The Expendable Few: A Spinward Fringe Novel (12 page)

“Someone did the reading,” Remmy quips.

“We’re going to Lyssipa,” Mary replies, plucking at her loose fitting, long sleeved green shirt. “I hope everyone else did the reading too, since this place is going to be full of angry issyrians.”

Isabel gracefully manoeuvres our ship into a slow descent, following the directions provided by port control. “Why don’t they just leave?” she asks.

“Money,” Remmy replies. “The issyrians didn’t have a firm concept of it when Regent Galactic got here. They were given tons of cash for their land but ripped off for years on everything from building supplies to candy.”

“Where’d you read that?” I ask.

“Stellarnet. I’ve been following independent news from Regent Galactic worlds for years.”

“That’s why they set you up in our group,” Isabel says. “Now it makes sense.”

“Yeah, well, they also charged me with more counts of contraband possession than all three of you put together. I’d be in jail for a century if it weren’t for Doc Anderson.”

The buildings below look like metal and concrete versions of the clutch domes and pods. We get a good look as we descend to our landing pad. Balconies and walkways with hundreds of issyrians making their way around come into view. Even at a distance I recognize that most of them seemed subdued, none have the tall, striding carriage I was used to seeing in the few that visit Freeground.

With a gentle bump our ship sets down on a narrow pad. I check my gear, making sure the pockets of my loose, draw string pants hold a couple days worth of provisions, an emergency medical pack, a few technical trinkets. Under my two-layered long shirt a pulse handgun is holstered in the middle of my back. It’s the heaviest legal weapon allowed on the planet.

“Everyone got everything?” Mary asks.

“Yup, don’t forget your ID slips,” Remmy says.

My thin ID slip is taped securely to my upper forearm. The DNA stamp has been updated so I can match my new name. I remind myself to ask Doctor Anderson who was responsible for getting someone from Freeground so deep inside the Order of Eden that they can modify DNA records.

The moment the single cabin ship’s hatch opens we recoil. The air reeks of something rotten, and the humidity makes it stick. I have never experienced anything so vile, and to make matters worse, the air is thick enough for us to taste it, a sickening tang on our tongue.

“Oh my God, what is it?” Isabel asks.

I ignore her and step onto the long walkway that runs along the outer edge of the rounded port building. The outer structure is built for busier days, with small to medium landing platforms spaced out evenly, enough to accommodate a few hundred ships at once.

“I think it’s the natural domes, and the issyrians,” Mary says as a group of issyrians pass by.

They were unlike any I’d ever seen. The shape shifters always looked regal, almost showy when they were on Freeground. Some of them sported elongated necks, or made their smooth skin glisten as their bodies shifted under their suits in little waves and ripples. You never knew what an issyrian would look like from one moment to the next. I was told they could even take the shape of humans.

These are different. The group that walked past our platform have brown and black spots on sickly skin. The thousands of celia that are normally hidden under layers of shifting skin hang limp along the sides of their faces, arms and backs. One has a dark cavity in his side, as though something dead has been cut away. They all wear painful looking devices that hug them around the middle and circulate fluids through their upper torsos. None of that affects me at all. The shock of sadness comes when I realize that all seven of them, short and tall, are touching each other. Careful prods with flat fingertips on arms, backs, shoulders and faces are shared as they pass slowly. I heard once that it is their custom to do that when they are near death. It is their way of making sure that they are still part of the living universe, and to pass on impressions and emotions chemically. “Everything here is rotting, except for the terraforming forest,” I explain.

“Are you all right?” Mary asks, coming to my side.

One of the issyrians look straight at me with big, round, dull blue eyes. I don’t know what to do, so I stare back. It doesn’t matter which organization did this. The issyrians will remember they were human above all else. When my locked stare with the issyrian comes to an end I look to my new comm. It’s a cheap imitation, partially transparent, without emergency medical systems. “We’ll be meeting our contact in twenty minutes. Let’s get going before we run into something unexpected.”

The interior of the port building is worse. The lights are dim, the windows are shaded, and in the centre is a pod of water several storeys high suspended in a transparent vessel. It’s made to look like one of the habitats outside, but wisps of green and brown contaminate the fluid within, algae that makes the aquatic section of the port unsuitable for issyrians. Several vicious looking fish swim in and out of the murkier sections of the fluid, I guess they’re bottom feeders, natural garbage eaters who are doing their best to clean things up.

“Those are fricken huge,” Remmy says, looking at the fish. “That one’s over two metres, easy.”

We follow a worn yellow line that leads us to the city tram. Once aboard we have the car all to ourselves. “This place looked kinda busy from above, but is almost dead up close. I’ve never seen a port this slow.” Isabel says.

“There’s a major port on the other side of the planet,” Mary answers. “The human port.”

“Ah, right.”

“The people we replaced were actually headed there originally, there are resorts for humans on leave, kind of tourist traps.”

“I don’t mind a good tourist trap,” Remmy says. “Shops full of decorative jewelry and authentic regional artifacts that really aren’t worth anything. Open bars, gambling everywhere you turn, beaches - fake or real, they’re better than sitting in a star cruiser. I think my favourite thing is the entertainment: no one judges what you’re into, it’s nice and guilt free.”

“Sounds like fun,” Isabel says. “Only, I wonder what kind of entertainment you’re into that is only guilt free in special places?”

“No comment,” he replies with a nervous laugh.

The rest of the ride takes place in mechanical and verbal silence. The monorail system doesn’t make so much as a hum, and my companions are just as taken by the view as I am. The course the transit car takes sends us hurtling between buildings that look more like interstellar hulls. Their round concrete and metal sides are stained by contamination. Brown, yellow and green buildings are streaked by watermarks that turn their colours to sickly shades. We watch in silence as the view of larger rounded buildings lit by the high yellow sun are replaced by the underside of the city, where smaller pods, or rounded structures piled together rest in shadow.

There we see the masses. The slick ground is mossy and soft, rotting underfoot as hundreds of issyrians make their way from place to place. A few are in sealed suits, trying to protect themselves from contamination. The rest wear clothing much like ours: light woven fabrics in loose fitting shapes. I don’t know that issyrians have one specific colour to their skin - I haven’t known that many to be honest - but most just beneath us was a sea of muted tones.

The transit car reduces speed and angles down. Issyrians clear the track as we slowly drift into an open air station. There are hundreds of them gathered around a hovering holographic image to our left.

“Be quiet and careful,” Mary warns as the doors slide open. The crowd engulfs us passively the moment we emerge from the car. The transit platform is full. It seems to be standing in as a viewing platform for the holographic figure of a boy, who can’t be older than thirteen.

Big oval eyes glance our way briefly, only momentarily distracted by our presence. “-right and true,” the young speaker says with a bearing that demonstrates a mastery of oration. “Time and time again humanity has proven that it can adapt nature to its needs, now it is time to find a middle ground. That is our calling, that is why the Eden Fleet has joined us along with its master, Eve herself. She believes, as do I, that having the power to adapt something to our needs does not mean that we cannot compromise, that we cannot preserve or restore as much of the natural environment as we can while becoming its master. To be the master of our environment is our destiny, it is our fate, but how we accomplish that mastery is up to us,” proclaims the speaker.

“That’s the Child Prophet,” Remmy whispers. “I’ve seen a few of his recordings before.”

“I’ve heard of the little shit,” Mary says. “How the hell did a little snot-nose found the Order of Eden?”

“He is their messiah. The predictions he makes come true,” says one dull eyed issyrian. He’s short, and unnaturally thin in the centre. “So they say.”

“Figurehead,” Remmy mutters. “I’m sure that’s all he is.”

“Like minded allies are coming to our door,” the Child Prophet announces. “It was said that before the darkness a people would treat with the Ruling Order, and it has come to pass. The majority of the United Confederation Governing Council have voted that they will enter into an alliance with the Order of Eden. They have made pledges for all their member worlds, advancing our cause, and joining us in our glorious coming fate.”

“Hate fate,” says an issyrian somewhere behind me. The phrase is repeated by a few others in the crowd as the hologram fades.

I realize we weren’t the only humans in the audience as a trio in worn, dark blue loose fitted protective clothing make their way out of the crowd. “Don’t be here, not now.” One fellow with a long scar across his forehead says to me in an intense whisper.

I take his lead, following right behind. “No! Don’t follow us!” says a woman behind him in a strange, thick accent. “Stupid travellers, you don’t belong in Trest.”

Something about the size of my fist flies past my head. Rolling across the ground in front of me, it looks like a chunk of dried moss and clay. We hurry away, not running, but making good time alongside the tracks. Running would have been like signaling the crowd to chase us. When I check the rear view on my comm unit I’m relieved to see that, even though a few of them are brandishing chunks of dirt and clay, ready to toss, they are letting us go. One of them hurls a good sized chunk in our direction and it strikes Isabel in the back. The dry clay bursts apart on impact, making it look more dramatic than it is.

“You all right?” I ask.

“Fine. Just wish I could turn around and tell them we have nothing to do with the Order.”

I glance about and can only see the deeper shadows under the towering round buildings and dozens of circular houses piled like eggs. Issyrians look out their doors and windows at us and the crowd behind chanting; “Hate fate!” With an over the shoulder glance I see issyrians crowding into the transit car. More than half the crowd manage to fit inside, and from the looks of it they are set to do harm further down the line.

“Come!” says a voice from beneath a low rail bridge. “Hurry, come with me!”

I check my comm unit and nod. “You’re Emiss?”

“Yes, friend of humans. You don’t all look the same to me. Come before you get into more trouble!”

We do as we are told and follow her through a service grate under the monorail. I almost retch as we turn a corner and we are struck with a sickly sweet smell. It carries a warm humidity that makes me feel like I’m being coated with the stench.

“A few dead down here, sorry,” says the tall, thin issyrian. She wears clothing that matches mine closely - a long shirt with draw string pants and simple boots. “It makes it easier to hide, not even patrol drones come here.” She rushes us down several tunnels. When the scant sunlight coming through the grates overhead disappears she becomes slightly luminescent, shedding just enough light for us to pass without stepping into the deeper pools or tripping over unidentifiable rotting piles. I’m still sure I’ll be sending everything I’m wearing out the airlock the moment I return to the Sunspire.

“Finally,” Isabel says as we emerge into an alleyway. “I hate being underground.”

“This way,” our guide instructs, starting down a narrower alleyway without making sure we’re following.

“Wait,” I say.

She stopped and turns, looking me up and down with her big, oval blue eyes. “I’m waiting.”

“We’re new here, very new here,” I tell her. “But how could the issyrians let the Order of Eden take one of their solar systems?”

“We didn’t know how your commercial system worked. Before we had a chance to learn Regent Galactic owned all the land, and many of our people enjoyed the things they brought, paid too much money. We were too poor to buy back,” she replies in a rush.

“What about your government?” Mary asks. “They must have some interest in saving this world.”

“We are quarantined. Contaminated, sick,” Emiss says as if speaking to a slow child. She rolls up her sleeve to show us a wound that looks like some kind of bacteria was eating at her. “Omira, Doctor Marcelles’ friend, tries to help, but no one can help. There are few clear waters.”

“So they won’t send help because they’re afraid of becoming contaminated?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Remmy counters. “I’ve seen a couple dozen issyrian travellers, they looked perfectly healthy.”

“Outcasts, barren folk. They seal their skins and communicate the same way you do, with words, and data. It’s a shadow life.”

“I’m sorry,” Remmy says with unexpected sincerity. “We don’t know enough about your people to avoid stupid questions.”

Emiss stares at him a moment, her eyes shifting to a more vibrant blue. “It is all right, we have many prejudices. I will try to limit mine to the ones that apply to you in particular.”

“Are we near our destination?”

“Yes, just around the corner.”

Once we’re through the oval door the smell eases, and the air begins to clear. The hallway is wider, cleaner, and there are several issyrians with the back rig that we saw in the port. They look healthier, and I assume the machine on their backs running viscous fluids in and out of their bodies is some kind of filtration unit. Most of the issyrians we see inside are armed, all of them eye us with some suspicion. Parallel to the hall there are three centimetre wide runnels with a thin jet of greenish brown fluid, it never ceases to flow, filling the space with the sound of the forced jet.