Mourner

by Irene Radford

  Jake didn’t know much about management, either, but he was learning. Pammy helped with her ability to manipulate funds in and out of shadow banks so no one knew precisely how much money they had to work with. Besides the bogus mortgage documents, Yankowitz had found Pammy’s fingerprints all over the accounting system. At least the balances always ended up the same, just in different places.

  “Here they come!” an anonymous voice shouted over the comms. “Diamond D’Or docking . . . now.” A shiver and thump along the outer hull confirmed the announcement. “My god, it’s huge. As long as the entire wing and twice as wide. Good thing you put it on the end. It wouldn’t fit between.”

  “What’s it look like?” Jake asked into his wrist link. The screens mounted on stanchions around the bay showed only a map of the station and listing of amenities, no outside view.

  “Big. Biggest big-ass ship I’ve ever seen. Long, but it’s so big it looks squat. And the pilot slid her into dock in one try, easy and neat. How do they move that thing?”

  “Gotta be big to accommodate their big asses,” Jake mumbled.

  Pammy stepped on his toe with a spike heel that nearly stabbed through his synth-leather boots. “Don’t be a smart ass,” she ordered.

  “You love me because I am a smart ass.” He flashed her his best goof-boy grin.

  “Remember that when you finally give up on your hopeless romance with the HPs of all Harmony.”

  He shut up like a good boy. But his gut sank into a heavy roiling mass.

  And Gregor’s ghost smirked in triumph.

  Garrin twisted his mug of ale around and around. The condensation on the bar made interesting circles. Above him and to the left, right, behind, in front, and in all four corners of the bar, view screens showed the giant Dragon ship docking. Again and again and again. Nothing but the ship slipping seamlessly into the dock. Any half-trained Spacer Caste from Harmony could do the same, he reassured himself.

  But the scene subdued the noise level in the bar. Conversation remained quiet and centered on the ship and speculation about the new aliens.

  He grew tired of watching the replay. Not so the CSS patrons of this bar. They might look human, but he knew they weren’t. Without caste marks they were less than the least worthy of charity cases among the mutants and dispossessed of the Poor Caste.

  “Look at the size of that thing,” said a burly dark-skinned man in gray overalls. He pointed to the boring scene. “I’m surprised General Devlin let them dock at all. He should make them park in orbit and shuttle the passengers over.”

  “Too easy for the ship to get away if it’s in orbit alongside of us,” another man said. Wearing the universal gray overalls, he stood barely as tall as the first man’s shoulder, skinny with paler hair and skin. “Doesn’t have to consult Admin to uncouple if he’s in orbit.”

  “But if things go ass over tea kettle and they split, they’d leave their people onboard without escape,” the first man said.

  “If they park in orbit they are in position to turn weapons on the station and hold us hostage. Arm their own people, and we’ve got hostiles inside and out,” a third man said. He looked like the man Garrin had paid to steal Gregor’s body. Looked like. But . . . He couldn’t be certain. Without a caste mark all the CSS pretenders looked alike. Also, the ale befuddled his thinking and blurred his vision. No wonder the Covenant with Harmony forbade alcohol.

  He pushed his half-finished mug aside and forced himself to focus on the third man and his observations.

  Just as a rapid series of blinks cleared his eyes, a color shift on the screens drew everyone’s attention. Text scrolled along the bottom of the screen.

  Warning: Toxin levels in Wing 27C have reached critical. No admittance by any personnel or civilians without prior authorization and passport issued by D’Or.

  27C. Garrin had to puzzle over that a moment. Why did that number resonate?

  “No wonder they’re docking at D if C is going critical,” the third man said. He seemed to be looking directly at Garrin rather than the pictures of the ship.

  Then he grabbed Garrin’s arm and lifted him from his bar stool. “Time to go home to Mama,” he said quietly.

  “27C. That’s where you stashed . . .”

  “Never been there before and neither have you, my lord. The entire wing was completely empty and space-cold until the Dragons arrived,” the man reassured Garrin. “Now go back where you belong, little boy, and leave the real work to those who know what they are doing.”

  He propelled Garrin out the door and onto the lift headed up to the core. The last thing he heard before he succumbed to the alcohol fumes in his head was the worker engaging a link. The kind of comms device strapped to the wrist authorized to only a few. He spoke directly to someone called Pamela.

  Chapter Ten

  Docking never happened quickly, even though the Dragons clamped onto their bay faster than most ships. Equalization of pressures at both ends of the airlock took time. Health protocols for parasites and viruses took longer. Jake and his select reception committee lost focus once the excitement of first sight of the ship wore off.

  The long processes proceeded without any visible changes. The graphs beside the door moved slowly, imperceptible unless he looked away and then checked again.

  Eventually a soft chime indicated the doors between ship and airlock could open. Then more time before the final three chimes signaling safety in opening the bay doors to the airlock. A crewman in gray overalls punched a code into the pad, then leaned into a series of latches before the locks slid backward. Not an easy or quick process, but necessary considering the dangers in the vacuum and radiation of open space if everything wasn’t precisely ready down to the last micro measurement of pressure and air.

  At last, a second crewman joined the first and they pulled the heavy doors inward, revealing a phalanx of short, light brown-haired humans.

  “Greetings in the name of Mag D’Or, Chief Financial Officer for the Bankers of D’Or,” the lead male intoned in CSS Standard. He looked young, late teens, and nearly indistinguishable from the others in medium height and coloring. Their uniforms varied in color, bright jewel tones mostly. Gender was indicated only by a slight variation in silhouette.

  But their faces looked sunburned, yellowish, or dark red, rather than space pale.

  Jake snapped his heels together and saluted the . . . ambassador he guessed. “General Jeremiah Devlin, CSS, Senior Operating Manager of First Contact Café.” Might as well trot out every title he could manage.

  The speaker’s gaze zeroed in on the black Badger Metal stars on Jake’s collar. His companions stirred among them but other than a ripple in their posture they gave no indication of anything different.

  “Have arrangements been made for the Masters?” The boy at the head of the phalanx stepped forward, offering a shake of hands in typical human greeting.

  Jake enveloped the boy’s hand with his own, careful not to make his grip too firm. The kid’s skin felt brittle, the bones too close to the surface. Frail.

  So why was the entire galaxy in awe of these people?

  “The gravity, atmosphere, and temperature you requested stand ready in the adjacent wing,” Pammy said, shouldering Jake aside and thrusting out her hand. “Admiral Pamela Marilla, CSS.”

  The boy looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her collar and the lack of any Badger Metal in her jewelry and insignia.

  The boy dismissed her after a brief touch of hands and returned his attention to Jake. “If the adjacent wing is prepared for the Masters, why were we instructed to dock here?” He cocked his head as if listening to something far away. “Ah, like the ammonia breathers of T5726g. If they catch even a hint of oxygen in the atmosphere, their respiratory system collapses,” he continued with barely a pause. “Mercury is toxic to you.”

  Another pause while he looked far into the distance. “The Masters say this is acceptable. Their wish is to resolve the monetary crisis, not to destroy t
he personnel who must operate the station once all is resolved.”

  “They come!” announced a female at the far left corner of the formation. The fifteen humans folded themselves outward until they pressed tight against the walls of the airlock. Only the speaker remained in front.

  And then Jake heard thunder, a resounding rumble within a space station that experienced no weather or seasonal changes.

  But the docking bay shuddered and the lights blinked. The few station personnel trembled and looked as if they needed to retreat to avoid a drenching electrical storm.

  Jake stood firm. So did Pammy. Ambassador Telvino disappeared. Major Mara shifted her feet nervously, but other than moving closer to Jake and slightly behind him, she did not desert her post.

  “Lord Mag D’Or,” the human boy announced in a tone worthy of a court herald of old.

  Scintillating red and gold filled the air lock. The figure waddled forward, fat and short-limbed. naked except for a long cloak of red and gold paisley satin. His genitals, just as fat as the rest of him, jiggled with each step. He opened his long muzzle, displaying a maw filled with triple rows of teeth, and a crest that flared high. But it was the flabby girth (or was that air puffing out his colored scales?) that made Mag D’Or imposing. Even with his crest rising nearly a foot above his head, he stood only five or six centimeters taller than Jake.

  Like I’m supposed to be impressed? The full priesthood of Harmony, with their robes and beaded veils, their incense and chiming crystals, imparts mystery and awe. The hypnotic songs . . . Sissy singing in glory did a better job than these guys.

  Why did everything come back to Sissy?

  Because you love her.

  Where did that thought come from? Not inside his own head.

  He looked sharply toward Pammy. Her gaze was glued to the fat lizard parading his junk and a bunch of battle scars for the entire galaxy to see.

  The young man who had spoken for the Dragons drew Jake’s attention. He smiled faintly and nodded his head sharply.

  We are human, and I am a telepath.

  These people are human. How can that be? We have been taught since time before time that we are the last of our kind ,and our home was blasted to dust eons ago.

  Ianus heard the query go around and around the others. And in the way of his kind, a decision came back to him, almost before he’d finished registering his complete questions. Get more information from the one who calls himself Jake.

  Telepaths do not exist! The mental protest from Jake nearly rocked Ianus off his feet. He braced his hands against the bulkhead of the airlock.

  His companions winced from the force behind the man’s thoughts.

  Ianus had duties first. He announced Hes, the sapphire and silver female who ranked second in power and ambition only to Mag among the Bankers. Her cloak of spun silver sparkled with diamonds scattered judiciously through the cloth so that it sparkled and dazzled without investing her entire fortune in the garment. Then came Amb, an emerald and gold male more interested in hoarding his wealth than taking risks to increase it. They made up the first and most important triad.

  Foster the interest of this one, Ianus sent to Jake. He watched the man’s eyes grow wide, then narrow with interest as he studied the green dragon.

  Bok, the amethyst and crystal female, followed hard on Amb’s cloak edge. Younger and junior of the first triad, but top of her own, she needed to prove her value to this board of directors with audacity and brilliance that often netted only a small return—but many small returns soon added up to a significant mass of assets. She wanted this station for herself and her triad, separate from the corporation. Did she have enough gold hidden in a dozen shadow accounts to buy out the shares of the others?

  The remaining eight dragons were smaller and paler than the primary four. Their numbers augmented the illusion of power for the board. Their voices and decisions drifted into background noise. Ianus adjusted his voice accordingly. If this Jake person truly listened, he’d know who he needed to deal with and who he could dismiss.

  Mentally he added a slightly derogatory name to each of the lesser eight. Hon the Horny, for the pearl white male with iridescent highlights on his scales but only one battle scar. Pri the Prissy referred to the dark brown female who constantly twitched her cloak for the precisely right drape. And on down the line. He caught a glint of humor in Jake’s thoughts.

  Pammy the Mistress of Mayhem, Jake shot back, staring at the female standing beside him.

  Amenities observed, Jake led the Dragon entourage to the lift, a series of platforms that rotated in a long loop that traversed the entire wing. The general drummed his fingers on his thigh as he assessed Mag’s bulk and the strength of his transportation system. “Lord Mag, you may ascend first,” he said, waving the ruby dragon toward the lift. “Please watch your step, the platforms do not pause even if they do move slowly.”

  Mag hissed and twitched his tail. His hand talons flexed out and in twice. Then he stepped onto the moving platform, more agile than his bulk suggested. The machine groaned and faltered, nearly dropping rather than rising. Then it recovered its balance and continued chugging upward.

  “My master says that you are flimsy creatures with flimsy technology. When he repossesses the station he will fix that,” Ianus translated verbally. Mag wouldn’t know how carefully he had to choose those words to avoid insulting and humiliating their host.

  “Tell your master that he can return to his ship and its more substantial technology any time he chooses. I have no intention of relinquishing the station to anyone.” General Jake stood tall and straight—nearly as tall as Mag himself—hands clasped behind his back, but a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. We measure worth in mental adroitness and physical agility rather than sheer bulk.

  The next platform came into line and Jake indicated that he and Ianus would ascend together. The female introduced as an admiral—Pammy, mistress of Mayhem—joined them at the last second. Her shoes with the curious weapons attached to the heels intimidated Ianus. He didn’t want to talk to Jake with her present.

  “So, why do the Dragons keep human telepaths as slaves?” the woman asked, looking closely at Ianus.

  He kept his gaze lowered. “Their vocal structure cannot duplicate the sounds made by mammalians. Mammalians cannot understand the subtle body movements and color shifts that make up much of the language of D’Or,” he explained.

  “You speak our language very well,” Jake said as they transferred from one lift to another when they moved from the heavy gravity area into the medium levels. “You and the other humans in the Dragon entourage will find suitable quarters on this level of your own wing,” he added. “You may settle in when you have dealt with the needs of your m . . . employers.”

  Ianus nodded and passed the message on to his team.

  “As to the language,” Ianus addressed the first comment. “It has many similarities to our own, in sentence structure and grammar. We monitored your communications and learned much while we moved from the jump point, around your home planet to the station.”

  “That is not our home planet,” Jake said. “It is still evolving and does not yet support much life. We are parked here merely because it is convenient to several jump points and is, so far, neutral territory. The planet is off limits to exploration or settlement until it has evolved.”

  “Ah.” Ianus didn’t know what to say to that. But a flash of a thought passed from Jake’s mind to Ianus, a memory of a lush planet filled with bright green plant life and deep blue water. Real water covering two thirds of the surface.

  That same image had passed from Keeper to Keeper in a straight genetic line from the first Telepathic slave down to Ianus. A precious image to be cherished and shared frequently with his people.

  It was an image he held dear to his heart, much as Jake did.

  How?

  No matter how Jake came to deem it precious, Ianus would never, ever pass it on to his master. The home world of huma
ns was too precious to release to the greed of the Dragon Bankers of D’Or.

  Terra.

  “Departing Harmony leaves my heart heavy,” Sissy said into the microphone set at a comfortable distance from her chair. The Media Caste technicians had worked hard to make certain she could sit straight but not have to lean forward or to the side while they recorded her message to her people. The words she’d prepared ahead of time scrolled slowly in front of her on a television screen—old fashioned and fuzzy compared to the technology available on First Contact Café. Still, it served its purpose. “Be assured that I have entrusted my duties to you and to the Temple to people I trust implicitly. Laudae Penelope will preside over the High Council and at all rituals held at the High Altar. I request that you look to her for leadership as you would look to me, the chosen of our goddess. Accurate photographic copies of the text on the Covenant Stones have been distributed to every Temple in the empire again. For safety and preservation, the Stones have been returned to a secure chamber. I say farewell. Look for my return when the stars align in Harmony once more.”

  She waved her hand to signal an end before she choked on her words. Tears burned her eyes.

  Chatter broke out in the booth behind the glass partition. Men and women wearing the black bar Caste Mark of the Media moved about, removing the microphone from its stand, and rolling equipment off to the side.

  Johnny pa John pu Media Central Harmony, the first of the Media to break away from the Professional Caste and have his caste mark adjusted from the green triangle to the black bar previously reserved for the poor and dispossessed, bounced from the control booth. “Very well spoken, my Laudae.” He bowed to her with hands clasped together. “But now, please, we need this space. A massive thunderstorm is forming to the west and may drop tornados. We need to prepare the city for another emergency.”

  Sissy nodded, unsure if she could speak without sobbing.

  “You know that your weekly message to the people is the most listened to broadcast in all our seven planets.” Johnny began flipping switches, changing dial settings as he spoke.