Magus Star Rising

Yharria Karda raid Ahnka drug den.

Two Ahnkans dead,

three Karda wounded in ensuing

beam-gun battle.

Several cases of morium confiscated.

NEW TERRAN PRESS

Flashbacks

Maybe there is a Third God, Weller thought wonderingly. Or a Great Spirit, or a Vanera, or fate, or at least some kind of stroking cosmic plan. Why else would Selina still be alive?

It was well after midnight. He lay on his bed, the pain-med he had taken soothing the aching in his back. He should be dead tired and hurting like hell because of the shock-lance attack but he felt energized, almost twenty years younger.

Selina was alive!

He frowned. If you could call that living. He cringed at the memory of the pitiful figure lying in the hospice room. He had cried, kneeling at the bedside, taking her hand in his, not caring what the security cameras revealed or what the orderly who accompanied him witnessed. Yes, despite the physical deterioration, it was Selina. Among the caste tattoos on her forearm, he had recognized her personal mark.

She lay there, oblivious to his presence, though he thought, at one point, she had seemed to respond. “Selina, Selina,” he had murmured. “It’s me, Simon.” No, nothing. Only a glazed stare. What had happened in the last two years? How had she ended up here? He had seen Selina at the end. He had thought she was dead. From the looks of her in that shadowed Turning Chamber, she might as well be.

Now, he closed his eyes, not knowing how he felt. The pain blocker/muscle relaxant he had taken had put him in a very relaxed state, despite the nervous energy coursing through him.

Yes, he had been lucky.

Or was it more than that?

Was the attack in the Yharria a random event or, like so many of the Senitte religions hinted, was it meant to be a pointer to another path? It had driven him to go back to the Honin-Zay estate even at that late hour, against all reason and propriety, to ostensibly quit this ‘tailing’ assignment he had taken. And that was where he had seen Selina. Or, her doppelganger.

As he had approached the Honin-Zay estate, he had seen her standing in the globelight, waiting for a hover-jit like a mirage--slender, beautiful, alive, as if illuminated in a spotlight out of time. He had been dizzy and reckless with amazement and disbelief. He knew he had been irrational but he had to know.

Confusion and disappointment had crushed him when he realized it hadn’t been Selina after all. He had been lucky the fem hadn’t called for the Karda after he had accosted her. Yet as he had approached the clinic in the garment district a few minutes after their confrontation, he had seen her again, leaving the hospice, talking to one of the brothers who worked there. He had gotten closer, blending in with the crowd and had overheard part of her conversation. Arshelle? She had mentioned the name Arshelle. Could it be? A common enough Senitte name but Selina’s birth name had been Arshelle. And this other woman, so much like her, who apparently worked at the Honin-Zay estate. It had to be more than coincidence.

Selina, he thought. She’s alive. And I can help her.

His and Selina’s had been a unique relationship, or so he had always thought. He knew then she was a prostitute, her guild’s profession not necessarily looked down upon, at least by the male population of Alpha-Seni and tolerated by most of the females. But, looks aside, her manner was not what he had experienced before with the usual slags he hired. Quiet, almost humble yet with an underlying fire beneath.

They had pretty much hit it off after that first chance meeting in a vid-shop, both of them fans of Old Terran adventures. After a few weeks, he had become her only ‘customer’, she being free-lance with no guild or pimp to answer to. He really felt like they could have had a normal relationship, that he could have gotten her out of the ‘business’ for good.

He couldn’t help her then. Maybe he could now.

There would be no message for Claudia Honin-Zay. Tomorrow he would restart his surveillance of her husband. No mistakes this time; he would be more careful, more prepared and not give up. With the money he would make he could help Selina, get her better treatment, perhaps a cure.

And what about the other woman? The one who could have been Selina’s twin? Seeing her first had jolted feelings he thought he had buried forever. She was his link to Selina. He would have to contact her again, this time under more normal circumstances. Not yet, not yet, he thought. Finish this job and get paid and then we’ll see.

Yes! Despite his fatigue and injuries, he felt stronger, more focused than he’d been in years.

He chuckled to himself. I’m not being too melodramatic, am I? He thought once more of the vids he had watched over the years, the Terran heroes rising from the ashes to turn their defeats into victories. Maybe I can be like one of them after all. What’s the expression? Life imitates art? Well, I’m ready.

Tomorrow then.

The next day began a little differently than the previous one. On a hunch, Weller staked out the Honin-Zay house first thing in the morning. And, sure enough, no doubt because his wife was away, Marcus Honin-Zay left in his chauffeur-driven ground-car well before noon, and headed straight for the Yharria.

Weller’s mind kept replaying the events of the night before. He ran on emotion at the moment, and would let this high carry him through. He hadn’t felt like this in years. But his back still ached and he was a little tired, so a stim was in order. It would keep his energy level up and his mind focused. He’d used them before. Even taken together with the back pills, he knew he could handle it.

Once in the bazaar, Honin-Zay followed the same route as the day before. Near the alley where he had been assaulted, Weller felt a momentary twinge of fear but kept his eyes on his quarry.

After some perfunctory sight-seeing and shopping, Marcus Honin-Zay stopped to hail a rickshaw and, within moments, sat ensconced in the cushioned, two-wheeled conveyance. Weller spotted another of the ubiquitous transports pulling into the space just vacated by Honin-Zay’s and, elbowing his way through the crowd, flashed a multi-credit disc at the Puman ‘runner’. Thank the Third God for Honin-Zay’s advance, he thought again. This could get a little expensive.

The felinoid alien nodded, growled at the other would-be passengers shoved aside by Weller, and acknowledged the Terran, now seated comfortably.

Weller smiled to himself, ignoring the curses of the people he had jumped in front of. His renewed purpose gave him more courage than he was used to. Remembering an expression from one of the vids he had watched, he couldn’t help saying to the Puman, paraphrasing slightly with tongue-in-cheek, “Follow that rickshaw.”

The man-cat’s muscles rippled impressively beneath his light brown fur as he pulled the rickshaw easily out into the street. Lifting his maned head, the Puman roared a warning to anyone who crossed his path.

Honin-Zay’s rickshaw turned right at the next street where the crowds parted quickly in front of it. It moved swiftly as did Weller’s, both Puman drivers jogging with an animal ease. The Terran kept his eyes straight ahead, mindful of the pull the Yharria could exert.

Weller’s runner picked up the pace, keeping the other rickshaw in sight. There were many two-wheeled conveyances coming and going in this area, enough that Honin-Zay would surely take no notice of one following behind him. Weller figured the monumental ego that declined any guards accompanying him in the first place would pay no attention to such an occurrence anyway.

Weller started, a shock of recognition coursing through him as he guessed where they might be headed. In a few minutes both rickshaws had passed into another part of the Yharria.

Weller now rode through New Mayfair, a predominantly Terran enclave within the bazaar. There were a handful of such areas scattered throughout the Yharria, each evolved from a racial, historical, or species type. New Mayfair had grown up around a string of Terran worker camps decades ago. Shortly after Contact the boomtown mentality on Alpha-Seni had been at its highest when the Yharria had begun to mutate from a small agri-market into its present form. Over the years, a certain style and mentality had grown and prospered in New Mayfair, attracting a more high-born element, both Terran and off-world.

Weller used to frequent New Mayfair. Despite its largely Terran population, it still attracted visitors of all kinds and had been a good place for certain types of ‘meetings’.

The memory of those meetings with Selina came back to him now. Though the lasepic hanging in his room was a constant reminder, Weller hadn’t really thought about Selina in a long time. Until last night. In his mind, she was dead and so was his life here in the Yharria. But now his hands clutched the handrails of the rickshaw; his heart thudded in his chest. This was almost as difficult as seeing her lying in the hospice bed. It had been a long time.

Houses and storefronts of ancient Victorian Terran design lined both sides of the street, showing off their individual ‘gingerbread’ construction. Small, gated courtyards and delicate, manicured gardens graced each carefully plotted yard; sculptures and fountains adorned every corner. Elevated oil-globes and some electrical lighting sprouted in the guise of ancient Terran street lamps. Steam-powered conveyances, looking much like open, four-wheeled rickshaws, chugged through a central roundabout, their drivers and passengers dressed in the latest traveling gear.

The human residents of New Mayfair attired themselves in clothing replicas of the period--long dresses and parasols, top hats and canes. An odd, retro custom, but one the New Mayfair inhabitants cultivated diligently. Not for the first time, Weller marveled at the care and study that had gone into the fashioning of this enclave.

Once through the roundabout, Honin-Zay’s rickshaw slowed down and made its way almost leisurely up the main avenue. After another block, it pulled to the side of the street and stopped.

“Here,” Weller ordered, calming himself. He disembarked and handed his driver the multi-credit disc. The clawed hand of the Puman scooped the chip up and placed it in his belt pouch. Bare-chested, the man-cat wore loose pantaloons and sandals, his mane falling to shoulder length. He wasn’t even breathing hard. The Pumans, with their expanded lung capacity and muscle structure were very suited to this line of work. Weller wondered how such a powerful race could have lost the fight for their homeland. The Puman Action had been a war really, one the local histories referred to, if at all, as a small historical footnote.

Not quite fair, he thought in a rare philosophical moment. They were here first.

Seeing the chip bore a large tip slot, the driver nodded and growled a rumbling thanks. Weller nodded in turn and walked in the direction of the other rickshaw. Marcus Honin-Zay was just finishing up paying his own driver. He then turned and climbed the steps to a large conservatory-style building. At this distance, hidden within the folds of his generic garments, Honin-Zay could have been of any caste or any race for that matter.

Weller paused to watch his quarry enter the building and then approached the structure himself. If he remembered right, and this place hadn’t changed hands, it housed an indoor mews. He walked up the steps and then stopped, his hand just inches from the doors. Do I really want to do this? he thought, a sudden indecision flaring up inside him. Is the money that important? But he knew his decision had already been made. There was no turning back now. It wasn’t just about him anymore.

He pushed through the swinging doors and found his assumption about the mews was correct. Much like the Yharria proper, selling booths and stalls stood side by side the length and width of the cavernous structure, with ‘interior streets,’ ‘street corners’ and ‘roundabouts’ formed by the boundaries those areas encompassed. Various indoor plantings bloomed like swatches of brilliantly placed cloth.

Flags and pennants hung from wall brackets while, overhead, birds flitted among the upper-story glass-domes, their winged silhouettes outlined against a score of curved skylights. Light emanated from other sources as well, including rows of clear, etched windows that lined the lower-story walls like crystalline eyes. And, as always in any area of the Yharria, a large crowd moved to its own hidden rhythms.

He spotted Honin-Zay darting down a side aisle. The high-born seemed in a hurry now, moving quickly and with purpose. Weller pushed through the throng of buyers and sightseers as he kept him in sight.

Curious looks under derbies, top hats, and bonnets followed Weller as he made his way through the mews. One woman brought a fan up to demurely hide the lower part of her face as he passed, her eyes, nonetheless, inviting.

Weller knew the working class was considered exotic and fair game in New Mayfair (despite the enclave’s own humble beginnings) and, in his informal garb, he would certainly fit that category. When he had been with Selina, it was different. There had existed some unspoken code, some secret communication at such times, that he was to be left alone.

The same now with Marcus Honin-Zay. The merchant didn’t stop to peruse any merchandise but continued walking briskly, his body moving fluidly as he wove in and out of the crowd. Near the rear of the mews, he stopped.

Weller turned and pretended to look at some off-world carvings, all the while keeping his attention on Honin-Zay. Almost immediately, a woman approached the merchant.

A Senitte fem. Despite her elegant clothes, a long, sleeveless robe, beaded scarf and leather sandals, her head remained uncovered. Only low-born Senitte fems went about in public sans head-scarf. This one was a prostitute, a paying member of the Pleasure Guild as the tattoos on her arms testified. A small mask covered the upper part of her face; her hair braided in large ringlets that swung with every movement of her head. She tossed her head back, laughing as she threw her arms around Honin-Zay.

Again, Weller winced at a memory. Selina used to greet him like that, smiling that mysterious smile beneath her mask. Arm-in-arm, the couple exited the mews via a doorway in the back of the building. Weller followed.

They now walked quickly again and took a side street off the alley in the back of the mews warehouse. Here, the glitzy storefronts and upscale ambiance of New Mayfair segued into one of the many ghetto-like areas of the bazaar. Trash littered the street; stray cats and tor-dogs ran freely. Some of the businesses lining the alleyway were boarded up; packs of street-brats begged for food.

Yet the crowds proliferated here too, seeking other types of pleasure or goods. And what merchants were open for business, were, like everywhere else in Frenati City, getting ready for the Magus Star festival, cleaning up, putting up signs and banners, painting, restocking their shelves.

At that moment, a movement caught Weller’s eye in the reflection of a shop window. Startled, he stopped cold at the image. A Senitte male stood a few yards behind him across the street, the features of the blue face quickly hidden as the native pulled his cloak’s hood up over his head. Weller turned but the cowled apparition had gone.

Weller turned and kept walking, the small of his back tingling, an old sense resurrecting itself. Was he being followed?

Weller’s mind raced. Some Senittes blamed aliens, klaus, for their people’s problems. The successful assimilation of aliens into Alpha-Seni still had a long way to go and species hate crimes weren’t unknown. And Weller was a handy target as recent events painfully reminded him. Thugs and freaks proliferated in the Yharria in any case. Or maybe the Senitte he’s glimpsed was a personal servant of Marcus Honin-Zay, undercover and watching his master’s back. That would make a kind of sense.

Or maybe it was something else. He felt as if he were acting in a cheesy Terran movie--too many coincidences, too many foul-ups. Maybe he watched too much of that ancient crap and began confusing it with reality. That little hobby of his could be getting out of hand.

Whatever, Weller knew he’d have to keep one eye on Honin-Zay and the other behind him. Just in case. He absently reached into his pocket and fingered the buzz-pistol.

Weller refocused as he saw his luck still held. Both Honin-Zay and his companion were still in sight. They climbed the steps to an upper apartment above a fairly reputable-looking store called the Shop of Ancient Books. A similar living situation and setup as Selina used when she was working. How strange, Weller thought, as he sauntered to a standing position just across the street. He shook his head at the similarities between Honin-Zay’s clandestine meetings and Weller’s own with Selina. There was an Terran expression, déjà vu, that came to mind.

Weller pressed himself against the wall of a building, his breath catching in his throat, his back pinching just a little. He was sweating. His left hand began shaking. As he took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his kerchief, he watched Honin-Zay and his companion enter the apartment. I shouldn’t be surprised, he thought. This type of thing happens all the time. Why should Selina and I have been any different? Fool! Shakily he lit a cigarette and looked at the apartment, remembering.

At that moment the whoosh of a shuttle shook him out of his reverie. He watched the sleek craft vanish overhead, heading toward the fringes to land at the Yharria’s private hoverport, no doubt to deposit more tourists and fortune hunters. Many people frequented the Yharria to ‘strike it rich’. And that’s what he was here for, to do a job.

But something didn’t feel right. The Senitte’s reflection in the shop window still bothered him. It could be nothing...

Later, he thought. One thing at a time. He sat at an outside table at a small vrete joint situated across the street from the book shop. The Voofran waitress brought him a menu, her lizard eyes coolly appraising him as he took off his shade-hat and laid it on the table. The sun glinted slightly off her scaled, green skin. Weller tried hard not stare after his most recent encounter with a member of her race. He ordered a vrete pastry and a coffee, unfurled a copy of the local morning edition from his shoulder bag and, despite the ghosts scratching on his emotional door, settled down to wait.