by S. J. Madill
"Sure, makes sense." He gestured deferentially. "Lead the way."
Inside, four very sick-looking people slumped in bedraggled heaps on the benches along the outer walls. Amba walked right past them, headed to the reception desk. "We need to see the doctor right away," she said as she reached the counter.
Dillon approached the counter, but took a step back when he caught the strong scent of citrus. "You're not—"
"I am," said Amba, not turning away from the round woman at reception with a distant look in her eyes. "She's with a patient," said the woman, her voice no more than a whisper. "You should wait in room two."
"Thank you," said the Tassali, turning on one booted heel and striding toward the hallway. Dillon took a few quick steps to get ahead of her. "The doctor won't be able to tell us much," he said, opening the second door.
"I know," she replied, following him into the room. It was stark and barren, with only a stainless steel table and a few fixtures around the walls. The smell of disinfectant hung in the air.
"Well," said Dillon, lowering his hood. "At least it's clean."
Amba pulled down her hood as well, her blue hair falling onto her shoulders. "Feda, I fear this is taking too long. We're always a step behind the Elanasal."
"Agreed," said Dillon. They needed to find a way to outflank the young prophet and his girlfriend. "Maybe we should get heavy-handed with this station. Stop all outgoing flights, insist on scanning every ship. Make up some crap about customs or something—"
The door swung open, and a dark-skinned woman in a white coat entered. She glanced up at Dillon, then came to a halt when she saw Amba. "Oh," she said, letting the door close behind her. "Well, there's no way this is a coincidence."
"It isn't," said Amba, taking a step closer to the doctor. "There was a Palani boy here earlier, wasn't there? With a human girl?"
The doctor raised her hands in front of her, as if in surrender. "Look, I don't know if you're their parents or what, but I can't say anything."
Amba nodded, turning away and taking a deep breath before facing the doctor again. "We don't have time for this, doctor."
Dillon put his hand to his mouth, as a powerful wave of citrus-scented air wafted by him. It was stronger than he'd ever smelled before when she used the voice. "Amba—"
"Please, doctor. Was there a Palani boy in here earlier? With a human girl?"
Dillon shook his head repeatedly, trying to clear his mind. He saw the doctor's face relaxing, a thin smile spreading across her lips. "Yeah," she said, "It's fine. I guess this must be important. I'm happy to help."
"Is the boy injured?"
"Don't think so," said the doctor. "No, it was the human girl who needed to see me. She's pregnant with his child." The doctor's smile broadened. "Cross species conception. What're the chances?"
Dillon was having trouble processing what he'd heard. It made no sense, and he thought of asking when Amba turned toward him, her face slack. Her eyes were wide; maybe he'd heard it right. "Isn't that impossible?" he said.
"It can't be," whispered Amba, before turning back to the doctor. "It's not possible."
The doctor's hands were fumbling at her coat pocket, trying to pull out a datapad. "I know," she said, chuckling. "They said that, too." She tried to look at the display with unfocused eyes, and Amba snatched it from her, staring at the screen. "What—"
"Don't worry about it," said the doctor. She sounded reassuring. "It can't come to term. Once she miscarries, the girl will be fine." She bobbed her head from side to side, as if weighing possibilities. "The sooner the better, really."
"No," said Amba. "This is…" she shook her head.
Dillon had been fighting to collect his thoughts. Everything seemed to be moving too quickly for him. There was something they needed to do. Something urgent. Amba would know what it was; he just had to listen to her. At last, an idea revealed itself. "The kids," he said, the words forming reluctantly. "Where did they go?"
The doctor was babbling happily now, grinning like she was among old friends. "Oh, them? They wanted to go to the Palani homeworld. They said they were going to the Greenhouse to book a ship. I think they were going to see Beatty." She nodded thoughtfully. "Nice kids. I hope it works out for them. But she really needs to get rid of it soon, or she's going to get sick."
The smell of citrus still in the air, mixed with the cloying aroma of disinfectant, made Dillon's head spin. The room had started to move, swaying from side to side. He needed to get out of here. He couldn't piece everything together, but hoped that fresh air would help. Summoning his legs to obey him, he took one step toward the door, then another, passing by Amba and the doctor.
Amba was smiling at the doctor. "You know what would be helpful?" she said, as if conspiring. "Doctor, it would be very helpful if you forgot we were ever here. We would appreciate that."
"Yeah," slurred the doctor. "That would be great."
Dillon reached the door, fumbling at the handle with a clumsy hand. Something grabbed at his hood, quickly pulling it up over his head. A white-gloved hand reached past him and opened the door, and he was guided out of the clinic.
* * *
Mere steps from the clinic door, they could see the Greenhouse entrance. Dillon felt like the walls of the station were still moving, and he stepped into a shadowed alcove between two doors. Amba was behind him, and he turned to look at her. Her white face was heavily shadowed by the overcoat's hood, and her dark-circled eyes showed no sparkle from under her furrowed brow.
"Wow," he mumbled. "You really let the doctor have it."
"I did," said Amba, "and I knew it would affect you, too. I'm sorry. Are you well, Feda?"
"I— I'm not sure," he ventured. "But that didn't seem right."
The lines in her brow deepened. "Pardon, Feda?"
There was a tiny part of his brain, hidden behind a citrus-scented fog, that was screaming at him to shut up, but he forged ahead anyway. "I don't know, but… it wasn't right, Amba. It violated their privacy. And the doctor has a code of ethics. You can't just—"
She cut him off, a sharp edge to her voice. "Yes, I can. And I did. And I will again, I expect, before long."
"No, wait…" he protested, ignoring the screaming part of his brain. "We can't. It's just wrong, Amba. If we give up who we are, if we do the wrong thing—"
The Tassali held up one hand, shaking her head. "My love, you know I adore you. You know I respect you. But you're not thinking properly. Please trust me. This is—"
"What I feel about you doesn't enter into it. It's about principles. It's—"
"By the Divines, Feda, you task me. No. This is about preventing a war."
Ideas clicked into place in Dillon's mind, as if part of his brain was saying 'I told you so' to the rest of him. "But—"
"Listen," she hissed, leaning in closer. "Fredrick James Dillon, listen to me."
Dillon's mind abruptly went silent. The fog in his mind was still clearing, but he understood the need to concentrate. He stared into her eyes, and nodded.
Amba had leaned so close, the hoods of their coats were almost touching. Her hand took a hold of his arm. "Do you smell the breath now, Feda?"
He shook his head.
"No Voice now, my love. This is me, speaking to you. And I'm telling you, I know what I'm doing is invasive. I know it's unfair, and it's callous, and it's wrong. This isn't about doing what's right, Feda. This is about doing what's necessary. Doing the respectful thing will be small consolation if millions of people die as a result."
He felt her squeeze his arm, and she continued staring into his eyes. "Is your mind clearing, Feda? Do you understand?"
Dillon noticed she had finished talking, and realised there was a difference between listening and hearing. He'd heard her words, but was still having trouble fitting the ideas together. What about the doctor? She'd got a lungful of the voice. Did the doctor need a doctor?
"Feda?" Amba's shoulders slumped, her grip on his arm loosening. "I overdid
it, and I'm sorry. If you're confused, I just need you to trust me for now."
That much he understood. "I do trust you, Amba."
"Good," she said. One corner of her mouth tugged upward in the hint of a smile. "We can fight later, I promise. For now, just follow me. We're going to go into this Greenhouse, and we're going to find Beatty. When we do, I'm going to talk to him or her." She gave him a gentle shake. "When I start talking, stand back and hold your breath as long as you can. Can you do that, Feda?"
He smiled back at her, nodding. "I'll do that. Sorry I'm so thick."
Amba quickly leaned in, hoods closing them in darkness as she gave him a brief kiss. "Don't be sorry," she said. "It's my fault." She straightened up, and adjusted her hood. "Feda, please radio Lee and have them head back to the docking bay. We're going to find out what ship they'll need to watch."
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
"Are you kidding?" said Heather. "We're not paying that."
Elan frowned as Beatty, a pale human man wearing a battered old captain's hat, shrugged and turned back to his terminal. "Suit yourself," he muttered.
He'd never paid for a ship before, but Elan still knew how money worked. The sort of amount Beatty had quoted would have been enough for first-class accommodation on a liner going anywhere he wanted. But here, it took the same amount just to convince a Bezod freighter captain to look the other way as two people boarded. Where they stayed on the ship — and how they survived the trip — was entirely their own problem. They'd be little more than stowaways with consent.
Elan traded glances with a visibly frustrated Heather. They'd had something to eat while waiting to see Beatty, and it seemed to have perked her up; she was closer to her normal, boisterous self. That helped him relax a little. He thought about using the Iyurele voice on Beatty, but decided against it. He was tired, and might need the voice later.
"I accept," he said, reaching into his pocket for the credit chip. It would use up most of what remained, but once they arrived on Palani Yaal La they wouldn't need money any more.
Heather stared at him incredulously. "Really? You're not going to pay this, are you?"
He nodded, tapping his credit chip against the terminal. "I am," he said. "Because it's faster and easier this way." He didn't want to use Iyurele. If other people saw Beatty suddenly acting strangely, there might be trouble.
Beatty poked at his terminal display and grunted, glancing up at Heather. "You won't go far in business, young miss. You want something, you pay for it like your friend here. You want something a lot…" he let the thought hang, as he lifted one shoulder in a semblance of a shrug. He tossed a small card onto the counter in front of Elan, who reached forward to pick it up. "The ship is called Vorune. It's a fifty-metre Bezod freighter. You'll know it: the metal shines kinda purple in the light." He nodded at the card Elan now held in his hand. "Give that to the captain. Tall guy, even for a Bezod. Missing half a horn. Nice guy. He'll be expecting two people."
"Vorune," repeated Elan. He wanted to make sure he got the name right. "Bezod ship, looks purple. Captain is missing half a horn."
"There's a goddamned echo in here now?" sneered Beatty.
Elan ignored him. "When does the Vorune dock?" he asked. "When does it leave?"
Beatty pulled off his hat, and dragged one hand through his shock of white hair. He turned back to his terminal, squinting to read the display. "I'd get going now, if I was you. It'll be docked by the time you get there, and won't stick around for long."
"Thank you," said Elan. He squeezed the card in his tightly-clenched fist, which he held at his side. "C'mon," he said to Heather. She opened her mouth and was about to speak, but instead just sighed and fell into step next to him.
The hallways in the Greenhouse were less crowded, and the two of them were able to walk side by side. Like elsewhere, its walls had been added to divide the Greenhouse into smaller apartments and shops, but here everything was straighter, less haphazard, as if planned in advance. The lights were less harsh; some original fixtures were still in use. There were fewer signs, less shouting, less water leaking from above or pooling on the floor.
"I think," said Elan, "this is the affluent part of the station." He watched as a man exited a doorway labelled 'Green Apartments', paying the two of them no notice. The man was wearing clean business clothes with a suit jacket, and wouldn't have been out of place on any human world; just a guy on his way to work, while two decks below him seethed the mass of the poor and desperate. Ten metres away from each other, thought Elan, and they might as well be on different planets.
Coming to the end of the Greenhouse, the noise levels slowly increased until they were once again faced with a noisy, packed hallway. The docking bay was up ahead, through the crowd of people. No choice, thought Elan, but to brace themselves and plunge into the melee. He reached out with his free hand, and felt Heather grab it immediately. Giving her hand a squeeze, he shoved his way out into the hallway's throng of people.
Someone going the other way bumped into him, knocking his goggles askew on his face. Data card still clenched in his hand, he grabbed at the strap on the goggles to push them back into place. Another shoulder shoved at him, and he staggered sideways. Looking around to orient himself, he only saw the shoulders, backs and heads of people moving around him. Most wore hats, cloaks, or helmets that covered their faces. It turned the crowd into an anonymous mass, a rushing river of humanity that smelled of sweat, machine oil, and coolant. A sign pointed him toward the greenhouse, and he tried to turn around.
A tug on his hand turned into a twist of his arm, and he pivoted between two people, moving closer to Heather. "This way," she said, her face half-hidden under her hat. "I guess you've never played hockey."
"No, I—"
Another sharp tug, and he lurched ahead, bouncing off several people as he was propelled forward.
He wasn't sure how long it took: the only reference points were the shapes of people going the same direction as them, like driftwood travelling through the rapids together. He was pulled to the right, struggling to keep his feet as a cargo-mover went by in the other direction, gliding along with a large crate on its deck. Heather used the opening created by the cargo mover to quickly navigate through an intersection, where cross traffic had slowed progress to a standstill. Ahead, Elan caught a glimpse of a wide blast door, open to reveal the yawning entrance to the landing deck. Pulled along by Heather, Elan stumbled toward the parked ships.
To his left, the wall rose straight up until it ended abruptly where the stars began. Several hundred metres of the station's hull had been cut open, along its inner rim, and opened down to the middle deck, to create the open docking space. Far above, he could see the battered crescent of the station's hull, bathed in the star's orange light, curving overhead across the visible gap of space. An occasional blue flicker illuminated the magnetic fields that held the air in the dock's open space, and protected it from radiation.
Ahead of them, a lineup of small ships sat nose-in on the deck, their sterns pointed toward the edge of the deck and space beyond. The ships' ramps were open, and cargo movers were lifting and carrying crates on and off the ships. Beyond the half dozen shuttles and smaller ships was a massive Jaljal freighter that dominated the centre of the docks. Its towering nose rested on the deck, while its stern hung out over the edge, the far end poking through the magnetic fields and out into space. Beyond, several larger ships floated in space, some moving and others stationary. One of them, too far away to see clearly, blinked with the red, green, and white navigational lights that only human ships used.
Heather turned back toward him, her hand still holding his. "Come on, Elan. It's over there."
He caught up to her and they threaded their way through the stacks of crates and the slow-moving cargo loaders. Stepping around the gaping holes of missing deck plates, they avoided the technicians and other people on the deck.
Beyond the hulking Jaljal ship he could see what must be the Vorune. It was t
all and thin but not very long, like a narrow three-storey building. Its hull seemed sculpted from horizontal layers like a stratified metal cliff face. It was dark and shiny, and the dock's reflected lights gave it a soft purple sheen. A section of its bow had been lowered to form a ramp, and white light spilled from within. Several people were gathered around the ramp: mostly humans, with the ridge-backed figures of three-metre-tall Bezod standing nearer the ship. One of the brown-skinned Bezod, his crest of horns marred by a missing tip, was leaning against the side of the ship, arms crossed against his chest. He appeared to be wearing human-style mirrored sunglasses.
Heather's grip on Elan's hand abruptly tightened, and his body jerked sideways as she gave him a powerful pull, hauling the two of them behind a stack of crates. He tried not to cry out, but couldn't avoid a loud grunt as he slammed against the deck.
She was crouched over him, one finger against her lips. "We can't go yet," she whispered.
Elan rolled over and pushed himself to his knees. "What? What's going on?"
"Take a look," she said, gesturing toward the ship. "Don't let them see you. There are men with guns."
"But," protested Elan, "everyone has guns around here." He was on his hands and feet, crawling toward the edge of the nearest crate.
"Look at those guys," she said quietly. "They're different. Something's not right."
He leaned forward, inch by inch, until he could see around the corner of the crate. Beyond the Bezod crew, beyond the technicians loading the crates or talking to the crew, two other figures stood near the bottom of the ship's ramp. They were very broad-shouldered for humans, wearing long hooded cloaks that reached down to the ground. One of them was turning left and right, shifting his feet and fidgeting, until the other said something and he stopped. But as they moved, Elan caught glimpses of their coats moving against what was underneath: sharp, angular body features, with lumps on the right hip. They were wearing body armour, he thought, and were armed. The men were looking all around them, but paying particular attention to the entrance to the landing deck, the very way he'd just come with Heather. "Mercenaries?" he said. "They're clearly waiting for someone."
