Guarding The Dead

"Now descending from Level Six to Level Five:

Junction Wallows. Mind your manners, Dorn Ricker."

"Fine and fancy." mimed Dorn in a pleasant, mechanical drone. He laughed while checking himself in the drop-down mirror of his auto-flight taxi. It always got the better of him, hearing the dead politeness in these filthy cabs. They stink like Munk piss and used sex, but that voice almost makes the drops bearable. He laughed again, and his cheery, smiling reflection drew some confidence. Of course, his smile wouldn't help him gain entry to the Nim'roh tavern. In fact, he dropped a hand behind his back. Reminded and assured of his weapon's certain and discrete hiding, he flicked a coin into the deposit tray and opened the door. Feet on solid ground for the first time in over a cycle, Dorn Ricker felt positive he would get what he came for.

The change in pressure was a menace on the brain, so he shoved a hangover chew into his mouth and proceeded down the block. Bad lighting wasn’t a concern. Humans don’t live down here anymore, and the only things he expected trouble from were enormous, loud, and had a tendency to shimmer under this fuming red sun. Dorn stepped lazily over refuse and dented steel, his destination already in sight. The sign, borrowed architecture from Earth, flashed brown, Nim’roh lettering; probably something like “Drink to The Fathers.” It didn’t matter. He was here. One last obstacle between the Reader and the answers he was paid to seek: one big, ugly obstacle.

“Sape! You are lost!” it said.

“Nim’roh. Burn Victim. Mind-Slave. Asshole. I am not.” Ricker did not touch his weapon. Even when the monster bent over as if to remove his skull with a single bite, he remained steady. Dorn Ricker stared. He focused on the thing staring back at him. He watched it fall over unconscious, and he stepped over it, careful not to tread on its miserable face.

SHUNK!

The door opened and Dorn had to fumble to find his Earth-shades. The fucking lights these things were so accustomed to were blinding and dull. They would mock him for relying on glasses, a Human weakness, but who cares. They’d talk to him just the same. They had no choice.

Most of the patrons, equal terrors to the sleeping meat just outside, had noticed. None, it seemed, had bothered to care. Dorn kept his head up and let his eyes wander. He consumed as much group-thought as possible and realized how little a threat he seemed to pose. Reader or no, it was slightly devastating to feel so small. He Read what he was looking for, almost like a whisper, beyond a door at the far end of some smoking monstrosities; he did not hesitate. Suddenly, his concentration broke. Everything had been too easy, and his punishment came from his own lips; a laugh. It escaped his mouth, choked up from his throat, born from the memory of that ridiculous taxi voice.

Fine and Fancy! he thought, losing control. He was laughing now. And by the time he regained a fragment of control, he Read his name beyond the door. Dorn Ricker, he Read, stomp him. The door opened and they shared a moment of surprise.

“The simple pleasure in seeing your enemy face-to-face for the first time!” shouted Ricker.

And the last, Sape. he Read.

Dorns’ old hands knew where to find salvation, as they were taught. From his back he drew the elongated tube, simple radar-like dishes on each end. He aimed one at the enemy, and the other stayed directly in front of his face. He fired a thought through the tube, nullifying the space left uncovered by the dishes’ field. Around him, the crash of a dozen Nim’roh signaled success. Ricker lowered the weapon and stared down the red alien ahead. For all its unmatched strength, its endless rage, the thing was hopeless.

“They will be fine, Garroht! Surrender?” In response, the alien marched close to Ricker and settled on its haunches. Dorn marveled at how huge Garroht remained, even humbled, and offered a posh nod. Was he not asked to mind his manners?

“What do you want to know, Reader? My night seems spoiled considering you’ve milked my patrons’ minds of thought.” Garroht belched. “What could have possibly drawn you from the High City? Who has bought this disruption?”

Ignoring him, Ricker began. “Tell me about the one called Raike.”