by Jeff Wheeler
“Mr. Eleftheriou, I advise you to stop before I have you arrested for contempt.” The abrupt sharpness in the captain’s voice was only accented by his imposing, suited form. He continued in the shocked silence.
“The Gibraltar is a vessel of the Republic under orders endorsed by the Triumvirate in time of war. Frankly, Mr. Eleftheriou, I have the legal authority to do whatever I want.”
Captain Eleftheriou opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and then tried again.
“So what is the fine? Can I at least pay it now?”
The Republican captain had looked back at the manifest when Eleftheriou began to speak, but now his eyes shot back to the Greek’s, narrowing to a penetrating stare.
“Was that an attempt at a bribe? Do you want me to start a list of charges too?”
Captain Eleftheriou quickly raised his palms in innocent protestation.
“Not at all, I’m sorry, I expected that I would be able to resolve this unfortunate matter by a fine or fee of some sort.”
Captain Gregory chuckled dryly, humorlessly.
“I’m afraid you are mistaken, Mr. Eleftheriou. My orders say that contraband and illegal goods are deemed forfeited and are to be seized.”
“Seized? Seized? For the love of— Captain, there’s almost a half a million—”
“—that won’t fall into the hands of the Coalition or Coalition sympathizers,” finished Captain Gregory smoothly, depositing his tablet back into its holster and tightening the strap. He continued detachedly.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Eleftheriou. My men will remove your cargo containers; we will signal when you are free to leave.” He spun himself around and pushed off toward the airlock, pausing for a moment at the threshold to turn back toward the ship’s master and his assistant.
“Enjoy your stay at Mimir.”
The moment the hatch closed behind the Gibraltar’s master, Captain Eleftheriou let out a shout of rage, bashing his fist against the bulkhead. Yuri floated nearby, too shocked to speak, watching as Dimitrios raved like a madman, flinging anything he could grasp at the closed hatch. Yuri could barely hear the sound of the pressurization alarm over the captain’s ranting, but he felt the shuddering thump as the airlock detached and the Doukas floated free once again. A series of echoing thuds followed as the cargo containers were wrenched free of their supports, leaving the Doukas denuded of her treasures. Soon, the sounds outside ceased, and the Republican vessel transmitted their promised signal and ignited their engine, vanishing into the distance in a matter of moments. The captain suddenly stopped his animalistic cries, so abruptly that Yuri almost gasped. Without any warning, Dimitrios flashed a Cheshire grin and twisted to look at the young assistant.
“Think I sold it?”
“Wh-what?”
“My performance! Not quite Olivier, but passable, I feel.”
Yuri’s expression shifted from shock to amazement and back again, without a single coherent word managing to cross his lips in the meantime. Dimitrios reached over and slapped the youth on the shoulder.
“Come on, lad, we’ve got a meeting in Collins City! Don’t want to keep the guild rep waiting.”
Yuri turned himself awkwardly and launched down the corridor after Eleftheriou’s fast-retreating form, finally managing to stammer out a response.
“But, sir, Captain! We just lost all our cargo! You were—what in the worlds is going on?”
Dimitrios stopped himself against a hold and turned his head back to the clerk.
“All our cargo? Those containers? Oh, my boy, those were merely the diversion. The real cargo is untouched.”
“But you said it was half a million—”
“And that was not a lie.” The captain looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged and pushed off the wall toward the bridge. “Of course, it would have been best had they not confiscated it—the three-H would have certainly garnered a pretty penny—but no, that cargo’s purpose was to keep them from looking too closely at their scans. Fourth lesson: one for them to find, one for you to keep.”
Yuri shook his head in wonderment as the Greek, gleeful as a teenager in love, somersaulted off the bulkhead and deposited himself smartly in his chair. With a tap of the controls, he put the intraship circuit up on the speaker.
“Giannis, my good man, get me within range of the station, on the double. We’ve got ourselves a dirtside date!”
For the first time, Yuri heard the voice of the ship’s engineer, undoubtedly in better humor than before.
“Aye, sir, shouldn’t be long at all. Remember your umbrella.”
* * *
As Giannis had imagined, the summer rains of Mimir’s northern hemisphere were in full swing as the shuttle descended in a fiery streak of plasma down to Collins City. Yuri found the whole experience terrifying, made all the more unsettling by the captain’s good-natured humming, and his ceaseless twirling of that blasted medal around his fingers. Yuri closed his eyes to combat the nausea in his stomach as the cyclonic winds of the upper atmosphere batted the shuttle around like a toy. When the vessel finally punched through the last layer of clouds, Collins City lay directly ahead, a brownish-gray cluster of new construction circling a central ring of cylindrical buildings, the obvious signs of a city built from the modules of landed vessels. Dimitrios noticed drifting clouds of black smoke from several points on the horizon, the telltale signs of distant battle, but said nothing. No sense further troubling Yuri.
A guild representative, dressed in understated finery, met the captain and the clerk at a local printshop, amid the whirring of cooling systems and the crackling of laser sinterers. With him stood one of the printshop workers, a tall, soot-covered man, clearly a welder or machinist by trade, and a local official, wearing a nondescript gray tunic. The guild representative, a portly man, clasped the merchant captain’s hand with gusto.
“Ah, Dimitrios! I should have known the guild would send you—no one else is crazy enough to try to run a Republic blockade!”
Dimitrios grinned and slapped the man on his shoulder.
“Barnabas, you sly dog—why’d you colonials go and force the Republic to start one?”
The local official, clearly a nervous man at the best of times, interrupted.
“Gentlemen, if you please. I trust your presence here means you were successful at running the blockade, God knows how.”
Dimitrios nodded and bowed his head. Without further ceremony, he unclasped the St. Nicholas medal from around his neck and handed it to the guild representative. Yuri watched, awestruck, as the guildsman’s eyes lit up and, reaching into his tunic pocket, the large merchant produced a tiny ring, which he waved over the medal. The medal clicked electronically and split in two, revealing the tiniest of wafers nestled within. Dimitrios gestured broadly.
“Magistrate, as promised, your requested equipment.”
The official’s eyes widened to the size of two glistening moons.
“This . . . this is all of it?”
Dimitrios nodded curtly.
“Yes indeed. Full presliced printer models for five firearms, three laser telescopes, two dozen assorted sensor systems and reactor subsystems, and a miscellaneous assortment of circuits and boards you’ll need to jumpstart your foundries and hydroponics facilities.”
The printshop worker nearly danced with glee, and the official looked like he was moments from joining him. He stuttered out his gratitude.
“Mr. Dimitrios, I don’t know if we can ever thank you enough.”
Dimitrios shrugged, displaying an emotion Yuri had not yet seen: humility, pretended or otherwise.
“Magistrate, it’s just trade. The guild hopes that you are satisfied with your purchase.”
“I have no doubt, sir, I have no doubt.” He turned to the guild representative. “The funds will be transferred immediately.”
The guild representative bowed and said nothing, and he, Yuri, and Dimitrios left, flipping hoods up over their heads to keep out the driving r
ain. The guild representative turned to Dimitrios with a shake of his head.
“You know, the Republican guardsmen are looking for printer chips—they are specifically watching for them, to prevent us doing what you just did.” He shook his head in admiration. “I don’t know how you do it, Eleftheriou. Good work, but I’ll be ’locked if I know how you do it.”
Dimitrios looked at Yuri with a wink, then turned his head toward the guildsman with a mischievous smile.
“Nothing fancy, Barnabas. I just remembered to pay the tariff.”
About Allen Shoff
Allen Shoff lives with his wife and three adorable children in the high deserts of the American West. While he studied history and music at the undergraduate level, he has always nurtured a profound love of science, technology, and philosophy, something evident in his fiction. When he's not practicing law, he writes code, builds furniture, and creates universes.
Website: allenshoff.com
THE PRICE OF HEALING
By D.K. Holmberg | 8,600 words
Kira felt a cough building as she looked around the familiar streets of Amon. The town had changed little in the years since she’d left—not nearly as much as she had changed, especially as the wasting sickness had taken hold the past year—but enough that she didn’t know the square like she once would have. Maybe that would help Father make a few sales; local merchants never got the same price as those from out of town. And the gods knew they needed the extra income before reaching Annendel.
“Watch the wagon. The square is notorious for thieves sneaking through,” Father reminded her. “I’ll see if Rubbles will buy anything.” He grabbed a rolled package of paper and a small box of inks from the back of their wagon parked near the center of the town.
Kira nodded as the coughing fit took hold. The fit lasted longer than usual before finally easing off. She wiped a hand across her mouth, afraid she’d see blood again.
Her father didn’t notice, frowning as he glanced up at the dark clouds. “Are you certain you will be fine?” Roughly, he placed his hand on her head as he’d seen the healers do, but didn’t seem to know what he was looking for and pulled it away.
She shook him off, surprised that he bothered to touch her. Usually, he feared catching her wasting illness and stayed at least an arm’s length away. Besides, he wouldn’t find anything. None of the healers she had seen had been able to find anything.
“I’ll be fine, Father. Besides, any sale you make will help,” she said. After the fit, her voice felt weak. She forced a smile onto her face rather than let him know just how weak. If he knew, he wouldn’t continue to trade. They’d head straight to Annendel, sales be damned, and worry about finding enough coin to pay for healing later.
“Well—if you’re certain. Just watch the wagon. I think we’re close to what we’ll need. Another week, maybe two, and then we will be in Annendel.” He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “The parchment might bring us the rest, even without knowing its secret.”
Kira nodded, afraid to say anything. In spite of all the hard work to find a way to get her help, nothing had made a difference. When she had fallen ill, he had become driven in a way that she had never seen from him before, determined not to lose her as they had lost her sister. But Kira knew time was getting short. Even were they to get enough money for the study in Annendel, it probably wouldn’t matter. After everything they had gone through to get the money needed, she did not dare tell her father that.
He checked the locked trunk in the back of the wagon one more time before securing it. The trunk contained the entire savings from their trip, her last hope for healing once they managed to trade for enough money. As he ambled away, he clutched the items he hoped to sell to Rubbles under one arm, glancing back only as he neared the edge of the square.
Kira made a show of waving, but once he was out of sight, she let out a long breath and shifted over to the cart, slipping as she climbed up. Standing even a few moments drained her, but that was something her father would not learn.
Another fit of coughing hit her. Her eyes watered with it, and she tasted bile at the back of her throat. At least her father wasn’t there to see it; he got so worried every time she broke into one of those fits. Eventually, she worried that he would stop taking her word that she felt fine.
As she sat, the dark clouds overhead finally made good on their threat of rain. Kira pulled her cloak up and over her shoulders, fighting the sudden shiver that worked through her. She had not been away from Amon long enough to forget the heavy rains so common that time of year, rains that made even simple daily activities difficult.
Thankfully the rain had held long enough for her father to take supplies for a sale. If nothing had changed, at least Ms. Rubbles could be counted on to purchase some of their supplies. Every bit helped, getting them closer to being able to afford the price the healers demanded. Soon it wouldn’t matter—at least, not to her—but she kept fighting for her father. She worried what would happen to him when she finally succumbed to the illness. At least by doing something—anything—any guilt he might have could be lessened.
A loud thunk made her turn. A small figure streaked away from the back of the wagon, quickly disappearing into a small throng of people. She looked down and saw the back of the wagon open.
She climbed down slowly. The cold rain sent shivers through her, but her heart fluttered for a different reason. Hopefully, the wagon had just been bumped, but the reminder of thieves in the square made her heart pound. Rounding the end of the wagon, she nearly slipped, barely catching herself on slick rain-soaked wood.
A few items were missing from the back of the wagon. A small lantern. A roll of cheap silks. And the trunk.
All the money they had collected gone.
Another fit of coughing overwhelmed her, doubling her over, but all she could think about was how her father would react, already seeing the disappointment on his face.
* * *
When the coughing fit finally eased, Kira wiped tears away from her eyes and swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. She knew she shouldn’t be disappointed; having the Guild of Annendel study her illness had always been unlikely to succeed, but it had been hope that she could cling to. Suddenly, even that was gone.
She tried closing the back of the wagon to avoid everything else inside getting wet. Her arms trembled and it fell open. She did not have the energy to try again.
“Kira?”
She lifted her head and looked up. A tall young man with straight brown hair falling over his forehead looked at her with piercing blue eyes. She recognized those eyes. “Galen?” she asked.
A wide smile split his face, until she started coughing again. When she finally got it back under control, he looked at her with the same expression of concern she always saw on her father’s face. “You are unwell,” he said.
From Galen, son of Amon’s most respected healer, that simple statement made her throat tighten again. “I’m fine.” The familiar lie was easy.
He blinked and she could tell that he wanted to say something more, but he remained silent.
She sagged, her legs giving out as another shaking chill rolled through her. Had Galen not been there, she would have fallen.
Galen lifted her and carried her to the front of the wagon, setting her atop the seat carefully. Without asking permission, he pressed the back of his hand against her forehead, with more confidence than her father had managed. Then he touched her neck and twisted her head from side to side before resting his head on her chest and listening. Her breath caught at the familiarity and lack of concern for catching her illness.
“Don’t,” he said. “Take a deep breath.”
She took a shuddering breath. Her chest rattled as it so often did. So far, her father hadn’t noticed. Or if he had, he hadn’t said anything.
Galen sat up and met her eyes. “How long have you been sick?”
“A long time,” she said softly. She pushed up, leaning back on the wagon
and turning away from him. The way he studied her made her uncomfortable, reminding her of every healer she had seen over the past year. But none had shared the same compassion that she saw in his eyes. After all the healers she had seen on the road, she wondered why her father had not taken her to see Galen’s father, Aelus.
“You’ve been to Annendel?” he asked.
She shook her head. “We’re traveling there now. The Guild has offered a study.”
Galen snorted dismissively. “And how much did they quote you for the study?”
“A hundred silver marks.” Saying it aloud made it sound ridiculous.
“A hundred?”
Seeing the disgusted look on his face, Kira pushed on. “The Guild is unrivaled in their knowledge, Galen. I don’t have to tell you that few have such an opportunity.”
“Even fewer can afford such an opportunity,” he said, then climbed down from the wagon, as if suddenly realizing how close he sat to her. He wiped ink-stained hands on his brown pants, smearing crimson stains down the sides. The rain soaked them, making it look like blood running down his legs.
“I am fortunate,” she said bitterly.
Galen shook his head. “Kira . . .” He paused. “I’m sorry. That was poorly said on my part. Blame my father for teaching me that healing should not be something only the rich can achieve.”
Kira glanced to the back of the wagon. They weren’t rich, but her father was determined. Nearly a hundred silver marks—half a year’s hard work on a journey that Kira once had thought impossible—stolen. Any hope she might have at the Guild finding an answer stolen with it.
Would it have made a difference to the thief had he known?
“Would he see me?” she asked.
Galen frowned. “Who? My father? I thought you were traveling to Annendel.”
“I was . . . Am,” she corrected herself. “But we’ve seen every healer my father could find from Duras to the Western Plains. None has helped.”
