Drifter

Another workman clambered up the scaffolding that had been erected around Cavalier’s nose. They were finishing up the installation of the new sensor suite. Despite the fact that the thing wasn’t a weapon, it somehow looked vicious, like the face of some undiscovered deep-sea creature, or like the sense organ of an insect native to an impenetrable jungle.

Kirjen and Jussco looked on, as Eli studied the manifest they had given him. While the front of the vessel was being modified, forklifts carried pallets up the boarding ramp at the rear of the craft.

“The stuff gets certain species high,” Kirjen explained, “It’s still legal here.”

Jussco cut in, “At least until the Freedom party wins, but that’s beside the point.”

Kirjen held up his left hand and moved his fingers up and down, his language’s equivalent of shaking their head, “You’ll have to forgive my partner, Captain Cisneros. He gets upset when profits are put at stake.”

Eli gave him the tablet back, “Understandable.”

“But anyway, it’s still legal here, but it isn’t in the next sector. Bypassing that sector would be a pain. So, we would like you to get it through to a place beyond it.”

“A place where it’s legal.”

“Yes. Our contact sells it to the local government.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

Jussco moved his hand over his right eye, the equivalent of nodding, “You’re perceptive as always. Your destination is a large space station called Megau. Its rulers claim that it’s a utopia.”

Eli smirked, “The word that the translator is using was originally from a satire. It meant a place that doesn’t exist.”

“It’s smart to be skeptical, as long as you keep it in moderation. But yes, the drugs are used to help control the populous.”

“The carrot, but what about the stick?” Eli asked.

The translator imparted the meaning of the question. The two brokers looked at one another. Kirjen spoke, “I can assure you, there will be very little risk. Just deliver the goods to the contact. The customs process will take a few hours. In and out. Simple.”

***

The ship’s new eye peered far and wide. Patrols and raiders fell under its gaze. Speed and the willingness to enter dangerous parts of space kept them at bay. His only companions were terrible memories and the Sad’Daki artifact. He found himself searching the available com networks for merc jobs against his old masters. After a long week, the space station that called itself paradise appeared on the scanner screen.

Eli contacted them, stated his business, was immediately granted permission to enter one of the many hangar bays. He landed and instructed the attendants to refuel his ship.

The contact eagerly greeted him as he walked down the boarding ramp. His employees were ready, driving their forklifts up the ramp as soon as he stepped off of it. Before long, the cargo bay was empty.

The population was mostly made up of one species, the Tigue. The general layout of their bodies reminded him of a praying mantis, only they lacked wings. Instead of pinchers, their long arms were tipped with hands. He did not like their toothy, mandible lined mouths. Where the eyes would normally be, there was a pair of what he guessed were their equivalent of noses.

On top of their heads there sat something like a crown. It was shaped like an artichoke. Under each leaf, there was a pinpoint of light, a little eye. The leaves would unfurl and then fold back up one row at a time, moving up the crown to the top and restarting at the bottom again. This way, a row of eyes was always open, providing 360 degrees of continuous vision.

The contact spoke in a language that consisted of short, one or two syllable words, “The customs agents will expedite this shipment. You can pass the time in the shopping district. They have an excellent selection of food and drink. You’ll just need to convert your currency, but it doesn't come with a fee.”

“Thanks. Maybe I can finally find something good to eat.”

They shared a laugh and Eli set off, but he was quickly brought to a halt by the contact’s sudden words, “Wait, no weapons are allowed on the station! You’ll have to leave your side arm and shield on your ship. They’re very strict about these sorts of things.”

“I bet that they are,” Eli said sourly, heading back into his ship. He hung his pistol belt on one of his bed’s posts, which is where it stayed when he slept. Then he retrieved something from his desk drawer. It was a small metal cylinder, not much bigger than his thumb.

Eli went to the gate that separated the hangar from the rest of the station. There, he endured a security screening. The agent opened the metal cylinder. A colorful collection of pills fell out onto the tray. He dutifully scanned each of them, found that none were dangerous. Then he allowed Eli to return them to the case and put it back in his pocket.

Guards watched over the process. Scale mail plates hung from their weird mantis bodies. They held spears. When Eli got a better look, he saw that the blades had wires running across them.

There was an emblem on the security guards’ armor, which looked kind of like a pinecone, only there were countless dots on it. He realized that the symbol was a depiction of the alien’s strange sense organ, every leaf open, every eye simultaneously exposed.

Eli finished the check and entered the station proper. He was one of the few non-Tigue, but no one seemed to have a problem with it. The layout was open, the corridors feeling more like high roofed tunnels. Some rooms were rather large, sporting vaulted ceilings. And the place was clean, silver and white surfaces gleamed in the artificial light.

Everywhere he looked, that same symbol, sometimes stylized, other times rendered with straight lines and mechanical precision. Screens displayed long reels of faces, their mandibles positioned into what was their equivalent of a smile. Signage advised the citizens to remember to take their ration of the calming drug. Its bliss would wrap itself around them, helping them to lead a happy and productive life.

A group of guards were escorting a man that was locked in hand irons. There was a look of cold resignation on his face.

Eli found a food court. After many misses, he discovered something edible, although it certainly didn’t look like it. He purchased the dish. The price appeared on the register’s display, then, an additional charge was added to the ticket.

“What just happened?” he asked the attendant.

“Every purchase that you make carries with it a risk. This is one of the reasons why this place is a utopia. Everyone is given more than enough money to survive, but every time that they use that money, there’s a risk. It simulates the harshness of nature. This way, people appreciate things.”

Eli thought that this sounded like some kind of weird scheme to hide a tax. The vender no doubt parroted the state’s justification perfectly. He wanted to say something, to try to inoculate the man against the ideology, but decided that it would be best if he kept his mouth shut. He took the box of food to a table and opened it up.

The stuff looked like someone had put scraps of parchment into unused motor oil. It tasted like chicken.

After he had finished his meal, he made a slow circuit of the station’s shopping district. He ended up purchasing a box of the stuff that tasted like chicken. No extra charge was added. Now if he could only find something that tasted like buffalo sauce.

Then he picked up a selection of alcohol. He received one extra charge, it was enough that he thought about cancelling the transaction, but then he noticed the sign that informed outsiders that such things were forbidden. It made sense, as being able to pull out of something would negate the risk. By the time he left the shop, he received a message saying that the customs inspection had been completed.

The walk back to the hangar bay felt longer than it actually was. He lugged the bags of food and drink, trying to ignore the propaganda that surrounded him. At last, he had reached his ship.

An attendant approached him, “We refueled your ship, but there was a problem.”

“Yes?”

His explanation sounded more like a desperate plea, “Every few months an example must be made. You must understand. It’s totally random. Someone has to be chosen. They must be reminded. You must understand.”

Eli became aware that guards were moving in on all sides. The tips of their spears were pointed at him. He suddenly felt the absence of the pistol belt, its comforting weight denied to him.

One of them spoke, he wore the insignia of a high-ranking commander of the guard, “Your luck ran out, captain. Even if you are a foreigner, you are still subject to our laws. Your execution will be carried out shortly. I suggest that you prepare yourself mentally and spiritually.”

Sitting the shopping bags down, the human balled up his fists and raised his arms into a fighting position. The guards encircled him, began to slowly move in.

He darted toward one of them, dodging a reflexive spear thrust and landing a savage blow to the Tigue’s chest. The guard took a few steps back. Eli tried to make a break for it through the sudden gap in the formation. A surge of pain brought an end to this effort, when a pulse of energy from one of the guards’ spears struck him. The next blast knocked him out cold.

***

The cell door slammed shut, causing Eli to come to. It was a simple little holding room, much like any other. The plain surfaces were clean, polished in some places. There was a bunk, toilet, and sink.

He plugged up the sink, took the pill case out of his pocket and dumped out the contents. The pills rolled and rattled around in the metal basin. He picked up a yellow tablet and crushed it. Then he took the resulting powder and poured it into the pill case. He did the same for a lozenge made of green gel and a few red saucers that had the emblem of a large medical company carved into them.

Little hints of joy as he used his pinky finger to carefully stir the mixture. Then he spat into the case and repeated the process. Lastly, he added several round pills, which were rock hard. He sat on the bunk and waited.