Agents of Rivelt, page 4
At least that was one area where she needed no training. Her years as a slave had instilled that crucial requirement. If she hadn’t learned how to restrict her apparent knowledge to the same limitations as thought-leakers, she would have given herself away—and been executed in the Syndicate’s horrific burner. The tiniest reminder still sent a charge through her nerves.
Tracy pushed the thought away as she stowed belongings then left her quarters. She kicked off against the wall of the medical unit and sailed past the doors of the passenger berths and workout room, then into the lounge, the only area of the transport that could be called spacious. It was empty, but in the galley beyond, compartments slid open then snapped closed.
Tracy halted her momentum and floated through the galley’s doorway. “Good morning, Mr. Purous. Did you sleep well?”
“Fine, thank you.”
She read his exhaustion, but appreciated that he didn’t whine about it. His hair had lost its youthful sheen—a sign of aging among the Raoulf—and sag lines creased his squarish face.
The food prepper trilled. Steam rolled out when he opened it. “Ah, that smells good.”
Another courtesy. Vigard ordered the best food he could get, but ship rations with automated preparation never tasted as good as fresh cooked. Tracy put her own selection into a prepper, as Mr. Purous began steeping grag tea in a sealed dispenser. “Go enjoy your breakfast while it’s hot,” she said. “I’ll bring the tea out when I come.”
A few minutes later, she set his teacup on the magnetic holder.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Unfortunately, the youngest member of the group pulled himself into the dining nook at the same moment. “I’ll take some grag, also,” he said. “What can you make me for breakfast?”
He’d expected extra attention last evening, too. Tiresome. Tracy slid her legs into the seat grips. “Sorry, Mr. Jurin, we don’t have a cook on board.” She tilted her head toward the galley. “Everything is labeled in standard language, and there’s a translator if you need it.”
She read his silent question. Why did she serve him and not me? Also, the offense he’d taken. But she couldn’t answer that, for she shouldn’t know it. She hurried through her waffle and simulated bacon, then joined Vigard in the cockpit.
He relaxed in the left pilot’s couch. “Mornin’, Tracy. How goes it?”
She closed the cockpit door. “Oh, fine, but I just irritated a passenger.”
“Mr. Jurin?”
“How’d you know?”
“Bound to happen. In the past months, I’ve seen you patient with a terrified slave and with a passenger’s child. But I’ve never seen you patient with a healthy adult who acts like a child.”
She snorted.
“I don’t blame you, but be careful. We need all our passengers on our side. If we’re ever accused of what we really do, I’d like every one of them to swear we would never be party to such a thing.”
A murmur of voices caught her attention—the conversation from the dining nook. “Ah. You were listening. That’s how you knew.”
“Listened to their thoughts as well,” Vigard said. “Nice job, by the way, not responding to his wounded dignity.”
“Thanks, but when are you going to start trusting me?”
“I trust you more every day, but this is dangerous work. I need to be certain you’re ready.”
“We haven’t done anything dangerous since that first trip together.” Tracy splayed her hands. “We just ferry rich people around.”
Vigard held up a finger and raised the volume control, for someone had just said, “…grasp of Human culture.”
Silverware clinked. “You mixed a false assumption with your ignorance,” Mr. Purous said. “I made my own meal and started the tea. She only offered to carry it to the table when her food was heated. Seek to understand this: When Humans choose to serve you, they are offering a courtesy. If you demand they serve you, then you degrade their courtesy by not allowing them to give it willingly.”
Tracy murmured, “I like him,” then rolled her eyes as Mr. Jurin said, “She still disrespected me by not bringing me the same she brought you.”
“You cannot be certain she intended that,” Mr. Purous said. “Cultural missteps are common, but I expect my employees to learn and avoid them.”
Mr. Tronsen joined them, and the conversation shifted. Vigard flipped the audio off and stretched.
Tracy twisted the end of her braid. “Maybe I should find time to serve a round of drinks to all of them.”
“That should help. Enough of them. Run through standard checks, confirm autopilot course, then switch the cockpit over to training mode.”
“Yes, sir.” She began following his orders, but said, “Seriously though, Vigard, do you always do this much routine transport? When are we going to rescue someone?”
“It’s imperative to maintain a believable cover—some legitimate reason why we come to a planet or space station.”
“Yes, I realize that, but now we have to wait for this group and then ferry them back in two days. So, I don’t see how we can smuggle a slave out.”
“Worse yet,” Vigard said, mimicking her aggravated tone, “I have no information on any slaves or bounty on this space station.”
She clamped her lips. He’d given her no answer, and on top of that, he brought up that bounty hunting thing again. Not that she hadn’t known about it in advance, but she just—
“What’s all this jabbing you’re doing with the controls?” Vigard asked. “Learn to stay calm.”
In the same instant that her ire triggered, she realized he was right. She needed to treat every moment in the cockpit like their lives depended on her skill. Because someday they would.
An hour later, she completed a training routine, and Vigard said, “Good work. Let’s take a break.”
She expected him to leave the cockpit with her, but he only rotated his seat to face hers. She looked into his steel-grey eyes, waiting.
“You still haven’t figured it out, Tracy—what the life of a private locator really is.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him.
He slowed his words. “It is lightyears of boredom, punctuated by moments of sheer terror.”
Tracy swallowed. Terror, she understood.
“I’m not sure which is worse,” Vigard said, “but both must be dealt with. Boredom numbs the mind and senses. That’s one reason I like training you. It gives me something new to do. That’s why I like to see you pursuing your cultural education. Believe me, boredom can kill.”
He pushed against his backrest to extend the angle. “That leaves those moments of sheer terror.” He slowed and deepened his voice. “Do not think for one moment that I have survived by luck.”
She held her tongue, certain he wasn’t finished.
“I survive by planning. Everywhere I go, I am constantly gathering information. I know which merchants and bankers are diligently honest, and I know which ones will rob their clients and cheat the Syndicate. I know who informs, and who turns their back on oddities—fortunately, most of them. When I get word of a Riveltian slave, I know where to start looking and how to plan an escape route.”
“I understand,” she murmured.
“What Joe did with you—keeping you out in the casinos every night—was a much bigger risk than many slave handlers will take. Most keep their slaves hidden from sight, even after the facial markings are removed. Once I finally locate a slave, I take time to identify risks and form a plan.” He made slicing motions with his hands. “No plan—no rescue. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
He shifted forward. “Please get it out of your head that I’m wasting time.”
She chewed her lower lip for a moment. “All of that makes sense. I don’t find it hard to believe that you’re doing more than appears.” She spread her hands wide. “But I’m not doing anything.”
He gripped one of her hands. “Never discount the value of preparation. The foundation is more critical than any other part. The first time I bring a rescued slave through the hatch and you are in the cockpit—all ready for take-off—we will both know that every moment of your training is the greatest investment we ever made.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” She made sure no complaint flavored her voice. “Do you plan to keep me in this transport every time?”
“’Course not. In fact, I was going to ask if you wanted to do a little, uh, shopping while we wait for our passengers. You’ll need at least a full day to visit every store in this space station.
She straightened so suddenly that she would have bumped the ceiling if her lap belt hadn’t been connected. “Information gathering?”
He laughed. “Yes, but also pick up any outfits that work for disguises.” He grew serious again, shaking his head. “This space station is no different than the one you escaped, and you act like we’re here for a little holiday fun. The Syndicate still burns thought-readers, you know.”
“I do, Vigard.” She leaned forward to meet his gaze. “But remember, I survived by being seen, rather than by hiding.”
Vigard got to witness her skills among their thought-leaking passengers that evening. She prepared and served a round of drinks before dinner, making sure that Mr. Jurin felt equally respected with the other two. She even listened to that puppy’s stilted discourse throughout the meal. Then, she neared Mr. Purous, as he anchored to a couch in the lounge, and embarked on her favorite subject: culture. This time, Raoulf culture.
Vigard hovered near a table and did his conversational duty with the other two, although Mr. Tronsen’s attention often wandered to Tracy. So did Vigard’s when Mr. Purous said, “But I talk too much of my own without letting you share. What is your home world?”
Vigard held his breath. He’d strangle her if she said Rivelt. That fact was not to be admitted in their line of work.
She blinked in a fine semblance of surprise. “Earth, of course.” In reality, she had never been there.
“Ah, please forgive me,” Mr. Purous said. “It is hard to remember planet names when they are so different from the race name.”
“Besides,” Mr. Tronsen said, “there’s that other planet—Rivelt—where the tralt Human’s live. I always wondered about that double race name. Are they tralt, or are they Human?”
“Human,” Tracy said. “Tralt is just a modifier, not a race. Humans often shorten long terms. In this case, Thought-Reader gene altered, which was shortened first to TR Alt, and later to tralt.”
“But the other Humans exiled them to Rivelt, didn’t they?” Mr. Jurin asked. “It seems a treacherous thing to do after they altered them.” He slapped a table in the Raoulf form of emphasis, then grabbed its edge as the gesture betrayed him in zero G.
Vigard grasped his arm to steady him, then released him just as quickly, acting like nothing had happened.
“It’s not exactly like that,” Tracy said, scrunching her nose. “The alteration was accidental.”
Vigard released a warning thought. Keep it textbook.
I will, she responded silently.
“It’s hard to imagine,” Mr. Tronsen said, “how a persistent genetic change could be accidental.”
“Understandable.” Tracy played with her braid. “The dormant gene exists in all Humans. Researchers were trying to figure out what it did, but the results manifested too slowly to be identified. They concluded subsequent DNA changes had rendered the gene useless. They didn’t realize their activation methods had affected genes in the ova and sperm of test subjects, until a mutation showed up in babies.”
“Ah! Blue lines on their faces?” Mr. Tronsen asked.
Tracy nodded.
“Why,” Mr. Jurin asked, “does every thought-reader race bear that marking?”
Mr. Tronsen’s brow puckered. “I’ve read that TR nerves are very similar across races. Their unique chemistry stains adjacent skin during the early formative stage.”
“Yes, so have I,” Mr. Purous said, “but we are not letting Ms. Tracy finish. Please continue.”
She didn’t so much as blink at the incorrect usage of her name. Vigard had to admire her control.
“Perhaps,” she said, “I should mention that Humans hadn’t yet made contact with other races. Blue markings didn’t appear during the brief genetic tests, so no one understood their significance. Human children don’t start picking up thoughts until they’re about ten years old. A few hundred TR altered babies were born before anyone realized what capabilities they would develop. Further, the active gene causes a slight chemical change in the Human body, which in turn pre-activates the gene in all ova and sperm. In other words, all subsequent offspring are thought-readers.”
Mr Purous shook his head. “The cultural impact must have been shocking.”
Vigard read his thoughts and found only sincere compassion.
“It was.” Tracy’s eye’s sparkled. “And you may have guessed by now, all things cultural fascinate me, so I’ve studied this history in detail.” She flashed a smile. “I won’t bore you, though—just give you the short history. Opinions spanned a wide spectrum.” She spread her right hand. “One extreme position touted the idea that an activated TR gene is the natural state of Human kind. Therefore, the resurgence should be welcomed.” She opened her left hand. “On the opposite end, some considered it a mutation that would destroy the Human race. They wanted tralt carriers sterilized or exterminated.”
Her audience uttered breathy gasps. Vigard sipped his drink to hide a smile. Tracy had pulled her audience right into her own fascination with the tale.
“Most people,” Tracy said, “held more moderate views. Tralt settlements formed, some as sanctuaries, others for forced segregation. But settlements couldn’t resolve the controversy. Tensions rose as fast as the tralt population increased.”
She swept a gaze around her listeners. “Fortunately, Humans surmounted the lightspeed barrier. A group of concerned, non-altered Humans funded ships and colonization supplies. Eventually, all the tralt Humans left Earth and colonized Rivelt. Some non-altered Humans also live there in Visitor Colony. That’s poorly named, by the way. It has become a city with many permanent residents, along with living quarters for short-term visitors.”
“How are Human relations now?” Mr. Tronsen asked.
Tracy narrowed her eyes. “Hmm. Perhaps I could say distantly cordial. Our governments maintain diplomatic ties. We still have substantial trade. Riveltian Humans allow us access for refueling and supplies. We may come down to the planet’s surface, but are restricted from thought-reader areas.” She tilted her shoulders. “On the other hand, we don’t want to go there, so it’s not contentious.”
She was good. No doubt of that. Using we as naturally as a non-altered human. Vigard released tight muscles while making sure no one noticed any change in his demeanor.
Mr. Tronsen drifted nearer to Tracy and gripped a couch. “Have you ever been to Visitor Colony?”
“A few times. I’ve seen some tralt Humans there. Those blue facial markings make them so obvious.”
Vigard suppressed a smile at her emphasis. Since he and Tracy had their markings removed, their thought-reader abilities were far from obvious.
“Didn’t it bother you to be near them?” Mr. Jurin asked.
“Not really. They’d come to meet with someone else and paid no attention to me. I’ve heard they purposely block out other people’s thoughts.”
Mr. Jurin kept a tight grip on the table as he tapped his palm against it. “But how could anyone know if that’s true?”
Tracy shrugged. “They admit they can read what they choose to, but I can’t imagine how they would endure hearing every thought from every person. They must have some control.” She glanced around the group as she spoke, ending with Mr. Purous. “What do the Raoulf think of thought-readers?”
“Unlike Humans, we produce no thought-readers, so they are inexplicable and alien to us. But I have lived long enough to know it is folly to equate alien with evil.”
Vigard read them all. Mr. Purous leaked thoughts consistent with his words. The other two said nothing, probably because of their discomfort, particularly Mr. Jurin. At least they didn’t seem inclined to extremes.
The hour chime sounded, and Tracy pushed away from the nearby couch. “Excuse me. I have a duty check.”
Mr. Tronsen watched her propel herself down the access hall to the cockpit. “She is unlike any crew I have met on a transport, Captain Vigard. What is she doing here?”
Vigard chuckled. “Augmenting her cultural studies in a unique way. Also earning immediate income and evading her mother’s attempt to keep her tied to a remote town on Earth.”
The corners of Mr. Tronsen’s lips twitched.
“It all works into a tidy package for her,” Vigard said. “Convenient for me, as well.”
Tracy performed the docking maneuvers at the space station under Vigard’s watchful eyes, then shut down the engine as he went to attend their passengers. She soon followed him to the lounge, arriving as Mr. Purous said, “There is nothing like zero G to engender profound respect for gravity.”
Vigard chuckled and released his grip on Mr. Purous’s arm. “So true.”
Then, the Raoulf passengers gathered their luggage and disembarked to negotiate a business deal.
The moment Tracy longed for had finally arrived. She donned a casual outfit for shopping. Black slacks and a mint green shirt, but no jewelry. Never appear rich while haggling. Vigard looked her over in the lounge and nodded. As though she didn’t know how to blend in as well as he did. She made a point of scanning him in return. He wore a heavy beige tunic, no doubt with inner pockets, over a navy shirt with full sleeves and a rich sheen. “Ah, yes,” she said. “The successful merchant look.”
His smile seemed tense. “Still sure you’re okay with separating?”
She narrowed her eyes and teased, “Vigard, I think you’re more nervous than I am. You worry too much. Syndicate watchers hang out in the casinos far more than the shopping halls. And they don’t even have that big of a presence on this space station.” His brow lowered, and his mouth straightened, so she added, “But even still, I won’t let my guard down. By the way, what’s your angle today?”
