Song of the Navigator (2 page)

Almost immediately Ronda flew to him and perched on his shoulder. She was his oldest pet, an African grey he had hand-raised and who had been his companion through the harsh years of his early training. She gave him a strangled-sounding cry hello.

“Hello, sugar,” he cooed, stroking her feathers. He turned to Jason. “Did you fix the problem?”

Jason nodded and motioned one hand forward. As they toured the greenhouse, Jason pointed out which misters were malfunctioning. Water was a precious resource on any station in space, and being in the penthouse caused particular issues requiring reverse gravity to pump the needed water up to the enclosure. Since its construction, the greenhouse had been plagued with water issues.

Tover listened and deeply inhaled the thick, florid air, checking the feeders and the artificial-light fixtures, making sure everyone got along and had their needs taken care of. When Jason finished his descriptions of repair, Tover followed him to the door and wordlessly reached for Jason's wrist. He swiped his wristpad over Jason's and gave him a generous tip.

Jason smiled. “Thank you, sir. Michael Bayer is on the station tonight, if you would like me to arrange to have him come up.” He raised his eyebrows.

Tover shook his head. Jason was one of a select few of the hotel staff who knew about Tover's tastes. And Michael Bayer was an exceptionally talented entertainer who worked a few days a month at the Lizard Lounge, an exclusive private club for men of Tover's persuasion.

“Not tonight,” Tover said. “Saving my voice.”

“Talking isn't always necessary,” Jason replied, then with a laugh he left Tover finally, blissfully, alone with his aviary.

The majesty of birds took his breath away, made him feel small, yet part of something bigger, something incredible and purposeful. He could spend all night listening to speeches about his own grandeur, but when it came down to it, this—a moment alone with his birds, in their own artificial habitat, lush and alive—was all he needed to humble him.

Five to twenty, Tover left the noisy comfort of his aviary and changed into black leather pants and a crisp white dress shirt which he left unbuttoned low at the neck. The leather pants were extravagantly expensive, almost too much, even for his exorbitant salary. But it was his thirtieth birthday. He allowed himself a few indulgences.

As he dressed, he fantasized about the afterparty that would be held on the rooftop of the older Grand Palacio Hotel. Harmony held almost all of its corporate events there, and Tover always attended them on the off-chance that Cruz Arcadio would show.

Tover brushed his teeth, cautioning himself not to get his hopes up. The engineer passed through the station rarely, only once every one or two months. But on the occasions he did travel from Harmony's headquarters for business, he had no choice but to stop at DK Station, and he usually amused himself between pulses by attending company events.

And because of this, Tover never missed one. He knew it was a long shot, one-in-a-hundred chance that he would glimpse the engineer's dark black hair, caramel skin, his large brown eyes. For a man who spent most of his time in an office, Cruz had the body of a soldier, and the way he made love was so forceful and passionate, Tover would fantasize about him for weeks after their too-brief, and too-rare, couplings.

After all, most of Tover's lovers were so intimidated by the fact they were fucking a navigator they couldn't fully engage. But Cruz didn't treat him any differently. The first time they'd hooked up had been in the bathroom off the Palacio dance floor, and Cruz had immediately taken charge, stunning Tover into blissful submission with powerful kisses, strong roaming hands, and an insistent, invasive rhythm which left Tover sated and sore for days.

Just imagining him again got Tover worked up, and so he forced himself to think about something else. More often than not, he left disappointed. But the rare nights they had gotten together were the most exciting, erotic experiences of Tover's life, and now that his mind had wandered in that direction, nothing could stop it. He had to hope his birthday present would be there.

Tover's security team met Tover in the Oasis lobby, and they were quickly joined by Alexey Jade and Peter Owens, Port Director for Dadelus-Kaku's Harmony dock and the highest-ranking Harmony official on the station.

Tover let Peter do the talking, worried about the prospect of having to make a speech after a long day at work. He smiled at the right times and raised his eyebrows in greeting as more corpexecs joined the entourage. He sucked on lozenges and shook hands. They entered the main boulevard of the atrium, and Tover froze as everyone else looked on.

There was a parade in his honor.

He had known there would be festivities, but the size of the crowd, so many balloons and evaporating ticker tape and floats representing the history of navigation and space travel took him by complete surprise. Harmony had really outdone themselves this year.

“Happy birthday, Tover,” Peter Owens said, patting him on the back. “We're proud to have you with us.”

Tover joined the execs as they boarded a float designed for him. A re-creation of the navport chair suspended haphazardly from a steel platform. Tover clambered into position, and the float joined the end of the parade. The congested route teemed with waving, shouting people, and the noise was immense. Usually voices drifted high to the station's enclosure and disappeared, but tonight they resonated and the station rang like an untuned instrument. Tover's ear implants, acutely sensitive to vibrations, worked against him in such situations, and he had to focus on not flinching as the shouts of his name increased in volume.

A group of Stuurmanites in white robes rushed Tover's float, and he tensed. His bodyguards moved closer. But the religious fanatics fell to their knees and bowed, reaching their hands toward Tover and praying to him. Peter Owens said something to the float driver and the message relayed up the parade, and they sped up noticeably, passing the ascetics in a rush.

“How the hell did they find out he'd be here?” Jade complained to Peter Owens.

Peter laughed. “You're the publicist. It's your leak.”

Tover glanced behind him. The robed ascetics were swallowed by the crowd, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He loved being a hero but being worshipped as an actual god by a small but zealous group of off-worlders disturbed him to no end.

It usually took twenty minutes by tram to go from one end of the atrium to the other, but at the slow pace they traveled it took nearly an hour before Tover returned to the domed center and was escorted up stairs to the raised dais. He saw the floating amp phone, and his stomach clenched in anticipation. Speech time. He should have known—Jade kept slipping him drinks the entire parade.

The crowd astounded him. Everyone in the station had to be there. How the hell had something of this scope been organized without his knowledge? Giant hologram banners displaying his face dotted the walkways. The massive space had been transformed into a scene of chaotic celebration. Red lights flashed near the security portal, but since no one else seemed concerned about it, Tover didn't worry about it either.

“Speech! Speech!” members of the audience shouted out. Tover took the stage and smiled to hide his nerves. He despised public speaking, but now he stood at the podium and all the image captures were turned to him, he had no choice but to turn toward the floating mic and say a few words.

“Thank you.” His voice was rough, broken; it always surprised people. The red flashing emergency lights distracted him. Peacekeeper forces silently poured into the atrium, weapons in their hands.

“It's an honor to celebrate my birthday in such good company.” Tover looked into the crowd, nodded at Gull and a merchant marine he had hooked up with last week. “And it's an honor to work for this company. Harmony has been my home, my safe harbor. Thank you to the Harmony executives for this wonderful party, and for all you have done for me over the years.”

A round of applause, although Tover never was sure if Harmony praise was genuine or calculated for promotion. On the station, almost fifty percent of the inhabitants were employees of the corporation. The rest were either peacekeepers soldiering to keep companies like Harmony safe, or else politicians regulating to keep Harmony in business. It was their world, no one had any illusions about that.

The PK soldiers seemed to form a moving triangular shape, closing in on one restricted entry door. But the audience at Tover's feet waited for more words.

“It's been—”

Someone grabbed Tover's neck forcefully and pulled him backward. His breath exhaled loudly in shock, and members of the audience screamed. He heard a weapon fire and chaos sounded around him. Tover reached up to break the hold around his neck. Whoever held him was huge, his arm didn't budge.

Tover kicked at the assailant's leg and the man swore. Tover bolted toward the soldiers who rushed the stage. Tover was yanked back, and he heard the unmistakable rev of a thermal pistol charging. He felt cold steel against the back of his neck.

“Get any closer and the navigator is dead!”

Tover froze in surprise. He knew that voice.

He tried to lift his head, get a look, but then he was jerked up forcefully by his collar and the man held him painfully, arm nearly choking him at the neck. The humming pistol steadied in the man's left hand, point blank at the base of Tover's skull.

Adrenaline rushed through Tover's body. He turned slightly and caught a glimpse of a face he knew very well. Cruz, his occasional lover and serious crush, no longer looked like a respectable engineer from Harmony corporate headquarters.

He wore green fatigues and a bloodstained bandana around his head. He'd been injured, his temple oozing blood. Without a suit, the man's scarred, muscular arms were clearly visible. And most shocking, he wore bulky metal breath clips on the corners of his nostril and mouth. A respirator meant he wasn't a native oxygen breather. It didn't make any sense.

“Don't move,” Cruz hissed in Tover's ear. Tover complied, mostly out of shock. How many times had he allowed this man to fuck him? Two dozen? Three dozen times? There had never been even a hint of malice in his touch.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Tover whispered. “It's me, Tover!”

The absurdity of having to identify himself nearly made Tover laugh. The entire atrium had his picture in holograms, his name flashing in bright colors in celebration. There was no way Cruz could be mistaken.

But the gun against Tover's neck was no mistake.

The soldiers in front of them slowly lowered their weapons, their visors darkened in combat mode. One of them held their hands palms out in a gesture of supplication to Cruz.

“Let the navigator go,” the soldier said.

Cruz's hold around Tover's neck tightened.

“Let me go,” Tover repeated. His gravelly voice shook.

“Take me to Jarrow,” Cruz ordered. He pressed the front sight of the pistol harder against Tover's neck. “Fourth level, second loading bay.”

“Drop the gun!” one of the soldiers shouted to Cruz. The crowd behind the peacekeepers surged back from the violence.

Tover didn't have to help Cruz. He could have jumped himself out of Cruz's hold easily, right behind the line of soldiers—only his shock had prevented him from doing so before.

But now Cruz pressed his lips against Tover's ear. “Help me. Please,” he whispered.

Tover clenched his eyes shut.

“Please,” Cruz said again. There was a catch to his voice, a desperation that Tover was unfamiliar with. He shifted and made eye contact. Cruz's face typically remained a study in masked indifference, but at the moment his beautiful brown eyes were wild with terror. And with that fear, he didn't look like a bloodied terrorist wielding a gun and threatening Tover's life. He looked like the first man that Tover had ever asked to spend an entire night with him. He looked like the man Tover had grown to anticipate more than anything else in his mundane rut of a life on Dadelus-Kaku Station.

“I need your help or I'm dead,” Cruz said.

“Hold on tightly,” Tover growled. “Don't let go.” He wrapped his arms around Cruz, and Cruz returned the embrace. It felt awkward, this pose, like lovers coupling in front of an armed audience. But it still wasn't tight enough. Tover's self-generated orbifolds were small. He lifted his leg and wrapped it around Cruz, pulling the man flush against him. Tover closed his eyes. Jarrow was a mechanical satellite which moved frequently, but Tover found it effortlessly, currently orbiting a gaseous moon. He sensed the structure of the facility, the twelve tiers circulating around a central gravity axis, sensed the fourth level, the difference between atoms of steel and those of oxygen and open space. He opened his mouth and altered the space around them, creating a small but sturdy orbifold that barely encompassed their bodies, and then, in a blink, they were gone.

Chapter Two

The sensation was sharp, not painful but stunning, hot and blossoming, the sick feeling of subatomic manipulation.

But it only lasted a second. The bright artificial lights of the Jarrow satellite burned Tover's eyes. Cruz let go and unexpectedly, Tover collapsed. He tried to move but had no strength in him, none at all.

He was starving. His body felt alien. He could see the bones under his skin. He'd lost half his weight fuelling the jump. He barely had strength to lift his hand.

Cruz held his pistol out, gasping for breath. He trembled slightly, no doubt aftershocks from the unprotected jump. He knelt beside Tover.

Tover had never jumped so far without a power source, and now he knew why he had been warned not to. He'd burned every energy reserve he had. He was so weak he couldn't even speak. He stared up at the bright halogens lining the ceiling. The hazy air around him moved lazily, thick with nanites, purifying and recycling the oxygen. Every breath tasted sterile and burned his nostrils.

He felt Cruz's fingers on his neck, checking his pulse. Cruz's head still bled, but he didn't look pained. He didn't look like he felt anything at all. Other than occasional moments of sheer pleasure or fury, Cruz had always hidden his feelings behind a blank face. He opened his mouth to speak.

“Hey!
Quién es
?” someone shouted.

Cruz leapt to his feet and spun around, pistol raised. Tover tried to stand and found it took all his energy to get on his hands and knees. Nausea washed through him, as well as bone-deep fear. When he was six and he waited for the Harmony medical staff to surgically install the implants in his head, the stories from the other kids made Tover so frightened he had pissed himself. So now he concentrated on controlling his terror, terrified of some humiliating gaff.

But no amount of concentration could erase the fact that he was in grave danger, immobile on Jarrow of all places. The satellite was home to illegal banking syndicates, arms traders, drug smugglers, and data pirates who didn't care who they hurt as long as they profited.

“It's me,” Cruz said. Tover tried to stand and face those who joined them in the small chamber, but he fell to the ground and lay there, stunned and sick to his stomach. The cold grate beneath him felt cold under his fingertips, possibly wet. He was so thirsty he licked the grate in desperation.

“How the fuck did you get here, Arcadio?” someone asked.

They were in a private loading bay. It had no windows, only large freight doors and empty buoy pallets. The walls were dark corrugated metal, and the grated floor matched the ceiling.

Three men approached Cruz, dangerous intent in their expressions. They looked feral. They wore the green fatigues of jungle combatants. The bald and skinny one appeared malnourished, but another was as long as a rebuilt soldier and the other, a bearded man with thick black hair, looked strong enough to tear Tover into two. They all wore breathing clips on their nostrils and mouths. Apparently Jarrow was now overrun by carbon dioxide-breathing Caridans.

“You have it?” Cruz asked them.

“Fuckin' Slavs, man,” the skinny one said. He nodded his chin toward Cruz's bloody temple. “What happened to you?”

“They caught up to me at DK Station.” Cruz carefully reholstered his gun. “Slavs? I sent the files to the repository.”

“Yeah, and those fucking Jarrow pirates intercepted it.” The skinny one spat on the ground. “They want 50,000 for it.”

For a moment Tover thought he saw some emotion cross over Cruz's stony expression. He looked pissed.

“What's wrong with this air breather?” The tall soldier knelt beside Tover. “He looks like a skeleton.”

“He's a navigator,” Cruz said. “He jumped me here.”

“No fucking way!” The man poked Tover. Tover tried to pull away, but his body responded sluggishly, as if drugged.

“Don't poke him, Ramirez,” Cruz growled.

Tover tried to speak, to tell the man to fuck off, but he had no voice. He breathed the stale satellite air heavily and glared.

“Where the hell are we going to get fifty thousand shares?” the bearded one asked. He had a crude leafy patch stitched on his shirt, and Tover finally made the connection.

These guys were Pulmon Verde, terrorists from Carida. They protested the planned terraforming of their home world. He had heard about them on the news, and occasionally talk of Carida reverberated around the station. Harmony was the company that owned terraforming rights to the small planet. But Tover hadn't paid close attention, having no interest in politics. And he never thought he'd have to meet these ruthless bastards in person.

What was a decent, educated structural engineer like Cruz doing mixed up with these guys?

“I didn't spend five years playing nice in Arland to have my work stolen,” Cruz told them, and Tover realized Cruz had never honestly been a Harmony employee. He was a spy. “We need those files back.”

The bearded man spat. “So you got fifty k?”

Cruz frowned. “I've got shares in the sec lockers in the prison block at DK station. I got out but couldn't get my confiscated belongings.”

“Then we're fucked,” the skinny one said. “You don't have any backups of the file?”

Cruz blinked at him. “There is no backup. It was hard enough sending a duplicate here without a trace.”

“Then we sell him.” The soldier named Ramirez kicked at Tover. It wasn't a hard kick, but fear made Tover desperate. He used all his strength to get to his knees. He still couldn't find the energy to speak.

“We have shares,” Cruz said.

“Not 50k worth,” Ramirez said. His eyes were dark and sharp, and he had a cruel smile, accentuated by the metal clip at the corner of his lips. “Do you have any idea how much a navigator is worth? Harmony couldn't operate without him. And these Jarrow assholes are always looking for ways to smuggle their shit out. This satellite even has a navport. They'd kill us and take him in a heartbeat if they knew he was here, so why not trade him and leave peacefully?”

Cruz held Tover's eye contact for only a second. Then his jaw clenched and he looked away.

“I don't like these bastards having that kind of power,” the skinny one said. “I trust them about as much as I trust Harmony.”

“We don't have a say in the matter,” Ramirez replied. “The pirates took your evidence, Arcadio. We need what they got, and we got what they need. Simple, amigo. You worked too fucking hard for that evidence to let it rot here. Let's get home, man. Let's tell the world what you found.”

Cruz hesitated for only a moment. He ground his teeth but otherwise showed no expression as he swiftly reached down and grabbed Tover by the collar.

Tover tried to break free, but his useless body only allowed him to flail weakly. He looked like the victim of months of starvation. Cruz effortlessly lifted Tover over his shoulder. Tover's leather trousers barely stayed on, and his shirt billowed like a cape around his thin body.

Cruz and the three others exited the loading dock and marched down an empty corridor lined with doors to similar private docks. They took an elevator up, which opened into a crowded square packed wall to wall with vehicles, people and goods. The smell of charcoal and meat filled the air, as well as diesel. The noise was deafening, dozens of languages chattering beneath low metal ceilings. A sheen of condensation covered surfaces as if the satellite itself wept. The variety of congregants would have overwhelmed Tover any other time, but at the moment he was too distracted to sightsee.

There was something to be said about the nature of a place where a man could swing another man over his shoulder and walk through a bustling corridor and no one gave it a second glance.

Tover knew Jarrow was a bad place, but now he felt in his bones the futility of looking for help amongst these strangers. He tried to call out but his hoarse whisper drowned in the cacophony of the enclosed trading market. Hunger made him nauseated, and he closed his eyes and forced back the sensation of throwing up.

With eyes closed, he could sense his home. He could feel the contours of his bed, back on DK Station, as close as the blood and sweat-stained fabric of Cruz's shirt. Tover tried repeatedly to create an orbifold around himself but couldn't succeed, as weak as he was.

Cruz's hands seemed gentle as they held on to Tover, and he offered a slight stroke, almost reassuring. It broke Tover's heart. This fucking traitor was going to sell out Harmony secrets, and to do so, he was trading Tover like silver. The reassuring stroke mocked all the feelings Tover had toward the man, and Tover formed a loose fist and struck at Cruz's back, hoping to hit him in the kidney.

The blow barely brushed Cruz's shirt.
What a fucking joke
, Tover thought.

From upside down over Cruz's shoulder, the layout of Jarrow made no sense. They climbed stairs and went into a tram tunnel. Then they re-emerged and took another set of elevators. Cruz and his soldiers were not disturbed by anyone, and Tover noticed several gave the men a wide berth. When smugglers avoided the Pulmon Verde, what chance did Tover have?

At last Tover recognized his environment. Even upside down he could tell they walked a narrow metal companionway connecting a ship to the satellite. Although the ship was separate from the structure, the welded connections between the satellite and the ship confirmed that this vessel never went anywhere. It was a permanent feature of the satellite.

At the entrance dock, one of Cruz's companions spoke with a guard. Tover wished Cruz would swing around so he could see the make of the vessel, be able to report it to the authorities once he broke free.

Tover managed to catch the name of the vessel,
The Baroque
, before Cruz turned completely and lowered Tover to the ground. Cruz gently eased Tover off his shoulder, propping him up against the cold metal wall. He didn't make eye contact.

They waited for some time in the hallway. Cruz and the skinny man stood guard over Tover while Ramirez and the bearded terrorist went inside.

The Baroque
. It sounded familiar. While studying to become a navigator, Tover had to memorize the entire fleet of vessels containing navports. Since his schooling years, the number of vessels had more than doubled, but
The Baroque
was old, and the name triggered a memory. He recalled something about a first-generation jumping barge.

“
Vamos
.” Ramirez motioned toward them with his hand. Tover tried to get to his feet again and flee but Cruz was faster, quickly reaching down and pulling Tover up by his arm. The blood had dried on Cruz's forehead.

Tover struggled out of his grasp, and Cruz supported him as he attempted to stand. But his legs gave out and Cruz ended up carrying him through the doorway and down a loading ramp, then turned right into a small carpeted office.

The room's sterile smell burned Tover's nostrils. For the headquarters of an illegal operation, the room had a distinctly mundane, bureaucratic feel to it. There was a cheap-looking faux-wooden desk with the edges peeling, a plastic potted plant, holo photos of the ship and an emergency exit map of the vessel layout on the wall, as if it were the headquarters of any fleet operation. But on the desk were dozens of wristpad implants attached to a base unit, and piles of holoscreen platforms.

The room's inhabitant stood, arms crossed, weight resting on the edge of the desk. He was a stout man, with trim brown hair and a tidy beard, light brown going gray. His hazel eyes watched Cruz warily as he lowered Tover to the ground.

Tover fumbled for Cruz's wrist. His fingers weakly closed, and for a moment he held him. Cruz looked at him, expression unreadable.

“Don't,” Tover gasped.

Cruz immediately turned away.

“He's no good to us crippled,” the smuggler said.

“He'll recover.” Ramirez glanced at Cruz. “Right? He's just wiped from the last jump.”

After a moment, Cruz nodded.

The smuggler crouched beside Tover and reached out, turning Tover's head to face him.

Tover glared back. The man studied Tover's face, then nodded. As he stood, his knees cracked.

“Yes, it's Tover Duke.” He had a strong accent, and hit his consonants hard. “Damn.” He grinned. He lifted his wristpad to his mouth. “Cherko. Get in here.” He walked behind the desk and rustled around in a drawer for a moment, mumbling to himself in a language unfamiliar to Tover.

“Call…PK…” Tover tried to say. No one even heard him. He started to crawl toward the door, but the bearded terrorist grabbed his arm and easily shoved him back down on the ground.

The smuggler pulled out a thin memory drive. He licked his finger and wiped off the number written on its side.

Ramirez yanked the drive from the smuggler's hand. The smuggler chuckled.

“Hey, no offense.” He brought his hands together. “We have a business. It isn't personal.” He watched, seemingly amused, as Ramirez took out a handheld reader from his pocket. He lay the reader flat. A second later a gray mist formed over the surface of the reader, and Ramirez stuck his finger in it to identify himself to his computer. The three-dimensional screen took form. He whisked the drive through the mist and studied the readouts that appeared. After a moment, he nodded to Cruz. He pocketed the device.

“Your identities will remain anonymous as long as the navigator's presence here remains the same,” the smuggler told the Pulmon Verde.

All but Cruz nodded. Cruz studied the map on the wall, clearly avoiding eye contact.

A giant of a man entered the office. He was bald and sported a bushy moustache. His bulk dwarfed even someone as strong as Cruz. He ducked his head to clear the doorway.

“Yeah, boss?”

The bearded smuggler smiled. “Cherko, the man on the floor's our new navigator.”

“Fuckin' A, boss.”