Written on the Sin

PuckIt began the

Geek Pride celebration

years ago, and since then I've always prepped a SciFi entry for the event. This one is an offshoot of my other SF stories, though it stands alone in a universe of its own. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

Xanadu Control sighted the incoming ship along an unusual trajectory, which was the only reason Sergeant Mims noticed it at all. He studied the contact for a few moments, then went to work with the extrapolator for a one-point fix before he pressed the repeater and made his report. "Another unregistered vessel, apparently Pomakai-bound, just like last month. It's exceeding maximum safe speed."

"Yeah?" His captain was not all that interested. "Is it the

Midnight Wanderer?

"

"Uh, no sir. I told you, it's unregistered."

"Ah. Well, is it going to collide with anything?"

Mims studied his screen. "Nah. It's off the usual lane, like it's not even headed for the Core there."

"File it. It'll go into the docket with the rest. The word is there's an auditor already on the way over there, or nearly so."

"Oh. Okay." Mims shrugged. "It's just that it moves like a smuggler, sir."

"I know. City Control has been getting complaints about it from the Bureau on Pomakai. It's a thing, sergeant, but it's above our pay grade. Like I said, just file it. No big deal."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

The wash of the great ship's lifting ports drifted over the landing basin's pale escarpment, the thrusters' violence softened by distance until, by the time it sighed among the dwarf conifers on the new slopes a few kilometers away, it had become a trembling breeze freighted with hope, hope brought by the crates and parcels the ship left behind for the busy hands and arms of the Penjicut Hanifists who called themselves the Rekat Ketyak.

They swarmed over the crates at once, unpacking. There was work to do.

For the wastes to the north were barren and airless, a tricksy face presented by a planet meant to be a better place. The Rekat Ketyak worked to strip away that false face, to unearth the truth this planet was desperate to reveal: that it could be a home.

They had no time to waste. Their work was holy. And the big ship, now dwindling into the night skies, a reverse meteorite headed once more for the cold emptiness of deep space, had brought them the tools they needed to continue the work. And so the crates disintegrated on the basin, those busy hands and arms digging greedily at the parts and tools within. Chanted psalms ran through the conifers to follow the fading traces of the rising ship.

* * *

Part One: The Idea

* * *

Signor Mopan did not like having to go to Bureau House, because going to Bureau House meant dealing with the government. And Mopan, like most merchants, did not believe in inviting the government into one's life. But this was an extraordinary situation: Xanadu City had sent an investigator at long last, to audit the sensors and answer the Chamber of Commerce's complaints about smuggling. So the Chamber had sent Mopan over to meet with one of the Under-Governors. And Mopan was the Deputy Chair For Interplanetary Trade, a lofty title that brought no respect on a planet with such a small spaceport.

The receptionist squinted up at him. "Signor what?"

"Mopan. My name is Yermi Mopan. I requested an appointment with the Second Under-Governor two days ago." He drew himself up haughtily, but sensed that the receptionist was impervious to such tricks.

"Yeah, well, she's not here today." The receptionist looked like he was enjoying himself. "She's touring a waste-treatment plant. Actually, almost everyone's out of the office because the Auditor is here. But if you want, you can meet with the Third Under-Governor? He forgot to be gone, apparently."

Mopan hesitated. His Chairman had been clear:

deliver our grievance to someone in authority, and don't come back until you do!

"What's he in charge of?"

"Internal diplomacy." The receptionist took a bite out of what smelled like a pumpkin muffin. "Like, dealing with unofficial populations? Indentured servants, clones, staybacks. Shit like that. Want to meet with him, or not?"

Mopan nodded. "I will deign to meet with him."

The receptionist frowned. "What's that mean? Yes, or no?"

"Yes."

"Great." The receptionist keyed a toggle on his desk, and somewhere in the vast maze of Bureau House a message passed unseen to a bureaucrat's desk. "You're welcome. His name is Bolgren Harrigan, and he's a dick. Third hallway behind me, lift at the end, second storey, straight down the corridor to the fourth door on the east side." He smiled, smug. "You'll figure it out. Or Security will find you and give you directions and a beating."

The Honorable Bolgren Harrigan was not terribly surprised by Mopan's message when they took their seats in his sumptuous office. He glanced at the man from Xanadu City, a vaguely threatening presence in the corner of the room. "Yes," Harrigan shrugged, "Xanadu Control has detectors that told us, oh, four days ago that a ship had lifted from out on the Periphery, near the coniferous zone in the Fifth Quarter. What about it?"

Mopan felt his mouth fall open. "What about it? It's an unlawful, unauthorized ship landing and taking off from your planet, Governor. That's a significant threat to my organization."

"Whoah! Whoah." Harrigan spread his fingers helplessly. "It's not

my

planet. I'm just the Third Governor." Harrigan rested his long face in his steepled fingers. "What does it have to do with your organization at all?"

"It's probably a smuggler, Governor." In the corner, the auditor made a note.

"Undoubtedly. So what?"

Mopan cocked his head. Could the man be this obtuse? Or had the receptionist been understating when he called him a dick? "We're the planetary Chamber of Commerce. Smugglers mean commercial goods being brought into the planetary economy without our permission."

"Yeah. Well. Boo-hoo. I mean, it's a far bigger problem for

my

organization, if you think about it," Harrigan pointed out. "We're the ones who aren't collecting customs duties. You're just dealing with competition; we're missing out on revenue. Revenue with which we can Improve The Quality Of Life On Pomakai, For The Benefit Of All." Both men rolled their eyes; it sounded like a campaign slogan, because it was. "What does the Chamber propose?"

Mopan drew himself up, knowing this was the moment; this, right here, was the critical message his Chair had sent him to deliver. "We propose an expedition to investigate and eliminate this nest of vipers."

"Nest of what?"

"Vipers. Like, snakes?"

"How does the Chamber know there are snakes out there?" The bureaucrat's eyes twinkled, and even the auditor in the corner smiled. "Nobody's supposed to be out on the Periphery, Signor. If your people are fucking around out there, you better tell me now."

Mopan hung his head. "It's a figure of speech, Governor."

"Yeah, no shit," Harrigan cackled. "Look, if it makes you feel any better, I was already thinking about this reported ship-lift even before you came to whine. Turns out this smuggler might be part of a bigger problem that my predecessors have been too busy to deal with over the years." He pulled a sheet of crystal off a pile. "Have you ever heard of a group called the Rekat Ketyak?" He said it with the halting cadence of a toddler trying to sound out the alphabet.

Mopan's brow rose. "Should I have?"

"We think they're probably staybacks, from the old terraformer crews back in the day. Or maybe they're unregistered settlers who went out there and found religion. Or maybe they don't exist at all anymore. But they caused the Bureau some problems about fifteen years ago in the same Quarter, and lately they've been collecting unauthorized tolls from our scouts and militia. I'm thinking it might be time to talk to them."

"Talk to them."

"Yes. A negotiation mission. Also, a colleague of mine in the Topographic Directorate has been making noise about erosion monitoring out there; might as well kill two clones with one bullet."

"Wait. You're saying there's a group of people out there? In the area where this ship launched from? Like, a tribe of some sort?"

"Yes. They're believed to be just south of there, in the Vales." He winked. "I bet they'll want to buy some shit, too."

"That sounds like an excellent idea, Governor!" Mopan was elated; his Chairman was bound to be pleased with this. "An expedition would meet with the full approval of the Chamber."

"Good. Because you're going."

"Wait. What?"

"You. Are. Going. With. Whomever. I. Send. Out." Harrigan made a note on the crystal. "I'll tell you when you leave, but it'll certainly be within the week."

"I... What?"

"You should be happy, Signor. Your eloquence was instrumental in determining my course of action, and there is no organization I trust more to get to the bottom of any smuggling than the duly recognized Chamber of Commerce." He turned to the Xanadu auditor and lowered his voice. "This office always makes sure to involve the business community in these kinds of decisions; make a note of that, would you?" He nodded to himself. "Probably ought to pack some boots, Signor. It's not exactly sandal country out there, I'd imagine."

"Boots? I don't have any boots!"

"Good thing you're the Chamber of Commerce, then, isn't it? You're probably in touch with a cobbler or two." Harrigan's smile was vaguely predatory. "Thank you for stopping by. I'll be in touch, soon."

"I..."

"I'm a very busy man, Signor Mopan. Shall I summon Security to see you out?"

"I..."

"Go." He watched balefully as the merchant collected the shards of dignity Harrigan had left shattered on the ground, gathered his robes around himself, and bowed his way out of the office. "Make sure you shut the door behind you, hmm? My conversation with the inspector is confidential." He brooded a moment, his gaze straying to the window. The people at Climate Directorate had produced a beautiful day today. He nodded to himself, wondering just how many different problems he could solve by sending a band of explorers out into the wilderness.

That was when he remembered that other sheet of crystal. The one that had been slipped underneath his office door in a plain envelope. The letter asking for a job, and threatening certain repercussions in the event that job didn't materialize.

And then he reminded himself that his expedition would need a leader.

He toggled his intercom, tagging the receptionist. "Hey. Find a woman named Mitzi Van Choi. She's a professor at New University. Get her up here as soon as you can." He sat back and smiled. She'd be expecting that summons, he thought to himself as he remembered the plain envelope, but not for the purpose she thought it was. "You're going to see me solve this smuggling problem in real time, Auditor."

The man pursed his lips. "I'll believe it when I see it."

* * *

Wind and rain did the chiseling where machinery couldn't, and for several months that was how the planet had been shaped: runoff. Erosion. Compaction. Abrasion. The slow mallet-taps of nature, paring away the false face to find the true one beneath.

Rinda Famm, high on the ridge overlooking the cracked landing basin, nodded. Her vehicles were finally ready once more, and as Keem, it was her duty to guide them in their tasks. She raised her face to the harsh sun, letting it bathe her, taking in the energy, before she nodded to her Underkeem. "Now," she commanded.

The signal rocket rose into the silver skies. The machines began to move. The holy chisels could shape once again.

* * *

Part Two: The Mission

* * *

The sun was different this close to the Periphery, Mitzi reflected: there were so many more clouds, the rains far more frequent. So the sun always seemed to appear up above as a watery disc, like it was being viewed through that graphene they marketed for shower doors, with the opacity turned up.

Mitzi had never been this far out of the Core, and it was starting to get to her.

Harrigan had been entirely correct: his summons had been expected. The reason behind it hadn't been. Still, Mitzi had known she was casting her die the moment she'd shoved the plain envelope underneath the door, and from that moment on she'd told herself she'd be prepared for the fallout.

All she'd wanted was a job. Threatening to blackmail government officials was bad, sure, but wasn't there a spectrum? Like, blackmail for planetary security: bad. Blackmail as treason: even worse. Blackmail as a means of reforming the Bureau: good. Somewhere in there, she thought to herself, lay

blackmail for the sake of getting a mid-level government gig

. Which couldn't be all that bad, surely.

And she'd never have had to resort to it if the assholes at the University had put her on the tenure track.

The watered sun swept across the cabin as the pilot banked, nudging her toward the window. Down in the forward compartment, she could hear someone getting loudly sick; it sounded like that fucker from the Chamber of Commerce, Yermi? Hermi? Something like that. She sighed and returned to her lap console, reminding herself what was expected up ahead.

Negotiation Mission.

That's what Bolgren Harrigan had called it when he'd told her to take charge, after inviting the auditor from Xanadu to go elsewhere. "What are we negotiating?" she'd blurted.

Seemed there was a renegade group of weirdos up in the Fifth Quarter. They'd shot at a settler column thirteen years before, blocking easy access through the Vales, and ever since then they'd been sporadically fighting the Militia and charging illegal tolls for passage through the area. "Now," Bolgren had complained, "there's evidence they may be smuggling. Offworld."

"Smuggling? Smuggling what?"

"How would I know? But the merchants are pissy about it, the Governor wants his cut of the customs, and I've told him I'm going to get a treaty written." His finger had stabbed across the table at her. "You're going to figure out the treaty terms."

"Why me?"

He'd smiled, that rictus grin she remembered so well. "Because you're trying to blackmail me. So getting you out of town seems like a wise thing for me to do, especially if you might get killed or something." He'd shrugged. "Look, you asked me for a job. This is a job."

"I'm a history professor. I was thinking something more like the Education Directorate, or the Archaeology Office."

"Well. Beggars can't be choosy," he'd winked, "and the University doesn't seem to like you. So it seems to me you're going to take whatever you can get, Dr Van Choi." He'd leered at her chest. "Mitzi," he'd corrected himself, transparently horny.

"You're disgusting," she'd seethed. "This is why I was trying to blackmail you, Bolgren." He'd laughed at that, but off she'd come on this harrowing flight to the Periphery, over gigameters of fine-looking countryside, a long day's journey over mountains and streams, fields and the little villages the Bureau was starting to authorize now in the Outer Quarters. Her first flight. Her first time leading... well, anything. Her first time being expected to negotiate.

And she'd come. Because he'd told her there'd be a better gig waiting for her if she returned.

She'd had a discussion with her team last night, over dinner at Malbec Emporium: their first meeting, the expedition thrown together with unseemly haste. She'd gotten a favorable impression from all of them except the Chamber guy, who seemed ill as Dr Ginwright had told them what little she could about the people of the Vales.

"We think they're generally peaceful. They've killed before, but all indications are that they usually only attack if they feel threatened."

"And that's why it's just us?" the Chamber fellow had shrieked, "and not a battalion of Militia?"

Mitzi had spoken into the silence that followed. "Pretty much," she'd shrugged. So she had her doubts about... she consulted her console... Yermi Mopan. But Liggen Ginwright was good, a religion professor at Old University. And her second-in-command, an ecologist, Maddis Waldakaitis from the Topography office... he certainly seemed competent, his qualifications and experiences covering his arms and legs in a flurry of ink. But he did not speak much. Then there was the young man Bolgren had insisted Waldakaitis bring, a neatly-arranged guy with the prim manners and careful air of an experienced indentured servant nearing the end of his term. Bishlak, his name was; Bishlak Sixenn, the name indicating a clone heritage that probably explained his need to sell himself to a toad like Bolgren Harrigan in order to get ahead in life.

The pilot's voice crackled over the speakers, not without a certain tightness at the rising smell of Mopan's vomit. "Thirty seconds," he told them, the ground rushing upward at an alarming rate. Mitzi peered around the cabin, seeing all eyes pressed to the windows with a sense of wonder: nearly every citizen and indenture on Pomakai was Core-born and Core-bred, the settlers only starting the Expansion phase some twenty years before. Of all of them, only Waldakaitis had been out this far.

"What can we expect, Maddis?" she asked him in a low voice as the pilot flared for landing.

"We?" He gazed mildly back at her, a seasoned scientist a couple years older than she was. "You can expect work, stress, and danger, Dr Van Choi. I'm mostly just here to look at some rocks and foliage."

Well. That settled that, she supposed.

Nobody had asked her yet why she'd been appointed leader of this little expedition. She supposed she'd need to come up with an answer for that, something other than "well, the Third Under-Governor used to pay me to lick his ass, so he seems to trust me." She'd burn that bridge when she came to it, though, she decided as she stepped out into a broad, almost offensively green meadow crisscrossed with muddy tracks from the militia vehicles. "Thanks," she told the pilot as her feet touched virgin land for the first time in her life. "I guess the Militia will call you when it's time to come pick us up."

"Yup." The pilot did not seem inclined to have a conversation, which seemed to be the story of her life these days. Only natural, she told herself; the team had only met the night before. It might take time, time they didn't really have. She was heading into the Vales the very next morning to seek out the mysterious Rekat Ketyak.

Which was exactly what she told the Militia officer when she finally found his command shelter in a welter of trodden grass and baying cattle. He was a tall Major, regionally famous for running for office a couple years before based largely on the fact that he was a Pioneer descendent from the Dishong clan. He'd led an eventful life, his arms thick with whorling red and green ink. "Yeah," he told her as he blew on a thick mug of nettle tea, "I got the Governor's message. He told me to put you up for the night and give you whatever assistance you needed."

"Yes. And didn't he tell you to hand-deliver a request to talk to the Rekat Ketyak?"

The man's face screwed up. "What? The who?"

"The people we're here to negotiate with. The people who live in the Vales."

"Oh. Yeah." He made a dismissive gesture. "The Penjies. Yes, I sent a squad into Great Vale to leave the message first thing this morning. Yes, my guys went in with white flags and no weapons. Yes, they left the letter by the river. No, they didn't hand it to anyone."

Mitzi felt her heart lurch. "Weren't they supposed to?"

"Yes," the man shrugged, "but whoever sent that order doesn't understand the Penjies. They never show themselves unless they want to, and this morning? They didn't want to. You just leave shit for them, and they reply or they don't. Take or leave." He sniffed. "Whenever a group of settlers comes through, we do the same thing. If they're willing to wait, we can warn the Penjies and the settlers don't get dead. If they're not? Well, the Penjies don't like surprises."