Nomads of the Gods, Page 2

  Chapter 1. Orphans of the Stars

  The stars are not your home.

  Those who dwell amongst them are not of The Chosen.

  Their souls are not one with yours.

  From The Book of Isarie.

  High above Gorn, a ship emerging from deep space entered orbit. It was not a great Orin Galaxy class vessel, it was a mid-range ship, a converted Tollacian Cruiser. Its weapons bays had been crudely hacked out, to be replaced with great, cavernous holds for cargo. Its scarred hull, more than two kilometers long, one of the few ships left that could withstand, the stress of traveling from one system to another. A remnant of the ancient days of the Sal-Sinarie Empire, when mighty ships of every shape and purpose, filled the skies of worlds beyond measure. Now, The Gathering, made do with what it had, what was capable of being used.

  This particular vessel was the possession of the Mac-Mar Alliance, a loose configuration of trading planets. They survived by supplying lesser worlds, with finished goods and essential raw materials. What was shipped, did not concern the Mac-Mar, so long as it was profitable. The Mac-Mar followed no treaty, convention, or law, save that of profit.

  This Mac-Mar ship, was contracted to deliver prisoners, condemned to permanent exile on the world below, which was ideal. The ship had barely managed to avoid, the many raiding and marauding vessels of the Outer Rim.

  The Captain sat in his moist chair, thinking about the return run through those same pirate infested regions. He waited for Executive Officer Tog to report that they were securely entered into orbit.

  Toad-faced Captain Ugro, was a Markin, though he lacked most of the better Markin traits. He prided himself on his typical and legendary, Markin punctuality. He ran his ship by the book, unforgiving to all who did not meet his strict expectations. He sat uncomfortably in the overly moist command chair, checking and rechecking the time. The control room was chilled to a comfortable level, dripping with suitably aged moisture, as Ugro liked it. Creatures of a predominately, water world, Markin liked to be wet. The Captain was a believer in comfort, he wanted his ship, to make him feel at home.

  He flexed his webbed feet impatiently, while Tog checked his instruments, once more. Tog was much like the Captain, though not as large or as magnificently green. His face, lacked the wonderfully enlarged warts that would have made him, as successful with the females of their race, as Captain Ugro. Rumored to be father to ten thousand eggs. Tog had been Ugro's Executive Officer for over five Standard Years. He had grown tired of the Captain's constant complaints, he dreamed, waking or sleeping, of the day when the Captain might retire, or better yet, die.

  When I sit in the command chair, I will not whine about it being too moist! Tog thought

  “Well, Tog, are we there or not?” Ugro croaked.

  Tog rechecked his readings, then slowly turned to his bloated superior, “Yes Captain, orbit is stable and beyond danger range.”

  “It best be, Tog. If we are trapped in a pulse wave, you will live just long enough to regret it, am I clear?”

  Tog imagined Ugro, dead on the control room floor, “Yes Captain, situation nominal.”

  The Captain grunted once sharply, “I'll decide what is nominal, make ready all Drop-ships I want my vessel out of here within two orbits. We have some real cargo to deliver after we dump this Schulman.” Ugro shifted in the command chair, his webbed hand stroked his chin, “And get someone up here to check the humidity. My warts feel a bit dry.”

  “Immediately sir!” Tog saluted and left the control room, no sooner had the control room’s doors sighed shut behind him, than he began to grumble.

  A bit dry? What a simple rock dweller! Too many years of giving orders, not enough of a mind to remember when he could have adjusted the humidity himself, without even thinking about it!”

  Tog grunted twice and cleared his mouth onto the deck. “Get those Drop-ships ready and contact the Talsonar by message drop!” he yelled at the two staff officers who waited upon him in the corridor, they scurried away to commence operations.

  Tog walked slowly after them, down the long corridor leading to the cargo holds. Crew members gave him a wide berth, they knew he was always in a foul mood, when he had been alone with the overbearing Captain.

  He passed the turnoff to Engineering, then continued down the dim hallway to a sealed door. A young crewman stood guard before it, he quickly opened the door, as Tog approached. Tog passed through the portal without a word, or so much as a glance at the underling.

  Inside the hold, it was dark and musty, not the regular sweet odor of spoiled food shipments, to be sold in starving systems, nor was it the cleaner smell of spices, bound for the pleasure planets of Urganius. This odor he had come to know well during the great wars, the carrion sweet smell of rotting flesh.

  In the dim light, Tog looked around the cells lining the walls of the hold. Wall to wall, ceiling high, each cage was filled with prisoners, living, dead, and dying. They came from all the systems of the Outer Rim and some from the Inner Core, Valcayise, Nonayia, Osinary and the rest.

  They wore rags, scraps of cloth, tattered remnants of uniforms. Some were naked, stripped by stronger, healthier prisoners. The naked were mostly dead, or too weak to move or speak. The long voyage had taken its toll, the dead in the bottom of the cages, the dying collapsed motionless, or hunched over, with little strength for movement. They were the outcasts, the homeless and unwanted of the galaxy, those poor souls, who for whatever reason, were no longer useful to their worlds.

  Some were criminals, some mutated victims of pollution, or industrial accident. Many were soldiers, who had known no other life, than killing and being killed, discarded at wars end, with the weapons. Here because they were no longer needed, wherever they came from, whatever their story, this was the end of the line for them and they knew it.

  Tog walked serenely down the rows of cages, examining the cargo. The dead and dying did not concern him, he was paid to deliver them to Gorn, dead or alive.

  He stopped at one cage holding a female human in a uniform. Ordinarily he did not speak with cargo, he found the looks of humans particularly unpleasant but something about this one caught his eye. Perhaps the manner in which she looked him in the eye, rather than turning away. She was young with a strong body, clothed in a worn but relatively clean, military survival suit, she was a survivor type. Her thick dark hair was cut short and like her tunic, not too dirty, her left hand was wrapped in a grimy cloth as a makeshift bandage.

  Tog knew many languages, in his line of trade, he had to be a linguist. He spoke to her in one of the more common human tongues, perhaps she would understand, “What is your name?”

  The female looked at him for a moment, before answering, “Does it matter?”

  “No, I merely thought you might like something to eat.” Tog crouched and grabbed a piece of stale Nutrisom that had fallen from a cage, he stood and held it to the light. She has not eaten in a good many days, she must want it; he thought

  She began to reach for the morsel, then stopped, her survivor's instinct stopping her. She knew, as soon as she took the food, she would become a target for every desperate prisoner in her cage.

  Still, it was food. Food! How wonderful it would taste, warm, sweet, wonderful! “I'm not hungry,” she nodded and smiled at the Markin.

  Tog was a bit disappointed, he enjoyed a good cargo fight and the thought of this human female, torn limb from, limb had been exciting. Still, there was business to be done, fun could come later. Tog tossed the food into the cage next to the female, he watched for a moment, as a wild melee erupted.

  Soon blood pooled on the cage floor, with several newly dead creatures slumped in it. The food, lay on the hold deck once more, lost in the turmoil. Tog grunted with satisfaction, he walked out of the hold and down the corridor.

  Humans! Such foolish creatures, she could have died now and saved herself the agony waiting for her, on the world below; he thought.

  The woman watched him go, then leaned
back against the cage bars, she dreamed of the morsel of food. A moment later, she heard a soft voice.

  “You made the right choice.”

  She turned, to see an elderly human male smiling at her. He wore a tattered white robe and a matching hooded cloak. What white hair she could see, was mated and filthy, his head was a bit over-sized, he had long fingers with no nails. His face was well structured, with a straight nose, high cheekbones and a broad forehead, his body was thin, accentuating the sharpness of his features. Despite his hawk like visage, his eyes were kind, she felt he was not a threat.

  “Maybe but I'd still like to have something to eat right now,” she said with a sigh. The old man stood, then walked unsteadily to her side of the cage, past several unhappy creatures, scattered about the floor grates. He sat down next to her, leaned back against the Dura-Flex bars of their cage, then grimaced with the effort of movement.

  “Well, I have no food but I can offer my company, if you like?” He held out his right hand to her, “With whom do I have the pleasure of exchanging greetings?”

  “Andra,” the young woman said, grasping his right hand in hers, “I didn’t see you over there.” He is such a strange little man; she thought.

  “When you reach my age, it is best not to be seen. There are too many who can do you harm.” The old man looked knowingly about the cages stacked near to them, “I have been watching you, from my little corner for some time. It was brave of you to stand up to that Markin, they rather enjoy watching humans fight over food.”

  Andra looked around the cage, her bravado in the face of the Markin, had faded, disappeared into the gloom. She remembered where she was, “I don’t think we’ll need to worry about, who will harm us for much longer.”

  Andra stretched her arms out straight, then over her head. “I wish I could have a hot bath before I die.” She ran her hands through her hair and down over her face.

  The old man started to speak, “I am…”

  Andra held up her right hand, “We’re going to die in an hour or so and I’d rather not make any new acquaintances at this point in my life.”

  The old man looked closely at her, “Do not be in such a hurry to die. An old Interface such as I, has little to look forward to, even so there is still a chance of coming out of this alive.”

  Andra picked a small insect from her hair and crushed it between two fingernails. “I don’t see how, no one has returned from Gorn, at least, no one, I ever heard of.”

  The old man nodded, “Well, some have and from their accounts, scholars have managed to piece together, a very fascinating description of the planet's inhabitants, not to mention its very interesting life-forms.”

  He closed his eyes, as if reciting from memory. “Take for instance, the collected works of Vardis Cocam. He spent a great deal of time, categorizing the reptilian creatures of that world. For example, did you know, Gorn's orbit is such that it takes it, close to its primary sun, everything on the surface of the planet, is burned. It then continues its orbit, until it swings far out from the larger sun and the planet freezes. Altogether, it takes approximately twelve hundred days and nights, to complete one of their cycles and then there are the diverse life-forms such as…”

  “I’m really not interested in Tardis Cocker?” she broke in.

  “It was Vardis Cocam, a very famous writer, he won the Tarcus Globe for Excellence in Science Literature and it is a very difficult competition, why I believe it took him nearly…” He looked at the young woman, she was clearly not interested in famous writers, Osh scratched himself, “Ah well, I still like to think on the probability of a future, after all, by my calculations, we should already be dead!”

  Andra started to laugh and then stopped, he was serious.

  He smiled at her, “I think the Gods have plans for us.”

  “The Gods? Don't tell me you’re a Soul Shepherd!” Andra shook her head and looked down at the grates. The old man, moved his egg shaped head, back and forth swiftly. The motion, reminded Andra of a bird, eager to spot a worm.

  “Oh no. No, I am not a Holy man, is that what you think?” He pulled back his stringy hair, to reveal a small, round metallic input, “You can see, I am a Callaxion, we interface with Datacoms, to check readings, service them. It is really a most satisfying profession.”

  Andra laughed, “You’re a Cipher.”

  “A Cipher?” The old man frowned and thought for a moment, “Oh, yes, Cipher, a somewhat derogatory term used to describe humans, who calculate odds and provide information based upon them, usually for gambling purposes. A neologic corruption of Zero-naught,” he smiled, “Yes, yes, very funny.”

  “It wasn't meant to be funny.” Andra crushed yet another of the little red and black insects that infested her hair, “So what are you doing here Cipher?”

  “Well, that's a very interesting story really. You see, I was monitoring the Second Level Interface on a control program, when I came across some anomalies. They were not even the sort of regular anomalies, you might find in programs of that type. No, they were unique.” The old man, pulled a black and red insect from his hair and clumsily crushed it between two of his nail-less fingers.

  “I reported the anomaly, to my supervisor but he insisted, it would not be cost effective, to check every anomaly. It is true, that anomalies generally turn out to be just a small bump in the control programming. I tried to explain to him, this was a unique example but he ordered me to return to my station and no…”

  “Is this going to take long?” Andra asked abruptly.

  The old man gave her a perplexed look, then looked around the small cage, “Do you have somewhere else to be?”

  Andra, to her surprise, gave a small laugh, “Not really, I’m just not all that interested in Datacoms.”

  “Yes, well let us say, I talk too much and we can let it go at that.”

  He adjusted his ragged garments, “I do believe, the Gods have a purpose for each of us. A purpose, we must follow, we walk in their shadow and follow, no matter where it leads.”

  “I thought all Callaxions, were Mechanists, I read somewhere, you all believe in some Mechanoform that programs the entire universe.”

  The old man shifted his weight on the floor, “Yes, most of us do. I have come to think that just one God, even a Mechanoform, is not enough for the entire universe.”

  He held his bird like arms out wide, “Have you any idea, just how big the universe really is?”

  Andra shook her head, “No, not really but it doesn’t matter. I don’t believe in any Gods, they never seem to be around when you need them.”

  “Well, nevertheless, I believe they exist, even if we cannot see them. I calculate, the odds of there not being some sort of all powerful being, is very low. Therefore, I must say with a great degree of certainty, there must be an entity, or entities, that fulfill the requirements of being a God,” he smiled confidently and looked at Andra.

  She was not listening to him, a small group of Markin crewmen, had entered the hold, they were standing about, as if awaiting orders, the young woman’s eyes were on them.

  For the first time, the old man looked closely at her worn uniform. He noted the faded patch on its left shoulder, a crimson flamed star, with two crossed swords. The insignia of the Defender Legion of the Outer Worlds, near Cronos.

  “I see you were a soldier.”

  Andra looked at him defiantly, “I am a soldier, not that it is any of your business.”

  The Callaxion, knew the faded emerald collar tabs of her uniform, denoted her as a Selcarie. Their world had been destroyed, early in one of the myriad of small Outer Rim wars.

  “I did not mean to anger you, there is no shame in losing a war.”

  Andra glared at the garrulous old man, “We didn’t lose, we just ran out of, well, out of everything.”

  “I understand, I was once employed by the Cennatians, to calculate losses for one of their interactions with the Prymax Trade Unions,” he smiled, “I was only off by a margin
of point zero nine percent!” Now I see why you are being sent to Gorn.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Well, everyone knows that Gorn has a unique electromagnetic pulse that renders all advanced mechanisms useless, therefore anyone sent there, cannot return. Oh there are some brave souls, who take a chance and land on the surface. Long enough to carry goods off the planet but short enough to avoid being caught in the pulses. Jumpers I think they're called but as I said, it is very rare indeed.” The old man rubbed his large head, “So you see, it is the perfect place for disposing of unwanted vessels or life-forms, such as you and me. Then we can see that….”

  Andra shifted about, she put her head on her knees and closed her eyes. “Do Ciphers ever shut up?”

  The old man frowned, “I am sorry, I did not realize, you wished to be alone.” He rose, staggered and grabbing a cage bar steadied himself.

  Andra opened her eyes, “Wait!” Gently she touched his thin leg, where it showed beneath the ragged hem of his robe, “Please, forgive me,” she cleared her throat, “Don’t go, I was rude, I think, I would like a little company.”

  He sat down, next to her, “As would I,” he said softly.

  For a time they said nothing and stared at the Markin crewmen in the center of the hold, then Andra looked over at the Callaxion. “Why don’t you tell me more about the Gods,” she said softly. He smiled and opened his mouth to speak.

  A bell clanged loudly, somewhere in the depths of the hold, the Markin in the center moved towards the cages. The ship rumbled and lurched, many of the captives awoke and began to scream or cry. Some prayed loudly to their Gods, others sat resigned to their ultimate fate.

  “What’s happening?” Andra asked, as she grabbed a cage bar with both hands.

  The old man looked at her without smiling, “They are preparing to unload the cargo.”

  Andra held on with one hand, she pointed with her free hand at the Markin, the crewmen were moving the cages, starting on the lowest level. Two Markin had uncovered a maze of Roller-way track, previously hidden beneath the cargo hold's deck, the cages now rumbled down the tracks.

  A tired looking crewman, checked each cage against a list on his portable Interface. Then he threw a switch on a wall panel to divert the cage and its living cargo, to the correct Roller-way track, which disappeared into the black mouth of a transit tube.

  The Markin ignored the pleas and cries of the prisoners, stolidly continuing their efficient routine, they each knew, the sooner this was finished, the sooner they would depart this dangerous orbit for their next, safer destination.

  None wanted to face Captain Ugro to explain why they had delayed departure. The crewmen remembered, or had heard of, what happened to the last unlucky Markin, who stood before Ugro and croaked for mercy. None would risk it happening to them.

  The cages continued to move along, one by one down the tubes from the hold into the transit corridors, where they each rumbled into their designated Drop-ship.

  Drop-ships, crude disposable pods with rudimentary wings, minimal control systems and no life support, other than being sealed up with whatever atmosphere, they held when closed.

  Drop-ships, were used once, disposable like their contents, designed to deliver supplies to Outer Rim Worlds lacking spaceports, or even rudimentary landing pads. The cramped Drop-ships, were minimally powered gliders, meant for a one way trip.

  Perfect for the Markin vessel and its cargo. They could deliver their contents and not approach close enough to the world below, to worry about the powerful electromagnetic pulses.

  If one or two failed, the cargo was lost but the Markin worked that into their profit margins. On this run they gave it no thought, dead or alive, this particular cargo, only had to be delivered to the contracted destination.

  Andra and the old man, huddled in the corner of the cage, as it was jerked onto the Roller-way. It moved down the dimly lit transit tube, into a Drop-ship. There were several cages already inside, the cries of many, different creatures, filled the cramped interior of the Drop-ship.

  As they awaited their fate, Andra looked at the other cages. One held a very large pig faced creature, it was a Yangmar, gentle creatures in nature, used mostly as domestic slaves on the Outer Worlds. This one, appeared to have recently reached, the end of her breeding cycle, normally they had litters of ten or more, this Yangmar held a lone infant. She moaned as she slowly rocked back and forth, grasping the infant tightly. It was dead.

  Andra looked away, there was nothing she could do.

  A loud grinding sound, filled the Drop-ship as the cargo hatches were closed and sealed. Andra's ears popped with the sudden change in air pressure, it was eerily quiet. The crying, the clanging of rolling cages, echoes from within the Markin ship, were all gone.

  Andra glanced at the Cipher. He is odd but a good comrade; she thought, “I’ve made a decision, if we’re going to die, I would like to know your name.” She smiled.

  The old man smiled back.

  “I don’t mind a bit.” she smiled. “So Osh, what do you really think, about our chances of getting down and out of this cage?”

  Again the old man smiled, “Alive or dead?”

  Before Andra could reply, there was a loud bang, the Drop-ship shook violently.

  They were free falling, down to the cursed world of Gorn.