Traveler: Losing Legong

By Tim Dennis

Earth's society has collapsed, diasporas drain the best and brightest. Hundreds of years later, Myles, a young bureaucrat, drifts through his days on Legong aimlessly, until a Traveler from a recovered Earth arrives, sending his quiet colony spiraling into fear and chaos. Now Myles's actions will determine not only his future, but the fate of family, friends and the colony itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Dennis
• Release date: Nov 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9780998088907

Tim Dennis

Since the turn of the century Tim Dennis has been a writer, actor, comedian and teacher, touring North America with improv shows and lecturing on a broad variety of subjects to a diverse collection of clients. He is a recovering engineer whose love of people drew him away from the computer and into his creative soul where he lives in a mosaic of real and imagined worlds populated by people like you. He loves to travel but always returns to the greatest neighborhood in the greatest city in the United States, Portland Oregon. You can connect with Tim via social media and his website, aptly named TimDennis.com

Book preview

1

Myles paused in the shade of the Jacarandas, midway between beach and barnyard and again tried his implant.

Hello?

Nothing.

He laid his guitar on the grassy verge and stood in the middle of the gravel path, bending and arching his back to ward off an incipient cramp. He tried one more time.

Hello? He thought to himself with force and purpose.

Take a breath, relax. He answered himself. It never works when you're stressed like this.

How can I NOT be stressed?

Myles looked up through the purple canopy, searching for the orbiting torus of Central Command. The sky remained blue and mostly empty. The run so far had taken him between two vacant and silent fields, through which the still air brought no perfumes, not of leaf, grass, or livestock; only a faint salty, ozone-y quality, and even that may have been imagined. He took a deep breath.

Is that what a tsunami smells like?

It was a rhetorical question asked silently to himself, but Myles paused, just in case his implant responded. It didn't. Myles drew his attention back to the impending flood and his aching sides only to be distracted yet again - this time by the plaintive sounds of panicked sheep erupting over a hillock. A flock of timid beasts came into view, pounding along hoof-over-knuckle, chased across the uneven ground by tripping and tumbling Inflatable Seekers.

Stupid beasts. They don't know they're running from their saviors.

You're not going to make the beach in time, just go grab a Seeker.

Myles considered his own suggestion for a moment, calculating the remaining distance to the beach while watching each sheep be overrun, woolly backs mounted by leaping six-legged Seekers. Several dropped to the ground, rolling, trying to knock the flotation gear off. Others twisted and bit. Not able to reach the Seekers on their backs they snapped instead at their nearest neighbor.

Stupid sheep.

A flash in the sky claimed his attention. Myles stepped out from beneath the trees for a better look.

Meteor? He asked himself.

Be more specific. The implant responded.

Never mind, I was just thinking. Wait! Hello? Reconnect.

The implant remained silent.

Hello? Hello?

The over-sized dome of blue peaking out from the edges of the fireball identified the streak as a Shuttle in re-entry. He turned and on the opposite horizon Central Command's gray torus could just be seen, the tangle of launch rails reaching out from its center suggestive of a mutant octopus. Myles took another look at the sheep and chose the run to the beach.

Bento said she'd wait.

You asked her to wait. Not the same thing.

This was true, and nervous now for the first time, Myles took a few steps further down the path, stopped, turned back and retrieved his guitar. He resumed his run, more of a jog really, looking this way and that as he scanned the sky for Drop Capsules.

Most of the sheep had forgotten their burdens and returned to shortening the grass, leaving only the swish-scratch-crunch of his own feet on gravel as the soundtrack of Myles's flight from the coming wave. He joked to himself about the irony of berating sheep for running from the Inflatable Seekers when he himself was running from the security of his parents' farmstead directly towards the water.

I'm not running to the water, I'm running to Bento's Skimmer.

Myles's competing thoughts coalesced into their normal patterns, producing enough self-doubt that he actually stumbled slightly, briefly considering a return to the farmstead. But now well past the Jacarandas, he was committed, and accelerated towards the beach. The bump-k'thump of his pounding heart joined the crickle-crickle-crickle of feet on gravel.

You mean swish-scratch-crunch.

The swish-scratch-crunch remained, overlaid by a crickle-crickle-crickle. Myles stared down at his feet, trying to match sound to motion. As if shot from a cannon, thirty five kilos of pig rocketed past, down the gravel path, disappearing into the barrier of mangrove trees that separated the inner fields of the Key from its exposed beach.

Picked a fine day to go walk-about! Myles shouted, himself bursting through the trees moments later. He stood in the sand, watching the pig snort across the mudflat sloping away towards the next low, green isle.

Mudflats? There's no mudflats.

But there were. In fact, laid out between his key and the next was at least a kilometer of gently sloping mudflat split by a narrow strip of quiet water. Myles stood, astonished. Preceded by a trough, the wave had drawn much of the lagoon out into the open sea, silently shrinking it into a three-kilometer pond. The beach, now half sand and half mud and rock, stretched to more than twenty times its usual depth. None of it contained Bento's Skimmer. Myles scanned the beach in suppressed terror.

He tossed the guitar to the ground and ran to the end of the narrow pier reaching out across the mud. Dropping to his knees, Myles fought with a knotted rope from which dangled a small recreational sailboat. The knot only grew tighter. Prying apart two loops a fingernail folded back. He leapt.

Shit! Shit shit shit!

The pig joined in with one long screech as it raced the wave now forcing itself back into the lagoon. Myles looked skyward. To the north and south he saw the ordinary streaks of meteors, but no Drop Capsules. A new trickling, dripping sound filtered through the mangroves, complimenting the gentle swirling gurgle of the filling lagoon. The pig stopped a few meters from Myles and set about spinning rabidly.

He seems to understand the impending doom.

Pigs are smarter than sheep, you know.

And apparently smarter than some people, for after a feint back towards the gravel path it tore along the mangroves to the base of an orange trellis upon which rested a four-meter wide bright orange onion dome.

Myles ran after the pig and each threw themselves at the structure, leaping, scrambling for a foothold on its smooth sides. A meter to their right hung the short boarding ladder. Myles ran back for his guitar. The little boat was floating.

Oooo!

Rushing back to the buoy, Myles climbed the ladder one-handed, popped open the hatch and lowered in the guitar. Dropping in safely beside it, he turned to close the hatch, catching a glimpse of the sandy pig below. The animal looked back with inquisitively tilted head. The two of them listened to the rushing waters.

Close the hatch!

Myles scolded himself, drew in his head and grasped the hatch-handle. The squeal started up again, accompanied by an aerial display of flailing hooves and stretched neck followed by a short huffing noise, knocked out of the pig in a thud of ham-on-sand. Myles watched the show as the squeals grew weaker and the thuds heavier. Soon there was only panting and the pick-pick-pick of sandy pacing.

He did find the Emergency Buoy...

Without conscious decision, Myles climbed out the hatch, falling on the pig like a sack of dirt, wrestling bacon and hocks while avoiding the panicky sharp bits at the ends. Pig subdued, Myles felt the dampness. The broad stretches of rock and mud were gone and as the lagoon crept up the beach the main swell took a short cut across the sheep pasture and down through the mangroves. Beast tight against chest, Myles struggled to his knees, pulling from under him one foot before the rising waters lifted the buoy off its mount. With a mighty heave he slid the pig up the sloped side and through the hatch, landing it safely with a crunching, splintery noise and an a-tonal twang.

In the moment between releasing the pig and climbing up himself, Myles noticed the ladder was attached not to the buoy, but to the mounting trellis, which remained firmly planted in the ground as the buoy floated away. He flung himself at the buoy's rail, pulling his face up to the hatch as his legs dragged in the water. The roiling currents of rising lagoon and cresting wave carried buoy, pig, and man along the mangroves, knocking and then bouncing away, floating free for a moment before spinning and slipping back, this time with Myles positioned such that his own fleshy mass would protect the orange dome from dents and scratches.

Shit.

Myles's first thought was of what his parents would think, having expended thirty years of love and care bringing a child to adulthood only to have him drown on a beach because he'd gone soft over swine, not to mention his previous pause contemplating trees and thinking ill of sheep.

Actually, my first and only thought was 'shit.'

With a life-affirming burst of energy Myles pulled his face even with the open hatch. The pig looked up in empathy, or perhaps complete disinterest, tilting head and stretching neck as Myles's arms fatigued and his head dropped from view. Two or three more pulls provided for the pig two or three more images of increasingly panicked primate until finally the interfering currents produced a swell that floated Myles's legs that, combined with one final almighty heave, propelled his body through the hatch. The pig let out a gleeful squeal as Myles plopped onto the floor beside it. Or perhaps it was a squeal of fear, for a half meter to the left and Myles would have landed on it, instead of the remains of his guitar.

Relaxing with a sense of accomplishment, Myles closed the hatch and strapped himself in one of the seats ringing the interior. As the buoy dipped and swayed the little pink sailor waddled over to Myles, shoved its head between his knees and snorted. Myles squeezed. The pig retreated.

It'll be over soon fella. Gal. What are you?

The buoy rattled along the mangroves, sending the animal sliding back and forth until the waters calmed. Just as the pig gained its footing the buoy dropped, launching the screeching porkynaut across the interior as it painted the walls with its bowels.

Miraculously avoiding the beastly effluvium, Myles turned inward and tried again his implant.

Hello. This is Advocate Tugot, in a buoy around Tugot key. Just checking in to say I made it. I'm OK.

A solid clunk sounded from the top of the buoy.

The top of the buoy?

Yes, the top.

Oh. That's odd. What could be on top?

The gentle rocking of waves changed to a dizzying sway, stopped with a thud from below. The hatch opened and Bento's Deck-Mate, Clark, stared, pop-eyed and exasperated.

There's no room on deck for the buoy. He said. We need to jettison it before the next crest. You need to get out. NOW!

Myles quickly freed himself and climbed out of the hatch, joining two dozen other damp refugees on the broad, open deck of the Skimmer. Clark lifted the buoy, still attached to the crane, and dropped it over the side into the momentarily calm waters.

Pig! Myles shouted, pointing at the open hatch of the rolling and dipping buoy. The next wave trough was already dragging the lagoon out of the atoll, and although Bento's Skimmer held a steady position a meter above the waves, the buoy, hatch open, tipped and tossed in the turbulence. Myles's vision tunneled, his eyes fluttered, and all sounds faded as he focused his mind on the hatch.

Clark steadied him. It's only a buoy, we can make more. he said.

Myles opened his eyes. The buoy grew steadily more distant, rolling onto one side then the other. But the hatch was closed, pig safely inside.

Did I do it? I did it! It worked. I closed the hatch.

Ooo. Good for you.

Bento stepped out of the pilothouse long enough to chastise Myles. You're lucky your mother called. I was heading for deep water, thought you'd stayed on the farm.

I was fine. You didn't need to- Myles said, but she was already back in the pilothouse. He moved to follow her but she ignored him, maneuvering the Skimmer away from the islands and shoals to hover a meter or two above the deep center of the lagoon. There they sat for over an hour as the wave came and went, first scouring the surrounding lush green Keys then inundating them, sparing only the barren, dusty mount of the Main Isle, its City Center building, a gleaming steel and glass egg, looking down on the deluge with reserved calm. Myles again looked skyward. Another Shuttle was in re-entry, its over-sized blue dome shielding it from the vaporizing heat as it slowed for landing.

Still no Drop-Capsules. Myles said. What the hell is Central Command doing?

Leave it alone, Myles. She said.

It's my job. I'm an Advocate. There should be Drop-Capsules by now.

Check your implant Myles, Broad Plain is assisting. As soon as this calms I'm heading over for supplies.

But you said you were going to the Main Island. I would have stayed on the farm-

I'll drop you on the beach-

No! I'll catch a shuttle up from Broad Plain.

Another wave crest came and went, lower and slower than the last. Bento re-positioned the Skimmer and watched the turbulent waters between the Keys. Leave it alone, Myles, she almost mumbled the words, she'd little hope they'd be heeded.

2

Krykowfert stared down the long oblong conference table at nine robed figures. Eight hid in their hoods, attempting to project an image of the authority they failed to embody. Only Councilor Five, seated at the far end, left her face visible.

If the Councilors failed to intimidate, the dimly lit room did its best with shadowy niches separated by grand arches curving up into the inverted oblong dome protruding from the ceiling. In the darkness, behind the trio of Krykowfert, Nia Feric and the Honored Guest hovered images of planets, star fields and mathematics. Krykowfert nodded. Feric let her eyes flutter as she mentally manipulated the display. Councilor Five spoke.

The Council has great interest in what our Honored Guest has to say, but the atoll of Caldera is under flood, and it is this which must now concern the Elders.

Ironic... Krykowfert thought, since most of the women of the Council were younger than he. Broad Plain is capable of assisting Caldera. I urge the Council to consider the facts I've presented.

The Guest has waited two weeks, Councilor Six interrupted. Another hour will not change his opinions.

Five glanced at Krykowfert, silencing what would have been a inappropriate comment. Instead Krykowfert let his shoulders drop and looked back at the floating fields of numbers and images. With a huff or a sigh he tossed a resigned nod to Feric. She spoke softly to the Honored Guest then led him out of the Council Chamber. As the door closed Krykowfert dropped into a vacant seat, slouching and stretching his legs, letting the chair spin slowly around. If you're going to stonewall like this I won't be held responsible.

Six made her away around the table towards him. You pay more attention to that- that Earthman than to your own Council. We need to drop Relief Capsules, you should be deploying Shield Guard troops. The surface settlements look to Central Command in times like this.

Not anymore! Krykowfert snapped.

It's not just material assistance, Six barked. They look to us for a sense of permanence and security.

Krykowfert infuriated Six by ignoring her, turning instead to speak to Five. The lights were up now, and threadbare robes had been whisked away by nameless clerks. In full light the majestic columns revealed themselves as ill-fitting appliques, the domed ceiling, a dingy, claustrophobic appurtenance.

The Earthman came in peace with warnings and data to support them, Krykowfert said, these were not threats, he's not armed.

Six also appealed directly to Five. He's trying to manipulate us, limit our technological growth, hamstring us, it's the diasporas all over again.

You must admit, Five addressed Krykowfert, four hundred years without any contact, and now this?

Krykowfert turned to his hovering images, our own people have gone over his-

You had no authority to bring that person and his propaganda into this chamber. Six used her implant to dismiss the images of planets, stars and numbers.

I've been promised an audience since the Earthman arrived. Two weeks-

And for that we apologize, said Councilor Five. But Caldera IS under threat.

Six now manipulated her own images, allowing the planet below to fill the room before shrinking it to a more manageable size. She panned and zoomed across an arid and mountainous landscape towards an sparkling sea, settling finally on the atoll of Caldera; one large, rocky island dying away into a circle of low green keys. The other Councilors retook their seats bringing their focus back from whatever implant consultations they'd been hiding in.

They're fine. Krykowfert said.

No one here is doubting that you've accomplished great things with the surface settlements. But can you be sure? Five asked.

Krykowfert looked back at nine questioning pairs of eyes. I'm sure.

Five nodded and took her seat. Clerks reappeared and Councilors murmured quietly amongst themselves. Krykowfert took the hint and slipped out into the hallway, marching straight for the nearest elevator. As his two personal guards fell in step he blinked imperceptibly, connecting his implant with Feric's.

How is Caldera? Has Broad Plain responded?

Feric replied with a checklist of resources already en route from Broad Plain to Caldera. Relieved, Krykowfert relaxed his pace and exited the elevator into the little lobby outside his suite of offices. Wordlessly he passed through Nia Feric's office to his own, and, leaving the door open, lowered himself into his preferred armchair. He leaned back and stared up through his tr'indos at the rest of Central Command's torus, its five hundred meter ring connected to its Hub by a network of structural spokes and gently curving elevator shafts. Twisting around and through the slowly spinning tangle, tubular trusses of Launch Rails pointed alternately at the never-empty sky and the pincushion of a planet below. He took his teacup from the small hand-carved wooden table that served as his desk, and sipped.

Two hundred years previous the first Shield Guard Director had constructed his offices here, on the inner rim. Far from the Council Sector, he cut those true windows into the external hull of the ship so he could see, actually see, the dangers that threatened their fragile existence. That almost forgotten Director had built those Rails. He'd also launched the Diverters that loitered in the outer system, nudging asteroids out of Legong-intersecting orbits, and before that he'd established the Destroyer Fleet, orbiting Legong, mopping up those rocks that made it through.

Krykowfert's ancestor in spirit, that Director had halted the rain of meteors and made the planet habitable. The hard work done, some subsequent Director had moved the offices down to the Council Sector and for generations the position languished, a ceremonial posting for dullards. Krykowfert was no dullard, and he didn't see the post as ceremonial. No one objected when he dusted off the abandoned suite of rooms and took them as his own.

Feric slipped silently into the little office and sat beside him. Six has convinced the Council to transfer three more Shield Guard divisions to her newly formed Council Guard. She said. I've used the neurological files to make the reassignments, if you'd like to review-

Krykowfert waved her off and took another sip of tea. Have they taken any action regarding the Eden Project?

Feric's eyes fluttered and her head dipped slightly as she made her implant connect with the network. No. The Councilors are ambivalent about locating the Eden planet, they seem to accept it as your pet project, although some are concerned about the religious implications.

Can we move the Project outside of Shield Guard, to Surface Infrastructure perhaps? Krykowfert asked.

The Council has avoided impinging on the activities of the Diversion Bases in the outer system, she said. They see that as the core responsibility of Shield Guard and want nothing to do with it.

Krykowfert huffed disparagingly. The Diverters were doing real work; important, life-changing work. Of course the Council wouldn’t want to be involved. He nodded. Feric again dipped her head and connected to the network.

And the Earthman? He asked.

Feric turned her chair to face the blank wall behind them and opened a f'window. An image of the Earthman appeared, sitting naked on his bed with his legs crossed, apparently deep in meditation.

I think it's a method of communication. She said.

Krykowfert looked at her quizzically. Telepathy?

Feric shrugged. He's made no objection to the impounding of his ship, there's no evidence of a probe launch and we've detected no radiations.

Krykowfert shrugged and finished his tea. Absently resting the empty cup against his chest, he leaned back to stare into the sky, past the Hub and its silent Launch Rails, beyond the far side of the torus. Every minute and a half the stars in their black background slipped away, replaced by a vertiginous view of Legong. Every ninety minutes Central Command's orbit brought them over Caldera, and it was this that captured Krykowfert's attention now. His body tensed and his pupils expanded, as if force of will could stop the spin, holding that view of the drowned settlement in place. Feric watched him, waiting patiently for whatever came next.

But in his world the force of will can't overrule the laws of physics. Central Command didn't stop spinning, and so Caldera and Legong slipped away and the black, starry, empty night returned. Krykowfert turned to the f'window, where the Earthman remained; quiescent, naked and cross-legged in his apartment elsewhere on Central Command. Feric closed that view and opened another. Now it was the atoll of Caldera hanging unobtrusively on the wall, its surrounding sea first inundating, then scouring the low, green Keys. Only the rounded and crumbling mount of the main island remained dry, its City Center building glistening in the sun, towering over the lower structures huddled around it. Krykowfert sighed and put his teacup back on the little carved table. Noticing a slight vibration he instinctively glanced upwards. The Shuttle Nexus, mostly silent since the Earth-man's appearance, rocked slightly as it absorbed the inertia of a Shuttle. He looked over at Feric.

From Broad-Plain. She said.

Something wrong with the Caldera recovery?

Feric consulted her implant. Yes, and no. It's an Advocate from Caldera. He's requested an audience with the Council.

Who? Which one? Krykowfert asked.

Again Feric consulted. Tugot. He's technically qualified, but unassigned.

The farmer's son?

Feric nodded. Krykowfert sat back in his chair, staring up at the Hub. Feric waited. Krykowfert twisted to face her. Show his profile.

Feric instantly displayed a series of figures and spectrums. Both examined the data closely.

Have they granted him an audience? Krykowfert asked.

They've not yet replied.

OK. Intercept his request. If anyone challenges you, tell the Council that since it was my decision to cancel the Drops I'll take the complaint directly.

3

Made longer by its silence, the trip in Bento's Skimmer across the inland sea to Broad-Plain was uneventful. Once there Myles discovered all normally scheduled Shuttles to Central Command had been cancelled. He called upon the privileges of his rank, such as it was, to arrange a personal transport.

Probably canceled due to the floods...

The floods are kilometers away in Caldera.

Whatever.

On Caldera the Shuttle station was buried far beneath the rocky outcropping that capped the dusty hill of the Main Island. Broad-Plain's Shuttle entrance lay on the surface, its laser-straight Launch Rail gently sloping down into a long cavern, emerging again a hundred kilometers distant. Nineteen empty seats and one distracted Advocate shot along the Rail at ever increasing speeds, bursting from the vacuum tube into the lower atmosphere with a colossal bang as some device Myles didn't understand turned a column of air into a rarefied plasma. Before the air could refill the tubular hole in the sky the Shuttle was gone, chasing down Central Command and its tangled mass of Launch Rails. After a short orbital drift Myles and the Shuttle were dragged to a stop, their kinetic energy converted into electricity, stored for their, or someone's, trip back to Legong.

Myles pulled himself along the accordion tube connecting the Shuttle to the Hub and kicked off into the open expanse of the Shuttle Nexus. A much smaller version of the six-hundred meter ring that made up the bulk of Central Command, the Shuttle Hub consisted of a hollow ten-meter padded tube curled around on itself into a donut.

Which way to the Council Chambers?

His implant gave no response.

Myles had never seen the place without people in it. Normally there would be other Advocates, Parliamentarians, School groups; masses of floating flesh awaiting Shuttles to the surface mingling with the quivering stomachs of new arrivals. Today, no-one; save the lone Council Guard, sound asleep, floating knees to chest in the classic micro-gravity fetal position. Obviously no one, from any settlement below or ship above, had arrived for quite some time. Leaving the old man to his dreams, Myles set about searching hatch-by-hatch, ignoring the grab-bars, giving himself a shove, floating and swimming and bouncing along the empty torus.

Must be a general shutdown. Myles thought to himself, then, in a moment of clarity, he issued a direct implant-order, CC Shuttle Hub: illuminate the passage to the Council Chamber elevator.

This time, instead of returning nothing, Myles received an unambiguous 'null.' Heartened by the functioning connection he tried again. Again a 'null,' this time backed up with specific information regarding his requested audience with the Council.

Audience denied.

The sleeping Guard bounced twice against a ventilation return duct before the gentle suction held him fast. Myles started drifting towards it himself.

What do you mean, 'audience denied?'

Nothing.

Myles swam around the Hub, peeking out portholes at the great torus in a vain attempt to identify which elevator would take him 'down' - or is it 'out' - to the Council Sector.

Please report immediately to the offices of Director Krykowfert.

Myles spun around to see who was speaking, only to continue spinning, floating too far from the wall to grab hold and stop himself.

There is no-one, he thought to himself, that was your implant.

He let his arms and legs dangle, slowing his spin to the point that he was able to maneuver himself back to wall, where he hovered, staring at an open elevator portal illuminated in a wash of pale green.

Why would the Director want to see me?

I don't know. Maybe you're in line for a promotion.

Implants weren't known for sarcasm so Myles assumed it was just another of his own stray self-deprecating thoughts and continued drifting, considering the possibilities. None of them were good.

Rim Bar? He queried his implant. The Director's elevator remained lit.

Myles counted three doors to the left, or clockwise, or is it up? Pushed off with both feet and overshot, landing against the fourth door.

Close enough.

It opened and Myles swam in.

Please return to the Shuttle Hub and enter the lighted elevator...

That was the implant.

No thank you.

That was Myles.

Large enough for a dozen passengers, the elevator car slid along a curved route from the Shuttle Lobby to the large outer ring, and as the feeling of gravity slowly returned Myles took care, paying enough attention that he wasn't caught-out when wall turned into floor.

Exiting into an unfamiliar hall, Myles wandered nearly empty corridors until recognizing a route to the Rim Bar.

Why are the corridors so empty?

The question echoed around his brain, never stimulating the implant, which would probably not have given an answer anyway. In any case, he had finally reached the Rim Bar, and a feeling of comfort and joy bubbled up to replace the anxiety of the Director's summons. Although libations formed part of his plans, the comfort came mostly from the long wall of windows through which one could observe the planet below. Being constructed long after the Ark arrived, the bar nestled between two main sectors, where, pressed up against the outer structure, real, transparent panels showed a true view of the outside. Myles sat by them, the spin of Central Command keeping his butt pressed in his seat in a most civilized way as the view below changed from planet, to stars, and back to planet. Dim lighting usually kept pupils tiny and stars bright, but today the bar was fully lit, and Myles watched as the bartender followed a Charbot around the room, moving tables and chairs aside to allow it access to bits of floor that had probably not been cleaned in months. Or decades. Standing ankle-high on spindly legs, the Charbot sprayed a hazy blue beam onto a stain on the floor, re-modeling the surface back to original condition.

The unusual brightness intensified the dingy blankness of the walls. Others would describe it as a patina; Myles saw only the desiccated oils and ossified flakes of skin left behind by a hundred years of visitors.

Disgusting.

The only human aspect of the place.

What about her?

Myles had not noticed a woman sitting alone at a table in the far corner of the bar, as far away from the windows as you could get and still be in the room. Unnaturally pale, gaunt even, her complexion identified her as a 'lifer,' a career bureaucrat who may have never left Central Command.

Beetle. Myles thought to himself. 'Beetle' was the term Dirt-siders used to describe such persons.

Don't judge.

Middle aged. Suit worn, but clean and carefully fitted. Drink: gin and tonic. Kinda pale. A lifer, never even visited the surface. Prefers machines to people. Beetle.

Maybe people prefer machines to her.

Myles looked closer. If there ever had been ice in her drink it was long melted, not a drop of condensation left on the glass despite it being only half empty. For a long time he watched, her eyes never left her glass. The room brightened a little. She raised her head, not to acknowledge Myles, but to steal a glimpse through the window at the browns and blues as the planet below came into view.

An emptiness in the woman's eyes overcame Myles with a depth of sadness that numbed him.

She's depressed.

Who wouldn't be, stuck up in this tin can! Disconnect! How the hell did I link with her anyway?

A great wave of anguish locked him into bitter loneliness and intense regret. He sat transfixed, unable to break away from the woman's gaze.

She's not looking at you.

She wasn't. She was back to her drink, yet Myles still couldn't break the connection.

That's not an implant-link.

It must be. Disconnect. DISCONNECT.

Sorry, I didn't see you come in. What'll it be?

The bartender stood over Myles waiting for his response, leaving the Charbot click-clacking away to fulfill its purpose without further guidance. The woman across the room was quickly forgotten. Myles looked up, felt his damp eyes and wondered if the bartender had noticed.

Vodka and plum. Please.

The bartender walked back to his bar and Myles returned to the view out the window. The long row of windows made it impossible to ignore the compound motions of spin and orbit, soothing to some and sick-making to others. In half a minute Legong made its way along the wall of windows and then slipped away, leaving behind a field of stars. Myles watched the changing view, forgetting why he'd come until his drink had arrived. Myles took a sip and looked around the room. Two more people had come in, a couple young cadets.

Again, or still, Myles tried to remember why he'd come, and what the hell he'd done to make that connection with the sad woman.

You were going to tear the Council a new one for dropping the ball on their responsibilities to the settlements.

Oh. Right.

The fog cleared and thoughts of Krykowfert returned. Myles was accustomed to the Council, addressing them was easy. Mostly posturing and bullshit. Not much was ever accomplished, but at least one had the satisfaction of being heard.

Did I order another drink?

The bartender stopped halfway across the room, stood still and looked down at his shoes. He raised his head and turned back for the bar, walking quickly.

Did he forget something?

Idiot – he was responding to an implant-call.

The Charbot click-clacked its way back into its hole in the wall as the bartender adjusted the lights down to their normal, dim setting. The room fell into a subdued silence. The chatty youths and the lonely lady stared down at their laps.

A general notice?

Myles leaned his head forward, concentrating on a blank spot on his table.

All channels open.

Nothing. Myles tried to clear his mind; instead it filled with theories and fears.

Damn it!

The other three quickly downed their drinks and stood up, marching briskly out the door. Myles took a sip of his own and tried again to connect.

Just ask the bartender.

The bartender stared at the glasses left behind by the three patrons, then at the door, then back at the glasses. Myles gently lowered his own glass, stood, and cautiously walked towards the door himself.

Before making it more than two steps the door opened and two Shield Guards entered, followed immediately by a weatherworn face topping a once powerful frame of shoulders, chest and impossibly flat stomach.

Shit.

Krykowfert walked calmly towards him, smiling too broadly and holding out his hand. I do not believe we've met. I am Tendaji Krykowfert, Director of Shield Guard. Myles let the man take his hand and shake it. Please, don't abandon your drink on my account. Myles looked down at his glass as Krykowfert rolled his eyes and nodded at the bartender. May I? The two men sat: Krykowfert relaxed, Myles rigid.

I just thought I'd have a drink before heading up. Myles offered.

Yes, yes. Of course. And why not? Krykowfert smiled, eyes twinkling. The bartender arrived with a drink and a plate of tarts. You'll be interested in this. Your parents are farmers, aren't they? he asked, nodding out the window as Central Command passed over Caldera. I believe I met them, many years ago, before you were born.

Yes. I think- they've mentioned it once or twice.

It was Krykowfert, or more correctly, his initiatives, that had made the farm possible. The man took a tart and pushed the plate over towards Myles. Myles placed one on his napkin. Harry would not be pleased to hear he'd eaten another baker's tart.

Almonds. Krykowfert announced, as if he'd just invented the things. They're nuts, grown on trees. In the dirt.

Yes, Myles agreed, Very nice.

Krykowfert ate, watching Myles closely. You have an issue with the relief efforts?

That's Council business. Myles surprised himself with what, in effect, was a direct challenge to Krykowfert's authority.

Yes, yes. It was. But now it's mine, you see. I canceled the Drop-Capsules.

That's not protocol.

No. But your neighbors in Broad-Plain are helping, and I understand it is going quite well.

Myles couldn't deny that. As far as he knew the recovery was going well enough. That's not protocol. He repeated.

Is that important to you? Protocol? Krykowfert took another tart, forcing the entire thing into his face in two bites. He seemed to be able to eat it without moving his jaw, and when he finished, filled in the answer Myles hadn't. No. You requisitioned a Shuttle when Central Command was in lock-down. Was that protocol? He paused again for Myles to answer, again he didn't. Do you think that was a wise use of resources during this crisis?

Myles felt alarmed. Was that a violation?

Your Council has reasons for temporarily canceling the Shuttle services. Does that also offend your sense of - protocol? Krykowfert reached for the last tart. Myles reflexively grabbed it first.

Two each. That's fair.

Krykowfert let his hand hover over the empty plate for a moment, then retracted it and relaxed back into his seat. Myles tried to decipher the man's body language.

Well... Krykowfert said. You are here now. Perhaps I can provide satisfaction?

Why were the Shuttles canceled? Myles thought, still attempting to gauge the man's intentions.

You want to know why the Shuttles were canceled? Krykowfert asked.

Did I ask that out loud?

No. It must have gone out through the implant

I didn't - I mean, can he open my implant without me knowing?

The internal debate showed on Myles's face. Krykowfert let it continue for a while, then interrupted.

As an Advocate, Myles, may I call you Myles? You should have known that the General Meetings have been canceled. I can see you didn't. But then you're unassigned, aren't you. You don't bother with the General Meetings.

Myles was used to this kind of ribbing from other Advocates, but it felt different coming from the Director of Shield Guard. There was a tone, a needling that wasn't friendly but also wasn't judgmental.

Well, he continued, you are here, and you are clearly curious, and as you are an Advocate I am obliged to answer reasonable questions.

Did I have questions? I had complaints.

OK. Myles ventured. "Why are the shuttle flights canceled?"

Krykowfert smiled, looking over at Myles's second, uneaten tart. He reached