Blood Siren

by Michael Formichelli

  She just didn’t figure it would be as soon as it was.

  The moment she stepped into the wood-lined corridor of the rotating habitat ring, Pawqlan practically launched herself at Cygni from behind a marble replica of the “David” from Earth’s nearly-forgotten Renaissance era placed across from the main doors of the Nyangari’s quarters.

  “By the Will, Pawqlan!” Cygni leapt back, striking the door frame with her spine. Within the small sitting room that served as an antechamber for the suite two of the Nyangari guards stationed there started to move forward, but she waved them off. As unpleasant as it was, she could handle Pawqlan herself.

  The Galaenean gave the guards a brief glance before turning her full ire on Cygni.

  “You are not supposed to be here! Mister Iai is furious! Why won’t you answer his calls?” Pawqlan’s skin was grayed, a sure sign of her agitation.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” She had blocked her boss’ cyberweb address, a move that would ensure her termination if her mission on the Queen Gaia didn’t pan out. There hadn’t been much need to debate the decision when she did it—she figured she would be fired when she got back anyway so why not be harassment free in the meantime?

  “Why do you have to do this?” Pawqlan’s silver eyes flashed with her rage. “Why do you have to go against us?”

  She sighed. Galaeneans always viewed things in terms of “us” and “the group,” it was hardwired into their DNA. Going against the group was about as taboo as things got in Galaenean society.

  “I don’t have to justify myself to you, Pawqlan.”

  “Yes you do, because as long as you are on this ship I am your supervisor.” Pawqlan took a step back and crossed her arms before her chest in a very human-like gesture.

  “The hell you are. I work on my own.”

  “Not anymore. Mister Iai has decided that as long as you are here, you can make yourself useful by doing what I say.”

  She opened her mouth, but closed it as Pawqlan’s words sank into her gray matter. “I’m not fired?”

  Pawqlan made a wet sound similar to a snort from her beak-like mouth. “No, Mister Iai decided not to do that, yet. He doesn’t believe you are really a guest of the Nyangari Protectorate, but even if you are, he says you can still work.”

  Cygni felt a smile tug at her lips. Trust a Cleebian to turn a potential problem into something useful. The situation had the added bonus, as much as she didn’t want to work with or for her colleague, she could tell Pawqlan felt twice as frustrated with the situation.

  Small victories, she thought.

  “All right, I guess I can work with you. Did he figure out why I’m here?” She took a step forward, allowing the automated door to slide shut behind her with the muffled rumble of metal rollers on wood. The red claw of the Protectorate glowed over its mahogany surface.

  Pawqlan, despite being nearly a head taller than her, moved a step away.

  “Do you think I’m going to hit you?” She couldn’t help the remark from escaping her mouth.

  “No,” Pawqlan’s voice sounded almost juvenile.

  She had to try hard to suppress the laugh tickling the back of her throat. If this was going to be even remotely tolerable, she knew she had to try not to antagonize Pawqlan. Annoying people was a precision art, go too far and it would backfire.

  “All right. So, do you know why I’m here?”

  It might have been the light in the corridor, but she thought she saw Pawqlan’s skin darken.

  “Not exactly. I assume it has to do with the case you botched. I guess you are trying to erase your mistake?”

  “Close enough.” Cygni checked up and down the corridor, feeling the public nature of the space they were in. The rising arc of the hallway prevented her from seeing as far as sound might carry, so she switched to direct transmission from her implant to Pawqlan’s. There’s a definite story angle on this ship that I’m sure the other feeds haven’t picked up on. I need freedom to move around—alone.

  “Maybe later, but for now the party is starting and I insist you be there with me.”

  She stared into Pawqlan’s silver eyes. Let her think that going to the party wasn’t what she had in mind, but it would vex the annoying Galaenean even more to think she was able to twist the situation around to her advantage.

  I really think I’ll learn more if I’m on my own, Pawqlan. Come on, Ax’xoa said I’m working. Let me work in my own way.

  “Out of the question. He said you are to be kept under watch, and I cannot do that if you are sneaking around on your own while I do my job.”

  Cygni did her best to look upset. One of the great advantages humans had over certain species that didn’t rely as heavily on facial expressions was that, if you made the face they expected to see, they thought you were actually feeling that emotion. Non-Solans usually couldn’t tell the difference between a faked emotion and a real one unless they had specialized training or some other means of detection like a Nyangari’s nose.

  “You’re coming to the party, Cygni.”

  She looked away, letting her eyes play over the wooden panels of the corridor. “Fine.”

  “And you’re going to need a better dress. You still look like you walked off the shuttle.”

  And there it was—the expected attack on her attire.

  “I don’t have anything else nice with me. I was too busy arranging what I needed to get my story—like a real reporter.”

  “Let me know when one gets here.”

  She almost burst out laughing. Pawqlan’s mastery of the Solan insults wasn’t very good, and she often wound up making the mistake of either being funny, or insulting herself along with her target.

  “Why are you smiling?” Pawqlan asked.

  “Solans just do that. Look, we’re wasting time. Can we get moving?”

  “Your dress is an atrocity.”

  She shook her head. “Live with it.”

  Pawqlan’s skin turned almost entirely gray. “Let’s just go.”

  The walk to the banquet hall was as silent as a lift ride. The corridor leading to the hall doors was on the outer side of the primary habitat ring. The picture windows on Cygni’s right side offered a brilliant view of the stars and the dusky river of the Milky Way. To her left, small golden statues were affixed to the varnished-wood wall holding up globes of softly glowing light. They depicted the five major species of the Confederation—Solans, Cleebians, Galaeneans, Isinari, and Relaen—dressed in robes blown against their bodies by an unseen wind. The opulence of the corridor included a rich burgundy red carpet beneath her feet and the air in her nostrils which she found to be laced with potpourri in a somewhat nauseating and futile attempt to cover over the ship’s oil-and-solvent smell.

  Shkur must think he’s in hell, she thought, trying not to imagine how much the stink must be hurting Nyangari noses.

  Pawqlan stopped two meters from the ornate double-doors.

  “Cygni, try not to embarrass us tonight, all right? This is a refined crowd, and—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She stepped around her colleague and headed into the room, leaving Pawqlan to catch-up behind her.

  The moment the doors opened the meaning of the word gaudy was redefined in her mind. A panoply of round tables cluttered the space with barely enough room for the servants to move between them. Paraffin candles and gleaming, porcelain plates were laid out atop the flow of lacy-white cloths over the table sides. If not for the large, silk bows tied to the chairs’ backs, the textile-cocooned furniture would have given her the impression of having been taken from an abandoned domicile. If that wasn’t a bad enough display of excessive wealth, the room was decorated with powder-blue-and-white Fleur-Du-Leis wallpaper, crown molding, and intricate crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Cygni was almost surprised there were no running fountains of sparkling seawater with leaping fish.

  A frost-skinned artificial in coat-tails turned away from the guests—whose choice in fashion seemed to be intended to match
the room—and took her and Pawqlan in with pin-hole eyes.

  “Cygni Lau-Aragón, guest of the Nyangari Protectorate, and Pawqlan-Etal-No-Tlais—”

  “Just Pawqlan will do.”

  “Pawqlan of the Spur Herald,” the artificial finished.

  Cygni smiled. She’d never been announced in a room before.

  “Follow me,” Pawqlan messaged her.

  She gave a quick, shallow bow to the crowd of barons for lack of knowing what else to do, and did as she was told. On the way to their table she noted the stares of the barons they passed. For the most part they fell into the categories of “distasteful” and “curious,” like the barons couldn’t figure out why she and Pawqlan were actually there. There was, however, the notable exception of the younger ones among them. Most of them had the eager look she was so familiar with, the one that said “put me on the ‘web” she’d seen from the top to the bottom of society. To people like that the press was always a welcome sight.

  She caught Shkur’s eye as they neared the back of the room. The Nyangari delegation was seated only a few tables away from where Pawqlan was leading her. He gave her a subtle nod before putting his attention back among those of his own kind. She allowed herself a small smile, letting the warmth of his support spread through her veins.

  Pawqlan settled them in at a table by the polyglass wall that continued the view of the galaxy from the corridor. They shared the table with other reporters, only a few of whom she recognized from their cyberweb feeds. The rest she assumed were from feeds she didn’t have any interest in at all like the financial and gossip news.

  The view from their table wasn’t the best. Cygni had all of the heads of the barons between her and the long table at the head of the room where the guests of honor, Baron Keltan and Heiress Olivaar’s parties, were seated. She zoomed in using her cybernetic optics, but to her irritation had to keep shifting her gaze as heads got in the way.

  Baron Keltan looked wholly miserable in his formal brown and white suit. Much like the other barons in the room, he had adopted the neo-enlightenment style that was popular evening wear among the Confederate’s elite. His long, braided-red beard spilled down his chest between the double-breasted lapels of his coat. His long, coppery hair was combed straight and bound with a large, brown bow poking its corners out from behind his head. He must’ve had a good tailor, because his sullen look failed to impact the overall effect.

  A jolt of pain in her ribs brought her attention back to herself.

  “What was that for?” she snapped at Pawqlan.

  The Galaenean’s silver eyes flickered up to the artificial standing beside their table.

  “Your drink, ma’m?”

  “Oh, I’ll have a glass of wine.”

  “Which, ma’m?”

  Cygni accepted the artificial’s electronic transmission, and a list of two-hundred types scrolled rapidly up her vision.

  “Anyone, I don’t care.” She heard Pawqlan’s gasp at her words.

  “I’ll pick one for you, ma’m.” The artificial bowed and left the table.

  “Cygni, must you embarrass me?”

  “You’re surprised?”

  “No, but since you’ve forced yourself on us, at least try to fit in.”

  “Why?” She cocked an eyebrow, knowing she was poking her proverbial finger in Pawqlan’s eyes.

  “Because you’re among colleagues, and you’re embarrassing the Herald—”

  “Baron Hagus Olivaar and Baroness Helena Olivaar,” the artificial by the door announced. The barons rose to their feet, as did the members of Cygni’s table. She let them rise up like a fleshy forest around her without joining in. When they resettled themselves into their seats she watched the fattest of all barons make his way around to the head table trailed by his thin, blonde wife.

  “He’s looking well,” she said.

  “Don’t be so—so—”

  “Catty?” she offered.

  Pawqlan rolled her eyes. “He runs most of the ore mines in the Confederation. He could buy you a billion times over.”

  “No he couldn’t. We’re not in the Orgnan Empire and I’m not for sale, Pawqlan.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I suppose.” She watched the planetary baron settle himself into a chair on Heiress Olivaar’s side of the table. Her eyes strayed across the heiress. Her purple dress had red stripes and a granular look to it. “What’s with the dress on Olivaar?”

  Pawqlan glared at her, but looked at the heiress anyway. She squinted, her pupils pulsing as her own cybernetic eyes zoomed in. “Pearls. The dress seems to be made out of pearls. Don’t say anything, I don’t think the others have noticed yet. Wait, what could the flowers mean?”

  Cygni glanced around the table, noting their competition involved in some discussion among themselves, then turned her attention back to the head table. Heiress Olivaar’s red-ringlet hair was adorned with gold and ivory beads—and a black rose with white stamen.

  “That’s strange, but so what?” she said.

  Pawqlan coughed. “Keep it quiet, and look at Heiress Cronus.”

  She rolled her eyes. She supposed that in Pawqlan’s world fashion statements were news-worthy, but to her it hardly mattered. Still, she decided to humor her so-called-supervisor.

  Heiress Cronus was, for once, not wearing a concealing robe or cloak. A brown, form-fitting dress clung to her blue-veined skin from just below her jaw-line. Swirling embroidery and diamonds sewn into the fabric made her look like she was wearing a map of the Orion Spur, and above it, tucked into the top of her thick, milk-white braid, was a black flower with a white stamen.

  They’re wearing the same flower. So? Cygni messaged.

  “So, in this world colors and styles speak volumes. Purple and red are Olivaar colors, brown and silver or white are Keltan colors, and black and white are Revenant colors. The flowers are some kind of nod at Baron Revenant, but why are they making the gesture?”

  I’ll leave that to you, Pawqlan. I honestly don’t care. She rose from her seat. “I’m going to pee.”

  “Keep it to yourself,” Pawqlan said.

  “Too late.” She smiled.

  Baroness Olivaar moved to stand by the head table in her lacy green dress when she started for the doors. They opened again before she arrived.

  “Baroness Brudah Altair.”

  The words preceded a beanpole of a woman in a shroud of shimmering gold sequins with a high, platinum neckline. Her face was a study in unhappiness as though the party were as much of an ordeal for her as it was a chance to show off for the others. The look was so striking that Cygni found her eyes staring at the woman as she walked past the head table and took her seat before it. Entranced, she almost missed the look on Baron Keltan’s face.

  What the hell? She thought. Baron Keltan was staring at Baroness Altair, his face flushed and his hands clenched on the table in front of him. Heiress Cronus appeared to whisper something sternly into his ear, but it had little effect on him. Something had to be going on between the baroness and Baron Keltan, but what? Could it involve what happened to Baron Mitsugawa Yoji?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the next announcement, “The Baron Zalor Revenant.”

  He swept into the room dressed in white with a cape of gold a mere three meters from where she stood. His hair was slicked back against his skull, hanging unnaturally still just below his ears. She felt her knees go weak when he put the heat of his raptor’s gaze on her for several moments before taking in the rest of the room.

  Damn, he’s good looking up close, she thought to herself. She’d never seen him in person before. The image of his sharp, blue eyes and strong jaw line was already etching itself in her gray matter. His attention moved on to the table at the head of the room.

  Though she couldn’t see his face anymore, the amount of time Zalor Revenant’s gaze lingered on that table, seemed to suggest that he was involved with whatever was going on between the lot of them. Perhaps it had to do wi
th Baron Keltan’s defection to the Mercantile Party—or maybe it was something deeper. Baron Revenant twisted his body away from the table and took bold strides into the center of the room.

  “Honored guests, thank you for coming to Baron Keltan and Heiress Olivaar’s engagement party.” Baron Revenant spread his arms out with a broad, magnanimous smile.

  With all eyes on the baron, Cygni took the opportunity to slip out into the hallway. Baron Revenant’s booming voice began behind her, but as much as she wanted to, she didn’t have time to listen. Pawqlan would cover every word in detail with her implants, and she could always figure out a way to get at the Galaenean’s records later if need be. She was much more concerned with taking advantage of the party having every VIP on the ship in the same room at the same time. Their suites would be virtually empty, and their guards relaxed. There wasn’t be a better opportunity to do some digging. The only real question for herself was where to start?

  She had the answer by the time she reached the lift. It took her two levels up to where the Keltan suites were located. Heiress Sophiathena Cronus looked the most suspect at the scene of Baron Mitsugawa Yoji’s alleged suicide, and odds were good that she was staying with her fellow turn-coat, Baron Keltan. Her chilling smile was still etched in Cygni’s brain.

  The lift let her off onto a corridor nearly identical to the one outside the Nyangari’s suite. She tracked down the plush wine-dark carpet, noting the symbols of the houses on the doors she past. The Keltan’s seven-pointed star was on a set of doors diagonally across from the Olivaar’s hammer and star.

  She queried the door control with her cerebral computer and rang the bell. The portal opened and an artificial in a formal suit appeared in the doorway.

  “Ben, I presume?” She recognized him from the Herald’s files on House Keltan.

  The artificial looked her over with pinhole eyes. “Miss Cygni Lau-Aragón of the Spur Herald?”

  She nodded.

  “Baron Keltan is presently at the engagement party. You will have to come back afterward if you want—”

  “Actually, I’d rather talk to you.” She smiled, wondering if it was possible to charm an artificial. She activated a hacking program in her cerebral computer and got it working on the suite’s local system node using the door control as a portal in.