by Sharon Joss
AURUM
By Sharon Joss
AURUM
Copyright © 2014 by Sharon Joss
All rights reserved.
Published 2014 by Aja Publishing
www.ajapublishing.wordpress.com
Book and cover design Copyright © 2014 by Aja Publishing
Cover design by S. Roest / Aja Publishing
Cover Art Copyright © by Bertrandb / Dreamstime
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to real people, living or dead, business establishments, events, incidents, or locales is purely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
KINDLE EDITION
ISBN: 978-0-9914979-2-8
TABLE_OF_CONTENTS
COPYRIGHT
CHAPTER1
CHAPTER2
CHAPTER3
CHAPTER4
CHAPTER5
CHAPTER6
CHAPTER7
CHAPTER8
CHAPTER9
CHAPTER10
CHAPTER11
CHAPTER12
CHAPTER13
CHAPTER14
CHAPTER15
CHAPTER16
CHAPTER17
CHAPTER18
CHAPTER19
CHAPTER20
CHAPTER21
CHAPTER22
CHAPTER23
CHAPTER24
CHAPTER25
CHAPTER26
CHAPTER27
CHAPTER28
CHAPTER29
CHAPTER30
CHAPTER31
CHAPTER32
CHAPTER33
CHAPTER34
CHAPTER35
CHAPTER36
CHAPTER37
CHAPTER38
CHAPTER39
CHAPTER40
CHAPTER41
CHAPTER42
CHAPTER43
EPILOG
ABOUT_THE_AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
Renly Harkness stared in disbelief at his finished sketch of the beautiful Queen Fabienne. This commission was his fourth engraving for the young regent since she’d ascended to the throne nine years ago. He’d been twenty years old when he designed the platinum commemorative plate for her coronation, and the work had made him famous throughout the Universal Consortium of Planets. He had never travelled to Callisto-Prime, and never met the queen, but he knew her face nearly as well as his own. Nevertheless, the image he’d drawn did not belong to her.
It was Garrett’s.
He tore the ruined sheet from his sketchbook and crumpled it in his fist. A headache bloomed at his temples. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The comforting aroma of turpentine and linseed oil, which permeated his studio, always calmed him. This room was his sanctuary; the one place where he felt safe, secure, and in control of his artistry.
Renly began again; starting with the woman’s heart-shaped face and delicately arched brows. Again, his older brother’s image stared out at him from the page.
He went to his workbench and selected an inhaler from among the many in his right-hand drawer. He shook it vigorously, and then inhaled; savoring the soothing mist expanding in his lungs. The sensation always refreshed him. His eyes settled on the holographic workstation. Perhaps he needed a different approach.
He powered on the imaging console, which responded with a low hum, and projected a larger-than-life image of the Queen into the center of his studio. Her three-dimensional image hung in the air, inches away from his fingers. The seemingly solid hologram illuminated her features from every angle, yet in spite of his intentions, the image he drew did not match the Queen’s.
He wiped his sweaty hands on a bleached cotton rag he kept for that purpose, and set aside the sketchbook. He stood, stretched, and shook out his cramped hands; then stepped away from the workbench and moved toward the antique rosewood desk he used for correspondence. In the bottom left-hand drawer he kept a small decanter of golden liqueur, a personal gift from Fabienne. After pouring a half-inch of the royal whiskey into his empty coffee cup, he tossed it back in a single swallow. The golden liquid smelled like nectar and burned like fire. An uncontrolled shiver riffled down his spine. He craned his head this way and that, stretching out the tight neck muscles, then resumed his seat at his workbench.
Maybe he should work on something else. A new project. Admiral Zachary Cosgrove, the director of the North American Starfleet, had a narrow face and a forehead which rose well above the crown of his hairline. The face he drew above the uniform had Garrett’s facial symmetry, broad cheekbones, and cold, arrogant eye set. A dozen more starts yielded the same results.
By the time he tore the last page out of the sketchbook, his sweaty shirt clung to him, and midnight had long since passed. Dozens of balls of furiously wadded paper filled the trashcan. Discouraged, Renly rubbed his face, set the alarms, and turned out the lights of his studio, then climbed the stairs to his apartment, opened a bottle of sixty-year-old Celestine Brandy, and drank himself into oblivion.
* * *
The nightmares began two nights later. So real, so loud. As if he was right in the same room with him. Renly. I need your help. Renly, where are you?
Every time his brother called his name, he jerked wide-awake and trembling; his sheets soaked with sweat, his mouth filled with the taste of dirt. The trauma of his childhood had somehow gotten twisted up with this new and haunting dream of Garrett.
He never did remember the face of the man who’d abducted him when he was nine. His only memory of those sixteen days was of the man’s big gold teeth. But he never forgot the unmistakable, claustrophobic scent of moist earth that surrounded the coffin in which he’d been imprisoned. The despair of that time returned whenever he ventured outdoors. He never forgot lying in the dark, praying for someone to come. He prayed to God, to his parents, and to Garrett.
Only Garrett heard him.
Only Garrett came.
In spite of their ten-year age difference, he and his brother shared a psychic connection; everyone knew that. After his rescue, his parents and the police told him how Garrett had heard his pleas, and led the police to where the pedophile had buried him. And thank goodness, for it, because the man was never identified, never captured. Garrett saved his life. Garrett was his hero.
And now Garrett needed his help.
CHAPTER 2
Leo Broussard had been the Harkness family lawyer for most of his life and accustomed to his godson’s quirks, but when the master goldsmith answered his knock, he the change in Renly’s appearance and demeanor rattled him.
Dark circles smudged the skin below his eyes and his hands shook with the palsy of an old man. All manner of strange tools and appliances covered his normally spotless workbench; the walls of the studio had been stripped bare of his artwork. A dozen or more large storage containers stood in one corner.
“What’s going on, son?”
“I’m closing down the studio.”
The smell the alcohol wafted over Leo. Renly had never been much of a drinker; booze was one of Garrett’s many vices. He loosened his tie and set down his briefcase. “The studio is in the Trust, Renly. You can’t sell it.”
His godson paced nervously, his eyes on the floor. “You don’t understand. He’s in trouble. He needs me. I’m going to be gone for a while, and I
need you to keep an eye on the place. Pay the bills for me. That sort of thing.”
Damn that Garrett. “He contacted you?” They’d had no word for years. After Garrett used up all the Trust funds, he thought they’d heard the last of him. “What does he want this time?”
Renly fiddled with the tools on his workbench, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t know, exactly. Took me some time to find him. Based on Starfleet records, he cleared Khirjahni customs on Aurum three years ago and never left. He’s in trouble.”
Leo snorted. “Of course he’s in trouble. Aurum is an embargoed planet. When did he contact you?”
“He didn’t, exactly.” Renly looked uncomfortable. “I’ve been having these dreams.” His voice trailed off. “He needs my help.”
Here we go again. Leo didn’t doubt the psychic connection between the brothers, but of the two, Renly’s ability was far stronger, and he relied on his intuition for many of his business decisions. Garrett, on the other hand, exploited their connection as a means to manipulate Renly.
“I think you’re overreacting.” Every four years, the Arkady Universal Mining Corporation hosted the Gold Festival on Aurum; a three-week debauchery of gambling and excess, culminating the richest race in the galaxy. “Garrett is probably having the time of his life and ran out of money.”
“I’m going there.”
“What?” The announcement was so out of character, Leo scarcely believed his ears. Something else had to be going on here. Something Renly didn’t want to tell him. “Did you and Sumi have another fight?”
“She moved out two months ago,” he admitted. “But not because of this. She took a transfer to Singapore.” He shrugged. “I didn’t want to go.”
Of course he wouldn’t want to go. Agoraphobia was only one of several disorders, which afflicted Renly after the kidnapping. The young man was a seething mess of neuroses. His fear of germs, crowds, and animals had changed him; kept him housebound. Getting out of the building was a good thing, but leaving Earth to chase after Garrett was just plain crazy. “Does Dr. Obote know about this?”
Color rose in the goldsmith’s cheeks. “I don’t need his approval to make a decision. Or yours either.”
Leo recognized the mulish set of Renly’s jaw. He tried a different approach. “Fair enough. Have you thought about what a trip into space would mean? You’ve never been in cryosleep. Or had a gastric lavage. You’ll be gone for nearly a year. Have you thought about what that will do to your business?”
“I know.” The pale young man looked sick to his stomach. “He needs me, Leo. He saved my life; I can’t turn my back on him.”
Leo ran his hand through his thinning hair. “I remember.” Sadness washed through him in a wave. Between the kidnapping and his parent’s fatal car accident two years later, Renly’s childhood had been one disaster after another. Leo fretted often about the boy’s mental state, but once he settled into this studio, his emotional problems, with the exception of his quirks and phobias, stabilized.
Garrett had always been the tough one. Nothing bothered that boy. Street-wise beyond his years, and not above exploiting anyone, even his own brother to get what he wanted. The only thing Garrett ever wanted or needed from anyone, especially Renly was money. What Renly earned as a master engraver wasn’t nearly enough to suit Garrett’s tastes. The idea of Renly ‘rescuing’ Garrett made no sense. There had to be a way to dissuade him.
“Aurum’s a plague planet. Those genetic viruses are deadly to Terrans. Are you seriously considering that kind of risk?”
“The ambassador assured me the risk is only for people who travel to the interior. I’ll be on the coast. Thousands of visitors attend the Gold Festival, and in forty years, they’ve never had a problem. I’m taking the utmost precautions. I’ll wear gloves, and the hotel even offers special off-worlder accommodations. They have air filters in all the rooms.”
“Look, son. Arkady Universal Mining holds exclusive access rights to Aurum. They decide who gets a visa. You don’t travel in those financial circles. You’ll never clear customs.”
Renly nodded. “You’re right. They turned me down, so I offered a gift commission to the Khirjahni royal family. The formal invitation and visa arrived yesterday.”
* * *
On the day of his departure, Renly stared at the cluttered workbench inside his studio for the last time; trying to decide which of his tools to take with him. Sadness and longing washed through him, but to his own surprise, no panic. At least, not yet. The idea of leaving the security of this place and everything behind was almost unbearable, but he had no choice.
The nightmares were getting worse. The lack of sleep and his inability to work had him pacing the floors endlessly. Every time he closed his eyes, Garrett’s voice echoed in his mind and the stink of moist earth haunted his dreams.
Now the day of departure had arrived. Renly regretted waiting until the last minute to decide which tools to bring.
Leo had offered to take him to the shuttle port and arrived an hour early. He understood Leo’s concerns about him going after Garrett; he probably planned to arrive early to try to talk him out of it again. That wasn’t going to happen.
Leo nodded to the instruments spread out across his bench. “Are you taking all that?”
Renly shook his head. “I wish I could.” Apparently, there were weight restrictions even in space, and most of his luggage allowance was allocated to the precious metals he needed to bring for the royal commission. He’d packed six blanks of platinum and two more of white gold. He much preferred to work in white metal, but at the last minute decided to add a couple of yellow gold, just in case. He detested yellow gold, but he wanted to have it available if the monarch had a preference. More than twenty pounds, total. All that precious metal would mean he’d have to keep his pack with him.
“Chisels, right?”
He nodded. “Basically, yes. These are gravers.” He picked up a slim vee-edge chisel and slipped the tang end into the ferrule of a mushroom-shaped handle. “When I attach the chisel into a graver handle, they become a burin. Engravers use burins to inscribe designs into metal.”
The heft of the tool in his hand brought him comfort. The rosewood handle fitted into his palm with a perfection only achieved by decades of daily use. He far preferred the reliability and feel of his older gravers, but the newer ones held an edge longer.
“Why not just hire someone to find him? You’ll be gone for months. You’re at the top of your profession right now. I know people who specialize in this sort of thing. You don’t have to go.”
He stared into Leo’s worried face, and knew instinctively that his godfather would never accept his motives for going to Aurum. Until he knew for himself Garrett was safe, the nightmares would never stop. Until he silenced Garrett’s pleas, he would not be able to work. Drawing and engraving were the external manifestations of his creative soul. Like song to a nightingale, his art was his source of magic, and gave him more joy and satisfaction than anything else in life. No one could do what he could; or at least, not as well. Through his creative gift, he learned to cope with the nightmare of his childhood. The urge to create kept him focused and distracted; his work kept the bad dreams away. Without his art, he might as well be dead.
“You’re not talking me out of this, Leo.” He turned back to the tools spread out on his workbench. The older ones were most reliable and offered a reassuring link to Earth, if only by memory. He didn’t want to lose them, but couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them behind for a year. Or more. He disconnected the graver from the handle and rolled it, along with the rest of the set within a segment of oiled chamois. The pungent scent of preserved leather tickled his sinuses. Reverently, he placed the suede-wrapped bundle inside his carry-all shoulder pack, where he’d already packed a small vial bottle of oil, two oilstones, sandbags, and a couple of chasing hammers. He wrapped six of his favorite graver handles inside a butter-soft goatskin. In an outside pocket of the weatherproof canvas bag he
added a blank artist sketchbook and a number of graphite pencils.
Into the bag went half-dozen burnishers, two walrus bone rubbing sticks, various other scribers, and a calico pounce bag and added them to his satchel. These would leave little room for his sanitizers and first aid kit, but he would not leave them behind. He pondered instead, which items of clothing weren’t absolutely necessary. He paused, realizing Leo had just asked him a question. “Excuse me?”
“The presentation medal you made for the Khirjahni King. You said you’d show me.”
“Of course.” He reached into an inside pocket in his bag and pulled out a four-inch square flattened box, handmade of teak wood. He took off the lid, slipped the heavy platinum medal out of the protective flannel, and laid it on the worktable for Leo to see. He switched on the magnifying lamp, and positioned the light over the piece so Leo could appreciate the detail of the design. “It won’t be finished until I can get a better sketch of him in profile. I haven’t found many images of him available to work from.”
Leo examined the medal. “Are those horns real or is he wearing some kind of headpiece?”
He shrugged. “The planet literature says some of the natives do have horns.” Renly drew a shaky breath. “I’ll guess I’ll find out in about five months.”
“He looks familiar.”
Renly blushed and turned off the lamp, hoping Leo wouldn’t recognize Garrett’s profile. His hand trembled as he slipped the medallion back into the box. He hoped seeing the king’s profile in person would help him make the changes he needed to finish the portrait. “I just hope he likes it.”
With a grunt, he hefted the satchel by the thick strap and heaved it to his shoulder. He could barely stand upright. He considered leaving his vitamins and collection of antiseptic ointments behind, since he only planned to be there for a week, but decided against it. Better to bring his own than risk picking up a local bug.
He threw in two dozen pair of synthetic gloves; more than enough to see him through a week, and they didn’t weigh much. And although the hotel offered filtered air, he couldn’t possibly leave his personal air filter masks behind.
