by Richard Fox
“What’s this?” Zike highlighted a small land mass on the equator, hundreds of miles from the main continents.
“Gods’ Touch,” Hower said. “Volcanic island, but unusually large for a habitable planet like this, according to my wife. She was the geologist of the team. By legend, it’s where the first Tyr were set on the planet to live in full view of their deities. Considered forbidden territory because of superstition. Very difficult to reach the place as tropical storms are frequent and the Wayfarer caste—the ones with the freckled pattern—will kill anyone that tries to reach the place.”
“Expensive and time-consuming,” said Zike. “The client expects their initial colony to be ready and waiting for them when they cross the nexus. A sensor probe of the area shows a significant military presence and Hulegu doesn’t want to thaw his Marauders just yet. ‘Dropping in blind’ or some such, and he’s preparing a raid to seize the nuclear stockpile you identified.”
“You need Tyr from that area but aren’t ready for a full assault yet…I have just the solution. Do you remember the old Gemini space program from the early days of human space flight?”
Zike leaned forward. “Go on.”
Chapter 12
Sarah jumped off the back of a rickety truck and stepped over an oily puddle. She peeled off a couple bills from the purse hanging from a long strap over one shoulder and passed them to the driver, a Toiler caste with poor teeth and a yellow hue to his ketafik, a sure sign of long-term substance abuse. He took the money and drove off with a quick sign of respect as he touched fingertips over one eye, half blocking his vision.
For the Tyr, covering their eyes for a moment reminded them that the gods were always watching them.
The shuttle was now hidden in a barn several miles outside the city. She’d done what repairs she could to the hull, but their stealth cladding was shot. The piles of hay she’d piled onto the craft wouldn’t do much to hide it, but it was the best she could do in so little time.
She adjusted the veil over her mouth and looked around Vinica City. She was near the many bridges over the River Santas, one of the largest rivers on the planet. Vinica had two very different styles of architecture, depending on which side of the river one was. On the west bank, the buildings were older, almost baroque, with centuries-old temples and narrow streets. On the eastern side of the city, the construction was newer, with uglier homes done in simpler block designs and TV antenna spikes dotting the roofs.
Vinica had been the farthest reach of many Slaver hordes during the long centuries of war against the eastern power. Only one side of the city had been pillaged and burned many times, the other protected by blown bridges and the wide river.
Night encroached on the city, and streetlights began turning on erratically. She was in a restaurant row, and Toiler caste were busy dragging plastic chairs out onto the wide sidewalks and setting up tables.
“Pardon me,” she said, motioning to a Toiler woman sitting in an alley, two baskets of fish in the process of being gutted at her feet. “Where can I get toasted chass?”
The woman scoffed at her. “You show up in the back of a rust bucket and you think you can afford chass? Only one spot in our district. Pair of dirty Islanders have them. You know their script?” She pointed a bloody knife over one shoulder.
“I do, thank you.” Sarah kept one hand over her purse and the other close to the knife on her belt. The Toiler caste wasn’t the kindest to other Tyr, not after being little more than serfs for much of the kingdom’s history. Sarah’s veil showed enough of her skin to make it clear that she was a Linker, hopefully enough to deter any local criminal from taking a chance at a mugging.
Tyr handled inter-caste crimes among themselves. Any dispute between a Linker and others brought in the King’s police, and the Blooded weren’t known for their mercy for Toilers that got out of line.
The smell of fish cooking in oil and crustaceans past their prime filled the air around her. The long line of outdoor seating continued to take shape, and she thought of paintings of this exact location in their home at King’s Rest. The Promenade was famous across the kingdom for esoteric dishes and lively nightlife.
She looked up at the distant nebula, making out three of the swirls that the Tyr attributed to their gods. Boys with canvas bags hawked tightly rolled newspapers on street corners. Girls with flower garlands in their hair and small bracelets of neatly woven blossoms that formed sleeves from their wrists to their elbows walked between the seats and the restaurants, clapping their hands overhead to attract attention to the bracelets they’d sell to couples that would arrive for dates later.
It’s all about to end, Sarah thought. Their entire world is over…and they have no idea.
She sidestepped a boy shouting the latest headlines and came to a small bakery, the sign written with brass metal tacks instead of the flowing script of the rest of the block. The smell of spices and yeast tickled her sinuses.
Sarah rapped on a glass window and an Islander leaned over, his apron and kerchief over his head doused in flour. His ketafik was a mass of dark freckles from his chin to his hairline.
“Not ready,” he shouted and went back to cutting a pile of dough with a square-shaped blade.
“I’ll take a cold one,” she said, “if your chass is from Speaker-day and it hasn’t been under the gaze.”
The baker froze, the muscles in his neck tightening. “Min-nah, benti oklun ras. Chintata,” he called out and turned to face Sarah, adjusting the grip on his knife, ready to use it as a weapon. Father, special order for you. She knew enough of his caste’s language to catch the first part. The last word was a mystery to her, but hinted that she was in the right spot.
A heavyset Islander came out the back, a wooden basket in hand. The other baker grew even tenser, the blade in his hand quivering.
“Help you, Linker?” the older one asked.
“I walk among all, hated by all, known by none,” she said quietly, then traced her thumb tip along her markings not covered by the veil.
“Then you walk with the gods’ grace.” He held up the basket and opened it. A pile of stale rolls were inside.
She brushed a hand across her tunic, palmed a small piece of folded paper, and reached into the basket. Beneath the rolls, she felt a metal box. Lifting it open, she deposited the message, then withdrew a roll.
“How far does it go?” He held out a palm and she gave him a few coins.
“All the way home. No delay,” she said.
“I’ll send it right now.” He gave her a nod and went to the back room. She heard him stomping up a flight of stairs as the younger baker eyed her.
“Your face is good,” he said.
“Yours as well.” She dropped the roll into a brown paper bag and left. The “Islanders” she’d just visited were frauds, both members of a pariah caste that would be executed if their markings were exposed to be fraudulent. The Hidden moved through all castes, and just how they’d send that message back to the one that needed it was a mystery to her.
Lies and more lies, she thought. I’m more of a fraud than they are. Now to get home.
****
Daniel parked in the garage beneath their home in King’s Rest. Michael pulled down the too-heavy sheet-metal door that hit the concrete with a tremendous bang.
“We’re supposed to be incognito,” Daniel said. “Keep it down.”
“The garage door’s reinforced and too damn heavy.” Michael threw his hands up. “How’re we even going to get inside if House is…offline?”
“His stack is gone, but the passive defense systems are still armed.” Daniel gripped the door handle and there was a snap as lock bolts retracted. “Our biometrics are still loaded. House was supposed to update it with the new team’s…but here we are.” He pushed the door open. “Home sweet home.”
Daniel took the stairs two at a time and went for a telephone with three rows of switches on a stand. He opened a drawer, pulled out an address book, and began flipping p
ages.
“Dad, won’t the company look for us here?” Michael said as he hauled two suitcases up from the garage.
“They will eventually. They won’t hit us from orbit, at least not yet. There he is.” He laid the book out, removed an orange plastic stick from the drawer, and stuck it into a slot in the side of the phone, then he flipped switches.
Michael dropped the bags. “What do you mean ‘not yet’?”
“That was the Leopold, a torch ship with a single escort destroyer, the Matsui. I know that ship and who’s on it. The company can’t fit more than a division of Compliance troops and some support fighters. They don’t have the manpower to hold much territory. Riling up the Tyr with a ground strike will only make their job harder. Confusion and fear are their best weapons right now, and we need to take those away from Zike. Now, if only…it’s ringing.” He put the headset in the crook of his neck.
“Pack. Winter clothes. Get canned food together.” Daniel shooed his son away.
Michael looked at the bags on the floor, then back to the stairwell. He went to the kitchen, grumbling.
****
The incessant chime of the phone finally got Ubom off his cot. He stretched and rubbed sleep from his eyes, smacked his lips, and squinted at an analog clock. It was barely nightfall. Why was anyone calling him this early?
His bed, a dirty pile of clothes, and a camping stove were at the base of a giant telescope, the top of the overhead dome lost to darkness.
He stomped over to the phone and picked it up. “This had better be good,” he said as he scratched himself.
“Professor Ubom? This is Blooded Hawn’ru from the Ministry of Defense. We’ve got a situation that we need your help with,” Daniel said, his voice slightly augmented to carry a warrior caste accent.
Ubom almost dropped the phone as he stood up straighter.
“Honored Hawn’ru.” Ubom began sweating. He was of the Royal caste, but Hawn’ru was high enough in the court that he had nothing to worry about if he offended Ubom, who was set to inherit several dozen acres of ambary farms once his father passed away. “What a surprise…my last star survey of the Sleeve might have…that’s not why you’re calling, is it?”
“I don’t give a damn about what’s coming out of the demon pits. I need you to use that very expensive piece of equipment and take a good look at Kleegar,” Daniel said.
“Kleegar?” Ubom looked at a clock on the wall. “I…I can do that, yes. There’s great contrast between the moon and the background nebula.” Ubom tensed as he realized his faux pas. Polite society within the kingdom never referred to the red and white nebula that took up so much of the night sky by what it really was: the remnants of a star that went nova millions of years ago, as science had proven. The nebula was “the gods” so far as the court—and all the poorly educated Tyr across the kingdom—were concerned.
He scrunched his face up, ready for a scolding.
“Good,” Daniel said and Ubom’s face widened in surprise. “We have intelligence that the heretics have a satellite in orbit around Kleegar. I need you to get photographic proof for the King and deliver it to me personally. Is that understood? My access cypher is tree-garnet-yellow-bronze. Tell that to the guards at the Castle and they’ll bring you directly to me. Did you write that down?”
“Yes. No. I mean, I’m doing it now.” Ubom grabbed a stubby pencil and wrote down the code.
“Tell no one else about what you find. I want every picture. I want proof, you understand me?” Daniel acted more and more irate over the phone.
“Yes, I can…bring them to you next fortnight—”
“Tomorrow!”
“Tomorrow! I’ll miss my chance to do a drift report when the Sleeve passes but…hello?” Ubom frowned as the line went dead. “How strange.”
He went to a control panel and moved big aluminum pins on a rusty gear box to open the overhead dome. The rumble through the corrugated metal floor as the observatory readied for work always excited him.
Opening a fridge, Ubom got a soft drink in a glass bottle, then sat down in a seat with a threadbare cushion. He took a sip and turned dials to reorient the telescope. The platform turned slowly, until the dark moon was visible through the gap in the dome.
“Another satellite around Kleegar. What a waste of time and effort. Everyone knows it came from the asteroid belt, which is why…” He leaned over the eyepiece and reached for a camera switch.
Ubom stopped and sat upright, rubbing knuckles against one eye and blinking hard. He leaned over again, a bit more tentatively. In the eyepiece, he saw the dark sphere of the moon, in stark contrast to the nebula many light-years away. There was something…there. A shape with sharp edges, illuminated by star fire from one end, the light casting a faint glow on Kleegar…almost like it was a rocket ship.
“Ahh!” Ubom fell out of the chair and scrambled back. He hit the small refrigerator and empty bottles clattered around him.
“No…no, no, no…” He repeated the word over and over again as he crawled back to the telescope. He put his hand gingerly to the eyepiece, like it was made of hot metal, then looked through it again, half expecting the thing to be gone.
The shape was still there…and had moved slightly farther away from the moon. Ubom did quick math, estimating the size of it and its new distance from the outer moon.
Picking up a bottle that had rolled against his chair, he pulled the cork and tried to pour a glass, but his shaking hands missed the pour. He put the bottle to his mouth and took a deep swig.
“Impossible. Impossible. Nothing can move that fast.” He took a photo with a snap of a lever. “Too large to be a satellite. Are those…what are those?” He focused in and made out the turrets on the ventral side of the destroyer Matsui.
He snapped more pictures until the handle balked.
“More…I need more film.” Ubom swiped a hand down his face, stopping to tug at his jaw.
“Are…are the gods coming or—no, ridiculous superstition—then what…more film!” He fell out of the chair and landed hard.
****
Daniel adjusted his synth layer in the mirror and tapped on the holo. The dark markings shifted around, transforming him from a Linker to a Blooded.
“You’re a little short to be a soldier,” Michael said from behind.
“I’ve got riser boots upstairs and my synth will fill out my musculature just enough.” Daniel turned his face from side to side and double-tapped the mirror. A faint scar appeared down his left jawline.
“Why can’t I go with you?” Michael asked.
“Because I can’t phone this one in, and if I make a mistake…it won’t go well. Can’t have you near me if that happens. So I need you to hold down the fort until your mother arrives. Easy enough, right?”
“Am I still supposed to hit the trip wire if this place is found out? You know the secret police can trace phone calls, right?” Michael put his hands on his hips.
“Which is why I used a shunt. They look at billing records of that long-distance call and they’ll see it came from a cabaret across town. We don’t have House anymore to scramble all our communications or tap the kingdom’s networks,” he said, tapping the address book on the desk in front of him, “but we’ve got enough of their codes to keep us ahead of the game for a while. But if you have to…hit the trip wire and follow the evacuation plan. Your mother and I will link up with you as soon as we can.”
“That plan was in case the Tyr found out about us, not the company. Do you really think Uncle Aaron is helping them?”
Daniel’s hands fell to his sides.
“Hower’s…he’s no fool. The company either made him an offer he couldn’t refuse or he jumped at the first incentive they offered him. He has no love for the Tyr, remember that.”
“You were the one that threw him in the escape pod,” Michael said, looking away, “not me or Mom.”
“You’re right…but we’ve got a little more time before we have to worry about the co
mpany coming for us. We’ll disappear before that happens.”
“And if they do show up?” Michael looked at the ceiling. “Why are you so certain that they’re taking their sweet time before they send down a strike team or those suits they have?”
“Remember that old story about how Mars attacked late nineteenth-century Earth? What happened to the Martians?”
“The one where they have big brains and go ack ack all the time?”
“No, the other one. Big tripod walkers. Radio drama.”
“Oh….They got sick from endemic diseases and died. No immunities.”
“The company sets foot on Tyr now and they run the same risk. They’re not stupid, son. So I’m giving them the benefit of the doubt. I should be back within a day. Just hunker down. Don’t you do anything stupid.” Daniel leveled a finger at his son.
“What? What could I possibly do to make things worse than they already are?”
Daniel kept the finger pointed.
“I won’t say anything to Lussea…gosh.”
Chapter 13
In a ready room aboard the Matsui, Tanya Yenin shook powdered cream into a half-full cup of coffee, then added more water. She wore a void flight suit, with the gloves dangling from contact seals at her wrists.
“Doing another poor man’s latte?” Greg Cisneros leaned against the bulkhead. His flight suit was the same as hers, though more worn at the elbows and kneepads.
“Just so long as I don’t have to taste this crap the company calls coffee. It’s so fake, they can’t even put ‘coffee’ on the box.” She rattled a cardboard container with packets inside. “It’s water laced with caffeine and dark coloring.”
“Crew Alpha seven, report to your haul. Time sensitive,” came through an earbud.
Cisneros rolled his head back. “They can’t be serious. We just unmoored from the torch ship and they’ve already got ash and trash for us to move?” He put his gloves on and made for the doors.
