Sleeping in the Stars

by D Patrick Wagner

  The entire room shook their heads. A chorus of “No’s” came back. Krag didn’t speak. His off-world accent, even in Galactic English, would be a dead giveaway.

  “Are you sure? You know the penalty for impeding an investigation. I ask again, Have anyone seen any strangers?” The chevroned trooper took time and glared at various individuals in the room. They all held his gaze, no one flinched.

  “Again, head shaking and “No’s”.

  “It’s a federal crime to lie to me. If I find out any of you have been lying, you won’t believe the grief I’ll bring.” After almost shouting his last admonishment, the trooper turned, gave his subordinate a nod and the two pushed through the doors.

  “We’re good, now. Stay charged. The cops might be back,” Krag sub-vocalized to Buster.

  “Yes, sir,” the AI responded.

  After a few moments, the entire room, including Shar, turned and stared at Krag. One, rose, walked to the doors and peeked out. “Clear. They’re heading down the road.”

  “Thanks, people. I owe. You.”

  “Weren’t nothing,” one of the patrons replied. “When I took your money, last night, you showed you were good people. Besides, we don’t put up with that Federacy crap around here, anyway. So, you’re the smuggler.”

  “I prefer ‘transporter’,” Krag responded. “And, again, thanks a bunch. I don’t want to cause you any trouble, so I’ll get out of here.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” this from Shar. “You’re not any trouble.”

  “Besides, we could use someone with your skills,” Frank added. “Are you available for hire?”

  “Maybe. It depends on what I haul. And if you can afford me.”

  “We all around here are getting screwed by the freight companies. When we have orders shipped, they charge us both ways, saying they don’t have product to haul back. Then the Federacy throws on their travel taxes. Look, the mining companies make good money on this planet. So do the loggers, farmers and ranchers. Life here is better than on a lot of other planets. But Federacy is strangling us with red tape, taxes and freight costs. So, yeah, we could afford you.” After Frank spoke, others in the room nodded in agreement.

  “Let me think about it.” The key to smuggling is secrecy and stealth. But here Krag was talking to a room full of people like it was an everyday occurrence, like mowing a lawn.

  “This really is the Wild West,” Krag thought.

  “I need to lay low for a while, to let those cruisers leave, anyway. Frank, we’ll talk, later.”

  “Enough!” Shar demanded, still standing in the middle of the room, bar towel in hand. “Now, leave the man alone. And, if any of you so much as breathe a word about this, you will never see the inside of this place, again.”

  Looking directly at Krag, Frank chimed, “That goes for me, too. No business. We can use this guy. Treat him right.”

  The first patron put a hand up. “Corry,” Krag Remembered.

  “But, you got to learn the language. Watching your mouth move different than what comes out of that little speaker is just plain weird.” Everybody laughed.

  Embarrassed, Krag put his head down and went back to drinking his beer. Shar went back to work and the rest of the room returned to their daily lives.

  The troopers never returned. Frank left for his trading post. After a time, Krag rose, dropped credits on the table and left, heading to the trader.

  Finding Frank again at his desk, Krag commented, “That was something different.” Krag continued. “Feds came into the bar, everyone sticking up for me.”

  “We’re a tight community. We don’t live the high life, but we do live the good life. It’s hard, but it’s good. Corry, the guy you played poker with, the one who talked, he owns the repair shop. He’s ex-military, ground pounder. Did you see the two women in the corner, the ones with the blue vests?”

  Krag nodded.

  “Also ex-military. They run the emergency clinic. Like I said, we have it good here. Tolimar is a good place to raise a family, have a life. And, everyone here does not want to be swallowed up by the Federacy. That’s why most of us are here, at the Fringe. To get away from the bureaucracy, the rules. If you are any good at what you say you do, you could help. And you could make some money. Not big money, but good money.”

  “As I said, I’ll think about it. This town isn’t the type of people I usually deal with. I usually deal with the more shady kinds. I don’t know. What would I be hauling?”

  “Regular stock. Medicine for the clinic. Booze, recreational drugs for the saloon. Parts for Corry. Hard to get stuff for me. Mostly everyday stuff“.

  “Like I said, let me think about it. Got to go.” Krag left the office, climbed into the quad and headed straight to John at the supply store.

  “John,” Krag said holding out a hand.

  “Krag,” John said, returning the hand shake.

  “Let me ask you something,” Krag began. “What do you think of Frank, the trader up the road?”

  “Frank Yellen? I like him. He’s a little sly. Let’s say his moral boundaries aren’t as well defined as the rest of ours. But his heart is in the right place.”

  “He ever get violent? Hurt anyone? Do real criminal stuff?”

  “No, not that I know of. Why are you asking?”

  “Should I go into business with him?”

  “That’s up to you. I wouldn’t say no. I’ve used him a time or two for some hard-to-get stuff. He’s always been fair with me. But you’ve got to decide.”

  On the way back to the saloon, Krag contacted Buster. “Buster, let me know when the cops leave. And, keep the shuttle and avatar charged. I still might need them.”

  “Yes, Sir,” came the AI’s reply.

  Once seated at his now-regular table, with his pack by his leg, Krag looked up. Without being asked, Shar had brought him his ice-cold beer and chilled mug. Again, she poured him a glass, and again, with the perfect foamy head.

  “That takes years of practice,” Krag said, watching the head stop foaming exactly at the rim of the mug.

  “When you’re a saloon owner’s daughter and you inherit the business, you get a lot of practice. Lunch?”

  “Sounds good. You pick. You’ve been right, so far.” Shar wrinkled her brow and chin in thought, nodded then headed for the kitchen. Krag’s mind began to wander.

  Twenty-three years ago Krag Marston, the stolid, anchored, farm boy became a focused, hard charging space fighter pilot. For twenty years his home had been either officer’s quarters on a planet or a cabin on a carrier. As such, for twenty years Krag forgot what it was like to live in a family, a community of families. For twenty years his peripatetic life conditioned him to be a single, self-sufficient loner. His bonds with other people were the bonds of comrades in arms. He had no roots. Any personal relationships he developed were shallow, non-committed and short lived.

  The last three years started out as years of anger and bitterness. But, they slowly evolved to emotionless recognition and acceptance. Now being on this dusty mining and agricultural world, stirrings of memories and emotions put away so many years ago reintroduced themselves. Krag Marston began to wonder if, after what he had become, if he could have a home, if he was capable of having a home, again. The ex-fighter pilot and current smuggler wondered if he was even capable of living in a home like the one he grew up in.

  Deep in his ruminations, Krag startled when Shar returned, carrying two plates balanced on one arm, the other holding a wire basket filled with bottles and jars.

  “Enjoy,” Shar said, setting down the basket then placing a plate of meats and sliced breads in front of Krag. Setting down the other plate, Krag saw leafy greens, what looked like sliced vegetables of various colors and something looking like a sliced onion.

  “Looks great.”

  “Let me know what you think. I’ll be back.”

  Krag spent the next forty-five minutes sampling the various foods, experimenting with the condiments in the basket,
building/eating sandwiches and washing everything down with beer. He put the mental wandering aside for the moment.

  “Captain?” Buster broke into his efforts.

  “Yes?” Krag sub-vocalized, with a mouth full of sandwich.

  “The cruiser has left the planet. It is heading for the singularity that we came through to get here.”

  Swallowing the mouthful, “Thank you. Send the shuttle. Put your avatar back in storage but keep your AI loaded. It looks like we won’t be needing it. We’ll wait through the night and, if the other two cruisers haven’t returned, we’ll head back the way came. That will give the other cruiser a chance to clear the system. And recall the decoy.”

  “Yes, Sir.” After a pause, the AI continued, “the shuttle has been launched and the decoy has been recalled, Captain.”

  “Run diagnostics and have a list ready for when I get back. We can do repairs while in hyper space.”

  As Krag finished the conversation and took another bite of his sandwich, Shar came back. Sitting, she asked, “Who were you talking to? I saw your lips moving.”

  Trust. He hadn’t practiced it in years. “Should I lie? Should I deflect?” Krag thought.

  “I was communicating with my ship. I have a fairly smart AI. More than I should have. It’s slightly illegal,” Was his answer. “It wasn’t a total lie, just not the full truth,” Krag thought.

  A broad smile opened up on Shar’s lips. “Thank you for telling me. You can trust me.” Joking, she continued, “I’m like a priest and this is my church.”

  “A priest? Does that mean you’re celibate?” going along with the joke.

  “Well, not by choice. Let’s just say I’m monastic,” Shar countered.

  “That sounds boring. You could fix it, you know.”

  “I just might. If you stick around for a while, that is.” Realizing she just might have opened a door that had been closed for a while, she pulled the ubiquitous towel from a pocket, wiped her hands and headed back to the kitchen.

  “More things to think about.” Krag hadn’t been in a relationship with a civilian for more than twenty years. When on leave he would find one-nighters or, when really desperate, he’d buy a night. After all, an oversized farm boy needed his release.

  Sitting there, finishing his sandwich, periodically glancing at the kitchen door, he found himself a little tense and chagrined at his own sudden social fear. Finishing up, Krag, the seasoned space pilot and social neophyte, glanced once more at the door. But Shar didn’t come back out of the kitchen. Rising and sighing, he set some credits on the table and headed out, deciding to explore the town more fully.

  Driving down the main street, he passed Frank’s trader office, passed the store fronts and entered the service shops area. He passed Corry’s repair shop, a tire store, and other services required to keep a community repaired and running. On his way he passed two security types, in their dark green uniforms with guns and batons on their belts. Reading their patches, he saw that they belonged to the Planetary Security Services.

  Reaching an intersection he saw some tall buildings to the left. That was the direction he turned. Reaching the buildings he saw four of them, each on the corner of another intersection. One building was labeled ‘Galactic Consolidated Mining’. Another was labeled ‘Brandt Mineral Enterprises’. The third, ‘Tolimar Logging and Exports’. The final building housed the offices of the two security guards he had passed, ‘Planetary Security Services’. Krag had found the big players on the planet.

  On his return drive, he passed a land office that he had missed. Parking and going in, he approached an empty counter. Looking over, he saw a very overweight woman leaning back in an office chair, reading a data pad. Looking up, she saw the very large man dressed in outdoor clothing, gilly hat and carrying a shoulder pack.

  With a grunt, the obese woman pushed herself out of her chair and waddled to the counter. “May I help you?”

  “Just getting information. How do I get some land around here?”

  “You looking to settle?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “If you want some land that someone else owns, then you got to buy it from them. If you want land that is owned by the government, you just stake out a claim, pay your taxes and it’s yours.”

  What about up around the old volcano? In the forest out there. Anyone own that?”

  “A few miners and prospectors got land up there. But they’re all spread out.”

  “Any problems with personal power plants or nuclear batteries?”

  “Nope. Just get them inspected each year and keep them up to code. We don’t buy in to all those Federacy regulations and restrictions. But anything you put in has to be clean. No radiation. No runoff waste. Other than that, we pretty much let people live the way they want.”

  “Thanks. I just might like it here. Sounds good.”

  Krag spent the rest of the afternoon aimlessly wandering, checking out stores, cruising neighborhoods, generally getting the feeling of the place. This afternoon was the first time in many years that Krag Marston wasn’t running on stress, anxiety, anger or remorse. This afternoon was the first time in many years that the ex-fighter pilot, current smuggler, found a few hours of peaceful tranquility. For Krag, the whole afternoon felt like one large emotional exhale, releasing everything that kept him up tight. It felt right. If felt like it could be home. But he still had things to do.

  At sunset, Krag returned to Shar and her saloon. Grabbing is pack, going inside, he returned to his back corner table. Shar saw him enter, gave him a smile and nod. “Beer?” she mouthed?

  “Yes,” he nodded. The room, once again, was full. The young bartender again tended the bar. The cook cooked. The waitress worked the tables. Krag could see the cook through the delivery window in the kitchen. Frank and Corry weren’t there. “They must have families to go home to,” Krag thought, not seeing them. Shar brought the beer and mug and repeated her ritual. “Thanks. Anything good for dinner?” Krag asked.

  “Always. Any preferences?”

  Krag couldn’t tell if there was any innuendo, so he played it straight. “No. Something as good as last night. You pick.” Shar left. Krag went back to idly watching the room, watching common people doing common things, common people talking common talk. It still felt right.

  Sitting there, drinking his beer, Krag Marston resolved that he would put down some roots here. He would need to be careful. He would need to hide this link to this place from the rest of the galaxy. He would need to not bring his turmoil and violence to this island of ease and peace. Krag began planning on how he would accomplish this. But first, he had some crystals to deliver. Krag, the calculating risk-taker began to plan.

  The evening drifted on. Shar brought his food. Once again it proved excellent. The dinner crowd left. The band arrived. Younger patrons trickled in for an evening of music, drinking and day’s end camaraderie. The room ran itself. Shar came by and sat down. They ignored the quips of earlier and spent the evening talking. Krag asked plenty of questions about the community, the power players, the trouble makers, law enforcement. Shar answered all of his questions openly and asked her questions about the galactic traveler and his exploits. Krag answered a little vaguely, but not dishonestly. The night went well. But Krag still went to bed alone.

  * * * * *

  The next morning Krag rose early, showered, dressed with a new set of under clothes and yesterday’s set of outer clothes. Breakfast was served by the young barman, in between stocking and prepping for the day. “Shar does sleep.” Krag thought.

  “Buster?” Krag communicated sub-vocally.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “Any sign of the other two cruisers?”

  “No, “Sir. The system is still void of interstellar law enforcement presence.”

  “Good. Send the shuttle. I want to be off in an hour.”

  “It will be ready, Captain.”

  While Krag finished his meal, the barman came over.


  “Anything else, Mr. Marston?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Tommy. Tommy Williams.”

  “Tommy. Do you have some parchment and a stylus?”

  “Yes, Sir. Be right back.”

  When Tommy returned, he placed a piece of parchment on the table. Krag wrote “I’ll be back,” with an internal laugh, wondering if Shar would get the reference to the old robot movie. Rising, he placed some credits on the table and headed back to his life as a smuggler.

  Nyu Nippon

  Keiko hid her resignation well. Having to dress up, having to be the dutiful daughter of an interplanetary ambassador made her want to run screaming into the night. However, her upbringing taught her to bottle it up. Play the role. Catching herself in the large mirror covering one wall of the ballroom, she sighed as she saw herself, a small, thirty-something, Japanese woman, dressed in formal, Japanese attire with the mandarin collar, high heels and slim, red, silk dress.

  Turning away from her reflection and taking a sip of champagne, she scanned the room. Diplomats, politicians, wealthy business people, power brokers, all elegantly strolled, stood or sat, sipping their own flutes of champagne and talking the talk of the elite. The pomp and arrogance bored her out of her skull.

  She reminisced about her foray to Sasania. The thrill of her theft. The satisfaction of her clean escape. Keiko dreamed of her next enterprise. Maybe Cencore. That scared her. The thought of going into the heart of the Federacy, of committing a crime right under the noses of those in charge both excited and terrified her. But her natural attraction to the emotional charge of thwarting danger kept her thoughts working the idea, her next heist.

  The approach of Ambassador Suzume, her father, broke her thoughts.

  “Keiko.”

  “Father.”

  “Thank you for coming. I know you don’t like these functions. But they are necessary.”

  “I know. They’re just so boring.”

  “But there are many eligible bachelors here. It is time. You need to think about settling down. You’ve been running around the systems long enough.”

  “I know. But, I just can’t. It loathes me to think of being trapped, tied down.”