by Ivan Ertlov
The tips of her ears trembled like her hands; her upper body rocked back and forth. A slimy scribbler writing semi-pornographic outpourings somewhere on the ass end of the Rim Worlds would not have refrained from describing the effect of this movement on four generously sized breasts covered only by thin flannel. But Frank wasn't a washed-up, perpetually wanking trash poet in some remote bush; he was a prospector. And above all, Dilara's friend.
A real friend.
That's why he didn't even notice this detail as he leapt forward, ready to catch his comrade if she fell off her bunk bed.
But she did not fall.
A final, hoarse scream that bounced off the walls, reverberated a hundred times in Frank's ears and finally died away. A brief tremor of her entire body - and then her ears went limp as life, consciousness, and confusion returned to her eyes. In exactly that order, and a hint of annoyance crept into the confusion of the large, dark, mesmerising pupils.
"Frank? What the Plachtharr are you doing in my room?"
"You were yelling Dila, you really screamed like being slaughtered in your sleep. I thought you were about to be killed."
Dila blinked, lifted her ears again and jumped elegantly off the bed. Her anger had faded, giving way to contrite embarrassment.
"Sorry, I had a nightmare. Well, a really shitty nightmare, the kind that lingers even after you've woken up screaming at the ceiling."
Frank nodded in understanding.
"Me too. So maybe not quite as bad, but intense enough. What were you about?"
She hesitated with her answer, went to the small, plain wooden basin on the wall and scooped herself a bowl of ice water, which she sipped slowly.
"It was a flashback to old times, to my past, that part of it when the world - or at least the scum in it - actually knew me as a rager. Must have been the encounter with Eastwood that flushed that back to the surface."
She took a seat on one of the reclining chairs that stood around the room, seemingly uncoordinated, and nodded curtly at him. A silent signal to also take a seat, proof that his presence was not unwelcome. Good thing, because Frank was curious.
"I don't quite understand - until now, I always thought these were like your wild glory days? Then, you were the terror of an entire sector; your life consisted of epic fights, drunken brawls, stabbings, and fucking everything that wasn't in its bunk at three? Accused of atrocities countless times on dozens of worlds, but never ..."
"... never legally convicted. Yes, I know."
She sighed and passed her bowl to Frank, who took a deep sip, even though her saliva could perhaps trigger one or two allergic reactions in humans. If he was very unlucky.
"Don't get me wrong, kid, I've enjoyed the times - sort of. Well, at least the reputation, the respect, the reverence of all the other rabble. In my own homeland, I had always been the outcast and the ridiculed, the flightless freak ..."
Frank's stomach tightened. Any rational creature who called Dilara a freak had forfeited the right to live in his humble little world of opinion.
"... and suddenly I was someone, a legendary pilot, a feared blade fighter, sung about by booze bards and even known to real legends like the Wooden Corsair. Okay, I didn't know that until yesterday, but I enjoyed my reputation and the freedom to do pretty much anything. With no snide looks, no purebred peers judging me or whispering insults like look, a human behind my ears."
She stared for a moment and grimaced.
"Sorry, Frank, I didn't mean it that way. You know how your species is seen in the big trees."
Yes, I know. Unfortunately.
"But what the sagas and legends always conceal, what is always lost even in the stories of drinking and brawling, is the price one pays for it. I have maimed, killed, murdered, mostly in a rage, sometimes just casually. Sure, the victims were always opponents, enemies, or at least beings who stood in my way; there was always some justification ..."
She sighed, leaned back and closed her eyes.
"... But that is a merciful lie, nothing more. Whether Troshk killed a hundred, a thousand or ten thousand Plachtharr, he was a soldier, an officer in a formal, sanctioned war. That was his job, not a personal vendetta, not a product of his violent fantasies. With me, on the other hand, there was always lust and hatred involved, every act of violence was an emotional one, and I destroyed hundreds of lives."
Frank was shocked but not surprised. He had suspected it, could put one and one together. The latent aggression of the Tarjah was further heightened in half-breeds, their bloodlust legendary. When they went into their rage, only fight, sex, or death could end it. Could anyone condemn Dilara for what she was by genetic disposition?
Unthinkable.
Outrageous!
"That may be all true, but it doesn't define you. Look, Dila, it doesn't matter a damn what you've done in your past. You are what you decide to be."
She opened her eyes and blinked.
"Frank, if this is going to be some you-can-be-anything-you-want-you-only-need-to-believe-in-yourself esoteric bullshit ..."
He shook his head vigorously.
"No, on the contrary. I'm talking about pragmatics. Logic. No matter how many enemies you killed - the fact remains that you helped prevent a new war between the Protectorate and the Alliance with your heroic deeds in the battle for Gahar-2. You saved hundreds of thousands, no, millions of lives!"
Dila snorted snidely.
"I may have helped with that, but it was a team effort, together with you guys."
"With the friends YOU have chosen. That's the point. You could have continued smuggling, looting and murdering your way through the underworld of the Rim Worlds back then, but you went into the Consortium instead."
"Yes, because a fixed salary, a guaranteed roof over my head, and a working environment without the casual murder attempt every week seemed tempting."
Frank grinned.
"That says something, doesn't it? And then you sacrificed that financial security to go out on adventures with me, threw your new career over the edge just to go on peaceful prospecting with a greenhorn."
The first hint of a smile appeared on the astrotelepath's face.
"Yes, because you were so damn enthusiastic. Like a young dog, you humans would say. Except you weren't peeing in every corner with excitement. At least I hope you didn't."
"Only in the most important ones to mark my territory. But you see the pattern yourself, don't you? First, you traded violence for security, then security for peaceful exploration, and now - you didn't even ask the speaker if we were getting paid. Let alone selfishly jacked up the price."
Her eyes grew wide, and for a moment, she stared at Frank, puzzled.
"Shit, I really didn't."
"Because you are a good soul after all. And that's why you're now plagued by nightmares from your past, incited by your encounter with a relic from it."
Dilara laughed briefly.
"Save the layman's psychology, kid. I already realise why those images came up - but that wasn't what made the dream a nightmare. There was something else, something truly horrific in what I did. For the faces and bodies of those I had slain and slashed had changed in it, morphed and become yours. I killed Troshk, just like that, blew him out of an airlock laughing, I joined Bettsy in eating YOU and - it was just too much."
Frank didn't know what to say - was there even a reasonable response to such a revelation? He swallowed and tried to signal something like understanding with a nod.
"Did I taste delicious, at least?"
Dilara grinned sheepishly.
"I don't know, but you were kind of crispy. So fried or deep-fried, at least not cooked to death in a mint sauce."
That was a relief - besides the fact that one dream of it had been enough to send the astrotelepath into screaming horror. Maybe he could finally stop washing with that sinfully expensive Humanosafe© - it makes you taste disgusting and protects you from being eaten by your colleagues! - shower gel.
"Let's face it - if I'm eaten,
it's only if there really is no other way out, and you would otherwise starve. Which in turn, means that Bettsy's endless supply is exhausted, and I'm already withering away anyway. In that case - bon appétit! But it's completely out of the question that you'll kill Troshk because, before that, the Metaltaster would devour you, skin and hair, fangs and ears."
Dilara smiled, nodded and stood up.
"Thank you, Frank. For the conversation and - I think - for your trust and your naive optimism. It really does you good sometimes."
"Always happy to; that's what friends are for."
She hesitated briefly, broke off a sentence before the first syllable left her lips and shook her head fleetingly. Perhaps about something she had almost said.
"Good night, Frank."
That was clear. No "Please leave my room" or "Get out", but the same message. He nodded one last time, returned the wish and went back to his room, decidedly thoughtful.
*
The morning greeted them with a coolness that one would not have expected from the planet - and with a breakfast that left nothing to be desired. A clear indication that they were still feeding off the value of the bar with which Bettsy had defused the situation the day before.
Frank involuntarily wondered whether this came from their private savings, was Stargazer property, or had simply appeared from the infinite depths of their pocket by means of magic. He had no idea how much they had in materials and stones stashed away and only a vague idea of what the plankton counters in the financial departments of the Mining Consortium called cash flow. Maybe it really had been high time to hire an accountant and tax expert.
The latter was just slurping his pseudopod over a bowl of refried beans in unidentifiable sauce with slurping gusto, but despite their repulsive appearance, they turned out to be downright delicious, just like the crispy pastries made from cereal and seaweed flours, and the freshly squeezed juices of unknown fruits.
At least, Frank hoped they were fruits.
Dilara seemed more silent than usual, even if she didn't let on the terror of her nightmare. But it wasn't until they were back on the street and on their way to the spaceport that the carefree lightness Frank admired in her returned. And that was not only due to the surroundings.
The still pleasantly cool morning air was slowly heated by the sun's intense rays, and the hustle and bustle of the streets and alleys unfolded with the same serenity as the day before. Sure, there was delivery and haggling, bargaining and preparing the day's work, but all with a nonchalance that pleasantly lacked any stress or worry.
Whether Toronk or Gulptar, Tarjah or unknown species, even the locals, between whom and the exiled seemed to be an invisible gulf, displayed a relaxed "everything is only half important" mentality.
Bizarre musical instruments elicited hypnotic sounds at many a corner, without the player caring whether his manner was heeded or paid for. Traders interrupted the putting away of goods to have a chat with a passing acquaintance; market vendors did not shout but loitered casually at their stalls. And above it all, exotic birds and flying lizards of all colours circled in the bright blue sky.
Even Eastwood seemed to have adapted to this general laissez-faire mood, his weapon hanging casually from his shoulder, his roots entwined with wet rags - a trick that all of his kind practised here. Only his rustling crown leaves betrayed the excitement and childlike curiosity with which he regarded Yrsha, circling her athletic, exotic body in wonder.
"I still can't believe it! A real artefact ship, a relic of the ancients! I can't believe they just let you have it - I mean, the military would be salivating if they got technology like that in their boughs!"
Troshk stepped to the peacekeeper's side and nodded slowly.
"Yes, they would. But there are good reasons why Yrsha is in our possession. Diplomatic reasons."
Dilara snorted out her displeasure.
"Nonsense, Stormcommander, she is not in our possession - she is our colleague!"
Astonished, Eastwood turned around.
"I noticed that yesterday: You talk about the ship as if it were a person. I mean, I can understand it; every good, big, legendary ship has its own character; yes, you could even say personality. If I don't fly my Tree of Life for a few months, then - I swear, she gets really bitchy the next time I do, like she wants to teach me a lesson."
Frank cleared his throat while Bettsy crept suspiciously slowly towards the bow of the ship. No wonder, this sun and the hot stone under their claws must have seemed like home leave to her. And yes, they had time, also for looping the peacekeeper in – within reason, of course.
*
"And you're really self-aware? With all the trimmings?"
"Yes, Edge Eastwood, I am."
"I - I don't understand. There is an absolute AI ban on all worlds, whether Protectorate or Alliance, Rim or splinter faction. Why do they let you exist ... I mean live?"
"Legally? Precisely because there is an absolute AI ban on all worlds, whether Protectorate or Alliance, Rim or splinter faction. It is so deeply rooted in laws and consciousness that there are no rules for dealing with an artificial self-aware being. Morally? That's a strange question. Would you extinguish a biological life just because its creation violated laws?"
The peacekeeper stumbled, looked around the bridge with an almost desperate bark expression. Bettsy clicked her mandibles in amusement, had overcome her initial scepticism. Eastwood was helping them, being open and transparent - it couldn't hurt to give him a little insight into the truth. And indeed, he seemed to understand.
"No, of course not. It's hard for me to imagine how you can integrate yourself into our world. What do you do when you're not flying?"
"I sleep, I play - and I learn."
"What are you learning? "
"How your worlds work, how your societies are built. And I'm learning about friendship, every day - it's a fascinating subject."
"In what way?"
"Because it seems to be the strongest force in the universe, stronger than any army, stronger than the quantum singularity in my body, stronger than the weapon that was taken from me."
"I don't understand."
"Look around you, Edge Eastwood, look at my crew. Dilara and Troshk come from hostile peoples who slaughtered each other for centuries. And yet, they are both representatives of species that would be mere food for the Metaltaster were it not for the thin cloth of civilisation and the much denser blanket of friendship over their relations. And as for Frank - well, he is a representative of the most hated race in this sector, perhaps even in the whole galaxy. Distrust and enmity still reverberate after thousands of years - but not here."
"Because they are friends."
"Exactly. And it's more than that. Bettsy views him the way some other species view their own offspring. In turn, our commander himself sees Troshk as a brother in arms, a role model, a mentor. And as for him and Dilara Kreethan ..."
Hastily, Frank leapt forward, so precipitously that for a moment, he was in danger of losing his balance. But not his voice.
"All right, people, enough introductions. Can we please get to work?"
"Suit yourself, Frank Gazer. What have you got for me?"
Almost reverently, but in any case gratefully, Bettsy accepted the data crystal that Eastwood pulled out of a knothole. Nimbly, she scurried up the steps to her console, activated the prepared switching module and began to create an interface.
Frank deliberately avoided Dila's gaze, hoped his cheeks didn't look as red as they felt, and breathed a sigh of relief, inwardly at least, when the Metaltaster's voice sounded from her gallery.
"Module is active! Yrsha, can you visualise the data? Preferably in a star map?"
"Of course. Please all step back a little; it will take almost the whole bridge to visualise that properly."
And she had not exaggerated. After a few seconds, the air began to flicker, then to turn black. Then, in the artificial darkness, one dot of light after another appeared, blobs
of colour became rotating nebulae, one system after another became visible, and finally, the entire local sector and its neighbours hovered above their heads.
Yrsha had educated herself in the last few months, filled her memory banks with curiosity and a sheer unquenchable thirst for knowledge, and so Frank was impressed but not surprised that the political borders and affiliations were mapped out correctly. Brown ribbons symbolised those of the Alliance, light blue those of the Protectorate and between and next to them - like a fat, half-curled giant snake - a yellow belt of almost forty star systems, three nebulae and numerous space anomalies marked with warning symbols.
The Rim, the transition between the politely hostile superpowers and the unmapped grey area, the great no man's land where only isolated points of light symbolised star systems that unmanned probes or intrepid adventures had once reached - and managed to bring their findings back to civilisation.
Dilara nudged the peacekeeper amicably, who was currently staring as impressed as he was stunned at the perfect holography, raised his left supporting branch upwards and reached towards one of the stars with a twig.
"I wouldn't do that unless you want to burn your leaves. It's a haptic hologram."
Eastwood winced, hastily withdrew his branch and finally turned to the astrotelepath.
"No shit?"
"No shit. Yrsha, can you mark for us the places where resources disappeared according to our deceased Himmelfeind-Kreuzpointner?"
"On it. Let me extrapolate the somewhat vague descriptions, consider some rorbital changes in the last decades, and ...
... there you go."
The Rim lit up like the illuminance feather boa around a dancer's neck in the red light district of the Splinter City. Nearly two hundred red dots pulsed in the holography, in some systems, even dozens of them, in a few cases sharing the same planet.
Dilara whistled through her teeth, and Bettsy clicked excitedly.
"This is - madness!"
Indeed - it was just that. Even if you counted half of it in the realm of myths and legends, latrine rumours and booze tales, there were still enough incidents left to justify a punitive expedition of disgraced prospectors. If they had not all occurred in the lawless no-man's land.
