by C. Gockel
Volka wanted to retort with something witty, but just the mention of her lover’s name was like being punched in the gut. What Sixty said was true, and yet Alaric was still an open wound, a space in her heart that she didn’t think would ever be filled again. She remembered the scent of him, his arms around her, his piercing blue eyes, and the weight of him, how he tasted, and those memories were as real as the ped elevator she rode in.
Carl squirmed on Sixty’s shoulder, and Volka’s ears flicked at his thoughts. “I sense…a presence in the quantum wave…uh-oh.”
Sixty must not have been listening to Carl’s channel because he didn’t say anything.
The elevator stopped before their floor, and a crowd of humans got on. Volka stepped to the back.
Carl said nothing more, and Volka should have asked, but she couldn’t. She was…maybe mooning over Alaric wasn’t the right word. Agonizing was a better fit. He had tried to save her before trying to kill her, and Sixty and Volka had saved him from the destruction of the inn on Libertas. Would his fellow guardsmen have found that suspicious? Would he be prosecuted for failing to destroy Sundancer and letting them escape?
One of the humans pointed at Carl. “Is that a member of The One, like that werfle Carl Sagan in the ether a few weeks ago…or just an ordinary werfle?”
On Sixty’s shoulder, Carl rose to his back-hind paw pairs. “I am a member of The One, and that Carl Sagan,” he declared, a claw on his necklace.
Excited murmurs rose in the elevator, and a woman sighed. “You’re adorable!”
“And cuddly,” Carl said. “If you want to scratch me behind the ears.”
“Oh, yes,” the woman said.
Unwinding Carl from his shoulder, Sixty rolled his eyes. “Here, you can hold him, too.”
Another woman squealed. “Ladies, ladies, one at a time, please,” Carl said. “Ah, yes, right there.”
Volka swallowed, watching the excited faces of the people on the elevator. The One were telepathic, quantum wave-bending aliens. They were the first aliens to reach out to humans to establish diplomatic relations. Not all the humans looked thrilled by Carl’s presence, yet she smelled no fear. She’d grown up believing that if there were aliens like Carl, they were demons. On Luddeccea, the One’s reception would have been quite different.
Her stomach constricted at the thought of her homeworld, and it was too painful to ignore. What was happening there to Mr. Darmadi, her people, and Alaric? She was a little telepathic, and she had a horrible feeling it was something terrible.
5
Luddeccea: Asymmetrical Warfare
Alaric lay in his prison cell. Flies zipped overhead. Outside in the hallway, he heard the skittering of rats. He was hungry enough to eat them, but his cell had become the wild werfle’s den, and the creatures no longer ventured inside.
It had been five days since Abraham’s men had come. Alaric had seen no one else since and had had no deliveries of food. As far as he could tell, his fellow prisoners and his guards were dead.
Five pairs of feet pattered outside his cell, and then the werfle slipped beneath the door. Its jaws were empty, but its muzzle was red.
“You could share, Solomon,” Alaric whispered, calling the creature by the name of his deceased pet. The werfle bared his teeth at him, and Alaric sighed. “Yes, I suppose the disease in the rats would kill me.”
With a squeak that his hunger-addled brain confused as an affirmative, the creature hopped onto the foot of his bed and proceeded to groom itself by Alaric’s feet. Alaric lifted a brow at it. The words You could at least pretend to show some respect were at the tip of his tongue; he was just too tired to speak them. He could try to frighten the creature off, but its scent would linger, and the rats might not return. Also, although Alaric never touched the venomous creature—he needed to survive for his sons’ sakes and he had to testify—it did remind him very much of Solomon. He’d woken a few times to find it lying by his head just as Solomon had done. He dreamed sometimes that the creature was guarding him. Apparently, despite his psychological profile, Alaric wasn’t completely immune to loneliness.
His lips twisted in a thin smile, and he reached toward the creature almost unconsciously. It stretched toward Alaric’s fingers. Remembering himself, Alaric crossed his arms over his chest, trapped his hands beneath his arms, lay back, and closed his eyes. He couldn’t risk being bitten. He had to testify.
He wasn’t sure how long he lay immobile—dreams and wakefulness had been blending together during his forced fast—when footsteps in the hallway made his eyes snap open. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he was awake. A man’s voice echoed from the hallway. “Sir, this is the officers’ wing. There are only humans here.”
“They are God’s creatures, too,” a man replied, his speech strangely slurred, and then that same slurred voice called out, “Hello? We smell at least one of you is alive. Call out so we may find you more quickly!”
Reserves of energy Alaric hadn’t known he had coursed through him. Stumbling to his feet, he called out, “Over here!” Reaching the door, he threw an arm over his face, overwhelmed by the stench so close to the hallway.
He heard hesitant footsteps and coughing, and then a face appeared at Alaric’s door. For a moment, Alaric didn’t realize what—or who—he was looking at. It was the most wolf-like weere he had ever seen. The weere had a wolf’s muzzle, and his face was covered with the soft short velvet, like Volka had on her ears. The man had wolf ears too, but his eyes were blue and human, although surrounded by black skin pigmentation like Volka’s. More surprising than his wolf features, though, was his clothing. He wore the robes of a priest. Archbishop Kenji Sato had allowed for a few weere to be ordained, but they served exclusively in his service managing Luddeccea’s single supercomputer…a position Alaric had regarded with not a bit of envy. What was a weere priest of Archbishop Sato doing in a prison?
Solomon squeaked, and the weere-man’s eyes shifted to the werfle.
Behind the weere-priest, outside of Alaric’s line of vision, someone panted, “How can humans stand the stench!”
“I’m sure Captain Darmadi does not enjoy it, Ebren,” the priest replied. Alaric drew back. How had the weere known his name? And then he shook himself. The man must have reviewed a list of prisoners.
The priest’s eyes slid to Solomon, and his ears flicked. For too long he was silent, but then he continued, “Captain Darmadi, I am Father Ze’ev. We will release you if you give your word you won’t try to escape.”
Alaric wavered on his feet. “If I have your word I will be tried.” His hands balled into fists. He had no leverage, nothing to exchange for that demand. Or maybe he did, but he couldn’t piece it together right now. His mind wasn’t working correctly.
Father Ze’ev barked, and in Alaric’s stupefied state, it took a moment for him to process that it was a laugh. “Haven’t we all been tried enough?” the weere asked. But then he shook his head, and his ears flattened. “Forgive me. You will get a trial.”
Rubbing his jaw, Alaric glanced around his prison. What choice did he have? “You have my word.”
Nodding, Ze’ev withdrew, and Alaric heard a key click in the lock. Even though Alaric knew he only had something as weak as a stranger’s word, his heart leaped. He wasn’t sure if he was more heartened to be leaving his cell, or that he could still feel joy.
“Come,” said Ze’ev, turning on his heel, robes swirling. Rats shrieked and scurried from his path. Alaric walked out of his cell unsteadily, and almost fell over but caught himself on the door frame. Solomon hissed, and the second weere took Alaric’s arm. This weere could almost pass for human if it weren’t for his wolf-like ears and yellow eyes. He wore the baggy garments of rough cloth that all weere-workers in the human settlements wore. “Come on!” the weere snapped.
Pulling from his grip and raising his free arm to cover his mouth and nose, Alaric shuffled out of his cell on his own power, Solomon slinking by his feet, and flies buzzing in his ear
s. The joy of escaping his cell melted away with his first steps into the hallway.
It was one thing to theorize that all his prison mates had died. It was another thing to see it. They passed by corpses of two of Abraham’s men and a few of the regular prison personnel, two in the starched whites of infirmary workers. From beneath cell doorways stretched the hands of Alaric’s fellow prisoners, swollen and discolored in death.
When they exited the building and entered the courtyard, Alaric gasped for breath and then choked on smoke. At the center of the courtyard, a funeral pyre burned. A human priest was standing close beside it, head bent over a tome of the Three Books, droning final prayers. Weere and human prisoners threw dead men onto the flames.
“What has happened?” Alaric whispered.
“How long have you been pent up?” Ebren asked, his voice laced with incredulity.
“Sixty-eight days,” Alaric replied.
Ears flattening, the weere-man responded, “Over half of New Prime has died of plague.”
Alaric gaped at the funeral pyre. The smoke made the world waver. “How…” The civilian weere, Ebren, caught his arm, and Alaric realized he’d been the one wavering.
“Why don’t you ask your friend?” Ebren snarled, and Alaric jerked away. Solomon hissed at Ebren, and the weere-man’s face became pale. He backed off and then bolted back into one of the prison wings.
Alaric stood dumb and uncomprehending.
Father Ze’ev, until a moment ago leading the way, turned back to Alaric. He was a weere, but he was learned. Alaric swallowed. Over half of New Prime. He remembered the Republic’s extraordinary spacecraft that Volka had been abducted on. “The Republic…is this some…biological warfare?”
Ze’ev came closer. His ears flicked, and his gaze shifted to Solomon. Ze’ev growled, but then met Alaric’s eyes. “It is not the Republic’s doing.” His lips twisted into a wry smile that revealed long, dangerous canines. Alaric refused to be cowed. He stood straighter.
Ze’ev continued dryly, “Although I’m sure they are concerned.”
Solomon chirped, and Ze’ev glared at the werfle. Alaric found himself shifting so his body was between the creature and the weere priest. He was out of his cell, but he wasn’t free. “The charges against me—”
“Were made by Counselor Abraham,” Ze’ev said. “To cover up his mistakes.” His lip curled. “As though he could cover up the fires in No Weere he caused, and the corpses in Prime. But he’s joined the corpses, so his judgment falls to God.” A growl rose in the weere priest’s chest. “...unfortunately.”
The world was wavering again. “My charges were made by a man who has been disgraced, but I am not free.”
Ze’ev’s eyes narrowed. “None of us are free. All of us are duty bound, especially now.” His shoulders softened. “You need to recover. All will be revealed in time. Come.”
He turned again, but Alaric didn’t follow. “I never was allowed to speak to my family. I need to speak to them.”
Ze’ev paused, looked down at the werfle, and then said, “The phone lines are down, but I would suspect that they’ve been well looked after.”
Solomon gave a squeak that sounded to Alaric’s starved mind suspiciously like an affirmative.
Ze’ev began striding away. Without an alternative, Alaric shuffled after him.
6
Sagan’s Secret
Volka bowed her head. There was nothing she could do for anyone on Luddeccea anymore. She was cut off from them forever.
The elevator doors parted, and the humans disembarked—one woman dawdling with Carl Sagan. The woman tickled his tummy while Carl purred up a storm, but at the last moment, he leaped over to Sixty’s arms.
As soon as the doors closed, Sixty held Carl up and asked sharply, “Wouldn’t you rather shed on Volka?”
Carl squeaked and said, “I’m mad at Volka.”
Volka’s lips parted in dismay. She’d upset Sixty and Carl. “What did I do?”
“Yes, what could Volka possibly have done to you?” Sixty asked.
Carl hissed, “She was intolerably subservient to Time Gate 1. Please Time Gate 1, sir. Oh, thank you, Time Gate 1, sir.”
Remembering Time Gate 1’s voice crackling through every device in Bart and Celeste’s apartment, Volka protested, “When you’re dealing with people—or…or…machines—that are immensely more powerful than you, you should show deference, Carl.”
Carl’s ears flattened, and he glared at her. “You don’t do that to me.”
Volka blinked, remembering the little werfle on his back submitting happily to tummy tickles just moments before.
Carl blinked at her. “You don’t believe I’m dangerous because I’m small, and because I don’t deny this body the simple pleasures it desires.”
Volka stared at the werfle. He was telepathic, venomous, and could cause sparks that could be deadly, if they were, say, in an oxygen tank. But he was small, vain, and did like his tummy rubs.
“Do you think we should be subservient to you?” Sixty asked.
Volka tilted her head, and her ears perked forward.
Carl sniffed—or sighed—and he closed his eyes. “Me? No, of course not. That would end the belly rubs.” Bowing his head, he said, “Go ahead, give me to Volka.”
Sixty handed the werfle over to Volka, and for a moment their fingers touched. Ears curling down, Volka averted her eyes, the memory of their “fight” still fresh. She pulled Carl to her chest, but instead of indulging in a cuddle, he climbed up to her shoulders, and then slipped into the pack again. The elevator suddenly felt too big.
She faced forward, not knowing what to say, just feeling lost. Sixty usually smelled good to her, too good, but now he smelled like the pirate ship and worse, like Celeste and Bart. The whole escapade was repellent to her. How could anyone want to share their lover? Or want to be shared? That would smack as much as a betrayal. Her shoulders fell. Was it worse than what Alaric had offered her? Alaric had wanted to be Volka’s patron while he kept his human wife. Undoubtedly, that human woman would be in the dark about Volka…or simply unable to do anything about it. No matter how gross she found it, everything Sixty had done was consensual, even if she’d want to rip Sixty’s limbs out if she were Bart.
Sixty and Volka had just saved each other. It was stupid to be angry.
“I’m sorry.”
Sixty said the words at the same time Volka did, and her ears perked toward him in surprise.
Looking down at her, he shrugged. “You can’t help being monogamous. It’s part of your programming.”
“My programming?” Volka asked, ears flicking in confusion. That was something for machines, not people.
He shrugged again. “For me, it’s code. For you, it’s your culture, family upbringing, and probably in your DNA. You’re part wolf, and they’re very monogamous.” His brow furrowed. “Do you know what DNA is?”
Alaric had explained how she had inherited the kohl-like skin pigment from her father while tracing her eyelid with a finger. She remembered the way the nighttime breeze had stirred the curtains of his uncle’s guest house. He’d lived there while going to university, and it had been their haven.
Sixty leaned closer, and her ears flattened. “Yes,” she admitted. She gazed at her shoes. “You didn’t hurt anyone and…and…I shouldn’t judge you.” God was judge, certainly not her.
The elevator stopped, and a few people got on. Sixty pulled a fabric wrapped package from underneath his arm and handed it to her.
“I got you something,” Sixty said in a hushed voice. The new riders peered at him curiously, probably wondering why he hadn’t ethered her those words.
Volka took the package. Perhaps half a hand width high, two wide, and three long, it was surprisingly heavy.
“Go ahead, look inside,” Sixty whispered.
She peeked inside as the elevator came to a stop again.
Sixty said, “This is us.”
Volka followed him out into the te
rminal, glad to be moving, glad that she didn’t have to look at him. Inside the package was a plein air easel. She’d seen the like of them on Luddeccea, although those were made of wood, and this seemed to be made of some sort of carbon fiber and metal.
Sixty said, “It has solvent, oil, a basic palette inside, and two gessoed canvases in its storage box—granted, the canvasses are very small. I hear it’s everything you need to get started.”
A lump was forming in Volka’s throat and she thought she might cry. “It’s…thank you,” she whispered.
Not breaking stride, Sixty said, “I promised you landscapes to paint on our asteroid, but you have no paints. Just your little sketchbook.”
“This is…perfect,” Volka stammered. “I don’t know how I can repay you.” She had no idea how much it cost, but more than that, she couldn’t imagine a gift that would be suitably fitting for him.
Sixty scratched the back of his neck. “If you had to repay me, would it even be a gift?”
His tone was one of innocent inquiry, and it made Volka laugh for some reason. “I guess not.” She kept her nose buried in the package so he couldn’t see her tears. “I can’t wait to get back to the asteroid to try it.” She began picturing the strangely close horizon, the sparkling glass-like domes, and the imported Earth forest, imagining how she’d translate those to paint.
Squirming in her pack, Carl declared, “I can’t wait to get back to the asteroid to get something to eat. All the lab-grown meat in the ‘civilized galaxy’ makes me ill. So bland. Blech!”
Volka smiled at the thought. Carl and her happiness must have leaked out into the universe because she felt pterys in her stomach begin to fly with Sundancer’s happiness, too. Her nose was tucked in the bag, hiding her happy tears, and she was grinning ear to ear when Sixty’s steps came to a halt.
Volka lifted her head as they approached the airlock to Sundancer’s berth. Up on the terminal level, airlocks were fancy with sliding doors of clear glass that led to plastitubing gangways to the ships docked outside. Standing just inside the glass airlock doors, in front of the gangway to Sundancer, was a man she’d never seen before. He looked to be perhaps in his mid-thirties. His hair was the color of hay in the late dry season, his eyes were nearly as light as Alaric’s, and he was as tall, but his shoulders were broader. His skin was incredibly pale. Down one side of his face was a long black scar. Was he augmented? Or an android? She gulped. Despite the scar, he would have been exotically handsome—he looked like the pictures of Old European Earthers she’d seen with his coloring, straight nose, and hard jaw—but his expression was the coldest she’d ever seen. She instinctively shrank from him. He and the seven men and one woman flanking him were wearing form-fitting suits that looked like the shells of insects and seemed to blend into the surroundings. They all carried rifles and packs on their backs.
