by Daniel Huber
"What trouble, o smuggling hound?" Clea continued to look around for a moment, at first not acknowledging her friend's query. Then she hummed a puzzled response.
"Being watched," she said, curious but unworried. "Can't you feel it?"
"Clea you're always being watched. One would think you'd be used to it by now."
"Not like that," she replied, ignoring the suggestive inflection that Trina regularly used on her.
"With intent. Motive. Hmmm." She turned around and watched Trina for a moment, then dropped to crouch next to her as she tightened the bolt on her easel. Clea leaned in to her friend and whispered discreetly.
"Don't look now but due north. Isn't that Ryder Deluka?"
"I don't know. You said not to look."
"Look now but be indifferent. Don't linger on him." Trina looked up from her spot on the ground, casting her gaze along the street and over the people that filled it.
"He's staring still, isn't he?" Clea asked.
"I'm not sure, Clea," Trina replied, "I don't know who he is." Clea smiled broadly and caught her bottom lip in her teeth in a thoughtful manner, then stood and tossed her hair over her shoulder.
"I don't know who he is either," she said, "aside from reputation. But he's looking for me, I can tell, I can feel it. His eyes are practically burning my back as I stand here. He must need something."
"Can't ever imagine what," Trina muttered with a smirk, setting up her paints.
"To employ me, I suspect," Clea replied, her tone matching the mocking that Trina had been offering, and dispelling the insinuations. "Ryder runs an underground jewel ring. While I was out this week I heard through the leylines that he'd come across a big bounty out on Oracuu. By now I'm sure he's gotten at least some of it ready to distribute." She swiveled around and looked over her shoulder. "I'll be back in a bit," she said as she sashayed away.
Clea knew the game, and she played it well. She was the hunted, the stalked; and following at a reasonable distance behind her, was the pursuer. He could be sizing her up, or making sure no one was trailing him, or maybe he just enjoyed the sport. Clea had seen all types of traffickers, and she had long ago grown tired of trying to predict what category they fell into.
After leading him around for what felt like a respectable distance, she stopped at a fruit cart that was set away from the street, where the proprietor was also selling leather goods at an adjoining stand. He was busy showing off his handiwork to some customers, and Clea stood, looking over the mound of shiny apples, pretending not to notice that her trailing shadow had come up close enough behind to almost brush against her.
"Clea Colletta," said the unfamiliar voice. It was a dry, raspy voice that sounded as if he'd smoked too many tobacco rolls in his time, and followed them up with plenty of spirits.
"Ryder Deluka," she replied, not missing a beat. She could feel his shock at the acknowledgement of his name without even turning to look at his face, and she smiled to herself. It was always so good to have the upper hand.
"I see we come together by reputation alone," he countered, finally walking around to stand in front of her. She took her time before raising her eyes to meet his.
"I'll take that as a compliment," she said, her gaze steady.
"As you should," he replied. Clea briefly took in the appearance of her potential associate. Ryder was an average sized man, his dark blonde hair cut short to his head and receding slightly. He wore a heavy vest over his dark clothes even though the weather didn't warrant such layering of garments, and his thick boots were dusty. His unshaven face was tanned and lined as though he spent much time outside, and his expression was hard and direct. Her skin crawled being so near to him; this was the only part of her existence that was unpleasant. Dealing with professional traders and traffickers was never enjoyable, and only occasionally above bearable. Most of them were lecherous and filthy. Ryder actually hid it well, but he had the same aura as them all, the same undertone in his voice and in his mannerisms. She turned her attention and her eyes back to the fruit, seeming to take great care in picking just the right one.
"I hear congratulations are in order," she continued casually. "A big bounty from Oracuu.”
"Twelve thousand kilos. Mixed variety jewels. Some garbage. But most…" he paused and put himself in her line of vision again, "not garbage." Clea cocked an eyebrow and tipped her head in recognition of his obviously boastful comment.
"Impressive," she drawled. "If for no other reason than the fact that you got past the infamous gypsies of Oracuu."
Ryder's expression darkened, and he spoke through clenched teeth. "You mean the witches of Oracuu." Clea tried to hide her smile and she shrugged impassively.
"Witches, gypsies…what difference?" She noted how quickly the trafficker got back to the deal, and wondered if the gypsies had perhaps been more trouble than he cared to remember.
"Three kilos are ready to transport," he began, his voice low. "Small cargo, not much bigger than a standard issue flight crate. I could just as well do it with a one-man craft myself. But I can't take any chances." Ryder moved back into Clea's personal space and picked up a random apple, biting into it without paying the merchant. She shook her head slightly, letting her disdain show a bit. Her own apple in hand, she tossed the merchant coins enough to pay for both fruits, then turned to walk away.
"Where to?" she asked, biting the apple and looking around casually, trying to appear that she wasn’t actually walking with him.
"Tal-Min Vista," he replied. At least he wasn't skirting around the issue. Tal-Min was dangerous territory, heavily guarded, and would command a pretty price. Clea was already calculating it in her head.
"Nice job for the right person," she said, looking up to him, crunching another mouthful of fruit. He hadn't taken his eyes off her, and she circled around in front of him as they walked.
"What terms?" he asked, his voice a grunting growl. They were coming to the outskirts of the Marketplace, where the carts and vendors were fewer and far between, and Clea turned away from him, walking back toward the more crowded section. She knew better than to get too far away from potential witnesses, just in case a deal ever went wrong.
"Terms?" She continued to bite the apple, chewing and looking away as if thinking on the matter. "Terms…hmmm. Ten thousand. All up front." He laughed out loud.
"Ten thousand? I think you over estimate yourself Clea."
"I doubt that. Ten thousand. Your choice. I don't negotiate. Not on matters like this, anyway."
"What makes you think you're worth that kind of money? Ten thousand? That's prices old pros demand. From where I stand, you're still a novice Clea."
"I'd hardly call five years of straight work novice level," she snapped, whirling on him and dunking the apple core into a mulch bin without looking. "Five years. Never dropped a load. Never missed a deadline. Never lost so much as a sliver of Rouganian crystal. Ten thousand. Your choice. And choose now, I grow bored of this lack of faith in my abilities."
She faced him now. Standing tall against his much larger frame, gone was the coy, teasing girl that had walked in a weaving pattern around him as they made their way through the street. Beneath the exterior of a flowing skirt and a bare belly was the spirit of a career smuggler. Ryder shifted his weight, and looked down at this young woman who had in an instant, turned from potential seductress into potential business associate. On the one hand he was disappointed, on the other, spitefully impressed. She was worth the money she commanded. He knew this, had done his research. Clea was a mystery in her own right; had a reputation for getting into areas that were widely known as impossible to infiltrate. It was a close kept secret how she did it, and her abilities kept her in great demand. Five years of perfect deliveries, no trails behind her, and no bargain ever left undone.
"Can you get it there within three days?"
"I can get it there tomorrow if I have ten thousand in my pocket." He looked her up and down briefly.
"I don't see any room
for pockets on you."
"I'm walking away." She turned. She was so glad she didn't have to actually like the people she did business with.
"Deal, Clea," he said, grabbing her arm. She looked up at him with an incredulous face then yanked her arm away from his grasp.
"Never…never touch the pilot."
"You're right, Clea," Ryder bowed slightly, "apologies, fair lady." Her eyes didn’t change expression as she spoke.
"Central hangar, northwest loading bay behind the silver turret. Meet me there tomorrow morning. Eleventh hour."
"Eleventh hour?"
"Yes," she called over her shoulder as she disappeared into the throng of people. "I like to sleep in."
Clea arrived back at their usual place in the road just as Trina was finishing up the painting of a little boy so she settled in the low chair next to her friend, reclining lazily
"Five chid," Trina said simply, dunking her brushes in their cleaning solution.
"Five chid?" said the woman, startled, "surely your time is worth more than that."
Trina shrugged. "My time is not at issue, kind mother. Your happiness is my reward. Five chid."
After the woman paid her, Trina rolled the coins over in her palm. “I hate having to charge at all.”
"I know you do, but the money will be well distributed.” Clea crossed her arms over her eyes. “She would have gladly paid three times that much.”
"So what came of your exchange with Ryder? I assume you were right about him looking for you."
"Right, and richer for it," Clea said, peering out from under her folded arms, "Ten thousand for a run to Tal-Min. Ten thousand, Trina!" Her mouth opened as if in a giddy scream, but no sound came out. Trina returned the ecstatic look and reached out her hand, grasping Clea's fingers and twining them in a gesture of grand success.
"Your first ten thousand chid contract," Trina said, "congratulations on achieving your goal. You were right about it coming to you roundabout now."
"Yes, and perfect timing too. I know a certain Keystone's daughter whose birthday is but a few weeks away."
"Ah, it comes to light! The reason for your rise in price is because of my birthday. Well, fear not my friend, you needn't get me anything for my birthday. There's nothing that I desire."
"Of course there isn't," Clea said, "And so I shall get you something that I desire and then borrow it shamelessly."
"Oh actually, Clea," Trina said, leaning down, "I do need something."
"What's this?" Clea asked with surprise, raising her arms from her forehead, "A request?"
"Of sorts. Since you're going to Tal-Min, can you pick up some magnetic sand for me? I've almost run out. I didn't even have enough to bring with me today."
"Ah, a present that can be had for free. The best kind," Clea replied, rolling her eyes. "I should have known a request from you could only be banal!"
"Well it's all that I need. And I can't get it myself."
"I would have gotten that for you anyway. Surely you can think of something else you want. I'd wager some of this cargo will have jewels of a most unique variety…" Trina waved her hand, disinterested.
"I don't need anymore jewels," she said. "I need magnetic sand for my paintings. And for you to be home to ride with us at the Twilight Bloom."
"I've never missed the Twilight Bloom, Trina. Not once since we were little. I wouldn't imagine missing it this time."
"Yes well, now that you're commanding such high fees for your runs, you might be tempted to stay away longer, and more often." A twang of worried truth weighed in Trina’s voice, and she rapped her paintbrush against the leg of her easel to knock some of the moisture out of the bristles.
"No, never," Clea replied, taking a deep breath of the sweet smelling air that surrounded them, her voice sounding simple and assured. "I could never stay away from home that long. No matter what the price." Trina laughed.
"Glad to hear that you're still just like Quade on that count," she said, glancing up and acknowledging a new person who'd come by looking to get a sketch.
"Where is Quade anyway? Wasn't he supposed to be back, what…last night?"
"Yes," Trina answered, taking out her pencils and beginning to sketch on a large, stiff sheet of paper. Clea peered out from under her arms again.
"And you've not heard from him? That seems strange, for Quade."
"It is."
"Are you worried?"
"No," Trina replied, barely paying attention to the conversation now, becoming absorbed in her art. "Quade always comes home."
CHAPTER 3
Midway mark, and Quade was at his final jump point in the spider web design of the leylines, just now coming up on the Kosch system. He didn’t have to check the countdown clock to know there was only two more hours travel time to Bethel. He sighed, anxious to be home. Quade found no comfort in the loneliness of space, and occasionally wondered how his parents had fared once cast out into it, banished for their unthinkable crimes. He didn’t linger on it though; thirteen years had passed and he’d only been a kid after all, not responsible for the heinous act they’d committed. As he always did, Quade forced the memory from his mind, with the irrational hope that if he could forget what happened, so would the rest of the world. As he moved through open space and came upon the Bet/Kos nexus point, Quade saw another ship lingering close to the nexus but not actually moving. It was a teaching vessel, designed to transport about two hundred people. As he came closer and the greenish glow of the Bet/Kos nexus became clear, he wondered why the other craft was hovering but not jumping, as was standard procedure for using the leylines. He sent an automated hail but after a few seconds of silence his impatience got the better of him and he sent an audio message.
“Fellow traveler, do you require assistance?”
A minute passed with no response, not even an identifier message. Perhaps they were having mechanical difficulties? Quade thought it odd that he hadn't heard any distress signals coming through his communication feed. He hailed the ship once more and waited, only to be met with silence. Now that he was closer, he could see a scoring blackness along one area of the hull. Flipping a lever, he commanded a scan of the other vessel for its identity and damage report.
“Teaching vessel Valiant,” Quade muttered, reading the scan. “Minor engine fluctuations, no significant damage.”
The craft was drifting, not appearing to be on any course or direction, just hanging dead in space. A weird, creeping nausea began to work its way through Quade's stomach, and an unfamiliar sense of anxiety followed, sending tension through his arms and shoulders. Something about this drifting craft gave him a deep-seated sense of unease that he didn't understand. He sent another hail, this time requesting two-way visual communication, and again there was no response. The wayward ship was very near to him, seemed to be moving slowly closer and as watched, and he noticed that the lights were dim in all the viewports as well as all the exterior running lights. Power drain, systems failure…it could be anything. Still, communications shouldn't have been damaged. Even in the worst power failure a ship's communications would override and run off of auxiliary systems just like life support, so that in an emergency there would be means of sending a distress signal. Just as he was about to send out a final hail to the other vessel, something caught his eye; something that Quade had never before seen.
Seeping from the hull of the ship that he'd been watching came an unidentifiable shape, something that looked as if it had form, but then actually had no form. It was black as indigo ink, and permeated from within the other craft like a ghostly fog. It hovered around the body of the courier in a parasitic position, almost seeming to leach from it. The dark cloud encompassed the cruiser entirely, masking the grey and red painted markings to obscurity, then all at once, it tore itself from the ship.
Nausea wrenched Quade’s stomach and he swallowed hard against its painful bloating stab. In all his life, he'd never felt this type of sickness, physical combined with a mind numbing sens
e of ill ease. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and he ran a hand over his clammy skin. His breath came in short, labored gulps and gasps. What was that thing? In years of traveling and mapping the stars, he'd never seen an apparition such as this, nor felt such a strong sense of doom toward any single thing. He squinted as he watched the inky shadow drift and churn for a moment, making a strange distortion as it wavered in open space. Quade looked down to his sensors. On the readout, he could see the display of the wayward ship, but nothing else between himself and it, nothing on sensors where the inky cloud hung between them. He looked out his forward viewers again, and the shadow that was blacker than the blackness of space itself still moved toward him, wavering inward as it floated, its size changing and becoming smaller as it neared. As it advanced, his gut swelled with nausea and Quade's instincts screamed for him to get away, forget the other ship and trying to establish communications, just retreat, get away from this thing-
Before his hands could reach the forward thrusters, the black vapor rushed Quade's ship, passing through the hull like it was nothing. It seeped in from above, channeling down through the center of the ceiling, also from the side. It swirled, its cloud-like substance filling the perimeter of the cockpit, gathering its huge, phantom silhouette until it became thick and took shape. Quade jumped from his chair, backed against the control panel. Unalive, unreal, yet pulsing with magnetic energy and vicious doom, it came to linger in front of him where Quade stood paralyzed, not knowing where to go to get away. The thing, this thing, this inky creature, had entered his ship, was hovering before him. And then, it lunged.
A horrible scream echoed through Quade's head and it took him a few seconds to realize that it was actually himself that made such a hideous noise. He heard it in his own ears, felt it resonate in his throat as the terror and mind-numbing dread overcame him. He fought against his sickness, struggled to stay standing, grabbing hold of his console, but shock and dizziness held him paralyzed. Quade hadn’t even time to shut his eyes when he'd seen it rush toward him in the same way it rushed his ship, seeped through the hull like the thick metal wasn't even there. But somehow, this creature could not touch him. This creature that had the ability to move through metal and open space swirled angrily around him, smashed repeatedly against some invisible barrier between itself and his self. Quade looked down at his body, moved within the blackness that threatened to encompass him, but for some unknown reason, could not. He waved his arms, cutting through the ebony mist as he moved, but it seeped back together as soon as he stopped. He was untouched and unharmed but soon the sick dizziness overwhelmed him and when he crossed the cockpit, the apparition did not follow. He watched as it lingered, churning in its place, seeming to grow smaller as it hovered.
