Gravity Storm

by Tom Dublin

  "We are going interstellar!"

  Tor Val's hands shot into the air, her fingers spread wide in the Malatian gesture for unending peace. All around her, the crowd went crazy with wild applause and exhilarated cheering.

  The President had done it. She had won the trust and support of her planet's colonists once again.

  Behind her, Saf Tah clapped politely, his eyes flicking over to meet the mirrored sunglasses stare of Hip Win. The bald security guard's face betrayed no emotion whatsoever but his hands, hanging down at his sides, were balled into two tight fists.

  3

  ICS Fortitude, Crew Quarters

  Tc'aarlat stepped into his tiny cabin, closed the door behind him and let loose a long, exhausted sigh.

  Turning on the spot, he sat on the edge of his bed without the need - or indeed, the room - to take a single step, no matter how small. The sagging metal springs complained loudly as he leaned back to kick off his boots, then turned to lie down on the bunk's thin mattress and well-worn blankets.

  The Yollin tucked his hands behind his head, fingers interlaced, and a hazy image of a much larger room materializing from somewhere deep in his mind. The memory wasn't powerful enough for him to recall many of the room's individual features, or to remember doing anything interesting while in there.

  Instead, it was like looking at a faded photograph of a forgotten location found tucked between the pages of an ancient, dusty book.

  The comparison stung, so Tc'aarlat banished it from his thoughts. There were many reasons why he should be able to remember more about the vast, well-appointed room, the primary one being it had been his childhood bedroom.

  If he concentrated, he could picture himself in the room sitting beside an older, female Yollin on an exquisite yet tasteful couch. He suspected this figure might have been his mother as she held herself with poise and grace. And, of course, she was blessed with a clear indicator as to her status as one of the planet's elite upper caste...

  She had four legs.

  In this blurry memory, Tc'aarlat was perched beside her while she read to him, his own legs swinging back and forth several inches above the surface of the expensive carpet covering the floor.

  Both of them.

  As a child, he had never understood the scandal of being a two-legged child born to a family of wealthy, four-legged Yollins. Of course, he had sometimes wondered why he looked more like the family's servants than either his parents or his older sister.

  And he was never privy to any of the hushed conversations where the fidelity of the lady of the house was both questioned and served up as juicy fodder among the under-the-stairs gossips.

  An obvious embarrassment to the family, Tc'aarlat had been banished to boarding school shortly before his sixth birthday. If anything, the dorm where he slept was even bigger than his room at home - although here he had to share the space with a dozen or more similar aged boys, each of whom enjoyed the same number of lower limbs as he did.

  It was at this school that Tc'aarlat learned how to look after himself, in every way possible. After all, it wasn't as if his fellow pupils were doing anything to aid his protection from the ignorant bullies, self-centered prefects and downright evil members of the teaching staff.

  He may have been slight of build, but his mind was as sharp as a wild cat's teeth. Before long, he was selling sheets of answers to forthcoming examinations, and bartering appropriated bottles of staffroom booze for second helpings from the kitchen porters.

  By the time he started his second year at the school, Tc'aarlat was the person you contacted whether you needed a saucy magazine or the keys to the safe in the headmaster's office.

  Tc'aarlat was the go-to guy.

  Stretching his legs to ward off the cramp he was likely to endure as a result of the morning's exertions against the pirates, he accidentally kicked Mist's tall, home-made perch at the foot of his bed.

  He leapt up to grab the indoor birdhouse before it could clatter to the floor, spilling the contents of the Raal hawk's food and water dishes.

  Mist was already displeased with him for leaving her on the bridge while he took his break. If she came back to discover her home broken as well, Tc'aarlat was likely to face the following day sporting a number of fresh scratch marks on either his arms, his face, or both.

  Sliding a wooden chair - his only piece of furniture - aside, the Yollin struggled to slot the base of Mist's birdhouse into the only spot it would fit. Not for the first time he wished his personal quarters on board the ship were even a fraction the size of his old bedroom, and not some cramped converted broom closet with an old, broken cot wedged inside.

  He frequently told himself this was the only place he'd ever lived where he could switch off the light and be in bed before the room got dark.

  The tablet lying on the floor beside the bunk bleeped, causing Tc'aarlat to sigh once more. His break was over. It was time to return to the bridge and hammer at the antiquated controls while listening to Jack's endless anecdotes about his time in the Corps, and Dollen's questionable solutions for the problem of interplanetary immigration.

  Sliding his feet back into his boots, he prayed there would be a decent bar on board this damned Etheric Federation Base Station.

  Federation Base Station 11, Residential Zone 9, Rosemere Care Home

  Wendy Lintern collected a clean set of bedding and made her way across the day room towards the south corridor. The light from the base stations' internal sun shone brightly through the windows, bathing the home's immaculately maintained grounds in a spring-like glow. Shadows from the trees danced across the walls of the comfortable communal lounge.

  "Morning Mr Hutchison," she smiled to a tall, grey-haired gentleman sitting alone at a chess set. "Who's your opponent today?"

  "My son, Kyle," replied the pensioner, waving his tablet in the air. The screen was covered with strings of letters and numbers indicating the game's previous moves.

  There was a faint ding from the gadget, and Mr Hutchison chuckled as he read the latest message, then moved his son's bishop towards the center of the board. "He thinks he's leading me towards checkmate, but I have a little trap of my own he'll have to get out of first."

  "Sounds like he's getting better each time you play," said Wendy. "Say hi from me, and remind him to bring you a few bottles of that All Guns Blazing dark ale you like so much."

  She winked as the old man's eyes widened in surprise. "I won't tell Head Nurse if you don't," she said conspiratorially as she headed down the corridor.

  Wendy had worked at Rosemere for almost six years now, ever since her own father had died peacefully in his sleep at the home. She had been so impressed at the standard of care the home's staff had provided for her dad in his final years that she had resigned from her job as a financial advisor and retrained as a nurse so that she could help provide that same level of welfare to future residents.

  One incident in particular had convinced her that she was making the right decision in changing her career. A few weeks after she lost her father, the home had held a memorial service for the families of everyone who had passed away there during the previous year. It was an unforgettable day, and one which had prompted her to write in the book of remembrance that she 'had met angels at Rosemere. Angels who were disguised as doctors and nurses.'

  Wendy Lintern decided she wanted to be someone's angel and, although she wasn't supposed to have favorite residents in her care, Yousuf Choudhury was someone she looked forward to seeing each day.

  "Good afternoon, Yousuf," she said as she tapped on the white-painted door and let herself into the room beyond. "What would you say to some fresh bedding?"

  The elderly man sitting in a chair by the window didn't respond. Instead, he just gazed at the patients, staff and visitors enjoying the sunshine out in the grounds, not really seeing any of them at all.

  Wendy smiled sadly. Yousuf was becoming more and more distant by the day. Lost inside a labyrinth of his own memories, and only occasi
onally finding his way back to the real world.

  So different from the chatty retired security guard who had moved into the home just over a year ago.

  She turned to close the door when an unexpected visitor appeared carrying a large bouquet of flowers.

  "Adina!" cried Wendy. "Here to see your uncle? You don't normally find time to visit on weekdays."

  "Got the afternoon off," explained Adina, laying the flowers on the sideboard. "Thought I'd make the most of it."

  "Well, I'm sure Mr Choudhury will be delighted to see you," said Wendy as she began to strip the resident's single bed.

  Adina crossed to where her uncle was sitting and crouched beside his chair. "Hi, Uncle Yousuf," she said gently. "How are you feeling?"

  Yousuf Choudhury didn't respond at first. Then, just as Adina was about to repeat her greeting, the old man's eyes faded back into focus, and he smiled down at his niece.

  "Fatima!" he exclaimed. "How lovely to see you!"

  Adina tried not to let the dismay show in her expression. "No, I'm not Fatima, uncle," she said kindly. "I'm Adina. Fatima was my mom."

  Yousuf's brow furrowed. "Not Fatima?" he said uncertainly. "Well, I'm sure she'll be along soon. It's not like my sister to stay away for long."

  "Fatima isn't coming, uncle," said Adina, her voice catching at the back of her throat. "She's... She's busy."

  The elderly man cupped his niece's chin with a wrinkled hand. "Oh, she's always busy, that one," he beamed. "Got a little one to look after now, you know. A beautiful baby girl. Her name is Adina."

  Adina closed her eyes, falling silent.

  Wendy, having finished changing the bedsheets, grabbed the bouquet of flowers and came to stand behind the young woman. "Look at these beautiful flowers, Yousuf," she said. "Would you like me to find a vase for them?"

  Yousuf Choudhury's expression turned blank for a second, then he looked down at Adina as though seeing her for the first time. "Fatima!" he cried again. "I knew you'd come to see me today. Did you bring the little one?"

  Wendy gave Adina's shoulder a gentle squeeze, then made for the door with the flowers. "I'll go put these in some water."

  Adina waited until Wendy had left the room, then she angled herself so that she was looking deep into her uncles eyes. "Uncle Yousuf," she said. "I need to know the name of the guy you get my meds from. The ones that stop me from... being me. I've almost run out and I need more."

  But the old man was no longer present. He stared, unseeing, out over the sun-drenched gardens.

  Adina clutched at the old man's thin wrists. "Please," she urged. "Give me a name, a number, anything. Where can I get them?"

  Once again, she didn't receive any response.

  "Must be here somewhere," hissed Adina to herself as she jumped to her feet. She took a moment to check that no-one was approaching along the corridor, then she slid open the drawer in her uncle's bedside cabinet and began to root through the mishmash of items inside.

  There were paperclips, still wrapped pieces of ancient hard candy, a couple of pens and a stack of old letters tied up with a length of red ribbon.

  But not the item she was looking for.

  The cupboards in the sideboard were next to be searched. Adina found porcelain figures that had belonged to Yousuf's wife, Isir, which her uncle had kept after his wife passed away. After years on display at their home, they were now wrapped in newspaper and packed away out of sight.

  Aside from a few boxes of old photographs and a stack of cloth napkins, that was about it.

  Her frustration beginning to grow, Adina stood in the center of the room flicking her gaze from object to object, looking for anything that might contain an address book, or a scrap of paper with the details she wanted scribbled on.

  She was considering whether she should rummage through the pockets of her uncle's robe when her eyes fell on a small tobacco tin sitting on the windowsill.

  "I wonder..." said Adina to herself as she hurried over.

  Glancing back to the door to check she was still alone, she grabbed the tin and removed the lid. The sudden smell of her uncle's pipe - something he hadn't used in years - threatened to drag her back to her childhood, but she forced herself to swim against the current and remain in the present day.

  Inside the tin was a small collection of old buttons, a few yellowing stamps torn from the corners of ancient letters, and a couple of dead batteries; items which must have enough meaning to the old man in order for him to keep them so long. Adina quickly rifled through them all.

  And then, she saw it.

  Nestled at the bottom of the tin, beneath the pull tab of a zipper that had once fastened Adina's jacket through much of elementary school, was an old, off-white business card.

  She recognized it immediately. This was the card her uncle always referred to when it was time to call... him. The man who sold Yousuf Adina's black-market medication. The pills he had last ordered for his niece six months ago, before his condition had deteriorated to such a point.

  A few moments later, Wendy re-entered Mr Choudhury's room carrying a crystal vase, inside which she had arranged the flowers Adina had brought with her.

  "I had to borrow a vase from Mrs Shelly's room, but I'm sure she won't mind-" she said, then stopped when she realized Mr Choudhury was asleep in his chair, and Adina was gone.

  4

  Federation Base Station 11, Dock 17, Freight Bay C

  Nathan Lowell leaned against a railing and watched as two men - one human and one Yollin - exited from the hulking cargo hauler, ICS Fortitude, and headed his way.

  "Eight hundred and forty-two computer servers ordered by..." Jack glanced at the name on the shipping docket attached to his clipboard before he passed it over, "...a Marcus Cambridge."

  "Thanks," said Nathan, signing for the consignment before returning the clipboard and holding out his hand. Both Jack and Tc'aarlat shook it. "I'll get the dock crew to unload them. While they're doing that, can I treat you gentlemen to a drink?”

  "Sure," said Jack with a smile. "I never say no to a cold one."

  "Sounds good to me," added Tc'aarlat, his mandibles tapping together. "Don't look a gift whore in the mouth, huh?!"

  "Horse!" Jack corrected quickly. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

  He turned to Nathan: "Tc'aarlat's working on including human proverbs and phrases in his day to day conversation."

  "He's, er... doing well," said Nathan, looking beyond the newcomers. "So, is it just the two of you?"

  Mist ruffled her feathers and shrieked from her perch on Tc'aarlat's shoulder.

  "Sorry," Nathan corrected. "Three of you."

  The Yollin reached up to scratch the top of the hawk's beak, causing her to caw softly. "She doesn't like to be left out," he grinned.

  "Tell me about it," Jack muttered under his breath.

  Tc'aarlat shot him a brief look of irritation, but decided against bringing up Jack's intense dislike of his pet in front of their client. "There is another member of our crew somewhere," he said. "Where's Dollen?"

  Jack shrugged. "He disappeared as we finished docking. Said he wanted to get changed as he had blood on his shirt." He noticed Nathan's raised eyebrows and added: "We had a little trouble on our way here..."

  "Sorry!" called a voice from behind the group. Dollen jogged over to join them, a jacket with the haulage company's logo branded on the breast pocket fastened all the way up to his throat. "Couldn't decide what to wear."

  Nathan shook the Baloreon's hand, then led the small party through the customs and security zones to a large, well-appointed shopping mall filled with tourists of several different species.

  They passed jewelers, perfumers and stores selling all manner of souvenirs. Tc'aarlat spotted a window display featuring ornamental models of Federation Base Station 11 itself and fought the urge to make a sarcastic comment.

  After a few minutes, the group approached a bar with a large illuminated sign proclaiming it to be called All Guns Blaz
ing.

  "Nice place," remarked Jack as they entered. "Do you treat all your delivery guys this way?"

  "Not bad, is it?" Nathan beamed. "It's a new franchise of the most popular bar at the Etheric Empire’s home base. And, you've seen right through me. You are getting the special treatment. I've got something I'd like to talk to you guys about, if you can spare the time."

  Dollen was quick to nod his agreement. "We don't have another delivery slated for a few days. We can hang out for a while."

  Tc'aarlat shrugged, jostling Mist and receiving a gentle peck to the side of his head as a reward. He was slowly getting used to mimicking Jack's human gestures, which he was growing to realize were useful in avoiding confrontational situations sometimes caused by his more Yollin-friendly movements of his mandibles.

  "Don't see why not."

  The establishment was around half-full. Waiters in white shirts buzzed from table to table, taking orders and delivering drinks and food.

  Nathan led the freighter crew up to a second level where they settled at a table near to a huge, floor to ceiling window looking out into the enormity of space.

  A waitress with curly, shoulder length hair hovered a few feet away while they settled into their seats, then stepped up sporting both a well-used notepad and a welcoming smile.

  "What can I get for you?" she inquired.

  "I can highly recommend the Crofian Cream Ale," said Nathan, producing a tablet and turning it to show his visitors a slow-motion clip of the frothy brew being poured into a tall, frosted glass. "The guys who run the original bar have it imported from the Su-Sallok System, and it sells out fast. You should try it while they still have a couple of barrels left."

  "Sounds good to me," said Jack, his throat suddenly dry at the sight of the dark amber beverage. "I'll go for that."

  "Me, too," agreed Tc'aarlat. "And some chilled water for Mist, if that's OK?"

  The waitress nodded, turning to Dollen. "Sir?"