"Celestial Echoes: The Cosmic Chronicles of Mande" - Arrival at Jamaliya

JAMALIYA STATION, THE EDGE OF JABARI DOMINION SPACE.

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"Eos....Flight seventy-three...... boarding for Eos......"

Marla Landers pushed through a heavy crowd, cursing her lack of height. The receiving bay of the station was hundreds of meters wide and at least sixty high, but the crowd of hot, sweaty, strange-smelling aliens made her claustrophobic. The booming, distorted voice of a station controller announcing departing flights made the air tremble. Marla wiped her forehead, turning sideways to slide past two huge Quasarrians. The scent emitted by Quasarrains was notoriously repugnant and overwhelming to human senses, nothing to be welcomed in this heat.

The crowd began to thin, though when she stepped out of a milling camp of Zulu tourists, all adorned in vibrant tribal garments and intricate beadwork, she saw a cybernetic barrier separating the landing bays and their high-vaulted tunnels from the exit doors. The entire mob of weary passengers, their faces etched with exhaustion and frustration, was slowly but surely being funneled down into six narrow gates, each cruelly labeled by caste or nation, as if to remind them of the divisions that plagued society. Marla, feeling a surge of weariness wash over her, abruptly halted amid the chaotic crowd, her bags slipping from her grasp and landing with a thud on the grimy airport floor. As she stood there, surrounded by the cacophony of disgruntled voices and the scent of stale air mingling with anxiety, an insidious migraine began to take hold behind her left eye, throbbing relentlessly with each passing second. With a furrowed brow and a sense of exasperation settling deep within her bones, she couldn't help but ponder in utter bewilderment: Why is it that there always seems to be an interminable line wherever one goes?

There, in the cool-scented air, slidewalks were conveying parties of rich Afridominians through station customs. Their glittering capes flashed and shimmered with rainbow hues and shining jungle colors, reminiscent of the vibrant African tribal dresses that adorned their wealthy wearers. These opulent garments, adorned with intricate beadwork and bold patterns, evoked images of the untamed beauty and mystique of the Dark Continent. Smiling, dark-suited servants carried traveling bags, sleepy children, and cold drinks for their masters. One of the nobles, glossy black hair trailing down her waist, earrings flashing gold in the soft white light, looked down. Marla stared back at the Jabari woman, then grimaced politely when the Afridominian lady waved.

She looked down at her own hands, muscular, the left scarred by an accident with a hypersonic cleaning tool on Jiri (Mars), deeply tanned by too many hours exposed under alien suns. They were not smooth and soft. They were nicked and calloused and entirely inelegant. She had to work, with her hands, in poor conditions. She wondered, and not for the first time, what it would be like to be highborn, into one of the families of the Mansa. To be up there, in the cool air, gliding down a slidewalk, a beautiful tribal dress hanging from pale smooth shoulders, with diamonds and gold around her neck.

Her grandparents' flight from the wars on Earth---on Gbe, as the Afridominians would say, crushed any hope of social status----not only were they refugees from a defeated nation, but they had given up the properties they once held in Old New York. On Solaria, colony law prevented a newly emigrated family from owning land for at least six generations. Marla grimaced, thinking of how easy it'd be to get into university, or an Afridominian jali school, if she could've claimed the landowner's right. A burden to be born in good grace whispered the voice of her mother. If you work and study hard enough, you can succeed.

"Enough," Marla muttered and slung the duffel over her shoulder. It was almost as large as she was, but she was strong enough to carry the bag unaided---it was lighter than a hod of Zoonaric stellar stones! The equipment case in her left hand was heavy too, but much easier to carry. She trudged across the broad floor, heading for the customs gate labeled JAMA. The line was longest there, with the "commoners" queued up, much longer than the gates for nonhumans or landowners or those in military service. Suddenly anxious, she checked the inner pocket of her vest for the company papers and ID card. The thick heavy shape of the packet was comforting.

"Doctor Landers? Landers-bwana?"

Marla looked up, taking a firm grip on her bags. A thin, balding man with a short, neat beard was waving at her from the other side of the cybernetic barrier. A flight jacket covered with patches covered narrow shoulders, and baggy combat pants hung on him like burlap bags. He held up a hand-lettered sign marked with the Company's hieroglyph for "spaceship." Marla's eyebrows raised in surprise. The last message did not mention a guide or being met, merely a kiosk number to pick up the ticket for the next leg of her journey. Jamaliya Station might be at the very edge of human space, but it was a convenient hub for travel along the frontier. Groaning to herself---leaving a line in the Dominion was always a cause of dismay, since they never got shorter, just longer---she trudged over to the black warning stripe outlining the security fence.

"Yes?"

The man smiled, showing irregular smoke-stained teeth. "You're Doctor Marla Landers, the xenoarchaeologist?"

"Yes," she allowed, not putting down the bags. "That's my name."

"Great! I'm Tom Baxter, your new pilot. Come down to the Cheetah gate---they'll let you through."

"Why?" Marla began to walk, matching Baxter's pace along the shimmering, half-visible fence. "I have no military pass." Baxter nodded, his head bent over a compressed tobacco stick. There was a hot spark and he took a drag.

"No," he said, blowing a fat ring of smoke. "But I do. Your mission's been upgraded, but we should talk about that later."

There was no line at the Cheetah gate, though there were two customs officers in pleated tunics and long white overcapes. Both men were copper-skinned, with slick dark hair. They were not Afridominians----Marla guessed they were from the old Tuareg lands. She bowed politely to both men, then waited quietly while Baxter talked with them in low tones. There were no soldiers within sight, but Marla could feel a slow crawling sensation on her arms and neck. The gate was traditional, with some featuring intricate wooden carvings, with a huge antelope head jutting out of the apex. She was sure that if trouble occurred, the head would answer with violence. The Afridominians were very fond of traditional images that could move, speak, or strike.

"Come on," Baxter beckoned from beyond the gate. The two Tuaregs watched with cold, disinterested eyes as she shuffled through. The pilot stuck out a hand, which Marla shook. His grip was dry, yet firm. "Bag?"

"No. Thanks." Marla had her whole life packed in the duffel, equipment case, and backpack. She wasn't going to give either bag over to some balding, smirky fly-by-night Company pilot. She didn't trust her employers, either. The Company might pay her to do the work she loved, but it had never gained her loyalty. Too many sites had been outright looted---ripped whole from the ground and packed up for shipment back to Gbe---for her to believe anything they said. "I've got it. Where are we going?"

Baxter, with a serious tone, uttered the word "Downstation" as he skillfully maneuvered through the throngs of people emerging from the customs area. He made sure to stay within the designated path, which was marked with interlocking Cheetah heads on the metallic floor. It was evident that he had something important to share, as he reiterated that things had changed. His demeanor suggested that he was not merely making small talk, but rather conveying a message of great significance. Baxter's words and actions indicated that he was a person of authority, who was well-versed in the intricacies of the situation at hand. His careful navigation through the bustling crowd and adherence to the designated path demonstrated his attention to detail and his ability to remain focused amidst the chaos. Overall, Baxter's demeanor and actions conveyed a sense of urgency and importance, leaving those around him with a feeling that they were in the presence of someone who knew what he was doing and was not to be taken lightly.

Five minutes later Marla was stuffed into a standing-room-only tube-car. Baxter was pressed into one side, his hand covering the back of her duffel so nobody could cut it open, and two Moslem imams on the other. The imams smelled funny----dust and parchment---but Marla was used to the smell of ancient things. She was not used to the complete lack of space and air in the car or the incredible humidity. The insides of the plastic windows were already running with thin streams of water, even as the car rose up on the tracks. A queasy moment followed, and then everybody in the car leaned slightly as it accelerated into the long-axis tunnel of the station.

Baxter leaned in and whispered into Marla's ear, "The Company has established offices in this location." Marla wrinkled her nose as the smoke from nearby chimneys tickled her nostrils. "The individual in charge is none other than Gabriel Matthew Farrugia, a Maltese national," Baxter added with a hint of admiration in his voice.

"A Knight of the Order?" Marla's voice quivered with disbelief as she refused to look at the pilot, her gaze fixated on the three small dark-haired children in front of her. They stood there, their hair cut into sharp bangs, identical in appearance. Their pale white faces seemed almost ghostly against the stark contrast of their severe blue capes and tunics.

The children stared back at Marla, their eyes huge and dark, holding an intensity that belied their tender age. It was as if they carried a weight far beyond what any child should bear. Questions swirled in Marla's mind as she wondered where their mother could be. Were they orphans? Had they been abandoned? Or worse, were they victims of some sinister plot?

"No," Parker chuckled, his demeanor relaxed and casual. He made a deprecating gesture, his thin and wiry hands resembling brown sticks as they folded over flat, almost like flippers, with his fingers lying together seamlessly. "He's not exactly the most energetic individual, and he's a bit on the heavier side. However, he is the Company representative here, responsible for handling outfitting, transshipment, and other related tasks. Warehousing is his primary responsibility, and he takes it quite seriously. He does have the mission plan, though. Have you had the opportunity to review it?"

Marla's demeanor became rigid as she felt the car's sudden shift from high to low speed. The vehicle was approaching a depot, prompting her to inquire, "Excuse me, do we disembark at this location?"

Parker, with his head craned over the crowd of people pressed against him and the door, responded in a calm and collected manner, "Not yet." He proceeded to explain that this was only the first stop on their journey, which would include visits to shrines, mosques, the bazaar, and upscale hotels. He then informed his companions that they were headed to the end of the line, which would take approximately another twenty minutes to reach.

Marla felt mildly ill but persevered. Twenty or thirty people crowded out and, thankfully, only two women with shopping bags got on. The three little children were gone. Baxter sat down, brushing wrappers and bits of sweet roll off the seat. Marla also sat, ignoring the stains. The tube-car had once been painted a light orange, with a roof covered with a stenciled image of the Enlightened, the Center of Excellence, majestic Timbuktu. Most of the mural had been peeled away, leaving bare, rusting metal. Graffiti, most of them sanskrit, covered every flat surface.

The car shimmied back up onto repulsion coils, then the outside---briefly visible with people hurrying back and forth, and neon, and huge w-scans showing a recorded djembe contest----was gone and there was darkness filled with streaked blurry lights. Marla checked the bags, leather jacket, travel papers, and everything she was wearing. Grimacing, she peeled a self-stick advert off her boot. It flickered to life at her touch. A naked woman, glossy black, writhed in her hand for a moment, surrounded by violently throbbing glyphs. She wadded up the paper and threw it away. Nothing seemed to be missing.

"Worked for the company long?" Baxter ventured, hands behind his head, watching her with half-lidded eyes. Marla supposed it was his "cool" pose. She shook her head.

"Three years, on Zoonar and Jiri. Digging."

He nodded, making a wry half-smile. "I'm new, only six months. You said you didn't get the new mission plan?"

"No. Last I heard I was heading to Rigel IV to replace Dr. DuQuesne as Xenoarch of the Palace of Harmony digs."

"Yeah. Well, you're not going there anymore. I was on another assignment too, but they pulled me in to fly shuttle for you and your team."

"Team?" Marla's face screwed up like she'd taken a long gulp of bad coffee. "I have no team."

"You do now." Baxter rubbed the side of his face. "You, me, Earlie Cat, and a gunner named Choudhary. They're waiting at the office. You'll meet them in a minute."295Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkBsO8CvJWU
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The tube-car slid to a stop, then settled with a clang onto the station rails. Marla let Baxter go first, then scuttled out of the car. The tube-stop was finished in more faux Ife-style murals, mostly destroyed by pasted advertisements and graffiti. Everyone on the tube-car walked very fast, taking long shuffling steps, from the platform to a rank of escalators. Marla felt a little queasy, and her bags seemed lighter.

"We're in-core?"

Baxter took a drag of his tobacco stick and exhaled a smoke ring that twisted into a helix. The loud clanks of the escalators signaled their arrival at the top level of the tube station. "Yeah, rents are definitely cheaper around here," Baxter said, nodding his head. "But it's hard to keep your coffee in the cup with all the low g and all." He glanced around at the crowded platform and added, "Still, I prefer the hustle and bustle of this place to the quiet suburbs any day."

At the top of the escalators, there was a security gate and a kiosk selling grilled dogs, aguardiente, and tobacco sticks. There was a line, though Marla found it interesting there were no aliens to be seen. Most Afridominian stations had a few Quasarrians and Xelayans hulking about. The corridor outside was ill-lit and lined with small shops, showing signs in Norman or French or Afridominian. Young men and women loitered around the entrance to a palm wine counter, smoking and watching people pass by. Like the young everywhere, they were wearing brilliant capes, though here the feathers, beads, and animal skins were polychrome plastic decorations glued onto rubber ponchos, with rigger's boots substituting for sandals. A bad neighborhood, she thought, almost laughing aloud. Even in light g, trash collected in the corners, and the walkway was covered with a moire pattern of dried gum. And I feel safe.

The stairs up to the Company offices passed by a narrow shop crowded with different kinds of w-scans and senso-gear. Every screen was afire with a booming discordance of newscasters and dance videos. The landing stank of ozone and rotted meat. Marla's nose wrinkled for a moment, but she'd worked in worse. On Zoonar the excavation of a city midden six hundred feet deep had killed four of her workers in a methane pocket explosion. That was truly a foul smell.

The pilot thumbed open the door lock. Pausing, Marla raised an amused hand to touch the long list of companies residing at this address. There were six, and the Company was listed fourth.

"Greetings!" A very stocky human, not fat, but very round in features, limbs and body, rose from a chair. There was a table, too, surrounded by cheap office chairs. "I am Gabriel. You would be Dr. Landers."

"Yes," Marla said, putting her bags by the nearest chair. She inclined her head politely to the two other people in the room. Baxter was already pouring himself a cup of coffee from an ancient-looking silver pot on a side table. "There has been a change of plans?"

The Maltese nodded, his round face beaming. His dark hair was close-cut and flat across a high forehead, making him look like a doll. "Please sit. I will introduce you."

Marla sat, nodding to the human sitting on her right. He was short and muscular, in a nondescript patterned shirt and slacks. He had thick wrists and short, curly hair. Her immediate impression was of.....very little. A man who sat back and watched, revealing nothing of himself.

"This is Adit Choudhary, your gunner," Gabriel said, inclining his head towards the man. Choudhary smiled faintly and nodded back. He did not offer his hand, as Baxter had done. "And this is Earlie, your communications tech."

Earlie looked something like a compact, sleek wildcat with forward-canted shoulders. She seemed to be female. Marla smiled but did not show any teeth. The Xelayan was curled up in the chair, fat tail lapped around bare paws.

"Hello," Marla said, putting her fingertips on her forehead. The Xelayan responded with the same gesture, her fingers covered with tightly napped fur. Glittering claw tips peeked out of the soft black pelt. "I am Marla, daughter of Jean, daughter of Judith."

"Well met," purred the Xelayan. "I am Jylth'zakeera. You should call me Earlie, as these males do."

Marla lowered her hands. The Xelayan smiled by showing the tip of a pink tongue. Her claws slid out of their muscle sheaths, digging into the nostain fabric of the chair. A sequence of cuts was already visible, revealing torn foam padding.

"Well then," Gabriel said smoothly, sitting down, "let us to business. A situation involving priceless Company equipment has developed. I have been directed by the home office to see these materials are recovered in an efficient manner."

The round man pressed both thumbs against the sealing strip of a courier package. The packet unfolded, revealing a set of w-pads. "Here are briefing materials the Company has assembled for you. However, I will summarize."

Gabriel smiled at all of them, a tight expression that did nothing to betray the essential smooth roundness of his face. Marla suddenly wondered if the man was human at all. There was a plastic quality---an android? Some kind of species requiring a humanoid environment suit? Were all Maltese this slick?

"Recently, the Company acquired a contract from the Afridominian government to explore and access this planet, Kumasi III." His hand brushed across a panel inset in the tabletop. There was a slight hum and a holo image appeared in the air before them. A dusky tan globe appeared, rotating slowly. There were large polar ice caps and scattered whorls of cloud. There was a great deal of desert and low mountains, interspersed with glittering salt pans. Marla nodded to herself---thin atmosphere, brutal working conditions, no ozone layer; filtered, daysuits and goggles needed if you stepped out of your shelter---then raised an eyebrow as the image continued to rotate, bringing a mountain range into view.

"An Afridominian kwezi (robot scout probe) surveyed the system six years ago and eventually the data was processed and flagged for human review. This notable mountain range is called the Kinetron. It girdles the planet, running north to south at an angle. As you see, it's got a sharper incline on the east than the west. Some of the peaks pierce the atmospheric envelope. The Kinetron divides that planet."

"It's unnatural," Marla said, her mind beginning to shake off the travel fatigue. Her migraine was coming back, too. She really needed to sleep or take a real bath rather than go through a mission briefing. "Unless crustal tectonics are completely awry on this planet?"

Gabriel continued to smile, nodding. "You are correct. It is not natural. Initial analysis indicated a possibility that the planet had been shaped. An expedition was approved, of course, to take a closer look at the situation."

"To muck about for Nommo artifacts, you mean." Baxter slumped in the chair next to Marla, hands cradling his cup. Steam drifted up in the moist air. "Poke about looking for something portable, easy to carry, easy to sell...."

Gabriel raised a hand. "A full scientific expedition was sent, with the Ifa-class support ship Great Zimbabwe as transport and orbital base. All this has been officially approved and registered, Baxter-bwana. The Company has never had a great presence in this sector, and it was decided that---given the nature of the planet---a substantial effort was warranted."

"What happened?" Marla felt her patience fray. An exploration ship like the Great Zimbabwe carried a crew of fifteen and a full expedition would be at least 20 people. This grimy little office couldn't provide the support a real dig needed. The Company was rushing things, as always. If the initial expedition found something interesting, then Gabriel would suddenly have a whole operation here on the station to run. More money, more status, someone to serve coffee for him; he had to like that prospect. He might be able to get rid of all those other name plaques on the door. "Baxter here says he was rerouted from another mission. My last posting order said I was going to Tralfamadore. Now I'm not.....So, are they all dead?"

Gabriel's round face crinkled up in disgust and Marla felt a spark of amusement. She was getting grumpy, which was unwise. "My pardon, Gabriel-bwana, it's been a long day."

"Well," the Maltese visibly reboarded his train of thought, "Sixteen days ago a transmission was received from the Great Zimbabwe with the usual weekly report. At that time, everything was fine. Unfortunately, we haven't received any reports since then. When the second report failed to arrive, I informed the home office and efforts began to mount a relief mission."

Baxter tilted his head to one side, thinking, then said: "How long does it take for a dòmòkùn (courier drone) to reach Jamalia from Kumasi? A week? You're saying they've been out of contact with us for as much as 3 weeks?"

"No....." Gabriel tabbed through the briefing document, glancing sideways at Earlie. "The Great Zimbabwe is fitted with a new, experimental urophoton transmitter. It allows immediate communication between the station's main relay and the ship. So, as I have said, sixteen days have passed since our last, ah, active communication."

The Xelayan's ears flipped back and yellow eyes blinked as she came awake. "Why do you say active?" Has there been some other message? A distress beacon?"

"Not as such....." Gabriel seemed to struggle with the words. Marla leaned forward, interested. "I am told by the station technicians they have a u-lock on the Great Zimbabwe, but the transmitter is not responding to requests for an open channel. I have been informed this means the transmitter is still nominally operating, but it is, ah, on standby."

"It's turned off? And the crew hasn't noticed?" Baxter made a face.

"Something else must have happened," Marla raised her voice slightly. "But the ship still has power or the transmitter is on a battery of some kind.....Can we turn on the transmitter from here? Send a wake-up command?"

Gabriel spread his hands. "I am told----no."

Out of the corner of her eye, Marla saw Earlie's whiskers twitch, but the Xelayan said nothing.

Marla looked around at the others, then back at Gabriel, eyes narrowed. "You have another ship to take us to the Kumasi ubuntu (solar system)? I assume Earlie knows how to repair the transmitter, and Baxter can pilot the Great Zimbabwe home if it's not entirely crippled. Choudhary will shoot anything dangerous. Why am I going?"

"You're the senior Company field executive in the ubuntu." Gabriel's round smile had returned. He was comfortable with this avenue of discussion. "You are the only person we could find, quickly, with experience in a biosphere like Kumasi's, due to your time on Jiri."

Marla nodded slowly. The polar excavations had been her first posting. Tedious work in a very hostile environment, picking bits of an unidentified spacecraft out of permafrost. "What else are we bringing back? Something from the surface?"

"Perhaps nothing." Gabriel tabbed the briefing packet again. The holo image of the planet expanded, then shrank, focusing in on a section of the southern hemisphere. Long shadows cut across a desolate plain. Some of them made what seemed, in the low resolution of the orbital scan, to be a double-circle. "One of the field reports from the scientists in the initial team says structures---manufactured structures----have been observed from orbit. I wonder---I fear---the team found something and brought it up to the ship for examination. It's an old story----everyone's heard it before, yes? A dangerous artifact, an accident, the crew so horribly slain. Another 65-million afrocosmos of Company money wiped out."

Gabriel stopped, shaking his head in dismay, and there was a moment of silence. It was an old story. The Company suffered a very high rate of attrition----in personnel, in spacecraft, in equipment----which made the recovery of saleable m material critical. To the Company, at least. Graduate students were far cheaper and more plentiful than AfriPropel-drive starships. Marla didn't think it was a good idea to trade her own life---of which she had only one at last report----for some broken indecipherable bit of ancient machinery. She looked around. Baxter, Choudhary, and Earlie were looking expectantly at her.

It was an odd moment, Marla thought later that time didn't stop, but it did stretch. She had never really been in charge before. Gangs of native workers in the pits of Zoonar didn't count.....the dig director had been breathing down her neck the whole time. These three strangers wanted her to make a decision, to tell them what to do, to be the leader.

In that crisp moment, she saw blue smoke curling up past Baxter's head, the glow of the holo-cast shining on his forehead; the points of Earlie's teeth were showing, fine and white; Choudhary was plucking at the sleeve of his plain cotton shirt, the subtle woven pattern almost obliterating the outline of a small flat pistol tucked into the back of his belt. A perfect full awareness filled her----this was not what she wanted to do----but it was what she was going to do. She looked down, breaking the moment.

Gabriel coughed, batting his hand at Baxter's smoke. Marla picked up her briefing pad and tabbed through the pages, a dizzying red-tan-blue-white glow flashing in her eyes.

"The Great Zimbabwe requires a crew of at least six to operate safely." She looked up, raising an eye at Gabriel. "What kind of ship are we taking? Can we split her crew to cover both?"

The Maltese raised both hands, then flared them slightly. He smiled. Marla's nose crinkled up. "What kind of ship, Gabriel-Chidera? We do have a ship to take us there?"

"Oh yes! The Company does not have any ships in this ubuntu, oh, no. They're expensive, you know, and the Company is stretched thin.....I have arranged for you to be taken to the Kumasi ubuntu and delivered to the Great Zimbabwe. If she proves unfit to make transit back to the station, then you'll be able to return with the---other ship. However, since the transmitter remains operating, if unreachable at this time, I expect the Great Zimbabwe will be flyable and you can return in her."

"What ship?" Marla tabbed to the end of the briefing packet, watching budget figures and details of the original mission flip by. "A miner? Some tramp freighter working the Edge?"

"It's an Afridominian ship." Gabriel spread his hands even wider. "They were already going in that direction, you understand. It is----convenient."

"Afridominian." Marla rubbed her nose, sharing an arch look with the others. Baxter seemed amused, Choudhury's face was even more expressionless than before, and Earlie was puzzled. "No Afridominian is going to truck some jama scientists----"

"Or pilots," Baxter interjected in a soft voice.

"----to the back of beyond, much less help them recover a derelict---possibly contaminated---spacecraft."

"The captain of the Sokolov has kindly agreed to investigate the matter, and to take you there, and render you what assistance he can." Gabriel's expression changed and Marla saw, to her wonder, that he did own a real smile. The corners of his eyes tilted up and his tiny round teeth became visible between rubbery lips. She wondered, briefly, how the Company man had pulled off Afridominian "assistance."

"The Sokolov," Baxter tapped the top of his briefing pad, clearing the active document. "That's not a Dogon name. What class of ship is she?"

"A warship. A zamani if you prefer." Gabriel cleared his own pad and keyed in a locator code. The holo image above the table flickered, was replaced by the station transmission screen for a moment, and then resolved into a view from an outside cam, showing an arc of star-spangled sky, dominated by the twin primaries of Jamaliya A and B, then the sleek black shape of an Afridominian starship. "This is your conveyance," he said, smug pride creeping into his voice. "The Maxim S. Sokolov is an Explorer-class light cruiser commanded by the esteemed Madhya Nirikshak Aryan Verma. She has been assigned to the Kush ubuntu on anti-piracy patrol. I understand from her executive officer, Miss Mudrakshar Anika Verma, that they will be able to spend several days in Kumasi orbit, assisting you in recovery operations."

He paused, running one finger along the side of his pad. The holo image rotated, showing an imposing form reminiscent of an ancient African mask. Like most Afridominian combat craft, she seamlessly blended the latest space technology with the rich cultural heritage of Africa, embodying strength, wisdom, and unity. Its exterior was adorned with intricate patterns inspired by various African tribes, meticulously etched into its metallic surface, patterns that told stories of bravery, resilience, and the interconnectedness of all living beings. Its color palette reflected the vibrant hues found in African landscapes – deep earthy browns, fiery oranges, and lush greens that symbolize growth and life.

"There have been some rumors, of late, of illegal mining in this area. Of solitary ships attacked by raiders. This is lawless space, so close to alien enclaves---no offense, Earlie-bwana, I have only the utmost respect for your people."

"Fine." Marla looked at Baxter, tilting her head in question. "Can you fly the Great Zimbabwe?"

Baxter nodded, running a hand back through thinning brown hair. "Sure. Six crew could run everything---shuttles, power-plant, environmental, flight-control----but if all we do is a jump back to the station, Earlie and I can handle that." He looked down at his pad, brows furrowing. "This Shrine class can run almost auto with a soft upgrade. Earlie, do you have this packaging in archive?"

The Xelayan unfolded from her chair, light shifting on her glossy fur. A harness of leather hung around her shoulders and upper body, holding tools and storage pockets. Each wrist was circled by the gleaming mirror of a comm unit. A claw extended from a long finger and tapped the surface of the briefing pad. "This ship,' she hissed in a grumbling voice, "has an older model oracle, but it will take most of the newest control package. I might have it, or we can buy one here on-station."

Marla eyed Gabriel. "Can we afford this?"

"Barely." Gabriel put on a dour face. "So much was invested in the original expedition...."

"How much?"

The Maltese looked away and Marla reclined in her chair. All the exhaustion of a long flight from the Sigitolo (Jupiter) Yards came crowding in. The migraine, which had distracted her while she started to work on the problem of this recovery mission, woke up and began rustling around behind her left eye, tossing clouds of white sparks across her vision.

Without thinking, she thumbed her wristband, jetting a serotonin regulator into her bloodstream. It would hurt later, but she had to think clearly now. All the bad things about being in charge started to come to mind.

"No money to speak of. How many days do we have to prepare?"

Gabriel's face assumed the shining round mask again. "The Sokolov is already on schedule---you will load your equipment tomorrow, then boost for Jamalia the day after.

"Two days?" Marla tasted something sour. "Well then, we'll be busy employees, won't we?"295Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbJOMpCJbqg

Arrival at Jamaliya

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