The Genius Asylum: Sic Transit Terra Book 1

by Arlene F. Marks

  As he was escorted through the entry port, the first thing Holchuk noticed was the air. It was warm and humid. Too humid. Moisture was penetrating his clothing and settling on his skin. Good. It would mingle with the perspiration that already covered him and provide an excuse for any other sweat that happened to break out during the next day or so.

  Holchuk had worked shifts under Jason Smith and knew how energy-consuming it was to maintain a subtropical atmosphere aboard a spacecraft. The Pet’silliar was clearly not designed for long voyages. But it was incredibly spacious, for a shuttle. Its broad corridors were misty, bathed in soft light from concealed sources that lent the air itself a rosy or violet glow. Tall plants with round, multicolored leaves lined the bulkheads, seeming to grow directly out of the deck plating. They clung to the wall surfaces, curving with them into long and lofty ceilings.

  Holchuk followed Nagor a short distance along one corridor, to a high arching door that slid aside soundlessly as they approached. The rectangular room into which the Human was now ushered was large enough to hold AdComm at least twice. A plant-free zone, it had a pale overhead vault and muraled walls depicting the historical victories of Trokerk in living — and dying — color. And stationed in the spaces between those battles stood uniformed warriors, their black tabards lined in blood red and fastened with silver, their blades already in their hands, their watchful eyes glittering like beacons.

  These were the Hak’kor’s private guard. If Holchuk said or did anything that offended the Hak’kor’s representative, one of them would instantly avenge the honor of the House.

  Involuntarily, Holchuk’s eyes went to the painted image of a huge Nandrian warrior, holding aloft the severed head of an enemy of Trokerk — and inside his Human stomach, it began raining ice pellets.

  Somewhere out in space sat a heavily-armed Nandrian ship of the line that had brought a member of the First Shield from the home world to meet him. The First Shield never left the planet unless on a matter of utmost importance to the House. The adoption of an off-worlder was evidently such a matter. And the retribution exacted for any perceived betrayal associated with that adoption would escalate proportionately. The Hak’kor’s guard would not stop with executing Gavin Holchuk. His House would be wiped out as well. Daisy Hub would be destroyed, and if the insult were sufficiently grievous, maybe even Earth.

  Holchuk could feel a cold sweat popping out on his forehead, tattooing his stomach, trickling down his back. All those lives… All those Human lives depending on him…. Suddenly his inner warrior was only a memory, and his legs were trembling again, wanting desperately to carry him away from this place.

  Just then, a door slid open at the far end of the room. Holchuk felt a hand on his shoulder, urging him to his knees, and abruptly the realization hit him: from the moment he’d smelled that smoky cinnamon in the caf, he’d been fried. Running had never been an option.

  Every being in the room had dropped to his knees, to show respect for the arrival of the Hak’kor’s representative.

  This Nandrian wore brow armor, signifying membership in the First Shield of the House. But he wasn’t the Hak’kor — he was the Kalufah, next in honor to the Hak’kor. And next in line for leadership if anything should happen to the ‘owner’ of the House. His facial protection consisted of a band of intricately worked yellow metal that covered his forehead and curved downward over his cheeks, and he wore a richly embroidered tabard, loosely belted around his hips, over a breastplate that appeared to be made of the same metal. In his right hand he carried the living staff, a long piece of wood with leafy branches sprouting out of it. According to legend, the staff was several hundred years old and still putting out twigs. As long as it lived, the House of Trokerk could not fall.

  One of the guards brought over what appeared to be a piece of metal sculpture and placed it directly behind the Kalufah. With a long exhalation of breath, the Nandrian sank down onto it, shifting the staff from his right to his left hand.

  “What do you offer to the House of Trokerk?” he demanded in heavily-accented Gally.

  “A Human, Kalufah,” said Nagor without changing position. “He has shown himself worthy.”

  “To you, perhaps, Nagor ban Nagoram. Let him prove his worthiness to me. Human, your line!”

  The last three words struck Holchuk with almost physical force.

  This was it, he thought miserably. Nagor had spent hours preparing him for this ritual. All he could do now was his best — and pray. Feeling the weight of billions of Human lives resting on his shoulders, Holchuk got slowly to his feet and took the prescribed step forward. He met the eyes of the Hak’kor’s representative, held his gaze for exactly two seconds, then began the speech he had so carefully rehearsed:

  “I am Gavin Holchuk, son of Samuel the Bold, Fifth Shield of the House of Americas. I am the twenty-fifth generation of a clan of warriors, beginning with George the Righteous, who fought with others like himself to free the House of Americas from those who would have controlled it.”

  As he had once advised Townsend the Terrible, the object of the exercise was not to tell the truth; it was to stay alive long enough to achieve one’s purpose. The Nandrians wanted to hear about the warriors in his family, so that was what he would tell them. In fact, most of his relatives had been posted off-planet, where they’d been killed by the plague. But warriors didn’t succumb to disease. There was no honor in that. They also didn’t get toxed and fall off the roof, or swerve their PV to avoid hitting an animal and smash into a tree instead, or choke to death on a piece of apple core. No doubt there were Nandrians whose lives had ended in similarly ignoble fashion, due to bad luck or foolishness; they just didn’t advertise the fact. And neither would he.

  Posturing, he reminded himself grimly, that was all it was.

  “…and I, Gavin the Rebel, fought for years for the freedom of others like myself on our home world to choose our own mates and lead our own lives, until I was overpowered and exiled to Daisy Hub.”

  The Kalufah’s eyes remained on him for several seconds more, gleaming like sentient gemstones. Holchuk gulped hard and felt icy claws walk across his shoulders. He hadn’t let himself think about it before, but what if the Kalufah was one of the few Nandrians in existence who didn’t like posturing?

  Finally, the Kalufah broke eye contact and demanded, “And who swears for this Human?”

  Nagor stepped forward then, and began to speak. He gave the history of his relationship with Holchuk, praising in glowing terms Gavin’s unswerving honesty and righteousness. Finally, with much gesturing and many different voices, Nagor dramatized for the Kalufah the apprehension of Rostol, and the part Holchuk had played in saving everyone’s honor.

  That seemed to make up the Nandrian official’s mind.

  He thumped the living staff once on the floor and asked, “Gavin Holchuk, son of Samuel, what is your intention?”

  The response to this had been scripted as well. “I wish to be a warrior in the cause of honor and justice,” Holchuk declared. “I wish to join with my brother Nagor in defense of the House of Trokerk.”

  “A warrior’s greatest strengths are his courage and his honor. Before you are joined, these must be tested. Are you, an off-worlder, prepared to risk your life to join the House of Trokerk?”

  Risk it? He felt as though he’d already forfeited it.

  Holchuk gulped a lungful of air, then let it out slowly. “I am prepared,” he replied.

  The Kalufah pounded the living staff three times more on the floor. “Seal the entry ports,” he commanded. “Instruct the Chief Officer that we are returning to the Hak’kor’s ship for tekl’hananni.”

  Chapter 23

  Drew now had his eyes and ears, and a voice. He had plenty of muscle, and a foreman to manage it for him. He had in-house technical and scientific expertise, a fully equipped medical and forensic laboratory, and the Fleet Academy training
of Jason Smith. He even had a getaway shuttle, and a berserker pilot to fly it.

  If he didn’t know better, he might be tempted to believe that someone had equipped the Hub specifically for his purposes.

  Once Holchuk had been adopted into Nagor’s Shield, Drew would also have the most feared warriors in the galaxy as backup if he needed it. And sooner rather than later, he knew, the Hub would need defensive weapons as well. In the meanwhile, thanks to Gouryas and Singh, Drew finally had the mission that would pull all these mavericks and misfits together into a working team. The briefing meeting would be held once Holchuk was back on the Hub. Before then, Townsend had some groundwork to lay.

  Teri Mintz was pivotal to his plan. He found her having lunch with O’Malley in the caf, exactly where Lydia had told him to look. Teri’s expression was sober, almost sad. Seeing the way she and O’Malley leaned toward each other across the table, so deep in discussion that there may as well have been a wall around them, Drew couldn’t help wondering what scheme the ratkeeper was hatching now.

  O’Malley clearly had no idea who he was dealing with, and why should he? From the moment she’d arrived on Daisy Hub, Teri had been a perfect lady. Townsend had earlier seen her wildcat temper — and evidence of a strong right hook — but decided to wait for Holchuk’s first report on her before mentioning them to anyone. It was a good decision. Teri had obviously taken Drew’s advice to heart after all and made a fresh beginning, for, according to Holchuk, the newest cargo inspector was a model employee: careful, hard working, and eager to please. Of course, someone like O’Malley might look at that and see a potential mark. If so, and if Teri realized she was being conned, the wildcat inside her would probably reach out its claws and tear a strip off him.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting,” said Drew. He wasn’t. They had broken off their conversation as soon as Teri had noticed the station manager walking toward them.

  What had been hopeful anticipation on her face morphed into an expression of dread. “It’s bad news about Gavin, isn’t it?”

  “There’s no news yet,” he told her, pulling a third chair over to their table and sitting down. O’Malley’s expression flickered annoyance. Three was a crowd. Too bad. “I just wanted to run an idea past you that I thought you’d be interested in. You too, O’Malley.”

  About to get up and leave, the ratkeeper sank back onto his chair with a sigh.

  “I remembered how upset you were about not having a singing career anymore,” Drew continued, “and I was wondering — how would you feel about doing shows for your crewmates?”

  She looked skeptical. “The Daisy Hub Lounge presents…?”

  “A hub is a hub,” he pointed out, “and it has to be better than doing InfoCommAds. For one thing, you’d have creative control.”

  “You’d let me produce?”

  “Co-produce.” He was still the station manager, after all. “Or would you rather just leave all the decisions to me?”

  “Absolutely not,” she declared. Then, tilting her head curiously, she added, “You’re really serious about this?”

  “I am. It’ll be great for everyone’s morale. Will you do it?”

  “Have you ever staged a show before, Mr. Townsend?” she asked, cheeks dimpling.

  “No, but I suspect you can teach me all about it. As I recall, you’re pretty good at that. So, do we have a deal?”

  She nodded happily. “Deal.”

  “How much time do you need to get the first one ready?”

  She leaned back thoughtfully in her chair. “The first one is always a lot of work,” she told him. “But since it’s going to be a one-woman show and I already have all my costumes and music with me, I won’t need much rehearsal to get back up to speed,” she decided. “Give me an interval.”

  “Perfect. And I know exactly where to set up the stage — K Deck. It’s being used for storage right now. We can move all those containers to the secondary utilities deck, and that gives us plenty of room for you and your appreciative audience.”

  “…and a glitzy backdrop, a backup band, and a ton or so of electronics,” she added, smiling. “What do you think, Rob?”

  O’Malley frowned briefly. He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, then settled back in his chair with a speculative gleam in his eyes. “I think it’s a terrific idea,” he said. “Everyone loves a show.”

  He caught up with Townsend in the corridor outside the caf. “It’s a con, isn’t it? Who’s the mark?”

  Drew feigned indignation. “A con? How can you suggest such a thing, Mr. O’Malley?”

  “Because you’re setting up this stage directly over an arsenal of jamming gear. Now, who’s the mark?”

  Drew stopped walking and said with a sigh, “Not Teri, and that’s all I’m prepared to say at the moment. Coincidentally, I have another special job for you.”

  “Part of the con? Name it.”

  “When will you be requesting the next parcel of data from the InfoCommNet?”

  “The next transmission goes out tomorrow at 1100 hours, the one after that in three days’ time. Is there something extra that you want me to get for you?”

  “Not for me. For Teri.”

  O’Malley’s eyes began to twinkle. “You sweet on her, boss?”

  No, Drew thought wearily, I just don’t want her to kill me when she finds out who I’m inviting to this concert. But his only reply to O’Malley was a smile.

  Chapter 24

  Tekl’hananni was a Nandrian word meaning, literally, ‘test of strength’. As a Human, Holchuk associated it with only one thing — open warfare in space, pretending to be a sport. The Nandrians, however, had other, older meanings for tekl’hananni, as Nagor finally explained to him en route to the Hak’kor’s flagship.

  The Nandrians didn’t always speak in riddles, Holchuk discovered. This manner of speech stemmed from the Nandrian belief that the value of a conversation was measured by the extent to which it made one think. When pressed for time, however, and if the subject matter was important enough, they could communicate information quite clearly and succinctly.

  In ancient times, tekl’hananni had been a rite of passage into adulthood, the nature of the test to be determined by the Hak’kor or his representative. Not every Shield bearer had to be a warrior, and not every tekl’hananni had to involve combat — there were healers and spiritual leaders on the home world as well, who had earned their place in their respective Shields without ever picking up a weapon. Feeling almost limp with relief at having passed the Kalufah’s first inspection, Holchuk devoutly hoped that his would be a nonviolent tekl’hananni. For an adoption, it was the only thing that made sense. Any being with eyes could see that the only possible outcome of a Human-Nandrian combat would be a bloodied Human corpse.

  At last, the Pet’silliar came to rest on a landing deck that dwarfed anything Holchuk had ever seen, in person or on vids. It should have been filled with shuttles and fighting craft. Instead, it appeared gray, cavernous, and incongruously empty. Holchuk didn’t have much time to wonder about this, for an honor guard wearing the livery of Trokerk met him and Nagor as they stepped off the shuttle and escorted them directly to the Hak’kor’s reception room.

  “Cling to your rage, little warrior,” advised Nagor quietly as they marched through a maze of gray metal corridors, flanked by a squadron of Nandrians even larger and more heavily armed than before. “Let it burn within you.”

  Actually, Holchuk’s rage had had an attack of common sense and yielded to a much stronger emotion — fear. But he wasn’t about to tell that to a Nandrian. Being hartoon kept the fear at bay, but it also increased his chances of making a fatal mistake in the presence of the Hak’kor. Fear was controllable, Holchuk told himself. He just needed to distract his mind, keep it busy with details and observations and questions.

  For example, the spacecraft they were
now on was clearly a battleship. It was utilitarian, unadorned. Hard and flat as far as the eye could see. Nothing shone but the blades of the weapons all around him. It made excellent sense for the Hak’kor to travel this way. He was too important to his House to be running around the galaxy unprotected. But didn’t his presence make the ship he was on just as important and just as much in need of protection? And that brought Holchuk back to the question of the day: Why were there no fighter craft in the landing bay? Were they being kept on another deck? Was this ship so large that it could reserve an entire hangar for just one ship — the Hak’kor’s private launch?

  Actually, that might be the answer, he soon realized, for the reception room he was now entering made the one on the launch look like a closet. Holchuk had never been especially religious; in fact, his stubborn agnosticism when he was younger had slowly estranged him from most of his family. Nonetheless, as he stood now in the middle of this immense vaulted space with its restlessly flowing terra-cotta-colored walls, richly grained wooden floor, and illuminated pillars, the very air around him glowing amber, Holchuk felt as though he were in a great cathedral, surrounded by unfathomable power. In a sense, he was. This huge spacegoing fortress was carrying the Hak’kor, the most important person in the House of Trokerk, and a small army of handpicked palace guards.

  A door slid open at the other end of the room and a phalanx of six Nandrians, metal-plated and heavily armed, marched in. In their midst walked the Kalufah. He wasn’t carrying the living staff this time. And, Holchuk couldn’t help noticing, nobody brought him a chair.

  “There are many ways to fight for honor, and there are many kinds of courage. The Hak’kor has decided on a test,” he announced.