Through the Nether, page 6
part #4 of Order of the Centurion Series
The Iago sped beneath a gas giant, the underside a kaleidoscope of color and storms.
“This system is most unusual,” Heywood said. “No out system patrols. No friend of foe challenge from orbit harbor masters.”
“Qadib borders Zhee space. They’re known to go on slave raids to systems that aren’t fully in line with the Republic’s aims,” Soren said. “Anyone that comes here knows the risks. Naturally, it attracts the desperate and the criminal element.”
“I just replaced the ship’s hull fixtures.” The bot’s armless shoulders wagged up and down. “Scaring away street urchins and opportunists on Strach IV took a few near misses with a pistol before word got around to leave my beautiful ship alone. I dare say my knowledge of zhee expletives will not be as effective should we set down in a less secure area. Which seems inevitable.”
“We’ll manage.” Soren entered a code into the controls. A holoscreen and cam extended up from the copilot’s seat. Soren twisted it towards him and waited as a cursor pulsed in one corner.
Minutes ticked by and Soren sighed. He drew his pistol and a leather pouch from a thigh pocket. He laid a cloth out on his lap, unloaded the weapons and disassembled it. He cleaned out the chamber with a puff and ran a thin wire brush down the barrel when the screen finally resolved into a silhouette surrounded by static.
Soren traded challenges with his handler.
“Report,” Nix said.
“You’ve heard nothing? No word from Rintaka?” Soren asked.
“You’re not there?” Nix asked. Soren wished the connection wasn’t as encrypted, it was hard for him to gauge if his handler was being sarcastic or not.
Soren recounted the events on the garrison world, giving extensive details on Farn and the legionnaire officers.
“The auxiliary’s service is terminated,” Nix said with a sniff. “Unfortunate.”
“Zelle. And I’ll close out her file once time allows,” Soren said. “Further, I’ll recommend her for-”
Nix waved a hand in a dismissive gesture.
Anger blossomed in Soren’s heart.
“The dead are dead,” Nix said. “Save you energy for the task at hand. I can redirect another technician to you. Which is where, exactly? You’ve scrambled your location trace for this transmission.”
Soren swiped a screen and brought up a map of Qadib Primus, the planet’s main city. The beacons hidden in the weapon’s cases showed them all in the planet’s largest city. Which wasn’t really saying much. The habitable portions of Qadib were little more than an equatorial belt between oceans.
Straightening himself, Soren said, “Given the encounter we had with Nether Ops on Rintaka, I’m reflagging this mission as Onyx condition.”
Nix scowled and shook his head. “Son, that’s incredibly stupid. Onyx is meant for more senior agents operating within an established network. You go offline from all other Nether Ops and you’re tying both hands behind your back—”
Soren adjusted a dial on his communication’s panel and Nix’s words were drowned out in static.
“Control, we’re passing through a gas giant’s radiation belt,” Soren said. “We’re losing the link. Full report in three days. Sir? Sir?”
He pressed a button and the holoscreen retreated into the console.
“Is this wise?” Heywood asked. “While I am but a simple JB-M3 bot tasked to Nether Ops—well, not so simple given the extensive modifications to my processors—to divorce yourself from any and all support…I believe ‘incredibly stupid’ is not far off as an assessment.”
“It’s a question of necessity, not wisdom, Heywood. Farn knew this ship was Nether Ops after we popped onto Rintaka’s grid. She was waiting for us, and the only way that would happen is if someone told her we were on the way.”
“You believe Nix did this?”
“No, I’m his agent. He wanted me to turn over the weapons before I could find the next link in the chain he would’ve just ordered me to dump the crates on Strach IV or Rintaka. By procedure, he sent up a report with our plan after we left Strach and someone in Nether Ops—someone working with Farn—found it. I had to go Obsidian, hide ourselves from disloyal elements, long enough to find more evidence of who’s working against the Republic.”
“So you’re going to go waltzing around Qadib alone. On a zhee refugee world. Poking your nose someplace it doesn’t belong.”
“No one ever said Nether Ops would be easy. And it’s not like we’re going to Ankalor. Qadib is Republic governed. Log into the systems freight notice boards and start looking for work. Bid way too high on a couple freight runs but don’t accept any contracts. Need to at least pretend we’re a cargo ship.”
Soren stood up and rubbed his jaw. The hairline fracture had nearly healed, he could move it well enough, but was still sore to the touch.
“As you like, sir. I’ll have you note our limited funds available before you decide the good ship Iago is too proud for an honest day’s work,” the bot said. “Of course, were we not Onyx condition, I could easily arrange a transfer.”
“We’ll find a way. I need to go take care of something.”
Soren left the bridge and went to the cargo bay. He made his way back to ship’s entryway, where he’d left Zelle in her body bag.
She was now reduced to little more than a long lump in the black plastic. Soren grabbed one end, so hot it was almost painful to touch, and rolled it up. The ash within ground against itself and he hefted the heavy bag into the crook of one arm.
Soren looked to the garbage disposal shoot and shook his head. He considered releasing her remains to the void from the air lock, but hesitated.
“You deserve better,” he said, looking down at the misshapen lump cradled in his arm. “Internment on Utopion with the honored fallen. Even if it is in a mausoleum with the masses and not a proper grave site. To hell with Nix, I’ll pay the fees myself.”
He brought the roll to their quarters and laid it at the base of her pillow, then tightened the sheets over it.
“First time that bed’s ever been made,” he muttered.
“Sir?” Heywood called through the comms. “We’ve secured a landing pad and received several death threats from shippers accusing us of trying to inflate rates. When I lowered bids to offset this negativity, we received death threats for being shills attempting to deflate rates. This planet seems more difficult than usual.”
“It’s been heavily colonized by the zhee,” Soren said. “You’ve got a mix of refugees from all four home worlds displaced by inter-tribal warfare. And they’re all constantly threatening to kill everyone else they encounter.”
“This is quite the discouraging picture.”
“They only mean it sometimes, generally closer to their days of religious observance. Not that it makes a difference. Qadib is the place.”
“It seems likely that you will die at ‘the place.’ Not that that’s any of my concern. I’ll be safely on board the ship.”
“Thank you for your concern.” Soren went to a locker and jiggled the handle to open it. This one always seemed stuck. Inside were several worn overcoats, boots, scarves and pistols that looked like they’d been scavenged from Strach IV. He picked out what he hoped would be inconspicuous on Qadib. Just another spacer looking to get a job and then get the hell of the planet. No trouble asked for, no trouble needed.
He adjusted a gun belt over a light tan trench cloak and pulled a baklava hood over his mouth and head. “All right, Heywood, I’m going outside.”
“Yes, sir. As you say, you’re the one that has to go mingle with those vile creatures. Don’t blame me when they eat you. Then kill you. Or is it the other way around?”
“Just be ready to drop the ramp if you see me running to the ship.”
The Iago’s cargo ramp lowered and a swirl of orange dust blew through the crack. Cold air enveloped him and he set a pair of goggles over his eyes.
Lines of dust snaked across the basalt landing pad, and three figures walked up to the ramp, stopping inches from where the edge touched down, clearly zhee.
The three aliens wore knee-length white tunics and had their legs and arms wrapped in cloth. Their cloven feet scratched at the landing pad impatiently. With their equine heads, floppy ears and grey fur, Soren understood why most of the galaxy called them Donkeys. Not to their face, at least. Only the Legion did that.
Two on the flanks carried slug rifles boasting serrated bayonets in their hoof-like claws. The one in the middle had a curved knife hanging from his belt, through Soren’s trained eye saw bulges in the alien’s tunic for at least two pistols.
Soren opened his hands to his sides and walked down the ramp.
The zhee with the knife poked him in the chest hard enough to stop him a step short of the edge.
“Stop, tarha, this world’s blessed by the four gods,” the zhee said.
“I wired the port fees,” Soren said. “Need to see a receipt?”
“You are tarha. There’s a tax for your presence here.”
The zhee forbade non-believers, which meant any non-zhee as only the donks were pure enough for their gods. With each of the four home worlds constantly fighting and undermining one another to prove which was the preeminent. They were more than willing to kill one another to prove they were the first among equals.
Soren wasn’t sure if this ‘tax’ was a simple shake down or if this was some part of zhee dominance on worlds they’d been allowed to colonize. But there wasn’t any sense in taking a principled stand against local custom. There rarely was.
“I know there’s a duty on imported goods,” Soren said. “But I’ve come with an empty hull looking for work.”
The zhee pulled his knife free from its scabbard and raised it flat against his chest.
“Eight hundred credits or your hand. Choose.”
“Sir,” Heywood said through Soren’s ear bead, “we’ve barely enough to refuel the ship if you pay that exorbitant amount. Let me activate the ship’s cannons. Please. The satisfaction you’d get in killing them is far higher than recovering whatever intelligence you’ll find here. I’m sure of it.”
“Eight hundred,” Soren reached into his coat slowly as the rifle armed zhee huffed at each other. He pulled out a credit chit synced to his account and set it to the donk’s asking price.
The lead zhee snatched the money and backhanded Soren across the face, sending falling ass-first onto the ramp. The alien sheathed his knife and tossed a black piece of cloth with zhee letters stitched into it at Soren’s chest.
“Wear that,” the zhee said. “Or pay your tax again, tarha.”
The aliens turned, and one of the flankers kicked sand onto Soren as they walked off.
“What a horrid place,” Heywood said.
“Yeah, real garden spot.” Soren worked his mouth from side to side, glad that at least the zhee had hit the side of his face that wasn’t healing. He picked up the cloth and worked it between his fingertips. It was an armband. Soren slipped it over his sleeve and made sure it was too tight to fall off.
The circular bay the Iago had set down in was open to the sky. Soren wasn’t sure if the sky was always the color of jaundice or if a dust storm was passing through. There was vegetation in other stretches of the planet, which made Soren wonder why the largest city was out here, seemingly amid the wastes. There was a single set of metal double doors in the walls circling his ship, no windows or walkways.
“At least this spot is private,” Soren said into the comm. “No one can see us loading or unloading cargo.”
“Or see misfits stealing parts off my ship,” Heywood replied. “I’m locking the ramp and electrifying the hull should I see anyone but you come through that door. How long will you be gone and where are you staying?”
“You sound nervous, Heywood.” Soren unsnapped the cover on his pistol and made his way to the door.
“Hardly. Just remember we have funds for three days on this pad. Less if the tax man comes calling again.”
Soren pushed one of the doors open and found a street with humans, zhee and other races going about their business, passing windowed stores and food stands. Non-zhee wore the bands on their left arms and Soren switched his over to match.
Rickshaws, some with creaky robot drivers others with aged, feline wobankis, made their way through the streets slowly. The ring of bells alerting pedestrians to their approach through the sand.
“Keep poking at the job boards.” Soren shut the door behind him. “I’ll scout this place out on foot.”
The blowing dust and cold air made walking around with a covered face natural and acceptable, which was a boon for Soren as he didn’t want to be noticed or recognized while in the city. Of course, the local dress also made spotting anyone tailing him more difficult, but Soren decided he could manage the risk. What other choice did he have?
Adjusting his goggles, Soren pressed a tiny button that activated a HUD on the lenses. An overlay of the city appeared, showing fastest directions to a number of points of interest he’d loaded up earlier. A diamond pulsed to his north, leading him to the beacons hidden in the arms cases.
“There are a number of bot shops in the bazaar,” Heywood said. “I’ll send you specifications for my new chassis.”
“Thought we were low on cash.” Soren walked down the road stopping to wait in line for some sort of grilled meat that other humans were eating.
“For low priority things such as alms for the zhee, but this is me we’re talking about.”
Soren watched for anyone mirroring his actions up and down the street, a sure sign that he was being followed. He passed a credit to a thin man in exchange for a thin wooden stick skewered through greasy hunks of meat.
Uncovering his mouth, he bit off a chunk and chewed as he walked, trying not to think about what where it might have come from. It was a distantly familiar taste. “’It’s me’ isn’t the most convincing of arguments right now, Heywood.”
“Do you want to do all the cooking? Cleaning? Maintenance tasks? I’ll also point out that the upholstery on my seat is eight weeks passed factory suggested replacement. The co-pilot preceding you and Ms. Zelle was fond of spicy food and rampant flatulence. I’ve had to disengage my olfactory sensors. You don’t have that option.”
Soren spat out a tiny bone and tossed the meat stick down an alley way. He never had a taste for cat.
“Why buy you a new chassis when Nether Ops will do it for free once we’re finished up here? The Seat cushions can wait, too.”
Humans and other non-zhee hurried off the street and into businesses, seemingly all at once as if by some unspoken cue.
“Fine. Expel a reminder of that corpulent windbag every time you sit in that seat after you replace my body, see if I care.”
Braying sounded around a corner and everyone still out on the street with an armband stopped in place and fell to their knees. A door opened next to Soren and an old woman motioned him inside. The elderly woman didn’t seem armed and the smell of pastries was certainly more inviting than whatever was coming around the street. Still, Soren hesitated a moment to get a better look inside before ducking into the doorway.
“Oba bless you,” the old woman said as the door shut behind him with a hiss. She flashed a bull horned hand gesture at the window as a crowd of zhee came around the corner, braying to the sky and slapping at their chests. “Another one of their damned holy months. They’ve been insufferable since the Republic let them immigrate as much as they like to this world.”
Soren picked up the scent of cinnamon rolls smothered with icing. He passed her a credit chit and pointed at a display, his mouth already watering.
“Doesn’t the governor enforce the Displacement Act?” Soren asked as the old woman pulled out his selection from behind the glass. “It’s meant to stop a world from…this sort of thing.”
She handed him a roll wrapped in greasy paper.
“Act’s only ever enforced to keep humans off of alien worlds,” she said. “Transports full of zhee show up in the sky? Why, governor can’t come across as xenophobic, now can she? She’d be dragged back to the House of Reason to explain why she hates non-humans so much. Useless woman.”
“I didn’t know it was like this out here.” He took a whiff of the roll, remembering a particular stall in an open air market back on Oliphant he and Vanessa liked, then took a bite.
“You’re a hauler by dress. Guess local politics don’t much matter to your kind. That or you ain’t seen much the galaxy yet.”
Soren shrugged and took a bite.
The old woman continued. “Pick up a load, take to where you’re paid to. Doesn’t matter if the money comes from humans or it doesn’t. Same goes for me, mind you, but it’s a whole lot harder when they hate you. Bet you’ll have charters for native Qadibi moving to a human world soon enough, if the zhee don’t tax us into poverty first.”
She shuffled over to an oven and removed a tray of croissants and laughed to herself. “You think the donks would buy a bakery?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Rhetorical question. Those savages don’t like cooked food unless it’s the flesh of their enemies. What’s your next world?”
“Strach IV, if I can’t find a decent haul.” Soren kissed frosting off his fingertips.
“Strach…bah.” She looked over his shoulder. “Procession’s over with. One of those mobs catches you in the open and they might drag you off for a religious observance. Not many come back from those.”
“Thank you, madam.” Soren added a credit to the chit he’d given her as a tip and went back onto the street.
The streets were eerily silent as he followed the beacon to the first case. Humans made furtive glances from doorways before hustling back into the open, heads down. Soren chalked up the old woman’s warning about being taken away by the zhee as mere uneducated superstition. The mandatory cultural appreciation lessons the Republic gave him spent an inordinate amount of time dispelling any notion that the zhee ate other sentients. Either the locals hadn’t had the training, or they were aware of a different truth.
