Chapter 3
Each step into new hours forms a query in the Human’s mind of the intricate shape of the silver box. He flips it over half-minded in his walk, cautious not to open it, or even consider the idea for too long. But each time he glances at it, the weightlessness of it consumes him, the contents must be nil as his suit picks up nothing. Though the suit shared designs by the royals that gifted it to him in the form of the prototype graft in his chest, they would surely defend against its sensors. Whatever was in this box, he was the one tasked to bring it, not any other guard that would happily give it up, and hastily embark upon their ship to the nearest station’s liquor hall to drown their luck of ambush in cosmic spirits and cosmopolitan wines.
Any other guard would so easily toss aside royally contracted errands like they would any other day’s responsibilities to the apathy or ignorance of their employers, so why, he asks himself on his fifth hour, would they send him? As a guarantee, of course, he answers himself, but there are other reasons that exist. His long life ensures there are other reasons. But an insipid, trained boredom to the rationalities and plans of his royal employers distill his curiosities, and he steps with a desperate pace.
Breaking the horizon of rippling heat comes tips of twisting towers under clear skies stretching towards winding paths that the Human crosses. Closer and closer, the sparkling silver house of R43’s royal family burns into view. Each side of each building a tapestry of jutting ridges and lines like the details of the similarly silver box. The base of each building drools over the ground in bronze swirls circling upwards, tapering beneath the first floor’s windows, decks, look-outs, and golden ring staves carrying Rekkel royal family’s declaration and emblem of a bulbous flower with silver tips, and a single golden thorn, in front of a series of waving lines representing the harsh winds during the middle of each night that the planet sits at its farthest apsis. Entirely, this is to represent further the harsh dealings that the royal family concludes with the finesse and grandeur like that of the bulbous silver tipped flower.
Of course, the Human, muttering nothings between gusts of winds shaking hands with searing heat waves suddenly upon him in the last hour, thinks nothing of the history of the royal families. He learned of them, of course, as every guard in every family does. However, the details appeared meaningless to him, and every lecture on the differences of business with the royal family of Tularn 6 to that of the royal family on the gas giant Goil Z slapped his brain for a day, and left terrible mix-ups in the morning. He would tell his teacher that a royal member of Tularn Z must wear a purple sash during the first greeting hour if there was at least three hours of sunlight left, while those members of Goil 6 had to appear in as little clothing as possible if at least five hours ticked by before the cold of night.
A scar from a titanium strip clasped in broiled markings reminded him of his mistakes. Not struck across him with malicious intent, no more than his intent to mock or take lightly the ancient affairs of others. Yet he never remembered the details, and instead nods or uses general terms of agreement or understanding when he forgets. Thankfully, for a prestigious guard of a royal family, standing naked while reciting the greatness of Goil Z’s entrepreneurial genius, Huffil Xes III’s philosophy of truths in transactions, until a rose-tinted bell shatters against the northern wall of the house is skipped completely. Instead, it’s exchanged in favour of a five-minute session of small talk over a large mug of tea, and a stick of bread that grows naturally in the gas beds near the Goilian royal family’s house. In one such meeting, the Human was told, between long moments of laughter – which, from a Goilian, sounds like two pieces of tree bark snapping against each other while a small creature whines a shrill shriek – that nearly all their philosophies on business transpire with a unique purpose just to spend time laughing about it later. At the business guest’s expense, no doubt. In fact, the only truth Goilians find appropriate and about as funny as their sense of humour is shattering a rose-tinted bell, as the shape, colour, and size is remarkably similar to the brains of those on Tularn 6. Breaking a part the image of another’s brain is a sign of deep respect, as it shows they wish to carefully consider the smallest parts in hopes that they learn something significant.
Now, being only an hour from the house, the Human scans the horizon, making sure to enter from the port-to-station facing direction as any other direction is roiled with treacherous land. His neural implants inform him that he’s on the correct facing, and to continue at his leisure. A funny object pops into view the closer the Human walks towards the house. As he is aware ships of any kind are unable to approach – much less land – royal homes because not only is it proper etiquette, but to do so is illegal, bordering on act of war.
There is much speculation in some forums as to why that is, but smarter people say that to charge at someone is a bad thing, and the discussion ends. The Human, now clearly seeing the silver, and bronze, and rock clustered walls of the royal house, also notices the object that popped into his vision earlier that he doubted was possible, is indeed his ship.
He could be mistaken, however to not know what a ship looks like – especially one a pilot uses – from a distance is a ridiculous thing, regardless of mild shock, ships of any type should never be on royal land. Not at least to be sitting close enough to the front door to almost block passage inside.
Two things cross his mind on his steady approach. One, that he’s already possibly dead as the family on R43 has met him before and has seen his ship docked in the port outside their land. They have an endemic history and, his fading memories of how they appear before his visual augment manifests their bulbous and frail form into that of a human all but gold skin and dull brown eyes, tends to give him the feeling like that of the permeating swamp gas in the upwards raining bogs of Bonglavir, the shattered world. And the second thing is this: how on Huvar’s purple stringed field did Carmine not only retrieve his ship, but pilot it without the proper codes, and land it on the front porch of the royal Rekkel house?
He sees the thief, Carmine, sitting atop his ship between the vertical curves making the top two wings, on the bend that leads to the engines on the back, and forwards into the semi-attached cockpit. Carmine waves, in a thief way, mocking, bored, and planned. His rifle, bronze, sleek, with many latches and buttons, shines under the reflections off Rekkel house’s royal silver rooves. With one expensively stitched black pants leg bent, and one Finhen dark red and muddy white leather coat layered and silk shirted arm bent, with the other limbs casually dripping to the sides, free hand propping his rifle against his chest, Carmine polishes its smooth surface, with a dirty rag, and his spit. Occasionally, he pulls a small screen from his chest pocket beneath his two coat layers made of the finest Finhen leather one could steal, and counts the balance of his Glint. He makes sure to count loudly. Only pausing briefly upon the visibly confused and yet partially impressed Human’s face clearing through thin veils of dust sheets in the wind.
Under the spiraling silver towers of the house shading the bronze crusted base like a broken tooth, sits a ship covered in dark contour, with a thief, and a Human, and now a dozen fully covered royal guards and the dull golden hue of skin beneath lavish fabrics worn by a head of house representative whose swaying royal house matched coloured fabrics shook the hand of hollow wind. There is a long silence, one might say some minutes, so Carmine, bored of course, talks to the Human while ignoring the other guards.
“Ugh, I get it, you don’t want me on top of your fancy, expensive ship. You don’t have to tell me twice.” Carmine leans more dramatically, cradling his rifle and humming some forgotten tune.
“Off it, you.” He states simply.
“Lords and Deities, it’s rather exciting to be here, don’t you think? On R43 I mean. You don’t often get to visit a planet that has numbers in its name. That’s usually for their stars, or am I wrong? Anyways, brilliant being here, but you take so long trudging through the dry muck of R43’s horribly disastrous wastelands that I almost forgot to garner the attention of this royal family.” A finger, points half-heartedly to the representative, whose shaking hands and jaw say enough of his opinion on the matter. “Oh, come on, there’s no need to look morose. I took diligent care of your special ship. I know how families get when their toys break. Whispers of war, or just a refined cantankerous, I don’t know, feel to them.” Carmine grinds, or rather slips effortless off the hull to burps of stony dry dust on the rigid ground. Shaking himself of dancing light dirt, he spins his rifle in circles before tossing it behind him to lock magnetically to a compartment on his back. It seamlessly cradles inside a cover independently wrapping the stock and intricate barrel. Breeze pressed land settles, and the area sinks into a whistling quiet.
“You know what you done, thief? Making trouble more’n you’re worth.” The Human says, matching Carmine’s pace.
“Well, I did it, so I suppose I know what I did, but what do you think I did?”
“You idiot.” He says, walking passed Carmine as slowly as he made his way over the hills and rotting paths from the port. “I beseech you, royal emissary of these lands, these walls, these skies above and below, the ground. I beseech your forgiveness in my abhorrent transgressions on the Treaty of Outer Planetary War Acts and Other Misgivings of galactic date 44.612.1.0, and ask that this thief be reprimanded freely as seen fit of your personal decrees. It was not my intention to bring along this minstrel of mischief. Instead, I come with fabulous news, and offerings from my employer, the royal house of Huvar.” The Human remembers all the proper speeches, and if he were to finish this speech, he surely would find forgiveness. Instead, the representative of Rekkel royal family interrupted him before he mentioned the treaty, as by saying ‘treaty’, he instilled in the shaking emissary a fear. No one would be able to understand why, but it’s accepted that the emissary overreacted.
“Seize them both! Seize the ship by order of the royal house of the Rekkel, and in their power, bind these two to lock and key!” Footsteps purposefully tapping the dirt beneath them loudly – for tactical reasons – surrounded the Human and his perceived ally, Carmine the thief, with weapons drawn, as the representative disappeared inside the front door of the grand, silver house.
“By lock and key, he means we get the key, too, of course right? Or, well, I ask because the wording is odd. I don’t follow, bet you get his intent well enough. By the way, you never answered me before, when I asked you what you think I did. That was the start of a nice speech, good and proper. I bet anyone would praise you if they let you finish.” Said in more of a chiding manner than a congratulatory one, Carmine stretches his neck casually, bending his face in a smile matching the reckless abandon in his path from ship to building.
“Do you ever shut up?”
“Eerie silences of uncertainty and boring company aren’t my thing.” Carmine nudges the Human as they pass under covered walkways like twisting tails above the bronze and grey dirt and a window from a second floor, swings wide to reveal a royally dressed – by that, it’s meant the dress they don is both colourful, extravagant, and unnecessary – woman who looks down, pauses a moment, and says:
“Logan Steel, dear, why must you always have such rotten luck? Bring them inside. Forget what Marvis told you, he’s an idiot.” And with that, the window shuts, the guards disperse like dust blown from a smooth surface, and Carmine looks to Logan, the Human, with a practiced stare of surprise. Mocking possibly, or perhaps curious to some degree in their entwined history.