by T S Hottle
“Because even Dasarius doesn’t know where their ship is.” Best turned around to face Pope now, tired of the CEO’s nude gymnastics in the pool and desperate for the interview to end. “Look, I am a minister of a full-fledged constituent authority within the Compact. I and my bizarre little friend here…”
“Well,” said the Dimaj, still on his back and kicking his way across the pool, “not ‘little.’”
“…need to find Luxhomme, or the Navy will shut down the colony on Marilyn, and his people will have to come back to Jefivah where they’ll face the same cultural isolation they’ve experienced since the founding of their religion.”
“And this is my concern because…?”
“Marilyn has a series of moisture farms,” said Best, “built by the Jefivan government to water desert farms there, farms currently growing several varieties of potatoes supplied by JunoCorp. Jefivah has also contracted to buy customized grain for Marilyn, Gallifrey, and Barataria from Juno.”
“I see.” The CEO tread water silently, his focus somewhere other than on Best.
“And,” the Dimaj added, “may I remind you that Jefivah has the option of contracting with another crop customizer, maybe one based on Earth or Tian that’s signed the GMO Ethics Pact of 2048?”
“Those contracts are worth trillions,” said Best. “And as agricultural minister, I’ll see to it that those three colonies don’t have to wait six months to be kept in the loop. We’ll borrow the money and resources to upgrade their hypergate networks.”
Pope began backstroking away from Best. “I suppose you’ll also expect us to answer for Farigha going silent.”
“Farigha?” asked Best.
“A Martian colony,” said the Dimaj. “Mars invested an enormous amount of resources into terraforming it. It went silent a couple of weeks ago. Did you not hear about this, Douglas?”
“I was busy,” said Best. “Trying to keep your colony from getting shut down.”
The Dimaj grunted and went back to splashing away in his corner of the pool.
“The fact is no one knows why it went silent,” said Pope, treading water once more. “In fact, Compact Security asked us what we knew.”
“And what do you know?” asked Best.
“We know that every probe sent to that star system has also gone silent. No hyperdrones, no return flights. Someone clearly does not want us to find out what happened.”
“Have you asked Luxhomme?”
“I was hoping the two of you could. He’s been out of contact since leaving for Laputan space.”
Best shoved his hands in his pocket. “So he’s your problem, too.”
“Very much so.” He swam up to the edge of the pool and shouted, “Sarai.”
A modestly dressed woman in traditional Muslim garb emerged from an opening Best had not seen when he entered the pool room. Despite the hijab and full body dress that exposed only her face and hands, she seemed oblivious to Pope’s nudity. “Sir?”
“Please get Mr. Best and his friend everything in Luxhomme’s personnel file.”
“Thank you,” said Best.
“And arrange for better lodging in the Secular Quarter. It won’t do for a minister or a religious leader to stay in a roach motel.”
* **
“You were absolutely no help back there,” said Best as they rode the elevator to their suite at the Hilton in Rashidun’s Secular Quarter. “You seemed more fascinated by the pool than concerned with finding Luxhomme.”
The Dimaj wore that maddening expression of serenity still. “You had things well in hand. You are a minister, after all.”
“A minister suspended from his post. I could have done just as well coming here by myself and presenting my credentials to the Vizir’s office. I might not have had to take in Walter Pope in all his rejuvenated glory.”
“Why don’t we have many rejuvenation clinics on Jefivah, Douglas? It seems to me my people would be the first in line.”
“Your people usually protest anything modern. And yet the woman you worship as a goddess would probably have loved the idea.”
“We must preserve our faith, Douglas. You’re a proph-”
The elevator doors parted to reveal a couple waiting with two small children just as Best shouted “I am not a prophet.” He looked out at the family now staring bewildered at him and the strange robed figure next to him. “Sorry. Trying to settle a bet.”
“I do not gamble,” said the Dimaj.
“We’ll take the next one,” said the mother. The doors snapped shut.
As the lift began moving again, the Dimaj said, “Speaking of presenting credentials, this world’s High Normaj lives near here. I must present my own. Care to join me?”
“You’re kidding,” said Best. “Right?”
“Hardly. I’m sure she would enjoy welcoming our newest prophet.”
“I’m not a prophet.”
“Too bad. You look like you could use some time with a Normaj, even a high-ranking one such as my friend.” A thought seemed to strike the Dimaj. “You don’t prefer men, do you? I mean, you have a wife back on Jefivah.”
When the doors opened again, Best said, “I’m going to settle into our suite, pour myself a stiff drink, and get some dinner. Alone. You go have fun with your Lord High Whore or whatever she’s called.”
As the Dimaj glided off the elevator, he said, “Your loss. See you after dinner.”
* **
The food was actually quite good and convinced Best he might not be wasting his time after all. He even helped himself to a second glass of the local wine, surprised that they even made wine on the predominantly Muslim world. The server, a human rather than one of those short, wheeled contraptions that infested all the restaurants on Jefivah, explained that not everyone on The Caliphate was a Muslim. In fact, Islam was viewed as a mostly urban religion here.
“We’re not some backward factionalized place like Jefivah,” she said. “Where did you say you were from, sir?”
Best had not said but mumbled, “Mars.”
That made the server grin. “That is so cool. I always wanted to visit that place. Tell me, is it true there’s enough breathable air now to go outside without a tank?”
He did not know. Hell, he knew even less about Mars than he did Earth. Most people knew nothing about their ancestral homeworlds. Earth and Mars were no longer relevant. Well, neither was Jefivah, but most people ignored humanity’s first interstellar outpost anyway. “Not when I left. Anyway, it’s still too cold to breathe outside without searing your lungs. We’re getting there.”
That little tidbit of trivia made the server’s night, but the conversation made Best realize it might be time for a change. True, he was a cabinet member in the government of a founding world of the Compact. However, he was the cabinet member of a world that could barely feed itself, had a hodge-podge political system, and whose third largest religion was a cult to an actress who died centuries before the colony was founded. He paid his bill and left, mentally composing his resignation letter as he walked back to the hotel.
* **
They tackled Best halfway back to his suite. Someone shoved his jacket over his head. Then the beating began.
“You worship a whore,” one of them shouted.
“You’re ignorant,” said another.
“Go back to your mudhole, dust muncher,” said a third.
All the while, the blows, some from fists, some from feet, punished Best. By the end of the beating, his unseen attackers chanted, “Whore! Whore! Whore! Whore!”
When it ended, they ran off, their laughter echoing off the walls of some nearby alley.
Best, stiffened and bruised and possibly sporting two broken ribs, freed himself from his now-torn jacket and found a police drone standing over him. Naturally, with Best’s luck, it began to rain.
“Citizen,” the drone said in Caliphate-accented Humanic, “stay where you are. Help has been summoned.”
The drone’s voice likely came f
rom a bored police officer sitting in a control room miles away, sipping coffee and keeping one eye on the local football match. Before Best passed out, he idly wondered why Jefivah did not have any form of football – soccer or gridiron – like other worlds. They already had the hooligans and bleacher crowds…
The night, lit up by street lamps and the glow of the city, faded to pitch black and went silent.
* **
It took two hours to fuse Best’s broken ribs and laser down his bruises. The police talked to him while he received treatment at the hospital, informing him there was a small enclave of Jefivans in this part of the Secular Quarter, many of them resentful of the Marilynists. The local temple, really a storefront operation, had been vandalized several times over the past three months. How, he asked, did they know he as a Marilynist even though he wasn’t? One of the officers fiddled with her wrist chip and held out her palm. The nanotat displayed a news video of Best and the Dimaj getting off the orbital shuttle, the reporter announcing them as the Grand Dimaj of the Goddess Marilyn and the faith’s newest prophet.
Best wanted to find a rock to crawl under. Instead, the second officer who questioned him drove him back to the hotel. He desperately wanted a shower, only the senior nurse had warned that the nanoseals on his cuts required twelve hours to set before he could get them wet.
Stumbling from fatigue, he made his way across the suite and into his room. Without turning on the lights, he stripped down and crawled into bed. A pair of arms slipped around him.
He screamed. “Lights.”
The lights came up to reveal a naked clone of the Marilynists’ ancient goddess, curvy and blonde with pouty lips. Upon closer examination, Best could see evidence of rejuvenation and of cosmetic reconstruction. This woman took her religion seriously.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The clone of Marilyn smiled. “The Grand Dimaj suggested I initiate you into our faith as our new prophet. I am the High Normaj of The Caliphate.”
Best slid out of the bed pulling the comforter around him. Unfortunately, it also pulled the comforter off the Normaj, revealing her in all her milky white glory. “I’m married.”
“I’m Marilyn” smiled. “In our faith, that does not matter. All those who prefer women sleep with a Normaj upon their indoctrination. Unless you prefer…”
“I am not your prophet.”
The Normaj pouted. “The Grand Dimaj said you were a little uptight. Don’t worry. If it makes you feel better, I’ll pretend to be your wife.”
Best scooped up his clothes and marched into the bathroom. Before he could finish dressing, the Dimaj appeared. “After your ordeal, I thought you could use some relaxation. She is quite good, actually. I indoctrinated her myself. I even trained her when I taught seminary.”
Best spun on him. “If you wanted to help, you could have answered my call. You could have picked me up at the hospital. You could have… I don’t know, maybe talked to the goddamned police?”
“Douglas,” he said, “you’re upset. I understand.”
“Upset? Because I got mugged for belonging to that joke of a religion of yours? Because I spent the afternoon watching a very rich man swim very nude while you sat around admiring his pool?” He grabbed the Dimaj’s robe in his fists. “Maybe I’m upset because the man who sold us a bunch of potatoes so your people could have a home of their own lost seven weapons of mass destruction and left me holding the bag.” He shoved the Dimaj backwards. “I’m leaving tomorrow for Metis.”
“Douglas,” said the Dimaj, his voice a little shaky now, “you’re still in my custody.”
“Really?” said Best. “Try to enforce it here. Do you think these people give a damn about our little backwater world?”
He marched back out into his room where he grabbed his suitcase. The Normaj watched him as he stuffed his belongings into the bag, but said nothing.
“Where are you going now, Douglas?” asked the Dimaj.
“My own room,” said Best. “Hopefully my credit isn’t shot. Yet.” He slammed the door on his way out the door.
* **
The next morning, Best booked passage on the first liner to Metis. Unfortunately, it was projection drive ship. He requested sedation and spent the transit to the jump point unconscious. As was typical of flights where passengers requested sedation, a pair of orderlies woke him and helped him to sleeping cube he had booked ahead of time. They stowed his baggage for him and left quietly as he slept off the sedative.
The sudden flare of bright light woke Best from his drug-induced sleep. He looked up to see two figures standing in the doorway of his recovery cubicle. His arm blocked them from view as he shielded his eyes from the glare. “What is it? I paid for six hours. I’m still groggy.”
“Mr. Best?” said a man’s voice. It had a lilt not unlike Luxhomme’s, but he spoke in more of a monotone. It was an odd combination. “Metisian Homeworld Security. We need to speak with you.”
Best reached up and fumbled for the cubicle’s dimmer inside light. Sitting up, he realized his visitors would see him clad only in a T shirt and boxers. “You couldn’t have just waited until I checked into my hotel?”
“We’re not even sure we can allow you to leave the spaceport,” said the other visitor, a similarly accented woman in a jacket and skirt cut so severe it looked like the creases could sever limbs.
The light revealed the first agent to be a man who fairly bulged from his suit. Best suspected he spent most of his off-hours in a gym. “Minister, why did you not send the government advanced notice of your arrival?”
“What?”
“You’re a minister in the government of a core world,” said the woman. “You must present your credentials to the Executive or one of her representatives.”
Best rubbed his eyes and tried to make sense of what they were saying to him. “I’m here on personal business.”
“Uh huh,” said the man. “And would this ‘personal business’ have to do with one of our Citizens? An Etruscan resident named ‘Luxhomme’?”
“So he is Metisian,” said Best. “Yes, but I’m here of my own accord.”
“And apparently charged with planetary and Compact-level crimes,” said the woman. “Technically under arrest on Jefivah.”
“Your sheet reached us before you left The Caliphate.”
Best stretched. He would not get anymore rest here. “I’ll check in with the Compact Home Office on my way to the hotel.”
“See that you do,” said the woman. “And please bear in mind that Mr. Luxhomme is a Citizen here. You are a guest.”
Gee, thought Best, no kidding.
* **
Best waited outside the apartment block, a gray cinderblock building that recalled an earlier age, one where Jefivah was seen as a wonder instead of an armpit. He sat on a park bench seemingly engrossed in whatever he had displayed in the palm of his hand. Never mind that the wrist chip connected to the nanotat in his palm was not synched up with Metis’s local internet. To anyone looking, he was just another commuter waiting on a trambot to take him home.
The gray woman caught his eye. Had he not been watching the building so closely, he might not have given her a second look. However, her almost human-like appearance caught his attention. At first, he thought there was something a little off, like the woman had simply had an odd skintone. Metisian women had taken to ingesting nanites that repigmented the skin, though ashen gray was not a common shade that he’d noticed since his arrival.
No, at closer inspection, this one was definitely not human. She had a flatter nose, and her hair was snow white, not quite the platinum blonde of humans. Her posture also suggested she was not Homo sapiens. At first, Best thought she might be an Orag, a transplanted species of human that went extinct on Earth millennia before recorded history began. Only Orags resembled Euros in skintone. They were also shorter, and one sometimes had to look twice to realize (assuming the accent did not give it away) that the person in question did not trace his
or her ancestry to Earth during recorded history.
She was not one of the so-called “Grays” either. Humans had come across the short, bug-eyed creatures not long after they perfected wormhole travel at will. Their discovery had shed light on some of the legends that grew out of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Instead of fostering peace and understanding, however, the newly-spacefaring humans began capturing and torturing the Grays. The diminutive aliens now had a particular fear of any sort of medical probe.
This woman was not one of them. For starters, her eyes, if oddly shaped, appeared to be the same size as humans. She was yet another primate species, but one Best had never seen before.
He watched as she disappeared inside the building, thinking it best that he stay where he was until she emerged again. If his conversation with Luxhomme went the way he anticipated, it probably wasn’t a good idea to have a strange alien woman around to witness it. Not before Best could summon the police and explain himself.
Waiting was something Best did not do well. He bored easily, often finding himself trying to read his palm tat despite its uselessness. Staring at a door where only one person had entered during the entirety of his vigil made things harder. If he wasn’t doing something, he generally needed to be asleep or watching a feed or engaged in conversation. The wait for Luxhomme to come or go only underscored just how restless Best’s mind had become in middle age.
“So much for retiring someplace warm and quiet,” he muttered under his breath.
A man screamed inside the building while Best pondered his options. The strange woman he had seen suddenly burst out the front door and found herself instantly chased by a police drone. Best ran across the street, dodging a taxidrone and two delivery bots before running into the building. He could hear a man moaning in pain from at least two flights up the stairway. Best skipped the lift, taking the stairs two at a time. Following the sound, he stopped on the third floor and spotted a door that that lay wide open.
