Giles Kurns_Rogue Instigator Page 9

  The Shepherd’s three eyes blinked out of sync with each other. He was coming up blank.

  Arlene sighed, her shoulders dropping as she reshuffled herself to get more comfortable on the bench seat she’d perched on. “Ok,” she tried again. “Tell me, how do you help your people at the moment?”

  The Queegert sat down to join her. “Well, we offer emotional and spiritual support. We try and form a community and . . .”

  Arlene’s brain was already falling asleep.

  “Ok,” she said, “that’s all very noble, but what are you doing to get them out of slavery?”

  The three eyes opened and closed independently of each other without any kind of order.

  Arlene sighed. “Perhaps I can talk to some of the Logans themselves?” she suggested.

  Her eyes narrowed again as she thought of something else. “Tell me, if one of your flock were going to stir up trouble and cause . . . say, I dunno, a rebellion . . .”

  The Shepherd’s top eye flicked open wide in fear.

  Arlene continued. “Who might it be?”

  The Shepherd thought for a while. “Well, erm. It might be Razeene. He seems the most restless of everyone.”

  Arlene grinned, flashing him her enigmatic smile. “Great!” she exclaimed. “Where do I find him?”

  Mallifrax-8, Etheriam mines

  “I just think it’s too soon,” Voyved protested, his voice firm and measured.

  Razeene paced, his footsteps creating tracks in the soft ground of the den. “But we can do this. If we don’t, we might not get another opportunity for rackinsaw knows how long.”

  He suddenly stopped dead, listening.

  Footsteps in the tunnel. And one with an unfamiliar gate. Like it had a leg missing.

  He glanced at his friend, who was now equally alert to the threat.

  They waited in silence. As the footsteps came closer and closer, the tension inside their hard-shelled heads mounted.

  When the sound of the footsteps were very nearly upon them, they heard The Shepherd’s voice. “Just in here.” Then a blue humanoid stepped into the den.

  She was tall and strangely slender—her head separated from her body with a narrower piece of body. In fact, she went in and out all along her form. And her legs were disproportionately long, considering her height.

  Conclusion—she wasn’t Queegert.

  “Hi,” she said, holding up an appendage that was like an overformed tendril.

  “Erm . . .” Razeene glanced at his friend with all three eyes. He took a couple steps back, racking his brains for somewhere he might have a weapon.

  Under the table! He thought about lunging forward, but it would take time to get into the box and only about half the weapons were actually working. He could pick a dud. But then, he could always just bluff . . .

  The Shepherd stepped into the den behind the strange blue creature. He seemed to be there of his own accord. And he didn’t seem frightened or under duress.

  Razeene relaxed a tiny bit.

  “I’m Arlene,” the creature told him in his native tongue.

  Voyved stood from his place at the table. “Voyved,” he said slowly, placing his tendril hand on his head-body under his face.

  Arlene smiled at him and bowed, bending her body in the middle in a way Razeene had never seen before.

  “Extraordinary!” he breathed to himself.

  Arlene heard. “You’re extraordinary?” she asked, her eyes slightly mockingly.

  Voyved chuckled. “He’s Razeene, and yes, he thinks of himself as extraordinary.”

  Arlene laughed politely. “That’s . . . sweet,” she said. “You boys mind if we have a chat?” she asked, pulling out a seat for herself at their table. “Shepherd here tells me you’re strategic thinkers and you’re motivated to change the shitty situation you have here.”

  Voyved nodded. “He tells you right.”

  Arlene glanced up at Razeene, who was still stunned and staring at her. Arlene checked behind her just to make sure he was looking at her. “You alright?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen an alien.”

  Voyved chuckled. “I like her,” he said to The Shepherd.

  The Shepherd grunted amicably and shifted his weight.

  “Thanks, Shepherd, I’ve got it from here,” Arlene said, turning to him and giving him the same smile she’d flashed him before.

  He rocked his body in a nod. “I’ll, erm . . . be on the surface if you need me, then.” Turning, he muttered something to the two or three consorts who were loitering at the door and disappeared into the tunnel.

  “Nice place you have here,” she said, mostly for Razeene’s benefit. “You set this up yourselves?”

  Voyvey nodded silently, giving Razeene the chance to speak. Instead, Razeene ventured forward towards the table, his eyes still fixed on the strange intruder.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked finally.

  Arlene explained again how The Crown had asked for their help.

  “Ok. But I don’t understand why you came here in the first place. Why come to Mallifrax-8 at all . . . unless you’re here to mine?” His two lower eyes narrowed while the third turned to his friend for backup.

  Arlene bobbed her head. “I understand why you might feel suspicious,” she said slowly, placing her clasped hand further onto the table in a form of rapport-building. “But we’ve nothing to do with this situation you have here. We barely even knew there was a colony here . . . let alone what was going on. We’re archaeologists, and we came looking for some information on the civilization that used to occupy this planet long before the Queegerts colonized it.”

  Razeene frowned. “So why get involved?”

  Arlene chuckled. “My partner—let’s just say, despite his obvious and many . . . many failings . . . he’s got a soft spot for helping people.”

  “And where is he now?”

  “Talking with the MacKegans . . .”

  The two Queegerts suddenly looked alarmed.

  “But only to try and negotiate some change in the situation here. And that’s why I’m here. I need to understand exactly what’s going on . . . so we can figure out a way to help.”

  Razeene shuffled his chair closer to the table. “Well, where to start,” he mumbled, looking for words.

  Nearly an hour passed before Arlene felt ready to feed the details back to them.

  “Ok,” she started again, holding her hands against her head as if she could hold all the information in place. “Lemme see if I’ve got this right. You pay to come down here. Then you rent a section of the mine—”

  “A prehnite,” Razeene interjected.

  “A prehnite,” Arlene repeated, “which is a unit of volume . . .”

  Voyved nodded.

  Arlene continued. “So you pay rent on this prehnite, but you get to sell the ore back to the MacKegans, and the theory is that you get to pocket the profit.”

  Razeene grunted in agreement. “But then the problem is, this profit is getting smaller and smaller. We can barely live on it.”

  Arlene bobbed her head again. “Ok, so what are you planning to do about it.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell in the den.

  Arlene looked from one to the other. “Come on!” she exclaimed lightly. “Don’t try and convince me you’re not planning something. I’ve clocked the guns you’re hiding under the table. Goodness knows how The Shepherd hasn’t found out about them. I don’t expect he’d be very pleased to know that his flock is planning something.”

  Alarm shot out from the two Queegerts. “We’re not going to use them to hurt anybody,” protested Voyved.

  “Of course you are,” Arlene countered casually. “The only question is when . . . and are you going to be successful? Let me know what you’re doing and let me help.”

  “You’ll help us?” Razeene could barely believe what he was hearing.

  “Sure,” she agreed. “Only, I’ve probably got a better plan, so you’ll have to work to my plan.
Ok?”

  The two Queegerts looked at each other in amazement. Then Razeene’s expression changed as if waking himself from a trace. “Hang on . . . how do you know your plan’s better. We haven’t told you ours yet.”

  Arlene grinned casually, tracing shapes with her finger on the table in front of her. “Because my plan is always better.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Aboard the Scamp Princess, in orbit around Mallifrax-8

  The cockpit hummed with the familiar sounds. Anne sat quietly, watching Giles and Scamp approach the huge ship that sat in orbit around Mallifrax-8.

  “Are you sure this is safe, Scamp?” Giles asked, pinching the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses.

  “Perfectly,” Scamp confirmed. “If there’s any sign of trouble, I’ll undock and snap through a gate. Anne will be safe, and I can come back and collect Arlene from the surface at any point.”

  Giles pressed his lips together, contemplating their other options. “And me?”

  Scamp chuckled. “You? You’re on your own!”

  Anne glanced up at Giles. “Ze’s teasing you,” she whispered. “Even though ze’s an EI, ze can still do humor. A bunch of them have picked up a software patch from Oz in exchange for favors.”

  Giles shook his head and smiled down at Anne, amazed. “So he . . . sorry, ze . . . has been teaching you about EIs, AIs and gender neutrality then? Heaven help me,” he chuffed, turning his attention back to the docking screen.

  He made a mental note to press her about the ‘favors’ the EIs were trading in later. Right now, he needed to concentrate on what they were doing.

  Anne frowned. “Just because you haven’t got your head around it, doesn’t mean you get to be disrespectful.”

  Giles straightened up. “Yes. Sorry, you’re right,” he admitted, feeling about three-inches tall. “I’ll . . . er, be more sensitive in the future.”

  Anne patted his arm, something like a parent would pat a child’s head. Giles smiled to himself, amused by her.

  “Ok, Scamp,” he called a little more loudly, “take us in . . .”

  It took several nerve-racking minutes, but eventually the ship shuddered and clunked as the docking port was locked on and an airlock filled.

  Giles took a long, deep breath. “Ok, Anne. Stay here and stay alert. No messing about, and don’t touch any controls. If anything happens, get to safety and let Scamp contact the Sanguine Squadron. Or ADAM.” He got up and started for the door. Then he paused and turned back. “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” he added and winked at her.

  Anne, her face tense but as straight as she could keep it to hide her anxiety, lifted her hand and waved.

  Giles disappear out of the door, his footsteps clanking on the metal gratings as he went.

  Aboard the Gilmurry Ship

  “You’re meeting with Tadovi Gilmurry,” Scamp explained in Giles’s earpiece. The airlock clunked and grinded as it was manually opened on the other side by armed, uniformed Queegerts.

  Giles spoke as quietly as he could. “And who is he when he’s at home?”

  “The representative for the MacKegan family,” Scamp reported as the doors to the airlock opened and shut in their long, sloooow sequence. “Background says he worked for them straight out of his higher education. And that they paid for it.”

  “So he’s not just a company boy,” Giles muttered. “He’s one of the family.”

  “It would appear so,” Scamp concurred.

  “Ok,” Giles considered. “That’s useful to know.”

  The airlock hissed as the air pressure stabilized and the door popped, then swung heavily open on its hinges.

  “Hello, boys,” Giles grinned, putting on his best performance. “Showtime?”

  At least five weapons were trained on him in an instant, each clicking and cocking in menacing threats.

  Giles put his hands in the air. “Now, now,” he said, confidently, “no need for that. I’m here to see . . .”

  “Tadovi Gilmurry,” Scamp reminded him.

  “Mr. Gilmurry, I believe,” Giles finished.

  One of the smaller, beachball-shaped guards stepped forward. He was armed, but his rifle was slung idly over his shoulder. He pushed his way past the barrel of the nearest gun, irritably pushing it out of his way.

  “He’s expecting you,” he announced gruffly as if Giles’s presence was an all-around inconvenience. “This way.”

  Giles shrugged theatrically to the gun-toting welcome party and stepped over the lip of the airlock and into the corridor. He followed in the direction of the smaller guard who’d spoken, noticing the gun barrels following his position, before the group disbanded and reformed as an entourage.

  The small, vocal guard strode purposefully down the corridor, checking every now and again that Giles was still in tow. Giles started playing a game with him, so that every time the guard would turn and check on Giles, Giles would turn and look at the half dozen guards who were following him.

  He really felt rather amused by the third time when he beckoned the entourage to keep up . . . and two of them broke into a jog to close some space.

  Finally, three corridors later the little guard stopped outside a door. “Master Gilmurry will see you now,” he said, opening the high-tech sliding door with a wave of his hand.

  Giles stepped cautiously into the room, not quite knowing how many officials he’d be meeting. It was a long conference room with dark blue, gleaming surfaces—the floors, the walls, the table. Giles would’ve felt impressed by the decor had he not been preoccupied by the domineering Queegert sitting at the end of the table.

  “Hi!” Giles called down to him, kicking himself that he hadn’t learned the appropriate pleasantries for this race before engaging with even The Crown.

  This wasn’t his area. Literally. And as an anthropologist who was supposedly well-up on different cultures and practices, he was admittedly out of his depth.

  The Queegert rocked in his chair, shifting his weight so he could stand. “I understand you want to speak with me about the mines?” he started.

  “That is correct,” Giles confirmed.

  The Queegert approached, offering him his spindly hand. Giles stepped forward, doing the same, expecting the arm-shake and forearm slap that The Crown had performed.

  He wasn’t disappointed.

  Well, at least that’s one custom I’ve picked up on this field trip, he thought as Tadovi offered him a seat on the long side of the table.

  Tadovi Gilmurry sat two seats down on the same side, his body pointing directly at Giles, waiting for him to speak.

  Giles took the cue and sat down. “I understand that the MacKegan tribe owns and runs these mines here,” he began.

  “That is correct,” Gilmurry parroted back to him.

  Giles smiled wryly. “How familiar are you with the situation that the Logans face down there?”

  Gilmurry was unmoved. “I receive daily productivity reports,” he stated flatly.

  Giles tried to keep his tone even. “Are you aware of the working conditions they face?”

  “I hear they’re not too bad,” the Queegert responded almost casually. His top eye scanned the room behind Giles almost as if it were a pet with a mind of its own. “We had some problems in one of our mines on a previous colony. Since then, we tightened up the rules to ensure certain standards were met.”

  Giles leaned one arm on the table and crossed his legs.

  “The Crown approved the standards,” Gilmurry continued, “before we even set foot on the surface.”

  Giles tried not to react. He slowly drew in breath and rubbed his face with one hand. “Interesting,” he mused. “I had dinner with The Crown the other night, and I had a feeling there were certain things he didn’t mention to me. How was it that this colony was made attractive enough to the MacKegan family?”

  Gilmurry’s three eyes regarded him blankly.

  Giles waved his hand as if it might help in his explanation. “I mean, you must have
lots of opportunities out there. What made it attractive for you to mine etheriam here?”

  Gilmurry mouthed the word ooooooh silently. “Well,” he explained, “there was already a system of Ignition in place.”

  “Ignition?”

  “Yes. It’s a ruling of governance whereby if you bring new people to a colony, you’re granted certain assets. Normally, land. But for the MacKegans, it was mining volume. Prehnites of mining volume.” Gilmurry slouched against the back of his conference room chair as if he were the king of the hill.

  It was Giles turn to nod his head with a silent oohhhhh. “So,” he pressed, “how many prehnites do you get for each Logan you bring here?”

  Gilmurry tapped his tendrils on the table. “The deal is 50 delegates . . . Logans . . . gives us one hundred prehnites.”

  “That’s . . . that’s interesting,” Giles muttered, remembering exactly where he’d read about the effects of this system before. Fascinating that it would reoccur in a completely different galaxy, with a completely different race.

  For a moment, his mind was distracted, wondering if it was just the availability of land and the need to populate it that led to such a system being dreamed up.

  But that wasn’t the issue here, he reminded himself. The issue was, he needed to fix it.

  And clearly, it was the system that was now at fault. Albeit, the system that was created and then manipulated to solve problems short-term. Not necessarily the half-wits taking advantage of it.

  “So, what happens?” Giles asked in his most neutral tone. “How do you persuade people to come?”

  The Queegert grinned a self-satisfied grin. “Ah, well, the Logans are opportunists.” He waved his hand as if he were so clever to have spotted this fact. “Always have been. It’s in their blood. They’re the most hardworking, entrepreneurial of our race . . . so they’re willing to risk it all and come to a new world.”

  Giles nodded, indicating that Gilmurry should continue.