The Blarmling Dilemma (Hearts in Orbit Book 1)

by S. C. Mitchell

  “Shut up! Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  The blaster fired once again. There was a pained “Uggh!” and the thud of a body hitting the ground. Had O’Callaghan actually fired at a man who was just doing his job?

  “Yes, Miss Callista. Just because my blaster is set to stun, doesn’t mean it won’t hurt. Come out with your hands up . . . now! I will have you eventually.”

  She couldn’t believe he’d actually shot an innocent citizen. The man was a galactic marshal! Though she’d been ready to surrender to him just minutes before, her resolve hardened. There was no way she was letting this man take her in.

  She moved into denser foliage, crawling on hands and knees, taking pains to move quickly but quietly as well. The soft grasses were slightly damp. An earthy freshness filled the air. This flora was real, actually growing here wild. She took pains that no fronds moved to give away her location in the underbrush as she crept through it.

  “If you make this difficult, Miss Callista, you will regret it.”

  She had no doubts of that. She could hear the venom in his tone. But his voice seemed to be moving farther away down the tree line. She was doing it. She was escaping.

  She peered through the thinning fronds ahead and noted the towering tent with its bright holo-banners waving in a breeze that didn’t exist. Beneath her as she crawled, she noted the edge, where the natural grasses ended, and the artificial turf began. The change was surprising, but she could see the field beyond was vast, and would be easier to maintain thus. The change from real to artificial became more abrupt as she took in the circus wagons in the field.

  Somewhere a band struck up the familiar strains of circus music she remembered from holovids she’d watched as a little girl. The smell of fresh popped grains and spun cloud candy wafted toward her, tantalizing her nostrils. If her heart hadn’t been beating so hard in fear, she knew she would have felt the excitement and nostalgia.

  To see a live circus . . .

  A hundred meters of flat field separated her and the cover of the underbrush, from a crowd milling in front of the entrance to the big top. If she could get that far without being seen by O’Callaghan, maybe she could lose herself in that crowd.

  She could hear the lawman huffing and puffing behind her, as he thrashed his way through the thick foliage. He must have picked up her trail somehow. He’d catch her if she stayed here. There was really no choice but to run.

  Adrenaline pumping, Phoebe made a mad dash for the crowd of people. She kept her legs moving, only swerving once to avoid a paleosaur-sized pile of animal dung. The crowd, intent on gaining access to the big tent, never noticed her approach, and it took only a bit of elbowing to make her way past the hindmost into the pack.

  Only then did she look back. She puffed as she scanned the tree line, spotting a red head of hair just poking through. Smiling, she joined the sea of people flowing toward the entrance of the big circus tent. Of course she didn’t dare go in. She’d have to find a place to slip away before they tried to scan her arm chip. Using that would probably set off all types of alarms.

  As she approached the big top entrance, her smile broadened. At the door flap, a young woman who wore only a few strategically placed feathers smiled and scanned in the crowd as it passed. On the other side of the opening a middle-aged gentleman in a green, tailed dress jacket and gold pants waved more people through, scanning those on his side. They were using old LOC scanners to admit the public.

  Phoebe looked back to see O’Callaghan standing on a knoll, searching the crowd for her. She didn’t dare make a break for it anyway. She held up her forearm and let the young woman, who on closer inspection was dressed in a closely matched, skin-toned leotard, scan her imbedded chip. No alarms sounded. None would, she knew.

  The old LOC scanners used an archaic upload method. It would be hours before the data reached the central banks to set off any warning codes. By then she planned to be long gone.

  For now, she might just as well enjoy the show.

  Chapter 14

  The roar of the crowd filled the big top as the performers circled the outer track in front of the bleachers. Traditional circus theme music, composed centuries ago, blasted from the nine-piece brass band on the raised platform at the back of the tent. Hawkers roamed the crowds with popped grains, roasted legumes, and sugary cloud candy. The sweet and savory aromas wafted through the air, enticing audience members to raise their credit chipped arms for scanning.

  Rigel joined the other performers in the parade around the big top, waving to the crowd and acknowledging their cheers. The huge tent could seat over three thousand and was packed to the top bleacher.

  Half the population of the platform must be here.

  A faceless sea of people cheered and applauded, as the procession passed by. Rigel juggled three pins easily, moving to use just one hand, so he could wave and interact with the crowd.

  He didn’t expect to recognize anyone. He was a loner, with few friends and acquaintances. No one wanted to know a spacer. Still, he liked to connect with the crowd, smiling, waving, and pointing to people as if he did know them.

  What would it be like to have friends or family in the audience?

  The blonde, in the middle of the crowd, in front of the center ring, was an easy target. Rigel couldn’t see her face, as she was looking away from him, but she was just the type he’d have targeted years ago—obviously young, dressed nicely in rich textiles. Someone with money. As her head swung he moved to catch her attention.

  Phoebe’s gorgeous, emerald eyes stopped him dead in his tracks and he dropped a juggling club. He stared . . . she stared, then shrugged. Her smile spread warmth through his stomach, and lit a fire down below, which was dangerous in the tight fitting leotard he was wearing.

  What was she doing here? Where had she gotten the new clothing? He envied the Blarmlings’ ability to read minds. It would have come in handy right then. Certainly she wouldn’t have taken such a chance just to see the show. At least she didn’t seem to be in any immediate distress or danger, and her manner didn’t indicate any problems with the Blarmlings either.

  “O’Callaghan,” she mouthed as he nudged the dropped club back into the air with his left foot.

  Frack!

  If O’Callaghan found out she was here, he’d dog Rigel all the more, and Rotund wouldn’t take too kindly to the continued presence of a galactic marshal on the circus grounds. The sooner Rigel got his money and was gone, the better.

  This was his fault. O’Callaghan didn’t care about Phoebe any farther than she could put some credit in his bank account. But the man was out to ruin Rigel, and Phoebe would present an attractive target for the unscrupulous bastard.

  Rigel was sorry he’d put her in such danger. Sorry he’d even met her . . .

  No he couldn’t say that. She’d brightened his life and given him something worth doing. And there was more, not that he could ever pursue it.

  Looking at her, dressed in the high fashion of the inner planets, her bearing one of power and privilege, he knew she was far above a common spacer. He’d take what she gave, and give her his all. He’d save the Blarmlings, and find a safe place for her to hide . . . help her all he could. But then he’d leave her. He’d have to, or he’d be consumed by her—do something stupid again, and put her in even more danger. She didn’t deserve that.

  He shot her a wave and a wink, then went back to juggling with two hands, concentrating on his tasks and trying to forget the woman who dominated his mind, and the danger he’d put her in.

  Phoebe searched the crowd once again. Seeing no sign of Marshal O’Callaghan, she settled back to enjoy the show. The bright gold, skin-tight leotard, showed Rigel’s physique to the max, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Many costumes, like the feathery one on the girl at the entrance, relied on illusion, but no
t Rigel’s. Every muscle, every ripple, of his incredible body was simply displayed; including the sizable bulge at his crotch that Phoebe knew was no illusion.

  She felt her cheeks heat, and her core moisten as she thought back on that incredible time spent in his arms. Green envy clouded her mind at the thought of sharing him with the thousands in the grandstands. Then she chuckled at such ridiculous thoughts.

  Rigel was no more hers than the stars in the galaxy. He was as wild as a rocketing asteroid, tumbling free through space. How could she ever tame that? Why would she ever want to? She’d enjoy their time together, but they were from different worlds.

  She needed a distraction, something to take her mind off the man who made her quiver and clench with just a wave and a wink. The parade finished and the show began in earnest.

  A large cage descended from the ceiling to dominate the ring to her right. A feral tamer entered, and a menagerie of grifcats, tigers, and falleens was released around him. A handsome, older man, the tamer used only a whip and chair to con the felines into performing various acts. She did note the green and white striped falleens had their venomous tail barbs removed, still, the animals were known to be vicious and unpredictable. Phoebe’s heart quailed and she had to look away when the Tamer actually stuck his head in the mouth of one.

  Her eyes were drawn to a small, brightly colored car, driving around the ring to her left. It seemed barely big enough to hold anyone, and she suspected it was being remotely controlled. To her surprise, the door opened and a midget clown tumbled out.

  “Ah, a midget,” the man next to her said.

  When the second clown tumbled out, this time a full sized man, the car had Phoebe’s full attention. How had they pulled off that illusion? The car’s wheels were high off the ground, so she couldn’t see them coming up from underneath, and the ring could be seen from all sides. The crowd across from her was just as amazed when a third clown popped out.

  The clowns tumbled and bumped into each other comically, looking completely drunk and confused. Phoebe couldn’t help but laugh at the show. After ten, she lost track of how many clowns actually came out of the small car. She couldn’t figure out how they did it, but the illusion was masterfully done, and the clowns’ antics had the whole crowd in stitches.

  Rigel stood behind the curtain that hid the transporter unit, as the line of clowns filed into it one at a time. Desperation and anxiety showed in their eyes. These were men and women selling their souls and sanity for a few lousy credits, but the collapsing galactic economy had driven many into poverty and desperation. Rigel wasn’t the only one here in desperate need of credits.

  Out in the ring, Markus was pushing and smacking them as they came out, trying to jostle them back to sanity, checking their eyes and reflexes, and carefully herding those too baffled to move on their own, safely out of the ring and back behind the curtains.

  “Damn him,” Markus said between clenched teeth each time he passed Rigel with another helpless clown in tow. Still, he plastered a smile back on his face when he tumbled back out into the ring. The crowd would never know how Markus seethed inside, but Rigel did.

  Rigel regarded the grav belt around his waist. If he took it off, was he any different than the clowns? So desperate for credits he’d put his life on the line?

  Behind him he heard a ruckus, and O’Callaghan’s raised voice.

  “I don’t care if he is performing. He’s a criminal harboring a fugitive, and I intend to take him into justice right now.”

  The rubes, the circus roughnecks, were keeping him at bay . . . for now. It was their job to keep the crowd away from the performers. But Rigel knew it was over. If O’Callaghan had seen Phoebe, he’d charge Rigel with aiding and abetting a criminal. Even without proof, the lawman had enough circumstantial evidence to take Rigel in.

  And the bastard would.

  Rigel would have just this one performance—one chance to make a few credits.

  Rotund drifted by him. Supported by his own grav belt, the large ringmaster only appeared to be walking.

  “Triple credits if you do it without the belt,” he said as he passed Rigel.

  Frack. Rotund must know about Rigel’s situation, and it was just like him to take advantage.

  The band struck up Rigel’s entrance music, a brassy rendition of a popular song from long ago. The title had something to do with a tiger’s eye, but the musicians that originally made it a hit were long lost in the annals of history.

  “And now . . . Making his triumphant return to the center ring . . .”

  Rotund’s voice boomed over the public address system.

  “For one night only . . .”

  Damn it, Rotund did know! Not that he’d do anything to help unless he could line his pocket with credits at the same time.

  “The one . . . the only . . . Rigelitto!”

  Rigel strode toward the ring lift, waving and bowing to the crowd. The lift took him up the massive center pole to the platform high above the center ring. Among the masses he spotted Phoebe, expectation glowing in her eyes.

  The warmth of her trust washed over him, filling him with confidence. The trust of a woman like this was more than any spacer deserved. He couldn’t let her down.

  Frack! If he negotiated hard, triple credits might be enough for a used warp core to fix the hyper drive on The Blarmlings’ Hope. If he could complete the performance, collect his pay, and escape with Phoebe before O’Callaghan caught up with him, maybe they could still get the Blarmlings to their home world across the galaxy, and find a place to hide out until things cooled down.

  In any case, there was no way he was letting O’Callaghan get his filthy hands on Phoebe.

  Above the crowd he waved once more, then fingered the release on his grav belt. A chill crept up his spine, and phantom pain shot up his leg. Ignoring it all, he whipped the belt off and with a great flourish, flung it to the ground below. The crowd took a collective gasp, then cheered heartily.

  Fool, fool, fool!

  But there’d really been no other choice. He grabbed up the four clubs and launched them into the air one at a time. His mind went to that secret place where everything was in balance, as the clubs began their cycle through the air above him. Outside forces and problems had no pull on him. Only the clubs above and the tightrope below held any concern, as the world melted away. Boldly he stepped out onto the cable. He barely heard the crowd roar.

  Balance was maintained by the effort of throwing the clubs up, and knowing the force they would provide when he caught them. Both hands worked in concert as he moved out, away from the tent pole and toward the center of the ring. Spotlights followed him and the crowd hushed when he hit the one-third mark. Here he faked a loss of balance. He brought his right foot out, wiggling on the line, as the juggling pin dropped just low enough that it looked like he’d never be able to grab it.

  He used to perform this trick with his right leg, but after the fall, that leg didn’t have the strength he needed. Bending his left knee he went down, almost sitting on the wire, and retrieved the plummeting pin as it dropped, then pushing up, returning to equilibrium with a slight hop.

  The crowd erupted in applause and cheers. Once again in his safe place of concentration, Rigel ignored the accolades. The most critical maneuver was coming up, and would require all his concentration.

  One . . . two . . . three . . . four.

  He launched the clubs higher in the air, tucked his chin to his chest, and rolled head first along the tightrope. As the clubs came down he grabbed them with his right hand and passed them under the wire with his left, throwing them back into the air as he tumbled forward, somersaulting twice before bouncing back to his feet.

  Only when his body returned to equilibrium did he note the squat, blue and gold uniformed figure below him.

  “Get do
wn here, Antares.” O’Callaghan roared. “You’re under arrest!”

  Phoebe’s eyes had been locked on Rigel, amazed at his performance. How did he do that?

  A frozen bolt shot through her stomach each time he teetered on the high wire. The skin-tight suit would have held her attention in any case, but the man’s skills were nothing short of miraculous. Her jaw dropped and refused to move back up as he executed the double somersault.

  She’d missed O’Callaghan’s entrance, until he was standing in the center of the ring, bellowing.

  O’Callaghan waved his blaster in the air, aiming at Rigel. Would the man actually fire?

  “Yes, Rigelitto, you’re under arrest.” The bold statement came from the brightly dressed midget in greasepaint, who led a band of clowns into the center ring to surround O’Callaghan. Bumping and jostling him, the clown troupe proceeded to make a mockery of the lawman’s arrest attempt.

  Assuming it part of the show, the crowd roared with laughter. The clowns pushed the marshal down and tripped over him while attempting to ‘help’ him with his arrest. In his rumpled uniform and greasy hair, O’Callaghan certainly looked quite clownish amongst the others.

  “Get away from me you freaks!” he bellowed, and the crowd laughed all the harder.

  Rigel was nearing the other side, still commanding the bulk of the crowd’s attention, balancing on one leg and kicking the juggling clubs back up with the other, when O’Callaghan managed to escape the clown troupe and mount a hover ring. The ring raised O’Callaghan above the clowns and up the pole closest to where Rigel was performing.