Mantivore Dreams, page 31
part #1 of The Arcadian Chronicles Series
I licked my lips with a sand-dry tongue. “Seth’s in a meeting.” He’s always in meetings, these days. When did I stop minding about that?
“Well haul him out’ve it. He’s been through this, so he’ll know how to help you.”
Recalling his concerned frown whenever his gaze fell upon me these days, I shivered, pulling my vari-coloured robes around me.
“You’re going into shock,” announced Felina, “Where’s that healer of yours? She’s usually about.”
“I’m just cold.” I glanced around the chilly room, wondering why I hadn’t bothered to ask for the fire to be lit. And suddenly hoping Madam Healer-Prime wouldn’t show up early for my back massage. While she was always kind and attentive, I needed space to come to terms with Felina’s news. And the way it had wrenched me out of this torpor…
“I still reckon Seth should be with you.” As Felina’s image on the holopad leaned closer, I longed for her to enfold me in one of her huge hugs. But she couldn’t, because she was over six thousand miles away in the heat and poverty of The Arids.
Vrox thumped through my head like a hammer, awash with grief for his own mother, who’d died defending him as a cub. But his mother was nothing like mine. My mother had plotted to have me convicted for a murder I didn’t commit.
So why did I feel like I’d lost an arm on hearing about her death? I blinked, trying very hard not to cry. Never mind about the loss of dignity, weeping was pure agony as my mantivore-silver eyes recently had become allergic to my tears. I drew a shaking breath. “What’ll happen now?”
“There’ll be an investigation, of course. The Council in Reseda will make sure the best in the Province will be looking into this case. Cupert Peaceman won’t get within sniffing distance.”
I nodded, finding Felina’s brisk practicality easier to deal with than her sympathy. “I could send someone. There’s lots of detectives in Gloriosa who’d do a prime job of looking into her... case. They get lots of practice – there’s a bunch of folks who get murdered every single day, here.” Longing for Cnicus lodged in my throat. I’d give anything to join them. Go home…
When I took on the post of Brarian Overlord just over a year ago, I’d been so sure it would be temporary. Convinced that within a handful of weeks, some roostering Bridgedeck Uppie cousin of mine would strut from the ranks of distant relatives littering up the place, pull some flashy moves in the Prime Nodery to demonstrate his right to the Command Codes and wrest them away from Vrox. I’d even written a resignation speech, full of open-hearted acceptance of a better claim to the post of Overlord, while thanking everyone who supported me – before leaving Gloriosa in a blaze of publicity that would, hopefully, guarantee my safety. I’d planned on retiring to a corner of The Arids, thousands of miles away from Brarian Place and Gloriosa Prime to live quietly with Vrox and Seth as the local Brarian.
But the months had crawled by slower than a one-legged hexapede and here I was. Still stuck as Brarian Overlord, ruler of the roaching planet. When I’d agreed to take on the post, I hadn’t realised just how much I’d hate living in Brarian Place, or that once he’d got the hang of the politicking around here, Seth would be spending quite so much time locked in meetings and apparently enjoying it. Though he claimed he was negotiating with all the various factions to keep us from being murdered. Like Mother…
I was rocked by another blast of grief from Vrox, who lumbered to his feet.
Why don’t you go back to sleep? It’s raining and colder than an Uppie’s smile. You’re better stretching out on that heated bed of yours. If I need you, I’ll yell… I tried to screen my desperate need for some peace from the mantivore thumping through my head, while trying to cope with Felina’s news, but judging by Vrox’s snarled curses, I’d failed. Just for a change…
“…what they’re like around here, bless their sunslagged souls,” said Felina, looking expectantly at me.
“I didn’t quite…” I faltered.
“I was saying your notion of sending your Uppie Peaceman to track down who murdered Mai won’t work,” repeated Felina, more patiently than I deserved. “This is Cnicus, remember. The folks here reckon anyone not born within a nemmet’s spit of the village walls is a foreigner. They’ll clam up tighter than Eswin Washer’s wallet if anyone from Gloriosa starts asking questions. You’d end up having to MindTrawl the lot of them just to find out what they had for dinner. Partly cos they’d be witless with terror at the very notion of talking to an Uppie.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” I muttered, increasingly distracted as Vrox’s irritation and grief were building into a poisonous need to cause trouble. “I gotta go, Felina. Vrox is marching down the corridor towards the guards and that never ends well.”
Felina tutted. “He’s pulling these kinda stunts way too often.”
You’re right. Don’t know how to stop him, though.
Vrox snarls gleefully, gathering speed as he lopes towards these pathetic uniformed nuisances, gathering Threatdrool in his throatsacs…
Racing to the door, I managed to open it just as the mantivore arrived, baring his teeth in a gloating snarl as he loomed over the stony-faced guards, his neck-crest erect, his bioluminescent scales pulsing a threat display.
Read on for a sneak peek at the first book in the Sunblinded Trilogy, Running Out of Space
CHAPTER ONE
Yeah, I know – Basement Level on Space Station Hawking – what were we thinking? But penned up on punishment duty with only the prospect of one chaperoned shopping trip had driven us to it. Though the charms of Basement Level wore thin as soon as we set off from the lift. One light in four was working – and then only in Dim mode. The corridors were half the width of the upper levels; a big problem as I’ve seen sewage tanks more wholesome than those walls. You wouldn’t want to brush against them wearing anything other than shipwear throwaways, while keeping off the walls was harder than you’d think, because we were wading ankle-deep in… stuff.
Jessica punched my arm. “Must be homely for you, Lizzy. Floor looks like your cribicle after you done tidying.”
Alisha and Sonja started sniggering.
“’Cept the smell isn’t as vile as your boots,” I replied.
Our laughter bounced around the filthy corridor, easing the mood for a couple of minutes but did nothing about the putrid smell. We struggled on a bit longer, until a grimy woman scuttled past, forcing us far too close to the walls. She didn’t even look our way, let alone thank us for making sufficient room.
Sonja and Alisha stopped.
“Let’s turn round. Unblocking the heads is more fun than this.” Sonja wrinkled her nose at the empty tunnel ahead. “Even the natives got sense enough to be someplace else.”
“We’ve gone promming around for less than a nanosec. And you wanna run back cos the scenery isn’t the same as on board?” Jessica clicked her tongue in scorn. “Starting to sound like those old nannies.”
Sonja flinched at the derision in her voice, but – being Sonja – wouldn’t lock horns with Jessica.
Breathing through my mouth, I straightened up. Jessica is right. So what if this is a dank disappointment? We didn’t come down here for the view – we came to prove we could handle ourselves when off-limits.
But Alisha grabbed Jessica’s arm. “Sonja and me reckon this is a vile place. We vote to head back. Tramping through filth is a tragic waste of shore leave.”
All argument ceased when the floor crud rustled and heaved behind us. A cat-sized rat scuttered through the litter into the gloom beyond.
I shivered. “It’s gotta get better soon. We’re snagging the next lift we see back to Trader Level.”
We continued trudging onwards for another ten minutes. Just as I was beginning to think the scuzzy corridor was leading into infinity, we turned a corner into a small square. With a blast of relief, I spotted the lift in the far corner and relaxed. Now we were nearly out of here, we could do the tourist bit. Truth be told, the word ‘square’ probably gives the space more credit than it deserves. While the lighting was brighter and the floor litter had been trodden relatively flat, the buzz that normally goes with buying and selling wasn’t here. Under the stink of rotting rubbish was the sharper stench of desperation. I passed a trader’s eye over the ratty stalls. Everything on display would’ve gone straight into our ship’s recycler. The food canisters were filthy without the benefit of even the most basic steri-scrub. And the water on sale might have shown blue on the pacs’ purity scales, but the readings must have been blixed, because that cloudy stuff wasn’t fit to pass your lips. Even the powdered water looked like sweepings off a shower-stall floor.
If we hadn’t come down here, I’d never have known this place existed. How many on Shooting Star know about it? This is what I joined the ship for. My heart was thudding with a mixture of fear and excitement. This was a hundred times better than trailing around the overpriced shops on Trader Level with a grumbling chaperone.
Though the people were a shock. There were no shades of yellow, brown, black, or white here – everyone’s skin was grime-grey. All wearing rags pockmarked with holes which only showed more scabby tatters, or dirt-scurfed flesh. I’d tried to blend us in. We were all in scut-gear with worn overalls and battered workboots. But we stuck out like a supernova on a dark night. Mostly because we were clean and well fed, while everyone here was stick-thin. Even the kids.
The Cap always says we English merchanters take care of our own better than anyone else. What if he’s right? Because I couldn’t recall seeing any children in this sorry state back in New London.
Sonja gave some creds to a pathetic, sunken-cheeked toddler sitting on the trash-covered floor and in no time flat we were mobbed by a bunch of snot-nosed kids. None of us could resist their pleading, so we handed out all our shore-leave cash. Of course, one of us should’ve kept an eye out for trouble. But we didn’t. And when the children scampered away, I looked up to see we were now ringed by another group. Far more grown-up and dangerous. I recognised their tattoos from the Pre-Dock Briefing, which marked them as one of the outlaw dregger gangs infesting the lower reaches of Space Station Hawking. My friends closed up behind me.
“Rock steady, now,” I muttered, trying for friendly eye contact and receiving hard stares in return.
Someone shouted something I couldn’t catch. Whatever it was passed for wit down here, as it was followed by an explosion of noisy laughter and a fusillade of crude comments from the rabble clustered around the graffiti-covered alco-bars that lined the square.
“Need to redshift our bods back up to Trader Level,” muttered Alisha, treading on my heels.
“Easy.” I needed to close down this conversation before my companions talked themselves into doing something stupid. Like being the least bit afraid. These dreggers will smell fear quicker than a miner probe can tag a seam.
“Makes you feel all warm’n fuzzy, does it? Handing out your pocket-change to our nippers?” snapped a pale-faced girl.
I raised my hands, palms out. “Hey, no harm meant, miss.”
“For sure,” Jessica added, solid at my side.
The dreggers closing in looked even more sullen. A man snaked his rank-smelling arm around my shoulders. “And where d’you call home, flower-face?”
Don’t stiffen. Remember to smile. He’s human, same as me. Even if he doesn’t smell it. “Service Level,” I lied. “Reckon we’ve taken a couple’ve wrong turns.” I had to breathe through my mouth at the blasts of foul air he exhaled.
“I could put you right. For a price.” His grin looked like something out of a horrorholo.
“Thank you, but I’m sure we can find our own way back.” I tried to ease away.
His arm stayed firmly across my shoulders. “Nah. We can’t have you girlies wandering round here. Who knows what might happen?”
A tow-headed teenager welded to Bilge-Breath’s other side sniggered.
“We can take care of ourselves.” Jessica didn’t hide her irritation as she jostled my elbow, plunging her hand into her jacket pocket. “You gonna bounce this prodder off the walls with your ninja biz?” she breathed in my ear. Sonja and Alisha bunched up behind her, facing outwards, immediately defensive.
I tried to quell their twitchiness with a quick shake of my head. The Cap will break orbit if he hears we drew our weapons down here. Or start a fight we can’t win.
“You wouldn’t’ve come zoo-gazing down here in the first place if you an’ your up-swept friends weren’t so prodding stupid,” snapped Pale Girl.
An answering mutter of agreement rustled through the gang and the knot in my gut tightened.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Getting a book in front of readers that is fit to read takes the time and energy of a whole raft of people. As ever, those lovely people in my writing group – Sarah Palmer, Geoff Allnutt aka The Speech Painter, Liz Tait and in particular, Katie Glover and Debbie Watkins who read through a much earlier version and helped me take the decision to perform major surgery that turned the story into something more readable. Your advice and encouragement have helped improve my work, along with the strong tea and wonderful homemade cake…
Huge dollops of gratitude go to my fabulous editor Jo Hall, who managed to knock off the jagged edges and clunky bits without flattening my rather distinct style. You are awesome and I wish I could bottle your genius and pour it over allll my other efforts… Grateful thanks also go to fabulous beta readers my sister and Sandra Wood-Jones, whose careful readthrough caught a number of typos missed by previous editing passes.
Once more, the amazing cover has been produced by my fabulous writing buddy and cover-design maven, Mhairi Simpson. I was devastated when you moved from twenty minutes up the road to Lincolnshire and not convinced when you insisted that you wouldn’t lose touch – that you’d be back down regularly to visit… But you’ve kept your promise – and for that I am so very grateful. Your continued friendship and enthusiasm for all things Griffinwing, from helping to untangle dead zones in the boggy, mid-book bit, to helping me tackle the marketing is a lifesaver.
My friend Sally, who this book is dedicated to, is another remarkable person. She has also been writing a book during the whole time that Mantivore Dreams has been a manuscript and her courage and determination to prevail has been an inspiration. Thank you for your shining kindness and friendship – it means the world to me.
None of this would be possible without my rock and backstop. The person whose belief in my writing is unshakeable and in addition to the advice and encouragement, provides endless tea and tasty meals. He even listens to the cricket with headphones on so as not to disturb my writing. Thank you, John.
And finally – you, the readers. A massive thank you for buying the books and taking the trouble to let me know how much you enjoy them. I know many of you fell in love with Lizzy – here’s hoping Kyrillia and grumpy old Vrox also finds a place in your heart.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born the same year as the Russians launched Sputnik, I confidently expected that by the time I reached adulthood, the human race would have a pioneer colony on the Moon and be heading off towards Mars. So I was at a loss to know what to do once I realised the Final Frontier wasn’t an option and rather lost my head - I tried a lot of jobs I didn’t like and married a totally unsuitable man.
Now I've finally come to terms with the fact that I’ll never leave Earth, I have a lovely time writing science fiction and fantasy novels, after recently stepping down from my post as Creative Writing tutor at the Greater Brighton Metropolitan College, where I taught for ten years. I live in Littlehampton on the English south coast with a wonderful husband and a ridiculous number of books.
Griffinwing Publishing
S J Higbee, Mantivore Dreams
