The Admiral and the Assistant

The shuttle reeked as though it had not been cleaned in... well, ever. Race Ozan wrinkled his nose. It stank of reactor coolant, body odor, and the alarming stench of burning steel.

Race was strapped into a passenger seat. He felt like the straps were unnecessary. His clothes stuck to the seat, and when he forgot himself and leaned on the arm of the seat, he had to pull his skin away with a sticky peeling sensation.

This, he supposed, was part of the cost of hiring the cheapest flight he could find. He'd never been on a spaceflight before. He'd been born in Techterra on Ceon 12, and had never felt the need to leave until now. He'd figured he could endure a little discomfort to save money. He just had to get out here to the Oracle's ship.

Because the Oracle didn't come down to any planet. You had to go to him.

As it turned out, space travel terrified Race Ozan. The overwhelming press of acceleration to leave the planet, the blank deadness of the stars, and the unspeakable horror of traveling through jumpspace. Now, to cap it all off, he was making the final leg of his outbound journey on the world's filthiest shuttle.

However afraid he might have been, his face was perfectly still. He feigned a slight annoyed expression. The shuttle rattled and groaned around him, but his face altered not one bit.

To show fear was to die.

His only concession to his internal terror was the white-knuckled grip he kept on the handle of the small case in his lap.

100,000 credits and a favor. That's what it took to speak to the Oracle.

The shuttle pilot eased the speed back and radioed in for clearance to dock. Race slowed his breathing, forcing it to be steady and even. The pilot negotiated with the other ship. Race had tried to avoid looking at the portal as much as possible-- the flickering images of distant stars didn't do his frayed nerves any favors-- but he eye was drawn to the ship they approached.

It had clearly once been a long-hauler. Used cargo ships were popular to refit and fix up for a variety of purposes. The base vessel was well-known, and nearly any pilot could fly one.

This one had been updated with strange structures. Long, dark spires and gothic protuberances jutted from the ship. The entire thing had been painted blood red.

Race frowned. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it hadn't been that. Not for the first time, he wondered if this was a stupid idea.

He looked at the small case in his lap. Of course it was a stupid idea. He held up his left hand and tried to flex it. It was scarred and twisted, and he struggled to close it fully. It was a stupid idea, but he'd be dead in a year if he didn't do something.

Race took a deep breath as the shuttle docked.

The pilot set the shuttle down with a jarring thud. He shut off the engines, toggled the switch to open the hatch, then leaned back and set his feet on the console. He pulled out his scanner and started flipping through images.

"One hour wait time," he said. "It's an extra three hundred credits if I have to wait longer."

Race nodded and debarked.

A pair of heavyset men waited outside the docking bay doors. One had a vicious scar across his face.

"The money," one said, holding out his hand.

"I'll give it to the Oracle myself," Race sneered.

"You give it right here, or you can get back on your little shuttle and go away. There's a line of people that would be happy to take your place."

With ill grace, Race unlocked the small case he carried and handed it over. The scarred guard opened it. Carefully arranged stacks of credits filled the case.

The guard pulled out about half of it and handed it to his compatriot, then took the rest out and dropped the case on the floor. The two guards began counting the cash.

"I get forty-seven nine," said one after a few minutes of counting.

"I get fifty-two one," said the other. "Money checks out." He looked down his nose at Race. "You know that's only half the cost right? You know the other half?"

"A favor," Race said. "Anything the Oracle asks of me."

"Yeah. And don't get any ideas about skipping out on the favor. Some have tried. It don't go well for 'em. You'll see."

"I pay my debts," Race said.

"Down the hall, straight ahead," the guard said. "He's through that door."

Race turned, then hesitated.

"He answers any question, right? Are there any questions that would... make him mad?"

"The Oracle don't care what the question is. You have the payment, you have your answer."

Race Ozan nodded and turned toward the door. He gathered his courage and walked boldly down the hallway. His heart was triphammering, but he'd never show it. From the outside he looked confident, decisive. Inside he was gibbering.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

A strange feeling grew in him as he approached the door. He'd been afraid his whole life, and doubly so on this journey, but this was a new, strange fear, all jagged spikes and terror shooting through his brain. It got worse as he approached.

He paneled open the door and stepped in.

The room was wide, nearly the whole width of the ship. They'd clearly used most of the cargo space in the ship for this one room. There were a few assistants, mostly clustered together in the far corners of the room.

In the center of the room, a stack of structural beams had been welded together to create a lofty, narrow riser. Stairs had been attached. At the top was the throne, holding a kind of creature Race had never seen before. His terror grew, but his face was calm.

"Approach," said the creature with a voice like the grating of broken glass.

Race stepped forward. He was nearly able to keep the shaking out of his legs. He stopped at the base of the structure. He looked up.

The creature in the throne was tall and thin, with talons on its hands. It was dressed in a long, blood-red robe with a deep hood. The round lenses of goggles gleamed from within. A bundle of tentacles spilled out of the hood and down the chest. They writhed unnaturally. They weren't even moving, they looked more like they were phasing out of existence and phasing back in in different positions.

"Speak... your... desire." the Oracle said in that awful voice.

Every nerve and instinct screamed at Race to turn and flee. He clamped down on his nerves and forced his breathing and voice to steadiness.

"I want to change my fate," he said.

"Say... on."

"I'm second in command of the Riftborn gang on Techterra. Ever since the Electroveil Collective got broken up, there's been a big war between all the gangs trying to grab a bite of the EVC's old territory." Race looked down at his scarred hand, flexing it. "We're losing. Everybody's losing. The cops are chewing away at our ranks, we're all fighting with each other, it's... bad. Everything's going bad."

He looked up at the Oracle, setting his jaw.

"I want to own it all. One gang. One city. All mine."

"So... simple... a... request?"

"Ah, I also stole a bunch of money. Half my own gang is going to try to kill me when I get back."

The Oracle leaned forward. His oppressive aura nearly made Race vomit from fear.

"Do... you... desire... nothing... more? Nothing... different?"

Race flexed his hand again.

"If I control the gangs of Techterra, I can get everything else I want," he said.

The Oracle began speaking at length with his terrible voice. As he laid out plans and knowledge, Race's face showed confusion, which slowly cleared, becoming wonder. It was replaced by a wicked, crafty smile.

After a long monologue, the Oracle sat back, silent. Race's mind was spinning. Could it really be so simple?

"Now... to... discuss... payment."

Race straightened. Right. The favor.

The Oracle outlined a task for him. Race's face crumpled in confusion.

"Really?" he asked. "That's it? I thought I was going to have to cut off a finger or something."

"Every... favor... is... different," the Oracle replied. "Do... not... fail."

"Yeah, I won't," Race said. "Don't worry."

"I... do... not... worry." The Oracle raised a taloned hand, gesturing to an exit different from the one Race had come in from. "Go... claim... your... city."

Race ducked his head, and backed toward the indicated exit.

"I will. Thank you."

Another heavyset guard guided him to the exit.

Race heaved a sigh of relief once he was out of the room with the Oracle. Already his mind was easier, less filled with terror. The guard grimaced.

"Don't get comfy yet," the guard said, his face filled with obvious distaste. "You still have to do the tour."

"Tour? What do you mean?"

The guard walked him to a long hallway. Cells lined each side. Buzzing stasis shields blocked each one from the hallway.

"What is this?"

The guard looked back over his shoulder.

"This is where the Oracle keeps the people that don't do the favor."

They walked slowly by the cells. Each held an individual.

In one, a half-naked Terran lay on the floor, scrubbing his hands across his body. "The bees," he groaned. "They're on me. They're on me!" Long red furrows on his skin showed he'd been scrubbing himself raw for a long time. In another, a moaning Ursine leaned his body into the stasis shield, the crackling zap of energy repeatedly thrusting him back. He would wail in pain, then push himself into the shield again.

"I can feel it," he said repeatedly. "I can feel this."

Race's hackles rose. This was almost worse than being in the room with the Oracle. Every cell they passed had someone in it who was broken. Moaning, screaming, drooling, all of them utterly mad. They reached out to him, they begged for relief from whatever torment was locked in their heads.

As they approached the end of the hallway, the guard turned and fixed him with a level look.

"Do the favor," he said.

Race nodded and scrambled through the exit. He'd never been so glad to leave a room before in his life.

"I'm a citizen," Kinnit said firmly, trying hard not to bare her teeth. She leaned over the counter at the recruiting station. "I've already been working on a Navy ship for over a year now!"

Kinnit was downplanet on Ceon 12 again, this time standing in a recruiting station in Techterra. The air was cold, and the air conditioning was going full blast. In spite of that, the ceiling fan was going as well.

The climate of Techterra was hot, but it wasn't that hot.

The recruiter was an older Terran, a man in his sixties. He slumped behind his desk, looking profoundly bored and unfulfilled in his role.

Kinnit tried to tamp down her annoyance. She couldn't believe she was using her vacation time to come downplanet and try and sort through this mess.

"Look, I don't make the rules," the recruiter said. "I'm just telling you, the system is going to reject any SSes automatically. I don't want you to waste your time."

"I'm not a-- look, do you see a collar?" Kinnit pointed at her bare neck.

"It's not my place to say who's qualified or not. I'm just telling you, the system is going to reject--"

"I was made a citizen by the Emperor himself! Check your records!"

"Sure you were. I know the Navy looks like a good career from the outside, but you can't enlist if you don't meet the requirements."

"I meet the requirements! Can you please just put in my application?"

The recruiter sighed heavily.

"Fine. But I don't want to hear from you when it gets rejected, okay? Go bug someone else in another office."

"Believe me, I wouldn't come back here for every credit in the Imperium," Kinnit snarled. "I just need this application filed."

"Yeah, sure," the recruiter said, tapping at his console. "Any education?"

"Yes. I graduated from the Naval Academy, summa cum laude."

The recruiter gave her a tired stare over his glasses.

"You know they're gonna check that, right?"

"Great! Yes, please!" she cried. "Check it all you want!"

He shrugged.

"Well, I'm not the one doing the checking. It's not my place to say who's qualified. I'm just telling you. If somebody told you they could hack the system to get you on the Naval Academy records, then you got scammed."

Kinnit ground her teeth, but held her tongue. As long as the paperwork got filed, this idiot could think whatever he wanted.