Beyond Asimios: Book One Page 11

  —Don’t ask…

  —Fine, I’ll leave it at that.

  At one point, as he reached for the carafe of wine, Graf discovered that it was empty, and just as he was about to express his concern, Oreg drew one of his long fingers and placed it over his lips. He was receiving a transmission through his earpiece. A moment later Oreg reaffixed his visor and hood, and then he got up and he walked over to the bar where he handed over what must have been currency before he turned around and came back to the table.

  —I need you to stay here, Oreg said to Graf. Stay out of trouble. I’ll come for you as soon as I can.

  Graf had been sliding his thick fingers over his plate to mop up the grease when the inconvenience of Oreg’s proposition became clear.

  —Are you kidding me? Graf said. How long do you want me to wait?

  —I hope not long, Oreg said. If I don’t come back, return to the ship. Miranda can help you navigate through the portal.

  —Hold on here. Let me get this straight. So there’s a chance you may not make it back? I mean, this isn’t what I was counting on when you brought me here. Can you explain how this happened?

  Oreg wrapped himself tightly in his cloak.

  —Good luck, Dr. Graf, he said. Remember what I told you. Oreg then extended his arm and Graf was surprised to find a pistol passed gently into his hand.

  —A security measure, Oreg said, and with that he turned on his heels and cut his way through the crowded tavern to where he slipped out of sight, and Graf was left alone at the table with a cold pistol tucked in his belt and half a glass of wine beseeching him to take action.

  Graf glanced across the tavern door and then back at his glass. He picked up his glass and downed the wine in one motion.

  There were a number of things going through Graf’s head right now, his pleasant and rising inebriation notwithstanding. He wondered how long it would be before Oreg found his way back. There was no concrete timeframe for the captain’s absence, nor was there any realistic indication that he would ever return…so, the question was: how long should he wait? As Graf pondered this he was immediately besieged by the idea that an additional glass of wine was in order—something to calm his nerves, something to take the edge off his predicament—and he was preparing to hail his blue-skinned server when he realized that he had no money. He riffled through the pockets of his coat, but produced nothing more than a dirty napkin and a broken button; not one dollar or drachma or credit or whatever it was that was accepted as viable tender on Karmehki Tower, and he attributed this oversight to poor planning in combination with his own foolishness.

  He was mortified. How does one hang out at a tavern without money for drink? His situation was absurd and unforgivable and just as he was about to get up and push his way out the door the goblin descended upon his table and dropped a full glass of wine in front of him.

  —Wait, called out Graf as the goblin was turning to leave. I have no money?

  The server peered at him, clearly annoyed. He held his palms aloft and said something in a garble. He was ready to go when Graf took hold of the server’s shirt and repeated his statement.

  —I don’t have any money, he said. I can’t afford this drink. You must take it back!

  The goblin scowled at this as he stepped back and pushed Graf’s hand away. He muttered again in some unintelligible speak as he pointed off toward the front of the tavern, then he swatted Graf roughly on the shoulder and sneered. Another garbled word spilled from the goblin’s maw, and like a slot machine hitting a jackpot, the word OFFICER filled Graf’s VI. It was a Goerathian word, and the server gave a wide smile as he leaned in and tugged affectionately on Graf’s beard while pointing out the insignia on Graf’s lapel. Graf inspected the insignia on his shoulder, and he nodded and laughed, attempting pathetically to pronounce the word for officer in Goerathian, and the imp hooted at the roof as he danced off to continue his work.

  —Officer, of course, Graf muttered through a chuckle as he lowered his eyelids and brought the glass of wine to his thirsty lips and drank. They must see that I’m an officer and the wine is on the house. It makes perfect sense.

  Comfortable now, Graf leaned back in his chair and drew up the Mahler symphony that Miranda had transferred to his VI. To begin is to begin at the beginning, he thought blissfully. He sunk further into his chair and let the music and the sound of sleigh bells introduce the first movement…and that’s when one of Oreg’s rules—was it the fourth?—impatiently entered Graf’s thoughts like an arrow whistling cleaning past his ear: Never take a drink from a glass with a drink in it that you haven’t yourself ordered or poured…or something like that.

  Graf stared at wine that stood in front of him. He scratched his nose, and then he scratched behind his ear. This was not the first time the doctor had stared upon a glass of wine with existential contemplation; in fact, he was once quite used to it. Wine, officer’s coat…there was something here that he was overlooking and he was trying hard to figure it out, but he was stumbling, and as he stumbled he felt himself wandering further from the truth. Out of curiosity he glanced over at the crowd to see if he might gain some hint of who sent him the complementary beverage, and that’s when he caught sight of the person, or thing, he had passed in the hallway—one of the aliens from the group that had exited the shuttle car just as they had arrived on Karmehki: the alien with the headscarf, the alien with the indistinguishable face, and he, or it, or whatever it was, was standing at the far end of the room, face glimmering intermittently through a line of sight that opened and closed through the raising of arms, the bobbing of heads, and the coming and going of patrons. And that’s when Graf recalled, with the faintest imprint on his memory, the reaction from this being as they had crossed paths in the hall, a reaction he didn’t pick up on at the time: a movement or gesture, an expression of recognition…hostility. That was it! And now here this character was, returned to the dome and standing at the end of the bar, the only alien he could truly say he’d seen before in this whole cast of interstellar knockabouts; suspect, by his very nature, and in Graf’s estimation, now, an immanent and mortal threat.

  Graf took a quick swallow from his wine and wiped his forearm across his mouth.

  —I think I’m in trouble, Miranda, he said through his VI and over the Mahler, knowing full well that she would not receive his transmission and that it would be lost in the system’s electrostatic goop.

  —Send in the cavalry, he added.

  Then he stood, resigned to the wobbly sensation in his knees, and, careful to avoid being conspicuous, he followed the wall with his hand until he could slip his large body through the kitchen door where the chefs, a trio of unsavory goblins, protested his presence with shouts and menacing cooking implements. Graf did his best to ignore them. He located what he thought was the back door to the kitchen, made a rush for it, and was unceremoniously spat out into the back alleys of Karmehki Tower.

  Mahler’s fourth symphony had always been sacred to Dr. Graf. He felt that it possessed an element of otherworldliness: the themes in the symphony hover like moths as sub-themes weave into sub-themes before dissonance strikes heavy upon the anvil. This was the music Graf was listening to at the moment, and at fairly loud volume. His intent, however, wasn’t to increase dramatic effect. He was simply unable to turn the damn sound off. Either a glitch had occurred in his VI or he was too shaken by his predicament to figure out what was wrong. After loping across the alley, he ducked around the corner of a tent and then looked back to see if he was followed.

  His heart jumped.

  Sure enough, the kitchen door swung open and out stepped a silhouette that stood indifferent to the harangue from the cooks and the spoons and spatulas that were raining down upon him. Graf ducked back behind the tent while tiny prismatic snowflakes—shards of light issuing from the ceiling crystal—danced upon the surface of all things. He felt for his gun. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath…

  He decided without much reflecti
on that flight was his best option, so he turned and began running blindly down a darkened alley. Only a few steps later, he was besieged by an unseen bag of metal cans and bottles. A cat-like creature howled in terror and darted into the darkness. But Graf pressed on, caroming off a pair of surprised people strolling in the opposite direction, and then nearly upending a cart that some poor fellow was pushing through the narrow space between tents. As he ran, Graf was trying to figure out how to reach the plaza so he could draw his pursuer out into the open, all the while coming to the realization that he was losing ground…rapidly. He could hear footfalls behind him, and they were getting closer. Graf, bathed in sweat and nauseous from the exertion, felt for the weapon tucked in his belt.

  Ching, ching, ching, ching…went the sleigh bells of the Mahler symphony. Then the flutes…

  In the main plaza now, Graf stumbled into the busy thoroughfare, nearly landing on his face before righting his balance to wave away a small crowd that immediately encircled him. Some had come to offer assistance, others just to see what mischief was about, and collecting himself, Graf gazed heavenward at the dome and the light from the distant Goerathian star as he pushed his way toward the area where he and Oreg had entered the market. Over here was the fishmonger and over there was the leatherworker…and Mahler was in crescendo, the oboes and horns and bassoon, the scraping loss of harmony. It was maddening—the cymbal crashes and the timpani—and as the music was nearing its completion, the themes meeting in final resolution, Graf became aware of his assailant. He felt his presence from behind. Graf turned, his pistol raised...

  But the figure was gone. Disappeared.

  A high-pitched caterwaul cut the air and voices called out in alarm at the sight of Graf’s weapon. Graf lowered his arm and he tried to hide the gun somewhere in his belt, but the weapon slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground. He turned to continue his dizzying march toward the tower exit, while the crowd made way for the madman. He stumbled, all eyes upon him, and lurched forward. Then he broke out into a run and collapsed near one of the vender’s booths on a collection of empty boxes.

  The Mahler symphony was beginning its second movement, and there above him appeared the reaper…the agent of death with the shimmering opal face and flowing headscarf. The sound of a blade being unsheathed. And Graf awaited the cold sting in his abdomen, but the figure, the angel of darkness who had been pursuing him, dropped the blade and crumpled into Graf’s outstretched arms, resting there for a moment before rolling lightly to the side.

  There was silence. The music had stopped. The VI was quiet. Above the doctor stood a stranger—a Goerathian by all appearances—with immediacy etched on his face. He produced a leathery hand and Graf took it. Graf was raised up and, like Lazarus, born again.

  —Come with me, came the translation through Graf’s VI, and before Graf was ushered from the scene he was able to take one last look at the assassin that had so nearly taken his life and, lo and behold, beneath the fallen veil appeared a woman’s face. She was a beautiful and young and human, or perhaps an angel, with closed eyes and a wistful bend to her amber brow. The next thing Graf knew he was being yanked like a dog upon a leash away from this image of beauty and into the labyrinth of the dome.

  The two of them travelled swiftly down a series of passageways, turning left, then right, then right again (in some order such as this), until they came upon a back entrance to a rounded yurt where Graf was nudged inside. The room was dark and it stank of an odoriferous reptilian muck and Graf was told to remain where he stood while the Goerathian pushed through a door at another section of the tent.

  Graf did as was bidden, for what else was he to do? He had almost been killed, and there might be others interested in terminating his existence. He understood that things were not going well for him, and he had a nasty hunch that he had been betrayed by Oreg. He needed help, and when you are an alien in a distant corner of the galaxy it is sometimes necessary to trust in the better nature of those offering assistance. This Goerathian had done just that—he had offered assistance—but just how much assistance he intended to give, however, was yet to be seen.

  The door flung open and light pounced into the room. The Goerathian entered, although this time he was accompanied by someone else. When they turned on an overhead lighting element, Graf saw immediately that the new person was an older Goerathian. His fur was white and his face was deeply etched by the lines of time. He approached Graf and looked into the doctor’s eyes as if to measure the worth of their obstreperous charge. A moment later, he held out his hand and Graf took it. The gentleman then spoke:

  —You are a friend of Zarzast, therefore, you are a friend of ours, came the translation over the VI. Please honor us by letting us help you. But we must move quickly. Tower security has been alerted. Follow Orsani and he will lead you to safety.

  At that moment Orsani, if this was indeed who the older Goerathian was referring to, was pushing aside a large cage containing what Graf determined to be an animal, and it hissed and spat as if in an argument over being disturbed. The creature, or giant arthropod as Graf determined after getting a better look, its large forcipules (dagger-sharp front feet) dangerously pointed and probing, was at least three meters long and segmented in glistening scales, and under these scales emerged tens of quivering legs.

  —Psipkat, Orsani said soberly. If you ever run into a psipkat, you must kill it by piercing its brain…right here, and Orsani indicated the soft spot between his chin and throat. There is no other way, he added.

  At that moment the psipkat rattled the cage as it swatted it’s hindquarters against the floor.

  —Who is Zarzast? pleaded Graf. I know of no Zarzast. The only Goerathian I’ve met, other than the two of you, is Oreg. You must be mistaken?

  But the two Goerathians merely exchanged blank looks before turning back to Graf, and Graf decided then and there that they were listening to him without any translation.

  —Miranda? Graf said over his VI. How about that cavalry right now?

  Orsani made quick work of removing a panel in the floor by using a small hand tool and a pry bar. Once the panel was off he descended into the darkness and motioned for Graf to join him, and Graf settled on his rear and then dangled his corpulent legs over the edge. Thank you, he said to the elder Goerathian, as he held his hand over his heart. The gesture was clumsily reciprocated. Then Graf was down in the hole with Orsani, Orsani’s flashlight beaming out before them from an eye on the top of the Goerathian’s head. Graf heard the metal plate slide back into place, and he thought of the fantastic animal in the cage—the psipkat.

  He would never forget it.

  They moved through the lower tunnels of Karmehki Tower for what seemed like and hour or two, Orsani leading the doctor down this and that damp and stuffy tube; up and down narrow ladders to different levels while the Goerathian referenced his hand locator before backtracking or deciding which way to go when the tunnel came to a fork. Graf tried without success to use his VI’s infrared feature. It was either disabled or hadn’t come with Berdinka’s makeshift version. By now, the doctor’s spirits were in rapid descent and he was beginning to regret having let Oreg talk him into taking a trip to the tower. He wasn’t a rat, goddammit; his body couldn’t take this kind of punishment!

  As he followed Orsani, they plodded and pushed their way through piles of defecation and makeshift dumps, kicking through litter and waste while smearing themselves in foul oils and grease and gelatinous goops. The beam from Orsani’s flashlight illuminated strange writing on the tunnel walls: alien graffiti, Graf assumed. They also happened upon instances of likely vandalism—ductwork and drainage pipe that was hammered and cut and pried from their mounts—and at other places there was evidence of freelance engineering: conduit was accessed and rerouted and various wiring had been either tapped or jumped. Just who had done this was hard to know. But it was irrelevant. All Graf could think about was getting out of this dank underworld and he was relieved when Orsani announc
ed that they had reached the exit.

  They stopped mid-way in one of one of the long tunnels and Orsani conducted a sensor scan before working to remove a section of wall plating. After extracting a number of fasteners, the alloy panel fell inward in a burst of warm air and Orsani looked over at Graf and motioned for him to stay where he was. The Goerathian poked his head into the hall, and with a wave of his hand gave Graf the all clear. Just as he was ready to climb into the passageway, a set of doors snapped open at the opposite side of the hall. Two Consortium guards (they wore the same uniforms as those Graf had seen earlier) spotted the Goerathian and they drew their weapons.

  But Orsani was a step ahead.

  In a blur he raised his gun and loosed a rail volley at the Consortium thugs: one of them doubling over as he took a hit to the stomach; the other guard caught a round in his shoulder and was able to activate a com button on a wrist device before discharging a plasma round of his own. The round was high and gave Orsani the second he needed to a second fatal shot. The guard caught a rail in the throat and it sent him crumpling to the ground, hand frantically grasping at his neck in attempt to staunch the fountain of blood.

  Orsani, in full focus now, stepped into the open. Blue alarm lights pulsed as he motioned Graf to follow him and he vocalized something into a communicator on his collar while he kept his weapon trained on the dying guards.

  The sound of a drum corps—an approaching avalanche.

  Graf recognized the sound at once. It was the Consortium security droid. His nightmare had become reality.

  At the end of the hall a tall, massive droid rounded the corner with its long strides pounding the floor as its hydraulics compressed and expanded. It bullhorned some untranslatable directive at Orsani and Graf as it barreled forward and Orsani turned his gun on the droid and let off several rail rounds that ricocheted off the droid’s heavy armor. Then BRRRRRRRRRAAP came a sonic blast that knocked Graf up and backwards so that he landed on his back. Orsani stayed on his feet, however, and he continued to probe the droid with his rail gun for a soft spot. Then POP! A report sounded and a silver and red harpoon protruded through Orsani’s lower back, and he stood, paralyzed for a moment, a cloud passing before him; then the droid reeled him in like a fish on a line. When the droid had Orsani close he swung the poor Goerathian against the wall with a blow that took his life. Orsani’s body slid, like a cloth doll, to the floor.