Humble Beginnings

by Greg Alldredge

  R.O. rushed to the indicated panel but stopped and dropped to the floor before reaching her destination.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Panicky, she said as softly as possible, “There is a goblin right outside the window.”

  He took a quick peek from the door. “I don’t think it saw or heard us. This room is soundproof. You contact who you need to contact. I will keep any trouble out of the room.”

  R.O. followed as the massive Tomm moved, surprisingly quiet for such a large man, to the door leading to the fifth floor. Once he was in position, she stood up, examining the outdated control board. Finding what looked like a microphone and a few controls, she turned on the system and began to speak.

  “Section Zero control, over?” she said, and before she could continue, she received back.

  “This is a restricted line. You are in violation of section twenty-three of the station code. You must clear this channel at once.”

  “And this is Chief Hydrologist R.O. Smith. I’ve important information about section 795 through 800 water levels.”

  “I am sorry, we are not falling for this hoax. R.O. Smith has been reported dead, and the remote indicators are reading normal.” That was when the goblin on the other side of the control window noticed her standing behind him. Without hesitation, he turned, pointed his weapon at her, and fired three rapid bursts of projectiles.

  R.O. screamed as the frangible projectiles made for shipboard fighting shattered on the control room window.

  “I didn’t think that would happen… I will hold the door. Get them to understand your message.” Tomm braced the door lever as the meter-tall goblin rushed towards the door. Its mouth moved in a visible battle yell, but it went unheard in the room.

  “I don’t think you understand! Whoever hacked the water measuring controls for the station's residents also attacked the sensors in the tanks. The goal was not to steal water, the goal was to cripple or destroy the station!”

  “Wait one,” was the only response she received. R.O. watched as more goblins came to the aid of the first. She gave up trying to count. Pressing the hands-free mode, she sat on the floor, continuing to talk. “If you don’t recalibrate the water sensors in the tanks located in sections 795 through 800, the station could be in grave danger. Please just recalibrate the sensors, you might save us all!” An ear-shattering explosion followed her last words. The glass crashed, filling the room with smoke that gave a slight sparkle from embedded crystal rubble, all hurtling towards Tomm’s position at the door. That was the last R.O. remembered before losing consciousness from the concussive force.

  <=OO=>

  R.O. woke twenty cycles later, and she left the hospital after another ten cycles. She had been debriefed. She told her story as best she could, a few items had been collaborated.

  Her implants had been ripped from her brain most crudely, so she was lucky to be alive. Her implants were replaced at company expense, but she still suffered from headaches and perhaps always would. Remains of a potent neurotoxin had been found in her blood, a poison identified as one to be favored by the Yeu Tinh.

  There had been an explosion at the location where R.O. was found. Her rescuers found no sign of Tomm. They did find a bed in the ballast tank tunnels, but all signs of his home—the books—had disappeared.

  Phanboi had somehow left the station or was hiding so well the authorities could not find him. No sign of the Yeu Tinh had been located on Far Reach.

  The Saravipian authorities had forwarded her report directly to the Rankin. They had worked hand in hand with the Rankin trying to locate the hacker responsible for the loss of water. The tampering with the water level sensors had not been discovered, and the lack of water in the 800 section of the station was much grimmer than R.O. had suspected. The torus was only a few rotations away from imbalance and possible failure. That information was never released to the public.

  The missing water and merits were never found. More than a few theories surround the motivation of the hacking and the theft, but none were ever proven. No one was ever brought to justice for the crimes. R.O. received a handsome reward for saving the station… as payment for her continued silence. Station authorities needed to keep up the public perception that all was safe, or the station population might panic.

  R.O. took her new wealth and banked it. She was last seen heading for the elevator for the engineering levels, wearing coveralls, her kinky hair shoved into a hood, and carrying a good-sized backpack. When asked where she was going, she smiled and said, “I’m going looking for a man.”

  Feast

  “In the first galactic year of the current regime...” Deckra! he thought. “The station as presently configured was inhabited...” Deckra! he cursed under his breath. “With the discovery of wormholes so close to the station, the importance of the station grew...”

  Blinn shouted, “Deckra!” Frustrated with his inability to start a book, the male sitting at the table in the dispensary space slapped his wrist with his blue fingers, instantly shutting off his transcriber device. He leaned back and gave a deep sigh of defeat, his chair changing shape to greet his body. With his right hand, he reached for the glass of amber liquid and, with a spare napkin, wiped off the rim before taking a sip of the warming fluid. It was supposed to be an Earth delicacy, scotch, but he had no idea. It might’ve been lighter fluid. It certainly tasted like lighter fluid.

  “You’ll never finish your book if you don’t start,” Blinn’s flush-cheeked friend commented from across the table.

  “Shut it,” Blinn said.

  Blinn held the glass in front of his eye, inspecting the alcoholic drink. Tendrils of the liquid returned to the bottom of the glass. He turned the glass, using it as a filter to distort the myriad of creatures, all inhabitants of Far Reach Station, as they filed by. An eight-foot-tall Rankin glided into his field of view, dressed in the crimson robes of their religious order.

  Blinn growled more than a few blasphemous sentences under his breath. “I can’t understand, in this day and age, how anyone can believe in the fairy tales the various religious orders promote. How can anyone believe in one true God, Gods, or Goddesses?”

  “It has to do with faith. Something you lack in any real quality or quantity.”

  “Shut up. It is through pure luck the station, or the universe, hasn’t suffered a religious war or wars since its formation. With the fifty or sixty major species enclaves represented, each having their own version of special magic, it is a miracle the place hadn’t been torn apart at the seams.”

  “Faith in the unknown is what causes great leaps of insight.”

  “Shove it... Gods, I feel like a hack.” A single blue finger dipped into the amber liquid, and he mixed the contents slowly. “I became a writer to find The Story.” He moved his hands to project the headlines in his mind. “I haven’t found crap.” The scotch landed like molten lead in the pit of his stomach, but he didn’t have the merits to waste, so he slammed back the last bit in the glass.

  “Some might say your lack of faith is disturbing or causing your crisis, your inability to complete anything. Others might contend your chosen lifestyle choices will be your undoing.”

  Blinn rarely came to Section Zero. Section Zero sounded like such a strange place, but that’s where he was. On the rose point of Far Reach Station, Section Zero was the first.

  The race who first found the unfinished station logically surmised this mostly finished section attached to the asteroid below by elevator was the first part constructed. It made sense. Mine a mineral-rich asteroid and create a space station, which turned into an independent settlement. Small, roughly two hundred and fifty old Earth kilometers in diameter, with approximately 20 million inhabitants, the location served as a waypoint for travelers, a shipping hub, and a neutral meeting place for many races.

  “By all that is holy to this place, I need a story!” Blinn said to no one in general. After his outburst, a family of sexless Prod watched him nervously as
they hustled their younglings away from him.

  A freelance writer, he continuously needed to find the next story or... well, he would never go hungry. The station provided a baseline income for all residents. That was the beauty of a post-scarcity economy. Each registered resident received twenty-four cubic meters of living space and enough nutrients to survive or even thrive, however, if a person had the wealth, they could always buy extra space and even luxury items that might be found for barter, trade, or services.

  “I doubt you will find it sitting here drinking.”

  Blinn glared at his companion with blue-shot eyes. “I don’t want to survive, I want the universe. I took this freelance reporting job to earn a few extra merits while I write my book or find my big story that will make me famous.”

  That was what he truly sought: fame. Over the years, he decided he would do anything to become famous.

  The automated chair, which had conformed to Blinn’s alien posterior melded back into the floor as he stood.

  “Is that all you really want? Fame at all costs?”

  “I considered writing a history of the station. I even have a few notes. written a couple of chapters... and a timeline. The problem is most beings will never remember a single historian. People remember those that make history, not those that record it. I call the series ‘Universum Compendium.’ Of course that is a working title.”

  “The idea sucks. You know that. Why do you keep wasting your energy on it?”

  Blinn looked around at the enormous vessel he called home. “For the same reason I keep talking to you. How can people live like this?” He watched a few more creatures walk through the plaza. He knew he could make the news. He could make headlines.

  He stopped staring at the others and stepped out of the way of a highly modified Patapay. It looked human, but the species exhibited an affinity for cybernetic modifications. They received a rightful reputation for being crazy—the high doses of antirejection drugs tended to make them hop-heads.

  Why anyone would do so much to their body... but then again, everyone had a translator implant. With so many languages, it was needed to survive. Blinn did own a very expensive transcriber implant. The device allowed him to upload his thoughts to station storage or his in-home storage device for more sensitive ideas.

  Stopping and resting beside him, his companion seemed to finish his thoughts, “Some people think station computers can monitor your thoughts. Some groups believe the authorities screen the stored data. Some even think hackers might invade the implants and steal conscious and subconscious memories.”

  “Maybe for more of the simpleminded races that would be possible, but for our superior intellect... it is impossible. Besides, the sheer volume of data must be mind-boggling. No one would have the time to sift through the amount of thoughts flowing into the station's storage.” Blinn believed the only time a person would need to worry was when suspicion fell upon them and the local peacekeepers began monitoring them.

  “Look at us. You think we are so smart?”

  Blinn started blurting out, “Far Reach Station: Torus shaped, with four spokes which contained the elevators to the center. The center hub was an iron-rich asteroid mined for the stations building materials. When discovered by the Rankin one hundred fifty Earth years ago, it had been abandoned with only one section and the attaching elevator completed. With five main stories, the effective gravity increased the greater the distance from the core. Divided into one thousand sections, as each section was completed, it took on the flavor of the race that worked to complete it.

  “Damn. My internal storage device must be full. I am leaking finished chapters into my thoughts,” Blinn muttered.

  “You said that aloud. People will start to think you’re crazy if you keep talking to yourself.”

  He noticed the Rankin priest stopped and turned ever so slightly to watch Blinn out of the corner of his eye.

  “Damn, its eyes look like a dead fish.” He chuckled at the whisper, “An eight-foot-tall dead fish.”

  “Talking like that can get you in trouble with the speech police. Remember, mustn’t say anything derogatory.”

  “Even if it is true? I mean, look at those eyes. I always believed the truth was the ultimate defense.”

  After the last whispered slur, the Rankin priest blinked, as if in response. Blinn raised his blue fingers, mentally placed the priest’s head between his thumb and forefinger, and squeezed. Fortunately for the priest, the gesture resulted in zero effect on its head.

  “You would need to ask all the martyrs who spoke unpopular truths. I don’t think you would like the answer.”

  “What does it want?” Blinn asked. “Odd we should be walking the same way. Then again, there are only so many ways to walk inside a huge tin can. I need a break, perhaps I should travel to one of those resorts and relax. Possibly then, I could collect or finish my thoughts, get my book written down. My thoughts, any thoughts, they can be dark.” Delete that, he thought.

  “You can’t leave. Who would take care of your pet?” his buddy asked.

  Blinn rubbed his stomach, thinking about how long it had been since he’d eaten. The memories of sweet, succulent fresh flesh filled his soul with desire. He turned a corner to leave the Rankin priest behind.

  There were corners in the tube. The design of the station was like an old Earth office building. Each floor of the station contained three or four stories, depending on the species.

  Some of the smaller races would cram five or six levels in the thirty-five-meter space between the hard levels of the station. Those hard floors needed to be maintained to provide a stable location for the pressure locks, pass-throughs kept for safety’s sake. A section could be sealed off in case of depressurization—or crowd control.

  Blinn found a place to sit. Disoriented by the data leaking into his consciousness, he felt as if someone left a data player on with the volume set on high, the device stuck on his own voice reading a documentary. “Replay off.” Silence was quick to return.

  “You were talking to yourself again.”

  “I am always talking to myself. Maybe I’m just hungry?” He could walk into the closest distribution point and claim his vat-grown protein. There was plenty on his account. He only ate off the dole when there was no other choice.

  “The Plebian Accords went into effect over 3000 rotations ago, making it a crime to eat any non-vat-grown nutrients after the discovery that a major food source on the station, Plebeians, were, in fact, a sentient race. Playback OFF!” Blinn shouted the last, various pedestrians examining him in passing before rushing on their way.

  Odd, the Plebeians popped into Blinn’s mind. He covered the story. The wild species was almost eaten into extinction, they just tasted so damn good. Many races kept them as food animals, livestock, until it was discovered they communicated through a system transmitted by scent. A few of the aligned worlds banned the sale and eating of Plebeians. On the station, it was decided since all food could now be grown in vats, Far Reach would ban the sale of all food creatures. The decision did not come without extreme controversy, almost outright riots.

  “When do the rights of the strong overrule the rights of the weak? Who should protect the rights of those who can’t protect themselves?” Blinn’s friend asked quietly.

  “Many believed the ban was a gold mine for smugglers willing to face penalties for sneaking the livestock onto the station. Many argued the creatures had been genetically modified, either through selective breeding or outright gene manipulation, thereby they should be a product not creatures at all. Would you protect an infectious disease because it is life?” Blinn countered.

  Blinn’s companion watched past him for a moment before motioning with his head. Blinn turned around and saw the eight-foot-tall Rankin priest watching him again. The fish-eyed giant began strolling towards Blinn.

  “I feel there is much conflict within you. Perhaps you are in need of some assistance.” Like an old-time dubbed movie, the words play
ing in Blinn’s head were out of sync with the fish-eyed creature's lips. Blinn’s translation implant directly input the translation into his auditory cortex and Broca’s area of his brain.

  Keeping his eyes on the Rankin, he answered, “We are fine. We don’t need any of the mumbo-jumbo you are selling.”

  “We?” the Rankin questioned.

  “Yeah.” Blinn tried to elbow his friend in the ribs, but he found only air. He turned a tad to inspect the bench where his friend was sitting and found him gone. “Dammit, you scared him off.”

  “Sir, I hope you find him soon. When you’re ready to find us, look in our temple. I’m sure we can help you.” The priest gave a slight bow at the end of the sentence.

  “I can’t help it if he’s afraid of you. Don’t hold your breath for me to show up. I don’t need any help.”

  The priest did a fluid about-face, walking down the hall and leaving Blinn alone.

  “Now where the hell did he run off to?” Blinn heard the sudden protest rumbling from his stomach. He covered his belly with both hands, trying to hide the offending sound from any passersby. “I guess I need to head to my room and grab a bite to eat.”

  He swiftly moved through the pedestrians, aiming for the closest moving sidewalk. Not that he stood out amongst the full range of colorful creatures commuting around him, but Blinn was sure everyone in earshot heard the offensive noises coming from his stomach.

  He was extremely relieved when he finally arrived in his section of the station, Ninety-Six, and on his level, Three. Much like the old Earth ghettos or neighborhoods, each section and floor obtained its own unique flavor. His neighborhood he labeled, “silent desperation.”

  Blinn was shocked to find his friend leaning against the wall outside the door to his quarters. “Where the hell did you go?”