by YS Pascal
After a few minutes of spinning, Eikhus wound down and faced me. “They’ll meet us at Matshi’s kalyvi. It’ll be safer there.” He glanced at Nerea. “Let’s go.”
Eikhus added a few words to his sister in Kharybdian, then pointedly turned and flung a sheet of water at Spud’s back. “No offense taken.”
Dripping from head to toe, Spud reluctantly followed us out of the thal, pausing only to thank Nerea on our behalf for her hospitality.
We set off once again along the banks of a muddy rivulet, and, shivering, trudged slowly, sloshing step by step, towards the outskirts of Eikhus’ village. I broke the chilly silence. “Where are we headed?” I asked Eikhus once we were out of earshot (and mist-shot) of passers-by.
“The Chidurian Enclave,” Eikhus said. “They’ll be waiting.”
Spud’s tone was dry, unlike the rest of him. “I dread to ask, but who are ‘they’?”
“A few of your old friends,” Eikhus returned with a wry smile. “And a few of your old enemies.”
* * *
An hour later, Eikhus had brought us to a hundred-foot waterfall that crashed into a turbulent whirlpool below the small, slippery ledge under our feet. Behind the splashing cascade was a small opening to a tiny cave that led to a dark, narrow tunnel, which, lit by our Ergals, seemed to go on forever. Eikhus led the way, and Spud gladly walked behind me, as far away from Eikhus as possible, as we squeezed single file through the winding, cramped passage. With every step, the ground below us became drier and drier, save for the moisture of Eikhus’s occasional sweat balls. Our Ergals kept us bathed in halos of light, and we marched forward like incandescent ants.
“And we’re not M-fanning in to the Chidurian Enclave why?” Spud asked, irritated.
Eikhus hesitated. “I’m not exactly persona grata there.”
“How does that not surprise me.”
“Spud!” I scolded. Eikhus’s expulsion from Mingferplatoi was still a painful subject. The Kharybdian’s abrupt eruption after learning of Benedict’s devastating raid on his home planet had almost drowned two classmates—and had led to questions about his solidity under pressure and his fitness to be a Zygint operative. Reminding Eikhus of those humiliating events was not very kind at all. Spud did sometimes tend to be a little deficient in his social skills … and his empathy. Besides, he should know that M-fanning could leave unwanted tracks, in case our colleagues at Zygint Central developed a yen to locate us for being AWOL.
After another hour of hiking, we climbed above ground and found ourselves behind a field of Sabras, tall cactus-like trees, inside the periphery of Zyga’s Chidurian Enclave, avoiding detection—we hoped. The planet Chiduri, located at the tip of Orion’s sword, is noted for its parched desert climate, baked by giant star Hatsya’s three suns. A testament to Zygan bioecological technology, the Chidurian Enclave was, unfortunately, as hot and dry as the planet Chiduri itself. I began to long for the relative chill of desert Sidon. One glance at Spud’s face revealed that he was equally distressed by the literally hellish conditions.
We’d ditched our parkas and raingear and Ergaled ourselves into beige hooded robes. The blistering heat now actually made us grateful for Eikhus’s cooling perspiration, and we stayed close by our companion for the last kilometer of our journey as we crept down deserted back alleys and dusty roads.
To reach Matshi’s kalyvi, his cave-like dwelling, we would unfortunately need to cross some busy streets. In order to avoid the curious gazes of the crab-like Chidurian pedestrians, Eikhus misted himself on us, with Spud’s grudging approval. Looking appropriately sweaty for a pair of tourists to the Enclave, we made our way to Matshi’s kalyvi across the crowded thoroughfares, dodging combatively-driven six-wheeled vehicles called autogamils. Chidurian drivers are among the most aggressive in the Universe, which, I suspect, is why many of Zyga’s best fighter pilots are Chidurian.
Fortunately, we arrived at our destination in one piece. Except for Eikhus of course, who was still dispersed on us as scattered sweat droplets. Matshi, a seven-foot crustacean sporting a purple anorak that draped over his cephalothorax and his eight appendages, answered our knock.
Our former classmate led us into the kalyvi with solely a nod. The moist coolness of the cave was a sharp contrast to the desert outside, and Eikhus was quickly able to merge back into a slightly less viscous and more whole version of himself.
Declining to crabwalk, we crawled underground down a low-ceilinged circular passageway for what seemed like several storeys, passing closed doors along the way. By the time we reached our destination, Eikhus had grown back to nearly his full height and density, and had left behind a trail of moisture on the ceiling which dripped back upon our heads. This time, Spud didn’t complain.
As we entered the cavernous gathering room, my jaw dropped. Seated around a large table were some of Mingferplatoi’s most illustrious drop-outs: Ulenem, a chameleon Assassin from Orion Alpha; Setsei and Suthsi, Meiote siblings from the planet Ytra; Nephil Stratum, a cloud-like Syneph from the Plegma; and Sarion, a Comic from the planet Megara. So many classmates I hadn’t seen since my early days of catascope training almost two years before.
“Magnificent,” Spud muttered with no little irony. “I have died and gone to juvie.”
Matshi wasn’t as diplomatic as Eikhus. He faced Spud with a sneer. “I see you’ve still got a rod up your—”
“Thank you,” Eikhus interjected quickly, soaking Matshi’s robe. He turned to face the group. “Thank you all for coming.”
Murmurs of greetings in five different languages came our way. I responded with the Zygan squeaks expressing friendship and gratitude, and nudged Spud to take an empty seat next to mine at the table. He forced a smile and mumbled a half-hearted Zygan, “Hello.”
Matshi offered us mugs of soothing Chidurian ale to sip as we began to tell our story. A drop of Chidurian ale is reported to not only refresh tired travelers like us, but repair mitochondrial breakdown in muscle cells and enhance muscular development. The drink is like ‘roids in a bottle. And the effect lasts for months. That’s why the ale is a budget-buster outside of the planet Chiduri and its Zygan Enclave. Chidurians serving as soldiers and guards throughout Zygfed, who can’t afford even a sip, speak longingly of returning home and indulging once again in their native nectar.
Well indulged, and appropriately grateful, Spud and I related the singular events and experiences of the past few days. After filling in the group, I summed it up. “So, we’ve absolutely got to find Sutherland.”
“You mean Benedict,” Nephil Stratum said, her pearly nebulous cloud-like tufts shimmering as she spoke.
Maybe her Ergal had mistranslated? “Sutherland,” I repeated.
“No, I mean Benedict,” she insisted. “If what you say is true, that the E-shield on your ship was breached, it has to be Benedict. Getting his buddy out of trouble.”
Spud shook his head. “Seems unlikely. There is no loyalty among thieves.”
I jabbed him in the arm, and nodded at Nephil Stratum. “I think you’ve got something there. But, it’s more likely Benedict grabbed Sutherland to keep him from spilling his guts.”
Perched on a tall stool that dwarfed his solid reptilian two-foot frame, Ulenem the Assassin jeered as he twirled his sharp athame dagger like a baton between his limbs. “Spilling his guts would be better,” Ulenem said, his lizard-green skin turning menacingly spinach-colored.
Setsei, who resembled a four-foot tall beige apostrophe, quickly moved his seat a few inches away with both his right hands to avoid the spinning blade of the Madai weapon. From the head portion at the top of his smooth ovate body, he emitted the Ytran version of a dramatic sigh. “Well, peachy keen. All we have to do is break into Benedict’s command center—wherever that is—kidnap Sutherland, and get out alive. Oops, that last part … not so easy …” His meiote and mirror image, Suthsi, was clearly nervous, sliding closer and wrapping his two left arms and his flagella around his partner.
“Not so easy,” Suthsi echoed.
Nephil Stratum’s own snowy hue turned a darker shade of gray. She drifted over to face us. “Hate to rain on your parade, but it may not be as hard as you think.” She broke off a small tuft of cottony vapor and levved it to the center of the table. It misted open and revealed a small multihedron gem that sparkled with hundreds of colors. In a few moments, the sparkles dissolved to reveal a life-size holo of Benedict before us in the flesh.
I gasped. Sitting only a few feet away from me was the vicious outlaw reputed to have killed thousands of Zygans in his quest to overthrow His Highness. I was grateful that Benedict’s body was halved by the table, reassuring us that he was only a holo. Still, my reflexes trumped my rationality. My practiced fingers had crept to my Ergal and were gripping it tightly as I watched.
Benedict was clutching a tablet on which he was scratching furiously with a stylus. The low resolution of the holo didn’t allow us to see what he was writing, but his mutterings sounded like he was trying to solve some mathematical problem. “Alpha … m-c squared … equation … trapezalnitaks … summeldare … ram … catastrophe …”
Suddenly, his face lit up and he cried, “Eureka!” He looked up and, to my alarm, seemed to scan the room, his fierce blue eyes finally resting in my direction with a piercing, icy stare. I kept telling myself ‘it’s just a holo’, but, faced with that penetrating gaze, I couldn’t suppress a cold shiver that bored all the way down to my spine.
And then, to my immense relief, Benedict disappeared. I heard several deep breaths echoing mine from around our table.
Matshi was the first to speak. He looked at Nephil Stratum with admiration. “How’d you do that?”
Spud interjected, “Irrelevant. Where was he, and what was he doing?”
Matshi’s face looked appropriately annoyed.
“Short answer, Matshi, dark matter,” Nephil Stratum appeased her host. “Zygint Central constantly monitors “beings of interest”. Unfortunately, without an auxiliary energy source I can only keep the download going for a few minutes.”
“You tapped into Zygint’s comm feeds!” Awesome. I was impressed.
Nephil Stratum nodded. “I honestly can’t determine where Benedict is,” she continued, responding to Spud. “But, obviously at least one comm specialist at Central knows, because they’re tracking him live. It looks like … someone will have to go to Zygint Headquarters to get that information.”
The knot in my stomach returned as the entire group turned and looked at me.
* * *
Yes, I still carried a Zygan Intelligence ID. If it hadn’t already been pulled. But my actions had caused us to lose Sutherland. And, rather than returning to face the music, I’d gone on the run. I was absent without leave, and Gary had probably already reported me to Headquarters as a violator. If I went to Zygint Central Headquarters as myself, Shiloh Rush, I’d probably be busted with my very first WHO entry scan. And, if I was caught, I’d likely be sent to face the terrifying judgment of the Omega Archon. I’d be kicked out of the Zygint corps, and, at the mercy of His Highness’ harsh code of justice, I could end up … a corpse.
On the other hand, my actions had caused us to lose Sutherland. I was the natural choice to take the risk.
My only chance to succeed in tracking Benedict’s location would be to M-fan into Zygint Headquarters disguised as another Terran, and one who would have easy clearance for Central Comm. Going as Gary was out. He was a well-known player at Zygint, and my acting skills weren’t that good.
“Everett Weaver?” Spud suggested, his tone clearly ironic.
Just envisioning pretending to be dorky Ev for even a few moments made me nauseated.
“What about the nice one?” Nephil Stratum offered. “The one you said had fixed your ship.”
Wart … Ward Burton. Now, that sounded better. Wart was high-level enough to have access to Central Comm, but he rarely made the hours-long trip from Earth to Zyga, so he probably wouldn’t be well known by the Central team. That would work in my favor. It would be a little, uh, embarrassing to be the second Wart identified trying to enter Headquarters while the real one was already there. I nodded. “Good idea. Okay, I’ll go in as Wart.”
When we were on assignment, we were allowed to use our Ergals to anamorph our superficial appearance and dress. It would be easy enough to Ergal my appearance to look like the tall, African American man in his early thirties that I’d be pretending to be. With a change in my surface appearance, I might even be able to skate through the WHO scans at Headquarters entry. But, if I had to make it through the deeper NDNA scans to get into Comm, I’d be in trouble. I was going to have to bite the bullet and mute; that is, Ergal the change into Wart all the way down to my DNA nucleotides. Unfortunately, muting without high-level authorization was a grave violation of Zygan policy. If arrested, I’d probably be immediately dragged before the Omega Archon, and face a years-long sentence burning in the flames of Hell.
“What the hell,” Sarion returned, attempting a joke. “Losing Sutherland, you’re probably already marked for the flames anyway.”
I smiled weakly at the Megaran’s humor. I had only experienced a few minutes of the Omega Archon’s punishment, and prayed that I would never experience such torture again. But, I had no choice. Spud had courageously offered, through clenched teeth, to go with me to Zygint. I patted him on the back and declined. It’d been my fault we’d lost Sutherland—I should never have stopped to help at Io—so it was up to me to take on the danger, and the risks, myself. Alone.
Nephil Stratum had me cryptocommed (wired) as invisibly as possible. It did give me a boost of courage to know that the gang was monitoring me from the cave, and maybe could mount a rescue if something did go wrong. I thanked my erstwhile classmates for their support once again, and, with a final glance at Spud, who reflected my anxious gaze, I set off for the headquarters of Zygan Intelligence.
Not wanting to leave tracer tracks that might lead back to Matshi’s kalyvi, I dragged myself, muted as Wart, through the baking, dusty streets to the transport station in the center of the Chidurian Enclave, and X-fanned to Mikkin, Zyga’s capital city. I M-fanned directly into the cool, soft clouds that enveloped the base of Zygint’s Headquarters, relishing their comforting softness as I floated towards the entrance of the tall thomeo.
Zygint Central Headquarters was modeled after typical Orion-thomeo architecture, mile-high skyscrapers with broad bases that narrow as one rises to the higher storeys. From a distance, a thomeo looks like an enormous ice cream cone turned upside down and driven into the ground.
I have to admit I was pretty nervous as I approached the WHO scan for entry to the building. Would the scanner be able to tell that I had muted into Wart? I held my breath as the light washed over my tall, male torso, almost gasping with relief as the door opened to let me into the busy lobby. Acting—and I mean, acting—relaxed, I ambled towards the lifts for the ninety-ninth floor (which, like all Zygan numbers, was in Base Twelve) and the Comm Center, which had housed the feed Nephil Stratum’s jewel had tapped.
Central’s Communications Center, which took up an entire floor of the thomeo, was the size of a football stadium, and was filled with scenic holos from practically every populated planet in Zygfed. And beyond. As I searched the holos for signs of Benedict, I couldn’t avoid pausing at a halaropool scene to catch my breath. The beauty of the Megaran spa truly calmed me, if only for a few moments.
Reluctantly, I walked on, making my way to the far end of the room. Holos of Benedict, unfortunately, didn’t seem to be running in the main chamber. I would have to appeal for entry into a more secure level of the Comm Center—and pass through the dreaded NDNA scan!
Changing my DNA into Wart’s had meant that, courtesy of my Ergal, my brain cells had been transformed and now contained his neurocache. The NDNA scan would recognize my brain’s neurocache patterns as belonging to Ward Burton, of course. But, to maintain my own consciousness inside
his body, I, or rather my Ergal, had had to encrypt my own neurocache among Wart’s. Would the NDNA scan reveal that “Wart’s” neurocache patterns were subtly different than those stored in Zygfed’s records from earlier scans?
I couldn’t let those seeds of doubt be read by the scanner. I had to ensure my anxious thoughts wouldn’t arouse suspicion. I’m really glad I took those boring classes in method acting after all. As I approached the portal to Security Level C, I started repeating silently to myself: I am Ward Burton. I am Ward Burton.
The scanner’s probe entered my brain. “Purpose of entry?”
Ward Burton, Ward Burton. Urgent comm from Terra Core.
“Scan in progress.”
Ward Burton. Ward Burton.
“Scan completed.”
The pause seemed frighteningly long. I struggled to stay calm. Finally, to my relief, the portal door I was facing opened to allow me entry into Security Level C. I wandered in slowly, breathing deeply to steady my nerves, and searched among the rows of holo displays filling this smaller suite for the holo station that displayed our target.
Most of the holos I passed in this suite seemed to be of various Benedict cronies, who went about their nefarious business unaware that Zygint was watching their every move. There was still no sign of Benedict on any of the screens.
I stopped, stunned. Right next to me, a holo displayed a life-size Sutherland, robed and bearded as Saul once again. Judging from the background, he did seem to be back in Sidon, or, more accurately, marching down that same path to the city Tyre that Yeshua and the Keeper had recently taken after bidding us good-bye. Despite the temporal vector shield! I turned to face the holo, hoping that the team monitoring me at Matshi’s could see what I saw, too.
“The evil eye knows,” a human voice boomed in my ear.
It took all my training not to startle. I turned to see a short, portly man who looked vaguely familiar. Had I met him at Mingferplatoi? No, no, at Central, last year. What was his name? Carl. Carlton Platt. Never liked him, but, Wart, Ward Burton, probably does. I bestowed him with Wart’s friendly grin. “Hey, Carl, you sound like an old DJ.”
