The Clock Winked (The Sagittan Chronicles Book 2) (5 page)

The community stands
behind Auvek Oliphant, XXXVII's decision to infiltrate the history of
William Oliphant, bookseller
and coax it back to its original glory.

*****

“John,” Quin said. “Where’s that talkative graduate student
of yours?”

“Misty? She’s not talkative, just very loquacious. Oh wait,
those mean the same thing!” John chuckled at his own joke.

“Where is she?”

“Probably in the graduate student offices.
She hasn’t left since you told her to go to the couch room. Did you get her a
position?”

“Yes, and Tom has approved it.”

They began to stroll down the hall towards the offices.

“I hate this hallway,” Quin muttered.

Flowers covered the walls. Not only were huge pink pankr
blossoms painted on top of a background of green leaves, but real pankr
blossoms grew in pots all the way down the hallway.

“You just don’t like pink,” John said.

“Perhaps,” Quin growled, “but remember that time I was being
chased by a Smelterwick on Tranklae? I jumped into a patch of pankr flowers
because Smelterwicks are allergic to them. I was trapped in there for nine
hours, while he paced and grunted and poked the patch with sticks, and
drooled
enough green slime for an army of them.”

“Okay, okay,” John said, patting Quin on the back. “I
understand. You have deep psychological issues. This is probably something you
should address with the in-house psychologist.” He smirked. “If a Smelterwick doesn’t come and get you while you’re
sleeping.”

Quin elbowed John in the ribs and opened the door to the
graduate student offices just as John said, “OW,” in a very loud voice.

“Misty,” Quin boomed.

She jumped up out of her chair in the back of the room.
“Here sir, near sir!” she exclaimed, standing at attention and trying not to
look at Quin.

“No rhyming,” Quin ordered, and led her across the corridor
and into John’s office. “Sit.”

John sat at his desk, kicked his feet up, and began to play
with a Rubik’s cube. Misty sat very stiffly across from him, while Quin
repeatedly paced the length of the room.

“You now have an internship with Chair Rizinski,” he said.
“Pay attention to everything. Listen for clues about Chair Aderick’s death,
look for papers,
eavesdrop on discussions—anything
.
Pick through trash if you have to. If they ask you to spy on us, agree to it
because you’re annoyed that we won’t give you a travel visa. We’ll feed you
enough to keep them busy.

“It’s crucial that you tell us everything you find out, no
matter how insignificant it might seem. We will provide a secure server for you
to upload information to. And try to keep informed about his schedule.

“Do not ever break cover,” Quin finished. He slammed a
manual on the table. “This is a book on how to not break cover. Read it.
Memorize it. Do it.”

“Oh hey, Misty,” John said cheerfully. “You know that new
guy Aderick just instated?
Before he died, obviously.
Um, what’s his name—Gibson!
The decorator kitchen guy.
Keep an eye on him too, since he’s new to the council.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Misty stammered. “What if I’m caught, if they
find out I’m bought?”

“We’ll get you out of jail,” John said. “Don’t worry. We
have special provisions for people in these types of situations.
Just don’t do this for a non-government organization.
We’re
allowed to spy on each other, but if you’re feeding information outside—well,
that would be stupid.”

“Better yet, don’t get caught.” Quin scowled. “And quit
rhyming.” He turned towards the door. “You start at eight tomorrow morning. Be
at the Council Offices with a calendar and a dozen pens.”

The door slammed behind him.

“Don’t be scared of him,” John said, comfortingly. “We’ve
got moles all over the place, and they’ve got moles here. So don’t worry about
it. Just do a good job. Okay?”

“Okay.” Misty nodded, gathered up her books, and left.

*****

“The Globe – primarily the Interplanetary Cooperation and
Creation Committee – is in a panic, a panic fed by Lars Drake,” Officer Holder
reported via phone to Samson Lebron, who sat in his luxurious office aboard the
Meteor II Orbiting Docking Station. “No one knows why, but our moles believe
that it's just his usual overreaction. In addition, the smashed windows around
Oliphant's were the result of an improperly installed sonic security device,
but Oliphant the-god-knows-what number is in jail waiting charges of reckless
endangerment, vandalism, and a number of other charges.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I thought you might find it amusing, sir,” Officer Holder
replied.

“I see.” Samson twirled a pencil between his fingers,
staring at it intently.
“News on Rathead?”

“He's gone.
Disappeared.
The riots stopped
abruptly—two days ago, mobs everywhere. Then yesterday morning no one showed
up. It’s strange.
Haven't heard a peep out of him since.”

“Damn. What's he up to?” Samson scratched the surface of his
desk with the tip of the pencil. “Do a check into Rathead's family—see if his
son is old enough to be initiated. What do the riots look like on the Salt
River?”

“The smaller communities have settled down with a little
help from the military. The larger towns have gone guerrilla. They're hiding
from the police, but still smashing windows, setting off smoke bombs, and
spraying graffiti on every surface imaginable. They're also printing pamphlets
and leaving them everywhere.”

“Thank you Officer. You will find you have been compensated
when you reach home tonight.”

“Thank you, sir,” Officer Holder replied, and hung up.

Samson leaned back and kicked his feet up on the desk. He
stared out his large window at the myriad of glittering stars that speckled the
dark sky. Rayl, the closest planet in the system, sat low on the horizon,
glowing orange as it rolled through the sky in a lazy arch over Liera.

Marge poked her head through the door. “Chair Rizinski has
scheduled a visit two days from now. He wants a private meeting with you and a
tour of the facility.” She slipped into the room and closed the door behind
her.

“Who is he bringing?”

Marge looked down at her clipboard.
“Heloise
Mikkelson, Arthur Robspar, and an intern.”

“Ridiculous. Bring me some head-STOP pills, please.”

“Of course, sir,” Marge replied. “I have the staff
preparing. Is there anything you want done specifically?”

“Let me make some phone calls first. Thank you.”

“Of course, sir.”
Marge left,
closing the door softly behind her.

“Stryker,” Samson stated into the phone.

“Samson Lebron. To you to talk is my great wish.” A strange
voice answered the phone, sneering and soft, lilting and melodic. “I pleased
you have called.”

“Who is this?” Samson demanded.

“I your deep desire, your happy inside,
your, what they say, glorious retribution.”

“Retribution for what?
Where is
Stryker?”

“He right here.” The phone became silent for a moment and
then a muffled thump sounded in the background.
“Oh, too bad.
He
get
too rowdy so we must quiet.” The voice
chuckled. “We need for you to do us favor, Mr. Lebron.”

“Why?” Samson scowled.

The voice chuckled. “You refuse, you lose more than job.”

“What do you want?”

“Chair Rizinski visits you this week, yes? He has new
intern. She is spy for ICCC. We need know information in her head. What is
Chair planning? What does ICCC want?”

“Who is 'we'?” Samson demanded.

“This is how you must see,” the sleek voice replied. “We
give you help. You get information, you share.
Is simple.”

Samson sat back in his chair, musing thoughtfully.
“Information, you say. That is my field. I will consider it.”

“Did I mention?” the voice added.
“This
not choice.
Do you have
remember
of your
deceased wife? Eliza?”

Samson's jaw clenched. “Of course I remember her. What are
you insinuating?”

“Is true, that her body still missing?”

Samson said nothing.

The voice on the other end chuckled softly. “We know where
body is. We have pictures.” He paused.
“A phone call.
Tomorrow.
Between 8:15 and 9:15.”

The phone went dead.

A moment later, Samson's favourite paperweight lay shattered
in pieces on the floor across the room.

*****

In Southern Pomegranate City, few police officers bothered
to patrol. Everyone knew that the two gangs who roamed the streets had their
own system of law that governed the two prominent races which inhabited the
area. Most interesting of the gang leaders was a character named Rathead, who
rarely made appearances, but was a bit of a legend through all of Pomegranate
City. Children in school played a game of tag called Rathead and the Ghosts,
where one child would pretend to be Rathead and hide, while the other children,
pretending to be the ghosts of the people who he had killed, had to find him
and haunt him.

It was a rather morbid game for children, Salve had always
thought. Currently, he was pursuing a story about the system of law that ruled
the streets here, but finding people to interview was a decidedly difficult
task. He glanced at the card in his hand. It read “Lawrence Zebigular, MD, 23
Traffick Lane” in spidery handwriting.

The house was painted white and surrounded by a high cement
fence with a gate in the middle. The cement had been decorated with spray
paint; a series of illegibly scrawled letters and two stripes of blue splayed
predominately across the wall.

He rang the bell. An elderly man came to the gate and
unlatched it, allowing Salve to enter.

“Hello there, young man,” he said.

“Hello. You are Mr. Zebigular?” Salve asked.

“I am.”

“A pleasure to meet you.
I am
Sauvignon Pincer, but you can call me Salve.”

“Well, come in then. No need to stand out here in the
danger.” Mr. Zebigular led him into the living room. It had one lamp, two
chairs, a short table under the window, and not much else. “Please, sit down. I
will bring the tea.”

A moment later he bustled into the room with a tray, two
cups, and a pot of tea. “Now,” he said, placing the tray on the small table.
“What can I do for you?”

“I’m doing an article on gang law in Southern Pomegranate
City,” Salve said. “Do you know much about this?”

“Oh dear,” Mr. Zebigular said. “You shouldn’t want to do an
article on that. The law is a secret, only told to those who need to know. I
know very little, and wouldn’t want to break my vow, which guarantees my
protection. Let’s talk about the Clock of Legend. I think it is most
interesting, you know. They say it is the end of the time, that the Clock
predicts the end of the world.”

“It is very interesting, sir,” Salve agreed.

“You know, I have some history of my own related to the
Clock,” Mr. Zebigular said with a look on his face which clearly stated, ‘I’m
going to reminisce whether you like it or not.’ He continued, “My father once
told me a story of my great, great, great, great uncle who was actually there
at the construction of the Clock. It was a number of years before the
technological revolution...”

Salve listened patiently as Mr. Zebigular told him his
entire family history, and then proceeded to flip through each page of his photo
album, describing every family member in painstaking detail.

“If the end of the world does come,” he said, “this is very
important for you to know.”

“Do the gangs know about the end of the world?” Salve asked.

“Oh no, no,” Mr. Zebigular exclaimed. “We must not talk of
them. They are dangerous and have many, many ears.”

“Two per head,” Salve said lightly, trying to make a joke.

“Oh no, some have only one, and others none at all. And some
have more than two, perhaps even a necklace of these things. But I will say no
more. It is time for you to have a good day.” Mr. Zebigular reached out and
pulled the cup of tea from Salve’s fingers. “You write nothing about them,
think only about good.”

“A necklace of ears?”
Salve asked
curiously. “Could you maybe elaborate?”

“No, no, no!” replied the old gentleman emphatically. “These
are things that are not discussed. It is time to have a good day now.” He
escorted Salve to the door. “Have a good day now.”

Salve found himself staring at the mostly cement and largely
graffittied portion of South Pomegranate City. He heard, “have a good day now,”
from behind him and then the door closed and the lights flicked off.

“A necklace of ears?” he muttered, and made his way back
towards the nicer part of town.

*****

The staff stood in two neat rows stretching from the
aerobridge entrance to the end of the hallway. Their uniforms were starched
white and ironed
stiff,
and their backs held a ramrod
straight posture which Samson considered slightly ridiculous, but entirely
necessary for the lower staff. Only three engineers were permitted to miss the
arrival of Chair Rizinski, and only because Rule 195 of the Station Charter
stated that three sober and wakeful engineers must be present in the pilot
chamber at all times.

Samson straightened his jacket and clasped his hands behind
his back as the entrance to the bridge opened, hissing as it let out the
pressurized air. A cloud of steam billowed into the hallway as Chair Rizinski
stepped from the tube. Three other people stood closely behind him.

“Chair Rizinski,” Samson greeted him, reaching out his hand
to engage in the traditional hand gestures. “It’s a pleasure to have you on
board. I apologize for the steam in the aerobridge tube—we had a power surge
late last night and it took out the air conditioning in the tube and on the
ninth floor. The heat of the sun is causing the ice in our systems to steam.”