Fortune's Detour: Prequel of the Deka Series by Abigail Schwaig

by Abigail Schwaig

  ~

  I tiptoed down the stairs, wondering if Tom was back yet, surely he is, and if Sam had left. My footsteps must have been heavy on the stairs, because I heard a rustle and then I was looking straight into piercing, slate grey eyes. Though they seemed cold on the surface, they carried more than enough spark to set the world ablaze.

  “You’re Tom.” I smiled, crossing my arms over my chest for something to do.

  He looked back at me, a blank expression on his face. He was probably assessing me: my black t-shirt, baggy pajama pants, with random dark jewelry popping up all over the place. As he took it all in, I did my own assessment. Though his house was extraordinarily tidy and clean, he was sprawled back in his couch, work boots on and tattered denim and a soft sweater shirt on. His beard was scraggly and his hair was longer than most, both a light brown. He was lanky, lankier than Sam. And less disciplined- or maybe it was just the outfit. The butt of a gun poked out of his belt holster. I knew Sam carried a weapon, but that somehow felt different. I trusted Sam, with my life.

  But if he trusted Tom, then so did I.

  I smiled again, feeling braver. “Hello.”

  Suddenly he smiled. “Afternoon, Nicki-Ray.” He tapped his paper on his knee- an actual paper news tube.

  Hmm. Old-fashioned.

  “You’ll be staying here a while, so I hope you find it comfortable.” Another pause. He grinned and leaned forward in his seat, sipping a steaming dark liquid from a mug that had been used past the point of repair. “Apparently you’re my long lost niece from Tera who recently lost her parents.” He peered over his reading glasses to me. “How do you like the place?”

  “I like it a lot, Mr. Silas.” I spoke truthfully, stepping off the stair landing and on to the cold, bare floor.

  “No, no. Call me Uncle Tom. Mr. Silas sounds ominous- like I’m going to eat you.” His eyebrows waggled a little. He reached out to shake my hand while still sitting down.

  “Go on- make yourself comfortable.” He gestured around and then went back to his paper.

  I smiled. I found myself liking him. “I want to thank you for the mattress I slept on last night. It was celestial.”

  He brushed it off. “You’re welcome to sleep on it again.” His eyes ignited with amusement.

  I laughed politely. “Do you mind if I..?” I gestured to the two pictures on either side of the fireplace.

  “Go right ahead. That there is my fake aunt Astana.”

  “Fake aunt?” I examined the old, sepia portrait closely, holding my hands respectfully behind my back. I didn’t know Tom Silas very well yet, and I wasn’t sure how fussy he would get, if at all, when his privacy was violated.

  “My place isn’t a museum. If you’re going to live here, you better get used to touching things. Bring it over here.” He gestured for the portrait.

  I obliged, carefully slipping the frame off of the screw imbedded in the brick. It was a modern frame with a glass covering, but the picture inside was obviously old. I carried it gingerly over to his couch. I placed it in his waiting lap and sat beside him, a respectful distance from his person.

  “You can’t see from there. Come sit on the armrest.”

  I obeyed, sitting up higher than him to the point where I could look down into his hair roots. They were brown, too.

  He examined the portrait. “I say fake because this is just a picture given to me by the Federation as part of my cover. Just as I am part of yours, “Aunt Astana” is part of mine.”

  “You’re nothing like a portrait.” I was trying to be helpful.

  He appeared entertained. “You’re honest.”

  “Oh! I didn’t mean to insult your appearance…” I sighed. “What I meant was this: you’re living, breathing. You’re real.”

  “True,” he considered. “It’s up to you though, how big a role I play while you’re here.”

  “Well, I’m grateful that you’re letting me stay upstairs. Sam told me you wouldn’t mind- that you were the one that offered…”

  He didn’t look upset at all. “Oh, sure. We who lead double lives gotta stick together.”

  “Good.” I smiled, unsure of what to say next. “Where is Sam?”

  “Sam is gone. Had to leave early this morning. Didn’t want to wake you-” he fished a note from his pocket. “Left this.” He grinned like a kid, looking at me with the twinkle that older folks get when they sense a romance brewing.

  “Oh, no. Don’t even start, Uncle Tom,” I responded firmly.

  He sat back in the couch, perusing the paper and sipping his mug with an aloof expression. “It’s what uncles are for.”

  I didn’t open the note. I knew what it would say. Instead, I folded it into my pocket and sat back down on the arm of the couch.

  He looked up.

  “Did you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No. Only child. I happened a little late for any more to come after me.”

  “Oh. I was an only child, too.” I thought for a minute, debating whether to say more. “My parents didn’t want kids and were unhappily surprised to find me on the way.”

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  “That’s a shame, Nicki-Ray.” Then he handed the frame to me, and I carefully stepped over to the wall and arranged it back where it came from.

  “Well, feel free to look around the house and familiarize yourself with it. I’ll be doing the grocery shopping so if you want anything in particular, give a holler.” He cleared his throat. “Last night while you were asleep, Sam and I discussed some things and we agree it’s for the best if you stay indoors for a few days, just until we’re sure that nobody tracked you here. Do you think you can handle that?” His tone was gruff, but I knew he meant well.

  “Yes,” I answered softly. Honestly, being on the move was tiring. I was glad for a place to be still for a while. “I trust you and Sam know what you’re doing.”

  He nodded, satisfied.

  “Thank you for opening your home to me. It’s very generous.” I rubbed my fingertips across the bricks above the fireplace.

  “Not at all!” He waved a dismissive hand. “Older people shouldn’t live alone- it makes them crabby.” He shifted his weight and concentrated on his paper with a crusty expression on his face.

  I smiled, shaking my head, and wandered into the next room over, which happened to be the kitchen. The smell of breakfast food recently cooked washed over my senses. I called through the house, “Tom? Do you mind if I-”

  “Eat,” he called back distractedly.

  I chuckled. He was proving himself to be a tad eccentric. But I didn’t mind. It made me feel at home.

  ~

  After breakfast, I padded upstairs and read my note. There was a number written in square, blocky letters. The rest was written in very neat, if artless, script.

  This number is available at all times for witnesses, though I might not be the one to answer depending on the shift. But I can promise you that whenever you call, you will be heard. You’ll hear from me by the sixth of the week. Until then, Sam

  What day was it? It felt like it’d been weeks since we left the prison on Tera, just yesterday morning. Ten digits and a slight headache later, I remembered that it was 4811/5/1/2.

  That day, I did relatively nothing. I rearranged my clothes in the duffle and tidied the lavatory. Then I lay in bed and absorbed the clean smell of everything. And the peace and quiet. Tom seemed to be pretty good on his own and I didn’t feel like striking up another conversation just yet, so I stayed upstairs for most of the day.

  ~

  4811/5/1/3

  The next day was mostly the same. Tom left early for work. He was a retired chief, but he still worked part time at the fire department closest to our sector of tenancy in World City. I found that out the first evening of my stay. During dinner he spoke of training the new recruits. I didn’t ask about the gun he wore, but I could tell he was at ease with it. It seemed to be a permanent fixture of his body. It didn’t alarm m
e anymore. He caught me looking at it and offered to teach me how to shoot. I didn’t know what to say. Surely my parents would not approve.

  A thought struck me like a punch in the gut. Nicki-Ray’s parents are dead. At that moment I decided that they would have wanted their daughter to know how to defend herself.

  I set my jaw and nodded. “Thanks. I’d like that.” I could tell he was pretty pleased that I agreed.

  “Are you ready to get out and explore the city?” His incredible eyebrows were at it again.

  I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. “Of course.”

  “Great.” He nodded, swirling something dark and rich around in his favorite mug.

  “I’m sorry- I can’t hold it in anymore. What is it that you drink constantly?” I gestured to his mug.

  “Oh, this? This is Nib juice. Infused with vitamins and minerals. It keeps me spry and makes me feel 20 years younger.”

  “Nifty.”

  “Speaking of food and spryness, how would you like to get a job in the restaurant sector? I can get you in. I know some owners who’d be happy to take the niece of a fire chief on, since restaurants have a habit of being flammable.” He swirled the nib juice around and around in his mug.

  “Yeah, I should. Unless David gets caught soon, in which case I’d have to leave for the trial.” I sighed, imagining a soothing stream of sand slipping between my fingers. “It will be nice to go back home to my beach.”

  Tom’s face pinched up slightly, but the expression was gone in a moment. “You have some time. Let me tell you- the Federation likes to do things methodically.” He raised his eyebrows emphatically.

  “Oh, ok. Then I guess I’m here for the long haul. But with you as a roommate, this might actually be fun,” I teased and he smiled back.

  ~

  The hardest transition to Hecta wasn’t the busyness of the city, or even of working a waitressing job, though that was stressful in its own way.

  It was the time change.

  I woke up to an alarm clock bearing a different set of numbers for the same time each morning and went to work when it told me and stayed at work until my co-workers or harried manager reminded me or Tom called me, irate, blaspheming my boss for forcing me to work overtime. And then I would do it all again the next day.

  I didn’t bother making my brain bleed by learning the constantly varied times. I figured I wouldn’t live there long. I guess I figured that busting the DNA trafficking cartel open was a priority for Deka’s Federation of Justice United.

  I was wrong.

  It turns out the Federation wasn’t so united in its priorities.

  But life wasn’t too bad. My job only made me lose my mind half of the time. I talked to Sam over the Comms several times a week and Tom wasn’t a bad roommate. He was protective though. Which was good- without him around I probably would have gotten pick-pocketed or something horrible. Being more or less a small town girl, I made an easier mark than most. But surprisingly, the city didn’t seem so bad. Or maybe I was just being positive.

  Tom, spur of the moment, came home one day with an old typewriter that seemed to have more gears and more machinery springing out of it then staying safely within the mechanism. It smelled of gasoline (which proved it was ancient), but he promised he’d clean it up. I asked him why he got it for me and he simply replied it would give me something to do. I shook my head. When was I going to have the time or the inclination to type anything? Besides, what did I have to write? He reminded me that unlike most girls my age, I did not keep a diary. He nudged my shoulder across the dinner table. “You should try it. It’ll be fun. Do you know how many of these babies are left in the System? This is a pure, unadulterated antique. And you’re going to love it.”

  He gave me that ‘old things are always better’ look.

  “Okay.” I was half-hearted, thinking about how much sleep deprivation I was running off of. Writing just wasn’t an option.

  Later that evening, after dinner, I lugged the heavy, though diminutive, box up the stairs to my loft and situated it under a window. It looked nice there. Tom was right. Even though I might not use it, I loved the way it looked in the corner, all buffed and proud.

  I glanced at it a couple of times while getting ready for bed. Finally I just sat down to it. I’d already been an insomniac for weeks now, surely staying up doing something productive would be better than just lying there in the dark with a pillow over my face.

  I started to type.

  ~

  Plink plink. Plink. The keys ting-ed and plinked like a xylophone. I grinned. Tom had converted me into an antique lover. Especially when the mood outside was so decidedly infused in the techno-culture of my own generation. Flashing lights and buzzers reminding people hooked up to their media apparatuses when to cross busy intersections and the constant whir and scream of aircraft traversing the many levels of air traffic above the city. It was overwhelming at times. So many people living on top of each other; it made me nauseated. Exhaustion and headaches accompanied my rides home on the public transports. I would have liked to walk, but that was too dangerous.

  I continued to type while remembering with fondness how I used to skip home on the quiet, lazy beach front of Myceania Shores, whistling a tune or lost in daydreams of the adventures I would have once the water turned warmer. But here, now, danger lurked everywhere. It could pop out from anywhere; I hardly dared sit in the park (the one park in the middle of the city) for any length of time. Streeters would size the loiterers up and approach them, asking for money or favors. Most of them were barely half my age.

  I concentrated back on the flipping keys. They were incredibly hypnotizing. I remembered, like a bad taste in my mouth, the way David had encouraged me not to ever visit Exa. As Tom would say, this typewriter was a classic example of the Exan blend of artistry and usability. I shuddered and pushed the thought of David out of my head. He wouldn’t stay for long. Every other night his face made an appearance in my dreams. I would wake up, shivering, to the incredibly real image of David’s face twisted into a snarl above my own.

  ~

  Sam was a saving grace. Between my nightmares and my shifts at “The Tumbler” that made me want to disavow society, Sam was on the other line, quiet and confident. After talking to him, the world made sense again. At least enough to get me through the next day.

  Once I was settled in my job at The Tumbler, the Peace Through Science talks were over. It was funny. Sam and I found ourselves discussing those topics the most. I don’t know why, maybe it was comforting. Maybe we were both finding ourselves through it all.

  After a particularly grueling shift for me, in which I was thrown up on by a patron, we talked for three hours about how Deka, the first planet, and Yotta, the tenth planet, both went dark within the same period of 12 hours (around 500 years ago) and the subsequent loss of Amaranth Power, assuming that Amaranth Power was a real thing.

  Sam was adamant. "But look at it- Deka didn’t remain dark forever. It came back on the grid in the Winter of 4800- the Doorways to our first planet are working once more. And yes, the Amaranth Power hasn’t returned yet, but something's happening. It's in the air- you can feel it."

  I could hear his smile over the Comms. I was relieved that we didn’t use the visual Comms due to Federation regulations. "Now who is the pantheist?" I laughed.

  His chuckle joined mine. “No- seriously, Nicki. Believing in Divine Form is not a black and white declaration. It too is a journey, just like Processor Theory. The workings of Amaranth Power are highly mystical theorems. Sometimes Formists can be harsh and judgmental about their belief system, but that’s just them being human. We’re all human. I mean, you’ve got to admit, Raedon’s a Processor and he was pretty nasty during the Science talks.”

  I nodded, and then agreed verbally when I remembered he couldn’t see me.

  “What I’m trying to say is that no matter what a person believes, he or she is still a person and still flawed in deep ways.”

&n
bsp; “Yeah. But that brings up another question. Why are we flawed if we are part of a Divine Formation?”

  He paused. “Because that’s how we know we need a Divine Maker to make us whole again.”

  I was silent, thinking.

  “Nicki?”

  “Hmm.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m just… I don’t know.” Everything he said both made sense and didn’t. It was like half of me understood it and the other half wouldn’t even allow myself to listen.