by Wayne Basta
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Book One
Revolutionary Right
By Wayne Basta
Text copyright © 2011 by Wayne Basta
Illustrations/cover art © 2011 by Grey Gecko Press & Wayne Basta
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. This book is a work of fiction; Any resemblance to real persons (living or dead) events or entities is purely coincidental.
Published by Grey Gecko Press, Katy, Texas.
www.greygeckopress.com
Printed in the United States of America
Design by Grey Gecko Press
Illustration / cover art by Oliver Wetter / Fantasio Fine Arts — http://fantasio.info
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Basta, Wayne
Aristeia: revolutionary right / Wayne Basta
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011944727
ISBN 978-0-9836185-5-3
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
To Erin and Connor
“This country, with its institutions, belongs to the people who inhabit it. Whenever they shall grow weary of the existing government, they can exercise their constitutional right of amending it, or their revolutionary right to dismember or overthrow it.”
—Abraham Lincoln
Chapter One
Maarkean Ocaitchi felt an unsettling sense of nostalgia wash over him as he moved down the corridor. Despite the passage of more than a decade, he still vividly recalled his time serving the Alliance Navy onboard ships like this one. The dull grey walls were like those he had seen many times before, and he could almost imagine that he was back in the old days. When the door he was approaching opened, however, the illusion was broken.
Though it still had the name ‘Ready Room,’ it bore only a few similarities to its original purpose. The dimly lit, crowded room was filled with a varied collection of beings; the many smells from the different species hit Maarkean’s nose, and nausea replaced the feelings of nostalgia. He was on an Alliance military carrier, but it no longer served as such.
Adjusting to the dimmer light of the room, Maarkean surveyed the people and located a dark-haired Terran male. He carefully worked his way through the crowd and managed to reach the man without disturbing any of the other clientele.
The Terran at the table looked up at Maarkean, a sly smile on his face. The man surely knew how much meeting here annoyed Maarkean.
“Joss,” Maarkean said, refusing to let his feelings show as he took a seat across from the other man.
Josserand continued to smile. “Always good to see you, Maark. How’s your sister?”
“Still not interested in you,” Maarkean said.
“Pity. Despite the horns, and the fact she’s related to you, she is a fine-looking woman.”
“You Terrans, always focusing on the differences between species.”
Josserand smiled suggestively. “Oh, trust me, I truly appreciate the aspects of your sister that are similar to Terrans.”
Trying not to let the man get to him, Maarkean tried to change the subject. “I hear you have a job for me.”
Surveying the room, Josserand said in a noncommittal tone, “I may have a job. Whether or not it’s for you remains to be seen.”
Maarkean took a breath and tried to keep desperation and annoyance from creeping into his voice. He had worked for Josserand several times before and had always performed better than any of his other contractors. Times had been tough recently, and he needed to get this job if he was going to keep flying.
“Of course it’s for me. You want it to get where it needs to go and not into the hands of an Alliance official.”
Josserand gave him another sly smile. “That is true. You do know how to be slippery when it comes to the Alliance. It’s almost as if you know how they think.”
Ignoring the barb, Maarkean remained silent, waiting for Josserand to accept that he wasn’t going to be baited this time. Josserand had succeeded many times in the past. The man enjoyed getting Maarkean to react, giving his body-guards an opportunity to show how intimidating they could look. Every time he had succeeded in getting Maarkean to do or say something in anger, he had still been willing to hire him – at half the going rate. Maarkean hated working for the man and avoided it when he could.
“You must be in a bit of a financial bind to come back to me looking for work,” Josserand said with a slight smile.
How the man knew the predicament Maarkean and his sister faced, he didn’t know. They had arrived on the Black Market several days before and had not yet found any jobs. Ever since the smuggling ring they had worked with had run afoul of some pirates, they had been experiencing a dry spell in job opportunities. Josserand was his last hope.
“What makes you think that? Maybe I just missed working for you?” Maarkean said, trying to sound relaxed.
Josserand let out a chuckle. “There’s no need to lie. We don’t like each other. But you do have a fast ship. I’ll tell you what: to help you out, I’ll take her off your hands. I’ll give you a great price on her and even drop you off on any planet you want to go to.”
This was not the first time Josserand had tried to buy Maarkean’s ship. The Cutty Sark was old, but the Swift class was no longer produced, which made her a classic. Plus, few made it this far from the homeworlds, which made them rare.
Maarkean had no doubt Josserand would indeed give him a good price, but selling the Cutty Sark was not an option he would ever seriously consider. She was his home and his livelihood.
Josserand finally dropped his smile and pushed a data pad across the table. “I see you’ve turned down my offer yet again. If you weren’t so good at what you did, I might take it personally. Very well, twenty thousand, if you can make the rendezvous. Nothing if you’re late. And you owe me if you get caught.”
“Five thousand up front, and if the cargo’s not waiting at my ship when I get there, I get to keep the advance, even if I’m late.”
Josserand’s eyes narrowed.
Maarkean was pushing hard. Desperation was making him take a risk in demanding the advance, but he had never missed a delivery. He could only assume that was why Josserand kept hiring him, despite the animosity between them.
A tense moment dragged on, and Maarkean began to think he had pushed too far, before Josserand said, “I like the new you. Confident, calm. Very well. Five thousand in advance. The cargo will be onboard your ship before you get there.”
Relief washed over Maarkean; he struggled to keep it from showing. He simply stood up and nodded his head to Josserand. “A pleasure doing business with you, as always.”
As Maarkean entered the main hangar deck, sound immediately bombarded his senses. The maintenance deck of any carrier was always a cacophony of noise as ships were moved, machinery was used to make repairs and people went about their business. On this ship, these sounds were
magnified by the wide range of species, personalities and types of docked ships.
Making his way across the deck proved difficult. While the hangar would have been cavernous if it were empty, every available spot was packed with ships and cargo. Massive freighters that had never been designed to land in a hangar bay were crammed next to small courier ships, with cargo filling all the spaces in between. Load-lifting robots laden with crates moved between the ships at surprising speeds.
The ship he was on was a Victory-class command carrier and had once seen service in the Alliance Navy. Rumors ran rampant as to how it had come under the private control of a shadowy crime lord known only as the Fox. The stories ranged: some said the Fox stormed aboard with a commando team and stole it from a dry-dock; others said he bought it as it was about to be decommissioned; other stories covered everything in between.
The Alliance denied that one of its carriers was in civilian hands. This merely added fuel to the rumors. Each story said it was a different ship that had been taken. That left Maarkean not knowing what ship this had once been, or if he had ever served aboard her. She was known now simply as the Black Market, which gave no hint to her past.
These days, the place was crowded with groups of people with short tempers and quick trigger fingers. If you were to take any two of these people and stick them this close together in any other place, there was a better than average chance the result would be bloodshed, but the Fox, kept everyone in check. The Black Market was a potential gold mine for thugs, criminals, smugglers, and semi-reputable businessmen. This prospect of profit kept most of the visitors on their best behavior, and, more importantly, violence on-board resulted in banishment from the ship – sometimes without a space suit.
Knowing this didn’t ease Maarkean’s mind much. Violence still happened occasionally. The people who came here to do business came expressly because they held little regard for the normal rules of society.
Maarkean moved through the bay, following a group of tough-looking Dotran. The Dotrans’ scales were a shiny bronze color, which meant they were of the type that would likely take the touch of an inferior species as a grave insult. As a pilot for the Alliance, he had not had much face-to-face contact with Dotran, but his time on the fringe had taught him to avoid the bronze and gold ones.
Treading lightly, Maarkean made his way past them without incident, and finally caught sight of his destination: his Cutty Sark. Despite the faded paint, worn hull, and other signs that the ship had seen better days, he was always pleased with the sight of her. She was home.
As he got closer to the ship, he saw his much younger sister, Saracasi, standing at the bottom of the ship’s cargo ramp. Her ponytail of red hair at the back of her otherwise bald head was always instantly recognizable. From the back, when clothed, Braz and Terrans looked similar. It wasn’t until they turned around that you got a good look at the small circle of cranial bone ridges on their foreheads, referred to as horns by most non-Braz, and the markings on their faces.
The violet screfa clan tattoo on Saracasi’s left cheek matched the color of her eyes, which were fixed on the robots moving the crates up the ramp. The screfa matched the one on Maarkean’s face; it marked them as members of the Ocait clan. As she was his younger sister, they were also both members of the Chi family.
Maarkean had the same color eyes, and the pattern and shape of the cranial horns was similar enough to suggest a relation. Those were all common traits for family members. Unlike his sister, Maarkean was completely bald, as were almost all Braz males. He stood head and shoulders taller than Saracasi and was much bulkier, though less of that bulk was muscle than it had once been. Compared with her pale skin color, his was much darker. This gave her a sharp contrast between her skin and screfa, which was considered an attractive feature among Braz. Pale skin, red hair, and violet screfa and eyes – she made a compelling picture.
The sight of the cargo being loaded was a mixed blessing for Maarkean. It meant that he wouldn’t get to keep the advance if the delivery was late or didn’t happen. He had been hoping to get that, as the advance would keep them flying at least long enough to find their next job. However, there would be no delays in their departure.
After a moment, Saracasi noticed him approaching and smiled. The sight of his sister caused his stress about their financial situation to ease. Years ago, when their parents and his wife had died in a tragic vehicle accident, she had become his responsibility to raise. Because of their age difference, twelve standard years, they had previously not been close. The tragedy had brought them together, and now he was more of a father than a brother to her. When she’d gotten herself in trouble years later, even though she was fully grown and on her own at a university, he had responded as a father would and did what was necessary to protect her. That was why he was here living at the edge of destitution on the fringes of society. But it was all worth it.
“I see you managed to get Joss to give us a job,” Saracasi said by way of greeting.
“I finally agreed to sell you to him. Shipping this cargo was his price for taking you off my hands.”
Turning away from her to examine the next crate due to go onto the ship, he barely glimpsed the tongue she stuck out at him. The cargo crates were nondescript rectangles of heavy black plastic, giving no clue about what was contained inside. Maarkean preferred it that way. Ignorance was bliss, as the saying went. As long as the cargo wasn’t inherently dangerous, he was just fine with not knowing.
On the other hand, not knowing drove Saracasi crazy, because she worried about whether the cargo might potentially be harmful to someone. But she accepted the arrangement logically as the way business was conducted. Maarkean thought she had a disconnect between rationality and emotion. She liked to have all the information, but then her response would be hasty and based more on emotion than facts.
They also held opposite opinions about their criminal activity. While Saracasi worried about the moral implications of the cargo, she was unconcerned that their smuggling broke the law. She saw the trade restrictions that made them smugglers as unjust and, therefore, not worth obeying. But Maarkean had spent his youth defending the Alliance and all it stood for, so breaking Alliance law bothered him as much as not knowing what they were carrying bothered her.
The last crate was placed onboard the Cutty Sark, and the loading robots rolled down the ramp. They disappeared into the sea of other robots and people without any paperwork for them to fill out. That, at least, was one thing that did appeal to him about a life of crime: no paperwork. Paperwork was evidence that led to arrests. If the goods were not delivered on time, Josserand wouldn’t need a signature to track him down.
The two of them started up the ramp into the ship as soon as the robots rolled off. Without a word, they started the task of securing the cargo and sealing up the ship. The robots had done a good job of placing the crates and strapping them in went quickly. Within thirty minutes, they moved up to the flight deck and brought the ship to life.
Saracasi activated the communication system and said, “Black Market control, this is Cutty Sark requesting clearance to depart.”
“Cutty Sark, stand by. You are third in line for departure,” came the reply.
Leaning back in her chair, Saracasi turned to Maarkean. “Well, looks like we’ve got a bit of a wait.”
Maarkean grunted in reply as he finished the ship’s start up sequence. The crew of the Black Market was very efficient in cramming in as many ships as possible. This came at the expense of speed in departure. With so many inside, there was little room left for taxiing to the elevator that would take them up to the launch deck. All ship movement inside was done by tractor beam emplacements, which were kept running non-stop.
“You going to tell me where we’re going?” Saracasi asked impatiently.
“As soon as I know, I’ll tell you,” Maarkean replied, which got a sigh from Saracasi.
“You’re still insisting on not knowing where we’re going? Last time,
we nearly missed our drop because of the time we wasted on your false course.”
“Late’s better than dead,” Maarkean replied.
Before departing for any illicit delivery, he always plotted a random hyperspace jump. He would never look at the real destination until they were safely in hyperspace and away from any watching sensors. He didn’t want that knowledge to affect his false course. The biggest business on the Black Market was information, and knowing where someone was headed with a potentially valuable cargo was always worth something.
Their last random jump had, by pure bad luck, taken them in the opposite direction of where they needed to go, nearly doubling the overall length of the trip. They had made their delivery by a narrow margin, only after pushing the engines beyond the recommended limits.
“There are very few ships out there that are faster than the Cutty Sark, and most are military craft. Even if someone knew where we were going, they couldn’t get there first,” Saracasi argued. This was an argument they had had several times before.
“As proven by the Black Market, not all military craft remain in military hands. A packet ship could beat us easily.”
“Who would ever think we’re worth the cost of sending a packet ship?”
Comm systems that made long-distance communication possible only moved at the speed of light, causing delays even within a single solar system, and decades-long delays between solar systems. Travel across light-years of space took days, weeks, months or even years for most space craft. This necessitated the development of packet ships: specially designed craft that were essentially just powerful hyper-drives. They were expensive to operate and had no room for cargo or luxuries, but they could get across the expanse of space in half the time of any other ship.
“Probably no one,” Maarkean conceded. “But, regardless, if anyone does try to beat us to our destination, letting them know where our cargo goes can be a danger to our clients, the recipient, or even us.”
