“I jus’ don’t get it,” Ford Mandeaux mumbled, crossing his arms and slouching further into his seat. Heavy lids fell over cold, ice-blue eyes that jumped between glaring at the unsuspecting door — out which Davi Edmara had disappeared just several minutes ago — and the young olive-skinned bartender. He sniffed once. “What does she see in her?”

  Beside him, the twenty-something-year-old Brooks Dorlac shrugged with equal moroseness. “What does he see in her?” He’d turned his attention back to his grimy nails. “She’s a starry-eyed kid. Captain,” he spat derisively. “Captain, my ass.”

  “Come now,” slurred the heavy-set C’ader, looking between the two men with a furrow in his brow, “yer home! That’s cause enough teh celebrate. Another!” he bellowed, hefting his mug into the air.

  Neither of the old Tzannic’s companions mentioned what they might have been thinking — which was that C’ader was three drinks past anymore ‘celebrating’. Instead, they sat, absorbed in their mulish, ugly thoughts while the Tzannic called for another round.

  C’ader was a round, jovial man who had grown up in the Tzannic Moons, a sparkling system of opulence and wealth. There were four of them, these Tzannic Moons, and they orbited the uninhabitable gas planet of Tzannta. The four moons — Ilta 4, Emillon, Junnea KH, and Leicon — offered a front row seat to the sparkling swirls of space dust that formed the great gas planet, and it was rumored by those few who had traveled to the moons and decided to leave that the sky wa a never-ending mosaic of colors, and if you stared too long you might get dizzy.

  “‘T ain’t true,” C’ader had once rumbled to a young Davi, who had asked the man why he would ever leave such a beautiful place. “The- how do you say- the, hem, atophere?”

  “Atmosphere?”

  “Yes, that. It’s red. Durin’ a space storm-” Which was what they called it when, every year on a different day, the planet would release bright, colorful gasses into space in a shower of color, “is when the sky goes like that.”

  “Only once a year?” Little Davi had frowned in disappointment. Then she’d simply added this ‘Tzannic Storm’ to Davi’s Grand List of Things to See Before She Died.

  (It was a long list.)

  The people who lived on the Tzannic Moons came from an early offshoot of Terran space travelers, and were ruled by the Tzannic Council — a large ruling class of affluent citizens. Since the Bonnic Wars, the Tzannic Council had claimed some semblance of control over the Terran planets and stations as well, in the form of a POLIS — or a Planetary Orbital League of Integrated States.

  More importantly to the trio huddled around the table at Mercey’s, however, was the Tzannic’s low tolerance for ale, beer, and other Terran-made substances. Thus, C’ader was too deep in his cups to do more than stare blurrily when Brooks Dorlac suddenly sat forward. “You know she went to Elba ii while we were waitin’ on the old Captain to croak? To see if she could get him help.”

  Ford Mandeaux just frowned through his limp blond bangs. “Ain’t that where Major Bonna was imprisoned?”

  Dorlac nodded. “An’ now she’s sneaking ‘round with an unidentified comm drive. I bet if the proper authorities knew that, there’s no way Moore would make ‘er capt’n.”

  Ford’s eyes flickered to the bar and back.

  Dorlac followed his gaze to where Payton Ladrón was clearing a set of dirty plates. She threw her head back and laughed at something the patron said, her olive skin practically glowing in the low light, eyes twinkling. “And yeh know,” Dorlac continued, slowing his words, “it would prolly leave a certain someone free for the taking.”

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  Ford’s ice-blue eyes darted to Dorlac’s bloodshot ones. His back straightened an iota, then he slumped back down. Both men were silent for a moment, relishing in the daydream of Davi’s downfall.

  “We’d have to write an anonymous comm,” Ford said. “You know, so no one would know it’s us.”

  Dorlac frowned. “What would it say?”

  “Dear…no…” Ford pulled out his comm and opened a draft comm. A toothy grin started to peek through his lips. “To whom it may concern.”

  “Tha’z good,” Dorlac said. He lifted his drink and took a gulp. Set it down, and thought. “We, a very concerned party-”

  “Take out the very,” Ford cut in. “More professional.”

  Dorlac nodded, though he’d never really made it his business to learn what was ‘professional’ or not. “-wanted to bring to your attention that one Davi Edmara, daughter of Louis Edmara and ship engineer on The Pharaon, travelled to-”

  “-made unsanctioned contact with-”

  “Nice,” Dorlac said, “made unsanctioned contact with a one Major Bonna on Elba ii. She returned with an anonymous comm drive and rumors of a coming revolution.”

  Ford’s fingers paused. “Did she actually?”

  Dorlac just shrugged. “Nah. But who’re they teh say? Besides,” he shrugged again. “We’re jus’ playing around.”

  “Right,” Ford agreed. He looked down at his comm. “From, a concerned citizen.” He punctuated the last letter with a flourish and dropped his comm to the table.

  For a silent moment, both Ford Mandeaux and Brooks Dorlac stared at the comm screen.

  Then, between them, C’ader belched. “C’mon,” he rumbled. “This play-game isn’t gonna get nothing done. An’ that Davi’s a good girl. Delete that,” He belched again. “I mean it. ‘nother drink!” he bellowed.

  “Ah, no,” Payton called, her voice cutting across the bar. “I’m cutting you off, C’ader. You’ve had enough!”

  C’ader’s forehead slumped forward, nearly bumping the table. Dorlac shoved him upright. “Time to get yeh home.”

  As Dorlac and C’ader stumbled out into the simulated daylight of the station beyond, Ford stayed slumped exactly where he was, his eyes trained on the open comm, slipping over the words. After a few minutes, Payton wandered reluctantly in his direction. She slid the untouched plate of food a look. “Can I get you anything else?”

  Ford just shook his head.

  Then, silently sliding the comm into his pocket, he slouched out the door.

  ***

  Across the small station of Port Havre, in a grandly-architectured building — complete with the scored ancient columns of prehistoric Terran society, and the grand arched doorways carved from cream-colored imported stone from Tzannta — a secretary snoozed softly at her desk.

  It was a quiet day at the Consulate Courthouse. A few minor cases had come through — one rental dispute had gotten particularly heated and she’d had to call the enforcers to break up the fight. Otherwise, all the interesting cases were being held until the Consulate Judge was back.

  And so, it was a quiet day at the Consulate Courthouse.

  A soft ding! heralded a new comm on the secretary’s account. She snorted awake. Straightening her blouse, she clicked through and scanned the comm-

  -and immediately shot to her feet.

  “Bothe,” she called. When no one responded, she raised her voice. “Bothe!”

  “What?” A head appeared around the door of an open office.

  The secretary took a breath. “How important did you say the Consulate Judge’s appointment was?”

  ‘Bothe’ raised a brow and lowered his voice. “It’s his engagement dinner. I’d say it’s rather important.”

  “More important than this?” The older woman spun her screen around.

  Bothe quickly scanned the comm. Then, he sucked in a breath, and read it a second time. On the third read-through, he said quietly, “Harris?”

  “Yes?”

  “Send a courier to the Rosecrantz Hotel. Tell him it’s urgent.”

  As Harris hurried down the hall, heels clicking, to summon a courier, Bothe barked after her, “And get the enforcers here! Now!”

  Hey there! Thank you for joining our journey through space aboard The Pharaon. Don’t forget to follow my author profile both on and over on for the latest updates.

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