The Forgotten Sky

by R. M. Schultz

  “McCuruth is Medegair’s pet,” she says. “A pet with a vice, a certain unrefined taste. He frequents the seediest pub on the outskirts of the Uden projects. Goes there nearly every night after Medegair goes to bed.”

  The Uden projects, a subdistrict of Uden’s capital city. It’s not far.

  She continues, “He imbibes on gossip and drink and a specific mind-altering drug called purple garlic. For some reason, he thinks while he’s in that pub, he’s hiding his vices from the royal family. He thinks no one there will ever recognize him. Or he thinks the risk is worth his fix.”

  ***

  The alleyway draws Elion on. Dark. Recessed lights far ahead. A moon floats overhead, distant and copper. A smell of vomit hovers, mingled with feces, and of intercourse, swimming with the natural violet haze of the air.

  The filthiest place on all of beautiful Uden, and this is where Elion wants to be. Optimism filters through the rancid odors.

  “You sure are finding an acquired taste in all your travels.” The ghost girl floats six meters above the alleyway.

  Elion continues on, keeping his eyes in shadow and does not receive a second look from a bouncer outside the pub, a towering brute of a gray-skinned humanoid with a black mane and tail and black stripes running across his exposed skin.

  “I’m going to stay outside,” the ghost girl says.

  Elion enters.

  Dim orange light originating low along the walls keeps the patrons’ faces obscured from casual observation. Many congregate around the bar. Others sit in pairs or alone at darkened antigravity tables. No empty tables.

  Elion orders a straight Uden slammer from the bar and casually walks for the restrooms, recognizing the overseer from an encrypted photo his contact sent to his v-rim.

  McCuruth, the High Overseer. He sits in a back corner. Frosted hair hides a wrinkled face. At least sixty years old but tall, with a thick frame, sallow complexion. Trying to look a few decades younger with a style that hasn’t been in for at least a century. Not wearing robes, but subdued dark pants and shirt.

  “I need a drinkin’ partner.” Elion takes an antigravity seat at the overseer’s table without an invitation, as if he belongs there, dropping onto a carmine cloth carrying all the resistance of a chair with legs but much more comfortable. “Here on business, and my regular buddy for after-hours interests has a new girl. You’re the only guy in here who looks like he can hold his liquor.”

  McCuruth studies Elion over the top of a towering glass of foam. His eyes are narrowed, suspicious, scrutinizing, but they stop moving when they reach Elion’s eyes. Elion knows what he sees, what everyone sees: the sad eyes of a regretful man only wishing to forget something.

  Elion says, “I’ll buy all the drinks until you pass out, then you have to buy all I can drink till I pass out.”

  McCuruth chuckles, his eyes clouded with the haze of some drug, attempting to hide his addiction with alcohol. “You’re not very big. You’ll be buying me drinks all night, including after you hit the floor, which will be before I do.”

  “Deal,” Elion says as his slammer arrives. He downs it in a few sucking gulps. “Now, are we starting even?”

  McCuruth smirks and nods and waves to a waitress in black cut-offs that run at a mean angle across her bulging buttocks, fish nets riding up and reaching for her ass.

  Minutes later the waitress brings over two blue drinks with ice, spiraling pink ribbons running along the periphery. Bangs them on the table and clomps away on heels.

  “I don’t come to the capital often,” Elion says. If this Elemiscist is a Beguiler, he’d be able to read Elion’s emotions and be able to tell with high probability if Elion’s lying. Elion again attempts to speak in truths or half-truths. “I can’t stop hearing about how those Northrite fucking glow monkeys blasted an Uden ship.”

  “As if they’re begging to start a war.”

  A man at a table across the way is staring at Elion but casually looks away. Elion plants the man’s long face into his memory, the rat tail of hair coiled around his neck.

  Elion says, “I say we take the war to those bastards. We don’t need to follow their laws, damn it. I want Uden to be more like the Pearl, not giving a shit about whatever the fuck anyone else thinks of us. Just make money and enjoy whatever goods each of us enjoys, you know?”

  McCuruth nods.

  Their conversation drags on for an hour, then two, discussing politics, drink, women. The rat-tailed man at the far table watches them again, stands and walks closer, and passes to the restroom, furtively eyeing Elion through the gloom.

  “Gotta piss already,” Elion says and stands. “You may win tonight. I’m not feeling quite myself.”

  McCuruth takes a long drink, blue slush running across his upper lip like a thin mustache, pink tendrils snaking down into his mouth.

  Elion stumbles away but quietly opens the metal restroom door. One man stands at the urinal, a long rat tail of hair looped around his neck.

  Elion slinks up behind him, jams his small radiation gun between the man’s legs, into the back of his testicles.

  “If you move, you’ll be sterilized and neutered in an instant, motherfucker.” Elion slams his forearm into the back of the man’s neck and presses him against the wall. Urine sprays across the stall wall in sputtering bursts of yellow foam. “You been killing women and painting their bodies lately? Following me?”

  “No!” The man sags under the press of Elion’s forearm. “Don’t shoot me with that thing. I’m just here on orders.”

  “Whose? Who the fuck are you?”

  “I work for the …” his voice drops to a whisper, barely a breath of air, “Northrite. I’m a simple contract investigator hired to follow you, keep an eye on you, try to learn where Nyranna of Uden’s gone, and arrest her if I can do it before you.”

  “What the fuck?”

  Elion withdraws his small irradiator from between the man’s legs and slams the man’s head into the urinal with a dull thud, the sound of knocking on a ripe melon but metallic.

  The man drops like a shudder round hit him. Elion drags him into a toilet stall and closes the door.

  That will leave a nice lump and probably give him a concussion.

  Elion exits the restroom, stumbles, and takes his seat across from McCuruth, who is swaying.

  More drinks arrive in wide cups, smoking green liquid inside. McCuruth downs his. Elion follows suit and wipes a mist from his lips with the back of his hand.

  I can’t bullshit with this sleazebag any longer. Someone else might be following me, or that man might regain consciousness and come out of the restroom.

  “So, my friend, do you know the location of any Elemiscists?” Elion asks.

  McCuruth’s eyes narrow. He blinks. His irises cloud over as he teeters. Almost falls.

  Elion grabs his shoulder and shakes him. “Listen, this has nothing to do with you as an overseer, but I need to know where your first-ranking Strider-Whisperer Nyranna is hiding.”

  McCuruth laughs, spitting up a mixture of pink and green liquid that dribbles over his chin and runs down his neck, into his collar. “So, you are here for a reason.”

  “This is very important for Uden and the coming war. I’m trying to help.”

  McCuruth is silent.

  Elion slides a handful of blue tubes over, the stains on the table’s surface seeming to grow and blur with his rising intoxication.

  McCuruth sways like a storm-tossed tree. “Nyranna’s gone to the Northrite a couple times now per orders of our Royal Father, in return for a promised treaty debt to Uden. Instead of a debt, we received threats and conflict.”

  “Where else’s she been? I know she’s been to Staggenmoire.”

  “Staggenmoire twice. Also to the outer drifter consumed by the Ruin, Anihelios.”

  Nyranna did visit the home of the assassin spider.

  “Don’t worry, she escaped the Ruin unharmed, but it makes one wonder if she’s really an Elemiscist for Uden n
ow or for the Northrite.” McCuruth burps, hiccups, and smiles. “Medegair has more pressing issues than tracking her down at the moment. We have a burgeoning war. And she was following his orders, at least initially.”

  “Where’s she now? I know you can see her linkchain presence or whatever weird shit it is that you do.”

  “By vows and laws, I can’t give away the current location of any Elemiscist, other than per order of the Royal Father.”

  Elion can almost hear the ghost girl outside about to admonish him with cruel words and dead eyes, a childish finger, but she stays out there and it’s only him now in the midst of this drunken negotiation.

  “This goes beyond either of us, my drinking friend.” Elion pats his arm. “I’ll smuggle or bounty hunt for you specifically, get you as much illegal substance that you can inject, smoke, snort, inhale, swallow, stick up your ass, or whatever the fuck it is you do, for the rest of your life. I need this.”

  McCuruth grins. “You’re now in a formal treaty debt to me and Uden, and to Uden’s Royal Father. We won’t let this slide. You’ll be held accountable.”

  Something intangible but firm presses against Elion’s shoulder as they shake hands, then slides into his skin, through his chest, and wraps cold fingers around his beating heart, slowing its pulse and creating a sharp bite of pain.

  Elion clenches his jaw to hide his shock … The man is a Sculptor, is threatening his life with his Will, to solidify the sentiment of their deal.

  Elion flashes a wry smile and pushes over a pile of blue tubes.

  This fucker is more dangerous than I thought.

  “Nyranna is on the planet Yerthior,” McCuruth says, “inside the cavern system.”

  “Are there any Striders in this shithole worth their skin? Any who need some quick marcs or substances? I need a lift for me and my ship, now.”

  McCuruth points out a single man among seven others, all gathered at a round table.

  Nyranna

  “Looks like no one else is coming,” says the voice of the young Whisperer who described to Nyranna her sighting of the Ruin. She calls herself Martaya but is hooded in a gray cloak so Nyranna cannot see her face. Her name may be an alias.

  Nyranna says, “We don’t have much time. Let’s go below and commence this meeting.”

  Nyranna leads the girl into a cave of gray rock that blots out the cold day—a white circle of a distant sun looking like a dead face. She walks with grace, picking her way over boulders and around collapsed slabs, into darkness before the green glow of the caverns lights up their path.

  So many Whispers concerning Uden and the Northrite flew about the galaxy.

  Every organization is on edge, preparing for a war, although some such as the Silvergarde and Viminraide Alliance—an alliance of nine less influential planets—revealed their nerves, making speeches about peace.

  This is the perfect opportunity for the Elemiscist insurgents to meet and hope their absence will go undetected by busy overseers.

  Nyranna walks past a sapling that is crawling up curtains of moss hanging from a wall of green crystal, hunting for its ancient ancestors who hang from the ceiling in this cavern of a world. Trees like bats. She knows these trees better than the people now here.

  Maybe thirty hooded people wait under the green luminescence ahead, obviously still afraid to give away their identities.

  How will the Elemiscists ever free themselves if they are cowards?

  Only two men and one woman in the platinum garb and crests of the Silvergarde do not hide their faces.

  At least the support of the Silvergarde is real.

  “I call this meeting to order,” Nyranna says, a hood covering the upper half of her face.

  The others turn to her.

  “No!” A man shrouded in green steps forward on shaky legs. “This is my insurgency.” The voice is of the old man who first contacted her, the one they referred to as the Kindling.

  Nyranna is bewildered. She did not contact him.

  “Surprised that I’ve attended?” he asks Nyranna. “I assume you didn’t invite me for a reason.”

  “Only because you forbade such a meeting.”

  “I still do. Everyone’s scared, as you may have noticed by their hoods. And rightfully so. You’ve put all our lives, all our families’ lives in jeopardy.”

  “We don’t need to give away our identities, although you already know mine. We should just speak as a group instead of relaying Whispers around to so many.”

  “I won’t mention your name,” the Kindling says. “I do not wish death upon you. So, get on with whatever you believe is so important that we need to discuss it in this extremely dangerous fashion.”

  “From the Whispers I’ve been sharing with others, it seems that only Whisperers and Striders compose this insurgency. I believe we’ll have much greater power if we also contact the others: Beguilers, Sculptors, Paladins.”

  “Even Phantoms?” the Kindling asks.

  “We both know there’s only one Phantom.” Nyranna hopes this man doesn’t know she attempted to contact Adersiun. She will not reveal anything to the effect.

  “Nay, Usurper, which is how I’ll refer to you in front of others,” the Kindling says. “This insurgency was designed for Striders and Whisperers only. We’ll not have Manipulators and Defilers running about in our midst. We are noble in our cause.”

  About two-thirds of the hoods in the crowd step closer to the Kindling and nod or murmur approval.

  Such prejudice. It runs through the common people into the Elemiscists, dividing us.

  Beguilers may influence emotion and Sculptors the very air around them, but they are still suffering Elemiscists.

  “We’d grow stronger with inclusion rather than segregation,” Nyranna says. “Not only in numbers, but also by having access to the other powers.”

  One third of the hooded people shift closer to Nyranna.

  Could I take these followers from this old fool, make them mine? “Are you a Strider-Whisperer amalgam?”

  The Kindling grunts, making her unsure of his answer. Is that why he only wants Elemiscists with those two powers, because they are like him?

  “The vastness of the galaxy makes those who control communication and travel of utmost importance everywhere outside the cluster,” the Kindling says, “and a luxury most within the cluster can no longer do without. We have a plan, Usurper. You just haven’t been patient enough to hear it.

  “Once we convince the majority of all Striders and Whisperers to join us, we’ll hold protests on every planet, and no one will Stride outside the cluster or speak to their colonies, friends, or families until they’ve met our demands for freedom. We need this majority first, or our small Silvergarde army won’t stand a chance if violence breaks out between us and the controlling organizations.”

  Nyranna throws her hood back, revealing her face. She looks at every hood in the cavern directly and feels hate and animosity and fear burn into her skin with monstrous teeth.

  A memory of herself as a child springs itself upon her. She recalls her suffering, her confusion with her mother’s absence. No one would take something like that from her again.

  “It’s time to stop the oppression,” Nyranna says, “if not for ourselves, for our children and future generations.”

  Martaya steps up beside Nyranna and speaks with a timorous tone. “Someone must address the real threats of the Ruin and the beating red sun that the Northrite council seems to be ignoring. Now that the Grand Patriarch is dead, their only focus is to solidify their rule.”

  A voice in the crowd beside the Kindling rises. “We still haven’t addressed the primary threat to our safety.” The man pulls down the neckline of his cloak, revealing raised red flesh, his linkchain. “How do we hide from our overseers? We can’t initiate our insurgency before we have the support of all the Striders who’d bring assassins after us.”

  “Maybe we can work together and find a way to remove the linkchains,” Martaya says
, her voice still quiet.

  “How will we explain our presence here, all of us together, if our overseers Whisper to each other about it?” a female voice beside the Kindling asks, icy needles lining her words.

  Another person steps up beside Martaya and lowers their hood. A woman with hair as platinum as Silvergarden, her face as white as snow. “I … I am a Beguiler and I’m already here, in support of this insurgency.”

  “Fucking Manipulator.” The Kindling steps back. “I thought I already felt something working against me, influencing my emotions and decisions.”

  “I’ve not Beguiled anyone here thus far,” the woman says. “I am Krysiv, also a …” she swallows, “an overseer, a friend of Martaya.”

  Gasps run through the shrouded faces. The opposing side retreats another few steps.

  “An overseer!” the Kindling says. “An enslaver of our people. You wretch. A human I despise beyond all others. Of course you’re a deceitful Manipulator too. I hope they find you and rape you to death, you Manipulator bitch. And you”—he turns to Nyranna—“you just killed us all. Do you slaver like a demon over the possibility of leadership? If I’d have known you’d leap into this with one invitation, I would’ve avoided you like the fetid plague of souls.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Krysiv says, lowering her head, her words clobbering Nyranna in the chest. “I must be an overseer or my family will be punished or killed. I must also do what they say, just like you. We don’t have a choice either, Mr. Kindling.”

  “Our allotted time is up,” Martaya says. “We need to Stride back to our planets.”

  “No, look.” Krysiv pulls down the collar of her cloak. Atop curves of amble cleavage lie the same rubies of flesh. “I sense those Elemiscists I’m tasked with watching similar to how I’ve heard Whisperers know how to send a Whisper to another of their kind, once they have that contact in their repertoire. There must be a way to stop or block the overseers, remove the linkchains.”

  “This filthy bitch is Manipulating us now,” the Kindling says. “She’ll report us all. Get us all killed. No one’s been able to escape their chains.”