“That would be the Queegert, who is also referred to by his position, The Crown. In this case, his name is Gotrin of the Anscott Tribe.”
“Cool. Make it so,” Giles confirmed, getting out of his console chair. “I’m off to get ready for meeting royalty,” he said playfully to Arlene as he headed past her and out of the cockpit. “Don’t put us into orbit until we’re all set up,” he called back to Scamp.
Arlene shook her head as he left and sat down in the pilot’s seat next to Anne.
“I guess we’re going to meet their king then.” Anne’s eyes were alight with glee.
Arlene noticed her reaction. “Not you, young lady. We need to keep you out of harm’s way. If we’re going to let you stay on this mission with us, you have to play ball. So that means staying put when we tell you to stay put.”
Anne opened her mouth to protest, but Arlene silenced her with a glare, accompanied by a push of energy into her field. “No arguments. It’s not safe, and apart from anything, if something were to happen to you, Giles would never forgive himself for letting you stay.” Arlene’s face softened as she explained the last part about Giles.
Anne, deflated but no longer defiant, relaxed back in her chair as if accepting Arlene’s terms and explanation.
Mallifrax-8, Etheriam mines
The distant sound of iron on rock clinked away in the distant tunnels. Hundreds of feet beneath the surface in the cold, damp labyrinth, the Queegerts of opportunity worked away, mining.
Voyved, a particularly analytical Queegert, sat quietly at a makeshift table in the little rec room. The den was dark and dank, but they’d done what they could to make it semi-comfortable. It beat eating their lunch at the ore face at least.
Voyved was the most technically minded amongst his band of friends. He’d managed to hook up some lighting by tapping into the Colony’s grid that was used to run the mines. They wouldn’t be charged for this energy . . . though what they paid for the energy to run their equipment would more than make up for it.
His three eyes scanned in sync as he read through the recent drilling reports on his sector. He’d hoped to have hit a seam. But so far, the analysis was coming up with nothing. He sighed, resting a spindly tentacle-like ‘arm’ on the table.
Razeene ambled into the den. “New rates are in,” he announced with a grimness in his voice.
“What’s the score?” Voyved asked, raising his top eye from the digital tablet.
Razeene’s face said it all. “Lost a couple of points,” he answered flatly. “If this doesn’t turn around, it’s going to get to the point where we’re paying them.” He shuffled his heavy, round mass over to the storage cupboard they’d built into the mined-out rock. He pulled open the swollen wood pieces they’d cobbled together to make a door and peered inside. Finding his flask, he took a swig, then placed it place it back in its corner, ignoring Voyved’s disapproving sideways glance.
“Well, that’s certainly not a surprise,” Voyved stated flatly, turning a page on his handset. “You know, if I could just get enough hardware together for this prototype, we may be in with a chance.”
Voyved had an idea to pre-process the etheriam. If successful, it would mean they could deliver a semi-processed ore back to the company. The theory was that it would mean less processing at the company’s end, and less weight to transport over to their refinery. Voyved assumed this would get them a better price.
Razeene scoffed. “Like the MacKegans are going to go along with this!”
They can’t stop me from selling the device to others, Voyved grunted, waving his taloned finger in the direction of the main tunnel.
Razeene shifted his weight from side to side in denial. “Like they’ll allow you to put something like that onto the market. They’ll lose all their leverage. And their ability to control the price once we sell back the etheriam.”
Voyved’s eyes had returned to his reports. “But at least it’ll give us a chance at getting out of here. No more mines. No more damp. No more wrinkled toes or mine flu.”
Razeene’s gaze drifted off as he collapsed in a chair at the table. The thought of a hot shower and more comfortable living quarters was a fantasy they all shared.
Suddenly, his eyes refocused. “Yeah, as I said, ain’t never going to happen. We come up with the credits, they’ll just put the price up again. It’ll be Mallifrax-6 all over.”
Voyved continued scanning his reports, occasionally using a claw on his right hand to etch a note onto the digital interface before turning a page or cross-referencing it with another dataset. “Those were just rumors,” he reminded his friend. “We don’t know that it was true.”
Razeene leaned forward on the table, his claws tapping gently on the soft wood. “Maybe,” he agreed, unconvinced. “But it sounds just like these crooks to screw the little guy over. Besides, we’ve got more chance at just hijacking a shuttle. You should be putting your focus on getting those phasers working!” he insisted quietly. He tapped a finger deliberately on the table, emphasizing his point. “Without that, we don’t have a chance of going up against them.”
Voyved sighed and sat back, his reports now secondary to the discussion. “What’s the point though?” he protested. “We still need to develop an override for the shuttles.”
Razeene lowered his voice another few decibels. “I’m working on that,” he said, one eye looking at the door, and the other two looking poignantly at his fellow entrepreneur.
The nerdy Voyved narrowed all three of his eyes skeptically. “But you don’t have any experience in working on vehicle overrides,” he said, more as a question than a statement of fact.
Razeene gave a toothy grin, his two layers of pointy teeth bearing for Voyved to see. “Got a contact, ain’t I?” he chuffed.
Voyved could see the remains of Razeene’s lunch stuck in the space between his gnashers. “Should be coming through with the goods any day now. And when he does,” his top eye flicked back to the door again, “we need to be ready. Those codes don’t last long.”
Just then, there were footsteps in the puddles of mud outside, and a moment later, Bokmom, the final counterpart to their trio, arrived. He bumped his arm on the side of the tunnel entrance as he bumbled in, recoiling and having to take another few paces to balance himself. “Hey, y’all!” he called, cheerily, rubbing his arm with a grubby hand.
Razeene leaned his head against his hand, his spindly arm resting on the table. “For the love of . . .” he muttered.
Bokmom recognized his expression. “Sorry,” he said, his tone suddenly shifting. “Is this one of our secret meetings?” he hissed, trying to lower his voice appropriately.
Razeene glanced at Voyved with one of his two lower eyes. “Not anymore,” he said pointedly.
Bokmom seemed to have a moment of coherence. “Well, you might wanna wrap it up. Bulthug was heading this way, and you know he frowns on any kind of violence.” He tipped his form forward, indicating with his round mass towards the stash of stun guns that’d been left exposed under their mess room table.
Dropping his digital reader on the table, Voyveg jumped up on his three tree-like legs and shuffled the box back into place, pulling the lid over it and recovering it with the blankets and plastic they used to hide it. “He’d confiscate them if he saw them!” he said, straightening up and scowling at Razeene accusingly.
“Don’t look at me,” Razeene protested. “I wasn’t the one who was sitting here casually with them all hanging out.”
Voyved eyed him sternly. “We need to be more careful,” he insisted. “There’s no tellin—”
Just then, there were more footsteps heading through the tunnels, splish sploshing through the muddy pools. The three froze like children caught red-handed with Mom’s best china.
Razeene shook his arms out and sat down, trying to cross one of his skinny legs over the other. “Look natural,” he instructed the other two.
Voyved retook his chair and picked up his report with two tendrils.
Bokmom moved towards the table, then changed his mind and tried leaning against the cupboard, then stood up again and moved to a third position, awkwardly placing one hand on the cave wall and then, realizing it was slimy, removed it.
At that moment, Bulthug appeared in the doorway. Bokmom hid his slimy hand behind his back. He couldn’t have looked guiltier if he’d tried.
“Evening,” Bulthug greeted them. “I was wondering if one of you might be available to help out later. We’re having an assembly, and I could do with some more bodies to set out chairs.”
He had a couple of other miners with him, clearly using their free downtime to suck up to the leader of their social group.
“And of course, you’re all welcome to stay and participate. We’re having a discussion about the changing conditions here.”
Razeene shifted awkwardly in his seat. “I, er . . .”
Voyved chirped up. “I’ll be there, of course. Anything I can do to help.”
Razeene fell in line. “Yes, of course. We’ll all help,” he added, nodding and making eye contact with Bokmom.
“We will?” Bokmom asked. “I mean, we will, yes . . . of course.”
Bulthug bowed his spherical form in appreciation. “Thank you. You’re most kind.”
Bulthug was a former priest of the religious order of Queen—the religion that formed the basis of all the law and rule that the Queegerts lived by. It taught of a bloody and vengeful god, but ironically, this Queegert saw himself more as a shepherd, caring for those who needed community. That’s why his followers referred to him as The Shepherd.
He thanked the three for their assistance and told them where the gathering was happening, and then, entourage in tow, left them to their scheming.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Bokmom ambled over to the table and joined his friends. “So erm . . . what are we doing getting involved with those guys for?”
Razeene leaned over the table and thunked him across the side of his head. Queegerts were thick-skinned, and their bodies were like a hard, dense shell. The thwack barely registered on Bokmom who was more insulted than hurt.
“What was that for?” he asked, annoyed and rubbing his head with his tendril-like hand.
Razeene wiggled as if to shake his head-body. “You idiot. We’re trying to keep a low profile. Besides,” he added, “it might be useful to see what The Shepherd is planning. No doubt it’ll be completely ineffective . . . but it’d be useful to know.”
Voyved had actually gone back to reading his reports before he had to get back to his drilling quarter. “Strategically, it would be a good move,” he agreed. “Although, I dunno how much of that pretentious quaggle ball I can take.” His expression was deadpan and oblivious to the humor he’d evoked in his friends.
Razeene giggled silently, slapping his waffy arm on his leg.
Bokmom chuckled as he headed out the door, smacking his other arm again, this time on the other side of the tunnel as he made his way out. “See you at the setup then!” he called back to them, stumbling out and straight into a puddle.
Royal Settlement, Mallifrax-8, Ferrai Quadrant
Giles and Arlene strode across the vegetation rich area towards the settlement that Scamp had directed them to. Below, in the valley off to their right, they could see another settlement. Even from this distance, it appeared more primitive, with industrial-type equipment and towers around.
Giles’s eyes scanned the terrain. “Looks like that’s the mine down there,” he commented.
Arlene’s attention had been pulled to something else. She pointed up ahead. “We’ve got company,” she muttered, her hand automatically reaching to the weapon on her thigh.
Giles knew without looking that she was reaching for the weapon. He was going to comment but stopped himself. If indeed it turned out they needed a weapon, he’d be embarrassed. And she would never let him hear the end of it.
“We have an appointment,” he reminded her instead. “It should be no problem.”
Arlene gave him a don’t-tell-me-I-didn’t-warn-you look, but he ignored it, his eyes fixed on the two spherical Queegerts heading towards him.
“At least they’re Queegerts,” he muttered, hoping the wind wouldn’t carry his voice. “Not the sharpest tools in the picnic basket.”
Arlene smirked, relaxing her grip on her weapon and lengthening her stride to keep pace with him.
He approached with his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. “Hi there!” he called. “We come in peace.”
Arlene chuckled. “Take me to your leader?” she whispered through her teeth.
Giles glanced at her sideways. “I wasn’t going t—”
Arlene bobbed her head. “Yeah right. I’ll bet you’ve been dying to say it. Admit it!”
Giles shook his head, slowing his pace. “Honestly, hadn’t crossed my mind.”
The two guards approached, weapons primed for action. Aggression seemed to emanate from their sinewy muscles.
“We have an appointment,” Giles called into the half -light, just about able to make out the Queegerts’ three eyes reflecting the light from the astro-activities and the settlement behind them.
“Digital access code!” the one on the left demanded gruffly.
“Er . . . right.” Giles put his hands down, patting his atmosjacket pockets. “I, er . . . we have an appointment with his Royal Highness, Gotrin.”
The second Queegert raised his weapon menacingly. “You don’t get to use his name. He’s called The Crown.”
Giles put his hands up again. “This crown has got to be enormous if it goes on his head,” he commented quietly to Arlene.
She sniggered.
“Check with your superiors,” he called to them. “I’m Professor Giles Kurns, and this is Doctor Arlene Bailey,” he explained slowly. “We have a meeting. We’re here to talk to The Crown,” he stressed deliberately.
One of the Queegerts turned and shuffled off, disappearing into the shadows near what looked like a building or a wall. The other remained poised with his weapon pointing at the two intruders.
Giles put his hands down and shoved them into his pockets, standing casually as if he were waiting for a bus.
Arlene kept her hand positioned just over her thigh gun, her thumb resting in her pocket. Giles knew full well that even if she was made to surrender it, she’d have another four stashed elsewhere on her person.
After several awkward minutes, the other guard returned and grunted something he couldn’t understand. Then, with motioning of the weapon’s barrels, he and Arlene were directed to move towards the settlement.
They were led into a courtyard surrounded by wooden buildings. Not quite huts or cabins. Maybe a little larger and a couple stories high . . . but still not entirely majestic.
Without another word being exchanged, they followed the lead Queegert into what looked like the main building of the settlement. The other brought up the rear.
As they made their way through the building, the native Queegerts stared at them and watched them with their three eyes until they disappeared round a corridor corner or into a room.
Clearly, humans and Estarians were a novelty around these parts. Either that, or they’d seen their kind before and were more than a little wary. Giles couldn’t tell which.
Eventually, they were led into what looked like an office. It had furnishings—rugs, sofas, and a desk with some form of technology on it. Perhaps their version of computers and communication units, Giles guessed.
The guards stood on either side of them, still on high alert. There was an open door at the other end of the room. Within moments, another Queegert waddled idly in. He wore a big metal ring on his head. Like a crown, just much less ornate.
Giles tried to keep his face straight and dared not look at Arlene, who he saw from the corner of his eye had moved to put her hand over her mouth.
“Greetings,” the Queegert said pompously as he lowered himself into his desk chair.
“Greet
ings, Your Highness,” Giles responded with a slight bow.
Arlene followed his lead.
“May I first say, thank you for meeting with us on such short notice,” Giles said as sincerely as he could manage.
The Queegert moved his whole head-body as if to nod.
“Without taking up too much of Your Majesty’s time, we’re here to request your permission to quest in your land. Under the Windsor Proclamation, I believe that you’re the authority who can grant this?”
The Queegert’s eyes reacted, the top one almost scanning his mind, looking to see if there was an angle he could use.
“Indeed. This is true,” he said, his ego clearly enjoying the respect of these strangers from a foreign land.
Giles made a mental note. It said much about his perceived status. Any ruler secure in his standing wouldn’t have been so easily flattered.
“But tell me,” he continued, “for what do you quest?”
Giles hesitated, weighing whether he should reveal his hand. Making a judgment call, he spoke. “We’re looking for a certain trinket that has sentimental value to our people. We have reason to believe that the civilization that inhabited this planet several hundred standard years ago might’ve kept it safe in one of their temples.”
“And you believe it to be in which temple?”
Giles switched into professor mode. “Our research has suggested that it’s the one not far from Your Highness’s settlement.”
The Queegert seemed to be mulling what he was being told, clearly recognizing the reference to the temple. “I must confess, we know of the temple you speak. They are ruins though. On our first year here, we went to examine it ourselves, and I understand that there were several relics brought back for safekeeping.”
Giles eyes lit up. “You think you may already have it?”
“Possibly,” The Crown responded, somewhat evasively. “But the relics are in safekeeping.” He got up from his chair. “I’ll tell you what—in the interest of a new friendship, allow me to grant you passage to the temple to . . . quest, as you call it. You can even take one of my men to be your guide.”
Giles Kurns_Rogue Instigator Page 5
