John Moralee - Future Imperfect - A Collection of Science Fiction Stories

“I’m going now,” I said. “I’m not going to be late. See you later.”

I turned away, but Paulo chased me. “Wait! We have plenty of time. Don’t you want to buy something from Ransor or Jarik Epsilon? See that memory vendor? It sells genuine historicals.”

I saw the high prices and shook my head. “I don’t have the money to buy anything. I’d prefer leaving with nothing than buy junk, anyway. Especially from an unlicensed memory vendor. A bad disk could fry my brain.”

Paulo rolled his eyes. “I got paid today. I’ll buy you a disk as a gift. I know you’re interested in galactic history. They might be something old from Earth or Mars or New California. At least look before saying no.”

Paulo could be very annoying, but he was right about my passion for history. But I wasn’t interested in buying a bootleg memory of someone’s birthday party or a wedding ceremony. I would have walked away, but I was feeling light-headed in the boiling sun. I had not been born with the constitution for the summer heat. The stall had a fan and an awning offering shade. For no better reason than to cool down, I browsed the racks of silver-cased memory disks, which had their contents written in Standard Galactic. The disks were categorised by planet of origin, then by subject, then the time of recording. I browsed through rows of Earth material, looking for something interesting, while the vendor studied me from behind a counter.

The vendor was a gangly Karrunian wearing shiny body-armour like a mediaeval knight, only with four arms. Two of the arms were attached to the shoulders, and two smaller ones waved on its head like feelers. A mirrored visor hid its face, but I sensed it looking at me through a dark slit.

“Can I help you?” it said through a translator.

“No–just looking.”

“Spicy memories for you.” A gauntleted head-hand waved towards a large section marked Erotica. “Excellent value.”

My cheeks burned. “No, thank you. I’m interested in historicals.”

“Ah! Have them too,” the vendor said. “Full-sensory recordings. Be Cleopatra, Queen of Ancient Egypt. Very popular title.”

Memory-recording devices had not been invented until the late twenty-third century, so the Cleopatra disk was an obvious fake, as were all of the ones supposed to show events from Earth’s early history. The vendor didn’t have any genuine Earth historicals, just fantasy re-enactments. I couldn’t see anything more pointless than buying a fake memory. I was disappointed. I was wasting my time. I had cooled down enough to move on, but my cousin was browsing the Alien Erotica section. I could see green tentacles on one lurid cover in his hands. I shuddered in disgust. “Let’s go.”

“Just a minute,” Paulo said, taking a dozen disks to the counter. “I’ll take these, please.”

“Superb choice, sir.”

I shook my head and turned away. I didn’t want to know what Paulo was buying. It would take a couple of minutes for his transaction. I spent that time idly looking along a rack of disks recorded locally. Paulo was almost done when I spotted a disk entitled TRALIAD AIRWALKERS: DANCE OF THE SEVEN ELEMENTS.

The date of the recording was marked on the disk, the day Marila disappeared.

As I read it, I felt faint and I almost passed out. I stared at it, checking the date again and again. I picked up the disk. The manufacturer information looked genuine. The disk was supposed to contain three hours of unedited memories recorded from the mind of a Traliad airwalker. The troupe had been performing during the time my sister had gone missing. It was too important to ignore. What if the recording showed what happened to her? The disk could contain vital evidence overlooked by the authorities.

I was breathless. I had to have the disk, even though it was expensive. I joined my cousin at the counter. He had promised to buy me something, so I added it to his purchases.

He frowned at the price. “You want that ?”

I nodded, unable to speak for the thoughts pounding inside my skull.

Paulo shrugged. “Put this on my bill, please.”

The vendor bagged everything. Once we were on our way out of the market, the crowd thinning around us, I fished my disk out of the bag. “Thanks. This means a lot.”

I wanted to sample it there on the street, but I needed a quiet place and the free time to do it safely. Nobody tranced in public.

Reading the title of my purchase, Paulo looked puzzled. “Airwalking? What’s so special about that?”

“Nothing, but look at the date.”

Paulo frowned. “Sorry. Don’t get it.”

“Marila disappeared on that day.”

“Oh! Wow.” Paulo looked around and lowered his voice as though afraid someone was listening. “Do you think that will help you find her? Is that why you bought it?”

“Yeah, I hope so.”

“Don’t want to be pessimistic, but you’ve got to be realistic. Don’t get your hopes up. Your sister’s probably dead.”

“I know,” I admitted. “But if there’s even the slimmest chance–”

“I understand,” Paulo said. “I really hope you find something useful. I miss Marila, too. Let me know what you learn, okay?”

“I will, I promise.” We were nearly at the guildhall. I slipped the disk into my suncloak, sealing it in a pocket. Then I decided to have some fun messing with my cousin. “So, you’re into alien erotica, huh?”

“What? No! Don’t get the wrong idea. I didn’t buy those disks for myself.”

“Yeah, right. I believe you.”

“Really! The guys in my barracks love that sort of alien weirdness. I’ll make a good profit selling these disks to Franco or Zeech.”

“I understand completely,” I said. “You’re saying you’re not a perv, just a black marketeer?”

“I’m an entrepreneur,” he said. “You’re not going to say anything to Min, are you?”

Min was my best friend as well as my cousin’s girlfriend.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t tell Min about your tentacle fetish or your dodgy deals. She’s already got enough to worry about just going out with you, cuz.”

We said our goodbyes at the stone steps leading up to the guildhall. I watched Paulo heading in the direction of the naval academy, then I ascended into the shadow of the massive guildhall.

Two armoured guards stood motionless on either side of the grand entrance doors, holding ornate shields and gleaming swords. They looked like stone statues, but they would come alive if anyone armed approached.

I removed my cowl as I climbed, revealing my face for their ID check. The guards didn’t move, letting me pass. There was more security at the doors, but it was discreet. To prove myself a member of the Guild, I touched my hand to the left door and offered my right eye to a scanner. A micro-needle pricked my palm, taking a blood sample. And a rainbow of lasers pulsed over my retina. My eye watered.

“Identity verified. Access permitted.”

The doors opened silently, releasing a draft of cool, tangerine-scented air. I felt like a million tiny fingers were tickling my body. The tickling ended abruptly once I was inside the antechamber. The doors closed automatically, shutting out the sunlight, and the soft glow of illuminated orbs, set in wall niches, provided a more comfortable light. I removed my suncloak and hung it on a rack with others. My footsteps echoed when I walked along a hall towards a distant archway. My destination was a large chamber deeper in the building, known as the Gate Room.

Gileanor was there, lying on a crystalline couch cushioned by blue velvet pillows. She was one of sixteen senior navigators resting on identical couches circling the monolithic Key Stone, the guild’s interface with the alien machine operating the field generators. Like the other guild members, Gileanor was responsible for maintaining the hyperspace gateways to distant worlds. She was wearing a white ceremonial robe and a chrome skullcap over her long, silver-white hair. Trails of cables connected her skullcap to the Key Stone. Gileanor looked as though she was sleeping – until she opened her eyes and sat up. She smiled as she stood, carefully removing her skullcap. Gileanor was a senior member of the Guild, having joined centuries ago, when she wasn’t much older than I was now. She looked good for someone in her fourth or fifty century.