Topic: Mercator Arc
This 2134 word short story is more of a vignette. Its one of those spur of the moment ideas that sprung to life Friday.
"Yeah, I got everything you need, everything you can want." The man spoke into a comm stylus stuck to his collar as he glided through the throng of people in Mauhager's, the prominent night club in Cratertown. If you were somebody, you were here. The man thought himself as Someone Important, and to be sure, he was to certain people. "I can set you up, it's no problem," he prattled on. He was the depraved sort of sleaze that elevated his status on the weaknesses of others; a jubilant and boisterous man carrying himself without a care in the world. His manner of dress gloated his wealth: fine cut suits of the latest Pavonan fashion, slick hair gleaming under the lights and bound into a short ponytail with a thick bead of rare Cenestrian wood—calvanot that grew in the high country. And those glints at his fingers as he moved his hands? Silver rings inlaid with that same dark calvanot, polished to a high gleam. On the treeless world of Mercator, wood came imported at a premium. He was out of the rain, as they say. Real dry.
"It's a deal my man, see you then. Listen, I gotta slip out. Gotta meet somebody I got to take care of." With that he closed the call and pulled the comm stylus off his collar, sliding it into a pocket inside his jacket. He rounded a group of pretty girls who were all big eyes and bashful smiles. He flashed his charming grin, never breaking lock on the prettiest of the bunch as he passed. Maybe later. . . . He made his way to the back of the club, to the quieter sections where the blasting dance music was muted by sonic fields, toward the booths and private rooms were business was conducted.
It wasn't as crowded as the main floor, but still rather busy with more affluent clientele: bulker masters, mining bosses, and other captains of industry. And bargirls catering to their whims. He arrived at the appointed booth. The two gentlemen seated were not of those kind.
"Hey preacher-man. I see you brought your boyfriend with you." He slid into the booth to face them.
Both men wore sour severe faces of serious intent. The man in the dark cloth was older than his counterpart with a bristle of white hair sparkling on his head and cold hard eyes in a long stiff face. The wiry youth sitting to the aisle leaned over the table on his elbows, his shoulders bunched under his raincoat. Murder set his features; his otherwise handsome face marred by this ugly mask. He was a coiled spring under high tension.
"Is that the best you can do, Jaxsen?" The Rector said, taking a moment to sip his wine. "Offer insults?"
Jaxsen gave a half hearted shrug. "Hey, you bust my balls, I bust yours right back." He leaned back into the couch throwing an arm over the top. He and Rector locked eyes, but the old man seemed impervious. Jaxsen glanced around and spotted a waitress, waved her over and ordered something strong to remove the edge that was creeping into his nerves. He didn't care for the Rector. The other guy, he'd never seen. Maybe a dry behind the ears Mercator virgin. Didn't look like much. Nothing his boys couldn't handle in a scrap.
"I'll get straight to the point," the Rector said, his voice steady and fluid, his eyes never wavering. "You will keep your whores and your venom out of my parish."
Jaxsen smiled broadly, chuckled. "Preacher-man, I thought we had an unspoken deal. I supply the sin; you get gawf's to save."
There must have been some undetected message sent from the Rector to the muscle beside him, maybe a signal between their weaves, that network of implants woven into the body's cells. Brain included. Neither men glanced at one another, or made any kind of visible signal, however the young man's right arm shot out, his fist striking the huckster right in the face. He resumed his posture as if he had done nothing more harmful than brushing lint from the man's shoulder.
Jaxsen had grunted a little scream, probably more out of surprise than pain. You just did not hit Jaxsen in the face, not without there being some consequences. He was, after all, a man of means and influence in Cratertown. "You skumping bastard," he spat at the Rector, rubbing the soreness across his left cheek. "You'll pay for that."
Jaxsen's drink arrived. The young lady set it on the table and scurried off. A few patrons had turned their short attention to the commotion.
"Exactly how," the Rector asked. He hefted his challis and sipped wine, never dropping his eyes from Jaxsen.
Jaxsen spared a glance into the crowd, out past the section's entrance. He could not see any of his own bullyboys. This made him nervous. He hid the feeling behind a threat. "I have connections to some big names in the Ravens. It would be nothing to get them to work you over."
The Rector held a laugh in his throat, swallowed it like a lump. Anyone would have taken it as a lump of fear. "I see. Well you should know that Chief Ulden tithes exceptionally well." And why not? It was the Rector that eased the man and his young daughter through the grief of his wife's suicide. Though the Rector wasn't convinced that Ulden was as hurt as he let on. The daughter, however . . . . And the Rector had not fooled himself that his outreach wasn't politically motivated. Such was Cratertown.
Such was Mercator.
Jaxsen shrugged as if what he heard was of no import. He wanted to say something witty, but . . . where were his boys. Held up? Cozying up to cute bargirls? If so, they would answer for this.
The Rector clasped his hands upon the table, above them on a silver chain hung his Uplift, a circle connected to a thick flat bar by two V-like arms. "We of the Church are inspired to hate the sin, and love the sinner. But with you Jaxsen, the difference between sin and sinner is rather blurry. Where does one end and the other begin?"
"I don't believe in any of that shit."
"That's apparent," The Rector said. "Perhaps if you did, things would be different. But none-the-less, even in this anarchy, societies need rules within which to operate. And while worlds of civility have civil means of enforcing those rules, barbarism answers only to barbarism. Physical dominance rules Mercator."
"Are you done," Jaxsen barked. "Because I believe I have drugs to sell in your parish." He made a move to get up, but the young muscle shoved the table forward, pinning him in place. It hurt. "What the skump do you think you are doing," he yelled at the Rector's bullyboy.
Heads had turned. A crowd gathered. Here was sport. Bets were made.
"Iman tells us," the Rector said coolly, and all too aware of those standing around, "that God allows suffering, because in suffering there are truths to learn about ourselves and our part in His Plan. I have suffered Jaxsen. And I have learned the lessons of that suffering. And thus I suffer less for my enlightenment."
"You better let me go. You have no idea what you are getting into." It sounded good, but being pinned by the table, it carried no power.
The Rector ignored him. "As the sole and recognized authority of the Parish, I'm enforcing the rules of the society I govern. You will suffer Jaxsen. It is my wish that you will learn the lesson of keeping your filth out of my parish."
With that the bullyboy stood and his right arm became a piston punching through the raised, splayed hands of the huckster and landed blow upon blow upon his face. The crowd cheered him on, though they cared not for the reason for this pummeling, they cared only for the pummeling. There was a lot of work to do here, the Rector thought as he sipped his wine. A little morality could turn this place into a nice city. But morality had to be awarded.
And immorality . . . punished.
The Rector's man stopped once Jaxsen's red slick and swelling face sank from broken bone. The wiry young man trembled with adrenalin. He let the Rector slide out of the booth, holding the raucous crowd at bay as slips and bits of local currency changed hands. There were cheers for the Rector. The people were hungry for righteous leadership.
"Someone get him to a butcher," the Rector ordered. After all, Jaxsen was in need of medical attention and it would be unImanite not to assist one in their moment of need. A few people moved forward. The rest of the crowd parted as the two men made their way to the exit.
Outside, rain fell, as it does constantly with at most a reprieve of two days of bloated red giant sunshine. The sun had just set to rise again in a paltry eight hours. They sealed their coats and hoods and walked along sidewalks built like a string of porches along the streets, splash guards nailed along columns deflecting the ever-present spray shot out from tires as vehicles of all sorts rambled through the city. The Rector preferred to walk. He wanted to see the people, and for the people to see him. It awed him, all this humanity that came to this hell of a world seeking something, enduring hardships for something better.
He offered that something. His congregation took in the addicts and the downtrodden, helped them sort out their life, lead them down a better road. Cratertown could be a good place. It could be a marvel. Yet there was much work to do. And hard decisions to make to ensure that Good Work could be done.
The young man walking beside remained silent, lost in his own thoughts.
"How do you feel about what we have done, Kariden?"
The youth shrugged. "I don't know." A pause. "He had it coming, but . . ."
"It felt wrong?"
"Something like that Rector." The voice was distance.
Rector Doud nodded. "It felt wrong because the vengeance factor felt right."
"I guess so."
Both men were silent for a few steps. "Understand I take no pleasure in that sort of business, nor in having you perform it." They shared a glance. The Rector coughed into a knotted hand. "Iman tells us in time of crises, hard things must be done to ensure the right things be done. When there is no time for litigation, swift adjudication is the only course.
"The Book of Merikhana recounts the Exodus and how the Iq'ain refused Codus Iman. Have you studied this?"
"Yes Rector." Kariden paused, gathering what he recalled. "Many of the caliphate accepted Iman as their Mahdi, except for a faction of the Iq'ain. They launched a nuclear explosive against the adyta in their skies, and ‘. . . the Lord smote their city with a fiery strand that pulled their city and the ground to it, swallowing them whole before the strand itself vanished in a brilliant flash.'"
The Rector nodded inside his hood. "Iman explained that the apaxan adyta acted on its own, defending itself and eradicating future threats. It was a harsh measure, and one some rightly call a mistake. Iman was distraught over the loss of so many innocent lives. Sadly, history was never certain that those men who launched the missiles were in the city that harbored the weapons. However, the effect was one of unity. We embraced the Exodus with little fuss afterwards."
"It was that or die," Kariden said distantly. Then, "You think Jaxsen will be a problem?"
The Rector sighed. In truth it was a hard thing to know. Public humiliation could cower, especially if the spectators were against you. If he mustered harriers, he might run into opposition. "As long as I remain on good terms with Ulden, we shouldn't have a problem."
"But he runs the Death Ravens." Those men were would-be criminals on other worlds, but here in this anarchist state they were foot soldiers for a warlord.
They neared the parish. It was no different than any other part of the city, but it was hard to miss the rusted wrought iron monument that had been erected to mark the territory. The Uplift towered above their heads, a simplistic figure that was nothing more than a headless tall beam with slender raised arms holding a large wireframe sphere up to the heavens.
"That he does," the Rector said. "But this is Cratertown."
