” He ventured closer, searching again through the leaves. “Are you scared of them?”
“I guess they make me a little nervous because they’re so different.” I frowned at myself. “Maybe like how stationaries think about gypsies, huh?”
“The little rat men sure get around, don’t they?” droned a woman’s voice from behind us.
I turned and gasped.
Saloma stood there, 100% the proud gypsy in a flowing skirt, with three colored vests and layers of scarves tied at her neck and waist. “Hello again.” She flourished her hands at me, and I caught a glimpse of a laser pistol strapped beneath the vests. “You have quite the wardrobe, ready to blend in to any colony.”
I swallowed.
“Who’s this?” Saloma thrust out her chin at Dag. I noticed she didn’t introduce herself.
“Dag Artemus.” His hand caressed the back of my neck. “Brita’s husband.”
The news forced her eyes wide open. “You married a spacey and pose as a stationary colonist? What’s your game, gypsy?”
“No game,” I said, pushing down a growing apprehension in my stomach. Why did she need a laser pistol? I deliberately changed the subject. “I somehow doubt that’s your fanep up in the tree.”
She arched a brow and stepped back. “No chance. You know how I feel about those things. Vicious little invasive species.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she regarded me. “Still, they do seem to know where the red-armored oysters are. How did your search for pearls go? Were you successful?”
With my hand hidden from her view, I pinched the back of Dag’s waist before answering. “No. I couldn’t find any divers.”
“Too bad. Those pearls are at a premium now. The profits could really help the Network.” Her gaze, still never drifting to Dag, rooted me to my spot. “Are you sure you didn’t find anything useful?”
“Not pearls,” I lied, though I couldn’t have explained why I felt the need for secrecy. “Just some of the tropical plants.”
“Are they for sale?”
“My father already has buyers lined up, I think.”
“He’s in the area?”
Dag gestured across the park to an outdoor café. “Of course. The wedding was today. He’s right over there.”
I winced as Saloma spun on her sandaled foot and located my parents. “Huh. Well, I’ll have to meet him, find out who his connections are. It may be vital for our cause.” She took off across the grass towards the café.
Dag grabbed my arm. “Did she say Network? Is she part of those rebel gypsies who—?”
“I don’t know.” I hated all the deception, but until I knew what Saloma was up to, I wanted to keep control of the secrets.
“Wait!” I called out after her. “My mother’s really shy.” I let go of Dag, rushing to intercept. “Please, don’t crash in on their meal. It isn’t polite.”
Saloma stopped gave me a quizzical look. “Gypsies have different social norms than stationaries, or have you forgotten?”
I thought about physically holding her back but remembered the laser pistol. Was she the one who vandalized the sign in Finca?
In a few more strides, she reached my parents’ table in the quietest corner of the patio. Curious eyes followed our strange procession: gypsy woman, colonist woman, spacey man.
“Hello,” said Saloma warmly. She crouched down to face my father just as Dag and I caught up. “Brita tells me you have some good trade connections in the area for gypsy herbs and such.”
My father’s eyes darted to mine, showing concern. From behind Saloma’s line of sight, I shook my head. His eyes flickered to my mother and then rested on Saloma. Sliding his plate aside, he tilted his body in such a way as to draw attention away from my mother. He’d done this for so many years I don’t know if he even thought about it anymore. It was instinctive to each of us to hide her, sometimes in plain sight.
“I have some regular customers for certain types of blends, yes,” he said pleasantly.
“Pearl blends?” she pressed.
I grimaced. He caught my expression and answered smoothly. “Sometimes, but not this rotation.”
A breeze swished by, stirring up Saloma’s hair and my mother’s head scarf. For the first time, Saloma turned to her, and immediately her eyes took on a gleam I couldn’t understand.
“I see now.” She glanced from me to my mother. “You take after your mother, don’t you?”
Could she see beneath the scarf that my mother’s hair was lighter and straighter than a gypsy’s? That her skin wasn’t quite the right tint of golden brown?
“Your family makes some interesting marriage choices,” she observed. “Spaceys and stationaries. That explains many things about Brita.”
I didn’t know exactly what she meant, but I could tell from my mother’s mortified expression she felt exposed.
But Saloma didn’t blow her cover as being anyone other than another gypsy woman. With a few meaningless pleasantries about the weather, she excused herself to rejoin her companions on the far side of the park.
As soon as she’d crossed the street, Dag and I dragged chairs from an unused table over and sat down next to them.
“Do you think she recognized me?” asked my mother.
“She knows you’re a stationary,” said Claus. “But I doubt she’d know your face specifically. She’s too young to have seen the holovids of the royal family back when.”
Her lips formed a thin line. “I think I need to go use the lavatory,” she muttered, pushing away from the table and rounding the side of the building to the public facilities.
My father and I exchanged a sigh, and I glanced at Dag who adjusted his sunglasses on his face. His attention was fixed on something beyond a cluster of trees.
“What are you looking at?” I asked.
He opened his mouth to speak, but instead I heard shrieking screams and the blasts of projectile firearms.
18 ~ Ugly Truth
“What’s going on?” Dag gripped my arm so tightly it hurt.
My father jumped to his feet.
“Who’s firing?” But even as I asked, I watched the chase play out, drawing closer. Saloma and several other gypsies pounded out a fast retreat, firing laser pistols over their shoulders at a group of twenty or more men. Their pursuers brandished hunting firearms and wore red face masks.
The Crimson Guard.
Colonists throughout the park screamed and dove to the g
round or behind trees, trying to escape the fray. A woman running with a child in her arms went down hard. I hoped she had merely tripped.
As the combatants grew near enough to hear their shouts, I scanned the buildings. “Where should we go?”
“Inside!” cried my father. “Hurry. Get in behind some furniture away from the windows.”
Dag grabbed my hand, and we started to run, but I stopped when my father didn’t follow.
“Dulcea!” he shouted. “Dulcea!” He veered behind a table, rushing in the direction my mother had gone.
“Claus!” I yelled, reaching for him.
Beside me, the glass of one window shattered and screams spilled out. A second later, an explosion rocked the side of the building, igniting the back walls with smoking flames.
Dag wrapped his arms around me and threw me to the ground, shielding me as we rolled away. Hidden behind some toppled metal café tables, I couldn’t tear my eyes from the action now playing out in the street. The red-masked men stood closest, hurling epithets at the gypsies and promising to eradicate them. Angry retorts came from Saloma’s group.
I squirmed across the pavement, trying to get a clearer view. At the same instant Dag called me back, the window closest to me exploded, raining shards of glass everywhere. Shouts rang out, and the clatter of rifles rising to shoulders signaled an execution.
Through a gap between the mob’s legs, I saw the intended victim as he locked eyes with me. I froze. My father!
“Noooooo!”
The blast of guns drowned out my bellow, and I saw flashes of red before squeezing my eyes shut.
The men’s derisive cheers turned to groans of fear and agony. Raising my head, I witnessed Saloma sweeping a laser pistol through the half-circle of men with two-fisted determination. Each man in turn crumpled to the ground, seared as if by a sword of fire. She stood taller, wiping her brow and relaxing her shoulders.
The air grew quiet, and I realized all the men had been slain.
“Quick!” she called. “Check for survivors of the blast.” She pointed to another gypsy. “Get every last man to safety!”
