Agents of Rivelt, page 10
“Sure. Let’s go out to the garden.”
Her parents took the hint and did not follow them. Tracy led him down steps between terraces. Flowery scents wafted on the breeze. Opal was rising, almost full. Its light silvered the ripples in a pool where a stream paused before gurgling over rocks. Tracy sat on a bench, and he took another, situated at a right angle to hers.
“I’ve been studying Earth a little more,” Tracy said, “so I don’t make any stupid blunders. They think their moon is beautiful, but I’ve seen the pictures. Luna is nothing compared to Opal.”
Vigard followed her gaze to the orb. Scattered crystal beds reflected hints of pink and blue. A different show every night as it turned through its slow rotation. The moment was so peaceful, he hated to ruin it. Wasn’t even sure how to start.
Perhaps she realized his dilemma, for she spoke first. “Did your Switur contact meet with you after I left the transport?”
“Yeah. You’re not going to like this.”
“Oh.” Tracy took a deep breath and let it out. “Tell me, please.”
Her lips clamped ever tighter as he related the conversation, but she didn’t speak until he finished. And then some. Finally, she asked, “Can he order you to do it?”
“No, I can decline. But I won’t.”
“Please do. It’s like he’s sending you to your death.” The words were quiet, but he detected a squeak.
“Tracy, you need to realize that an assassin will keep killing until someone stops him.”
“Let someone else do it. It’s not like you’ll be able to rescue any more slaves if you’re dead. They need you.”
“This guy’s future victims need me, too. Three bounty hunters are dead because they weren’t thought-readers. This assassin must be taken out.”
She shifted on the bench, gripping its edge as though she could barely stay seated.
“What’s really bothering you, Tracy?”
“Do you think the risk of your death isn’t enough to upset me?”
He nodded. “There’s more to it, isn’t there?”
She drew an audible breath. “You’re intentionally setting out to kill someone.”
“He’s a murderer. We have capital punishment on Rivelt, too. How is this different?”
“I don’t know.” She fidgeted. “It’s just so—close and personal.”
He stared into the shadows. “Court proceedings are always…civilized. They hide the reality of what happens after the guilty verdict is announced. It is always close and personal for the convicted criminal and the executioner.”
A pause lengthened. “Why does it have to be you?”
“The same reason you and I can rescue slaves from Syndicate stations. I’m a thought-reader with no facial markings. A rare qualification among bounty hunters.”
The brook gurgled in the background, its tranquility out of sync with their conversation. “Why do you do it?” Tracy asked. “Why do you do any of it?”
Should he tell her? Vigard sighed. “Have you ever heard of Jake Talbot or an illegal drug called mex?”
“Um, no.”
“Jake Talbot was convicted and executed before you were born. Mex prevents memory formation for several hours. Even criminals rarely use it, because it’s only effective about 90 percent of the time.”
“Okay.” She looked sideways at him. “Was he convicted of drug dealing?”
Vigard unclenched his fists. Well, he’d started. Maybe he could finish. “Talbot was a tralt Human like us and had, uh, revolutionary ideas. He had his facial markings removed and went to live in Visitor Colony where, according to him, he was seeding the population with tralt genes. He would take young women on dates, give them mex, and then enjoy them. If his victim remembered, he murdered her, but many of his victims didn’t realize what he’d done. Until they got pregnant.”
The snarl vibrating from Tracy’s throat boded ill for anyone attempting to repeat the crime.
“You know my cover story is that I was born and raised in Visitor Colony.” Vigard waited for her nod. “It’s actually true. My mother was one of Talbot’s first victims.”
Tracy gasped.
Vigard forged ahead. “The shock of getting pregnant with no memory of how it happened was hard. But that was nothing compared to the shock of seeing tralt markings on her baby’s face. She had chosen private birthing and aftercare, so she had some weeks to decide what to do. Others in her situation gave their infants up for adoption to tralt Human parents.”
Tracy stared at him with an open mouth.
He managed a twisted smile. “Apparently, I was an endearing baby, because she refused to part with me. She was seventeen and naïve enough to think that removing the markings would also remove the thought-sensing nerves beneath them. She found someone to do it. I’m not sure if he misunderstood her or was unethical enough to leave her that ignorant.”
Tracy groaned.
“It gets worse,” Vigard said, “but, at first, things were great. She fell in love with a man from Earth, who worked for an export company with offices in Visitor Colony. They got married, and he adopted me…without knowing the details of my birth. My little brother was born a few years later. We were a happy family. The only tension was that my dad didn’t like tralt Humans and hated that they came into Visitor Colony. My mom was born there and wanted to stay, but he wanted to move to Earth.”
Vigard licked his lips. “You know how thought-reading starts. Little random hints of outside thoughts, barely noticeable at first. I just knew things without wondering why I knew. People would comment that I was such a perceptive child. I suppose your parents recognized it for what it was, but I was living among non-altered Humans as one of them. Then, one day—when I was ten—my dad started to get angry with my mom, and I realized he had misunderstood her. So, I explained that she hadn’t meant what he thought, and told him what she did mean.”
He took another breath. “The truth hit my mom first, and then my dad. Needless to say, their thoughts were strong, and I couldn’t help but read them. My mom’s devastation as she realized the surgery hadn’t worked. My dad’s revulsion after her pathetic explanation. The screaming fight that followed. He took my brother and left that night. I’ve never seen or heard from them since.”
Tracy exhaled a moan like she was physically ill. “Vigard, I’m so sorry.”
“Spare me the sympathy!” She flinched at his tone. He’d better reign it in. “I ended up with a Riveltian foster family. They felt sorry for me, too, and provided me with all the excuses I needed to turn pain and self-loathing into boiling, suppressed rage. For two years, they endured the verbally-abusive creature I became.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what I would have grown into if a very wise, older teacher of mine hadn’t recognized what was going on. He was single, so he had no wife or children to be tormented by my vicious tongue. He took me in, much to the relief of my foster family. He showed me patience, but never sympathy. He would not allow me to blame anyone else for my problems. He redirected me toward solutions, but he made me achieve them. He was, by far, the most loving person I have ever met.”
Tracy blew through pursed lips. “I admired you before. But now, well, realizing what you’ve overcome, my respect has increased ten-fold.”
“Thanks, Tracy, but don’t put me back up on that pedestal like you did at first.”
She chuckled. “Yeah, I do remember a certain time you got more than a little angry with me.”
He grinned ruefully. “Not my finest hour, but not my worst either. The thing is…everyone has problems to overcome. The ones who beat dramatic challenges get the accolades. The people who battle hidden or more common problems—their victories go unrecognized, though they deserve just as much respect as me. The rejection I suffered was sudden and shocking, but that doesn’t make it any worse than”—he shrugged—“oh, something like years of being ignored by a parent who does stick around.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” she murmured, staring off into the moonlit garden, perhaps remembering her own challenges.
“Anyway…” He heaved the word out as a sigh. “When it came time to pick a career, I decided to make use of the hand I’d been dealt. I knew some thought-readers were enslaved, and I figured I could help them. I was just a private locator at first. Then, I discovered that rescuing one slave just made the slavers go after someone else. And I also discovered that tralt-Humans are not the only ones being victimized. That’s why I sometimes do bounty hunting, even if the criminal has nothing to do with us.” He met Tracy’s eyes. “So, there’s the very long answer to your question. I hope you understand why I’m willing to go after Jinfal—why I feel it’s necessary.”
“I do.”
“I also understand and respect your concerns, Tracy. An execution is not something to take lightly. So, I want you to stay here until I come back from this mission.”
“No.”
“Tracy—”
“No. You may as well spare your breath. If this assassin is working for the Syndicate, they will be hot on your tail after you kill him. You’ll need me for a quick escape.”
“Need I remind you of who is in charge of our missions?”
“If you want to play that card, I have to come. You can’t order me to do anything unless I’m with you.”
Vigard choked back his first reaction, glaring at her instead. Time for his deepest, no-nonsense voice. “If I let you come, you’re staying in the transport the whole time.”
“Naturally. I can hardly prep for departure if I’m wandering around the space station. Which races should I study up on? Evonlid and Belghar?”
“You won’t be meeting them.”
Tracy stood. “True, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”
He followed her back up the terrace steps, a convoluted mixture of worry and relief worming through him.
Tracy spotted a cluster of people around the hatch of Vigard’s transport as she approached through the spaceport terminal, a robotic suitcase at her heels. What was going on?
Vigard glanced her way as she neared. “G’mornin, Tracy. Just finished testing the new hatch collar.”
“Good.” There was no way she’d ask questions in front of strangers. The terminal’s floor had been retracted a half-meter, allowing access to the lower cargo hatch. The technicians’ power tools whined as they disassembled a maintenance frame, which spanned the upper and lower hatches. Tracy looked over the new collar. Why was it so wide? A thin seam ran through it. Ah! It was really two nested collars.
Vigard grabbed the manual handle on Tracy’s suitcase. “Go on inside. I’ll get this.”
Tracy took a broad step to clear the gap. The wheels on her suitcase whirred as Vigard lifted it, and its robot brain tried to deal with being airborne.
“Resetting,” it chirped.
“Come on, suitcase,” Tracy said, and it dutifully followed her to her berth. She stowed her belongings, changed into her gray uniform, then met Vigard in the cockpit. “What’s with the new docking collar?” she asked.
“That close call at the last space station got me thinking.” He pulled up a revised training module on the screen as he explained. “With this one, the docking sensors will just detect the outer collar and latch onto that. If station personnel ever disable the docking clamp release, we can eject the outer collar and leave it behind.”
Tracy looked over the control system changes. “Oh, I like it.” She practiced the new controls for a moment then cast a sideways look at Vigard. “I have to wonder, though. The day after I pass my pilot qualification tests, you change the controls?”
“Ah! You managed to squeeze them all in? Congratulations!” He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. “I had no doubt you would pass.”
Warmth spread up her chest. “Thank you.”
“Now that you aren’t grasping for every spare minute of pilot qual time, I’ll actually get a chance to fly my own transport again.”
She heaved a dramatic sigh. “I suppose I’ll have to let you.” Tracy snuggled deeper into her cushy pilot’s couch and pulled her reader from a pocket, while Vigard took a turn practicing with the new docking controls.
Departure authorization soon came through. Tracy absently secured her acceleration straps, but didn’t stop reading until escape velocity threatened to squash her. Rivelt and Opal shrank to marble size on a secondary screen that displayed the rear view.
Vigard began preparations for hyper lightspeed, and the engines thrummed louder. “What are you studying now?” he asked.
“Racial profile of the Belghar. I’ve read up on the Evonlid, too, but I want to get your perspective, because—”
“Tracy, I meant what I said. You are not leaving this transport at the E’lid3 station.”
Whoa! He was tense. She dismissed the flippant answer that came to mind, instead saying, “I know. I agree with you. Though, of course, I would follow your instructions, even if I didn’t happen to agree.”
He let out a breath and turned back to the controls.
“I have to do a unit on every race, anyway, in order to get my degree.”
“I know.”
“I blew off the one on Evonlid before because—well, I guess it was a cross between feeling like I already knew about them and really not wanting to think about a race that burns thought-readers alive.”
“That, I can understand.”
“The weird thing is, the profile doesn’t really fit with what I know. Too academic, you would say, but it’s more than that.”
“Such as?”
“They come across as a fine, upstanding race. I would understand if the study sources acknowledged that the Syndicate is essentially the criminals of the Evonlid race, but they describe it like it’s just an ordinary business. Huge, but ordinary.”
“The Evonlid race certainly doesn’t view right and wrong the way we do.” He reached for a couple more controls on the console, then turned a grin her way. “Off topic, but I’m curious. What do your sources say about Evonlid precision and efficiency?”
“They certainly win all possible awards in that area. Starting from birth, by the sound of it. Do you know, those traits are so innate that they actually put emphasis on decreasing organization? They develop elaborate methods to determine what should be ignored. They even study techniques for removing focus from information below a certain level of importance.”
Vigard laughed. “At least they acknowledge one of their inherent flaws.”
“But don’t you see? That whole thing about how the Syndicate saves no records of comings and goings from the space stations—” She spread her hands as her pitch rose. “It’s a grand excuse. As soon as the financial transactions have reconciled, they delete all records. Any amount of criminal activity can go on and…” She paused, for he was shaking his head.
“Not criminal from their perspective,” Vigard said. “Any amount of financial activity can go on. As long as everyone gets the agreed-to funds, services, or merchandise, they see nothing inherently wrong in any exchange. Not even in selling slaves.” He angled his head. “Try to cheat or steal, and you’ll be maimed or dead before day’s end. Threaten or insult one of their women, and they will beat you till you’re broken and bloody. But sell contraband? They don’t even have a word for that. It’s just a financial transaction. Nor would they have any qualms over paying an assassin to execute someone who has been, uh, misappropriating the Syndicate’s finances or failing to provide the services they’ve been paid for.”
“Or for killing a thought-reader?”
“That too. They believe that, with our abilities, we are inherent swindlers, taking advantage of knowledge stolen from other minds.”
Indignation swelled and then choked as she remembered her own years of slavery. She sighed. “I suppose. In fact, Joe used to make me do exactly that every evening. It’s so unfair, though. Just because of the way we’re born, they condemn us as criminals, even though most of us are not.”
Vigard filled a sealed mug with icy fruit-water and drank long and deep. Refreshing after the workout he’d just finished. He refilled it then propelled himself into the lounge, where Tracy was once again studying. No one could claim she wasn’t serious about her degree. She flipped pages on her reader every few seconds.
“I have to admit, Tracy, if there is one skill I covet, it’s your photographic memory.”
“Yeah? You’re not alone.” She stretched. “I learned to hide it in my early teens, because classmates would get just livid with jealousy. It’s not the free-pass people assume. Even though I can recall things precisely, I still have to think about them in order to actually learn. In fact, I want to show you something I just realized today.”
He hooked a leg under the table she was hovering near, while she accessed the lounge’s vid display and pulled up some images.
“Okay. Here, we have an average Evonlid male. Skin color is what a Human would call olive. Lips match the skin tone, thin eyebrows, lean face with prominent cheekbones and jaw. Facial features vary considerably, but they all share that skin tone and lean look.”
“Uh-huh.”
She pulled up another image beside it. “Here is an average Belghar. This is the most common skin tone, kind of a pasty neutral. They are also lean, with prominent bone structure. Unlike the Evonlid, the Belghar all have very similar facial features. So much so, that my study sources caution against relying on visual recognition.”
Vigard grunted. Tracy had probably seen few of the Belghar, but he already knew this—and was not happy about it. “At least their skin tone varies a lot.”
“True.” She switched to another image of several Belghar faces, each with a different color: hints of pink, orange, olive, and even a blueish tint. “These are just examples, of course. The hue can fall anywhere between these. You would think that would help with recognition.”
Why did she sound so doubtful? “Yes, it does.”
“Listen to this tidbit I ran across.” She stared into space and read from a page in her memory. “‘Belghar skin tones are not genetic as in most races. Their skin cells readily absorb and reveal pigments from the foods they eat. Pigments can change as fruits and vegetables come in or out of season. Therefore, using skin tones to recognize individuals is unreliable if more than a few weeks have passed since the person was last seen.’” She refocused on Vigard. “Did you know that?”
