Coriolis preview

THE DARK BETWEEN THE STARS

by

Mattias Lilja

Pressname: Paradox Books

Copyright © 2013 Paradox Interactive AB

All rights reserved

Author: Mattias Lilja

Editor: Mattias Johnsson

Translator: Tomas Härenstam

Cover art: Martin Bergström

www.paradoxplaza.com/books

MATTIAS LILJA

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1. BIRR

The man tied to the chair knew that he was going to die. It wasn’t his posture that gave it away, nor the blood

that had blended with the dirt on the floor to make its own carpet over the worn mosaic. The bulges from his broken ribs were one clue, the wheezing from the slowly collapsing lung was another. But in the end it was the look in his eyes that told Akil that both men in the room knew how this would end.

The man in the chair had nothing more to lose, Akil nothing more to ask. It had taken a bloody while but finally Akil had received the one and only answer he was paid to collect – whatever the man knew, whatever knowledge made him the target of Akil’s employer, he had not revealed it to anyone else.

“I believe you.” Akil knew the man was telling the truth; the sensation

just as strong as the nausea that came crawling like worms in his stomach. Worms that wanted out.

Akil swallowed hard. He played for a while with the light globe he had taken from the man. The globe was smaller than a child’s fist and somewhat oddly shaped. Not a perfect specimen, but a light globe nonetheless. Its light had started to fade, its sluggish inside moving more slowly. The

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globe needed sugar, Akil had none to give. He pulled his long accelerator gun, put it to the man’s forehead.

The worms wouldn’t shut up. They said left, go left. Left. Left. Leftleftleft.

Akil went left. The door to the residential unit flung open. A silhouette

in the doorway stepped in, both hands grabbing a compact pistol. Vulcan model. A woman of the Guard, her voice shrill and demanding.

Akil dropped to one knee and aimed. The guardswoman shot first. Akil shot straight.

Precision beat speed. The wall behind Akil exploded in cascades of plaster and mosaics but it was the woman’s face that was lost in a cloud of pink fog. The body slumped to the floor.

The man in the chair took the shots meant for Akil. Two black flowers unfolded their leaves on the caftan, the jaw hanging loosely from sinewy threads. The wall behind the man had been given a tapestry of blood.

Akil turned the top half of the cube halfway around, changed his mind and turned it all the way. The risk of fire was acceptable; the most important thing was to eliminate all traces.

The ticking stopped when he stepped out of the house. The fumes were rising from the biowaste in the room as he quietly closed the door behind him. Mosquitoes dancing in the doorway suddenly fell lifeless to the ground. The body inside would only be seared on the surface, but hairs, skin tissue, all tiny pieces of biocode which Akil left behind would soon be vaporized by the micro waves.

The backyard was narrow, clotheslines heavy with laundry crisscrossed the alley. The Mulukhad District was close, a throng of life, light and sound. Dives wall to wall. Akil chose one at random, sat down at a table and watched the pictures flowing underneath the glass plate. Odds glittered alluringly. He ignored them and tapped on the

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glass. It woke the info terminal and the games and odds were replaced by the news stories of the Bulletin. He ignored them too and continued tapping his way to the personal ads. Under “Help wanted” he found Jhenna’s ad, “…older single woman, cleaning assistance needed, payment provided, questions and terms welcome”. Akil sent his response: “experienced cleaner, have all information needed, birr as agreed”. Akil considered trying to warn Jhenna of the deadly outcome of the affair. On the other hand, the Bulletin would soon explain it to her.

Akil left the gambling den and went to the Hub. There he took the first shuttle he could find out to the Ring and soon he was home.

“Daddy, daddy, did you catch any bad guys today?” “Let daddy be, he is tired, let him take off his uniform

and get cleaned up and we’ll eat.” He gave the light globe to his mother in law, Cala. She

studied it closely with her naked eye, then with an eyepiece. She was a retired tech dealer and still carried her tools wherever she went. She’d surely keep doing that until she met the Icons.

Cala nodded, clearly pleased. A genuine light globe would give plenty of birr. Akil did what she said, cleaned his uniform as well as he could, the guardsman’s badge needed polishing. Akil washed his face and hands, kissed the icon of the Judge and sat down at the low table.

“Granny, granny, I want to say grace!” “No, me, me!” The twins hung over Akil’s shoulders, pulled his hair

and kissed his cheeks. “It’s your turn Fadilah.” The children’s grandmother had her usual soft voice.

She didn’t look at Akil, she didn’t ask about the blood. They always needed more birr. Lin stuck her tongue out at her sister and crossed her arms over her chest, lower lip pouting. Fadilah’s tender voice recited the prayer to the


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Icon of the Merchant and added: “… and make mommy well again.”

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2. CORIOLIS

“What do you mean the papers aren’t in order?” Daniyah realized how foolish she sounded. The

surprised face of the pale and lean bureaucrat confirmed her fear. She explained.

“I mean, they let me leave the Monolith with these papers, for the shuttle here.”

The bureaucrat took a deep breath, corrected a tiny crease in the heavy brocade of the caftan and answered tiredly:

“Letting someone leave and letting someone in are not the same.”

“But they knew I was going here, that the shuttle was going to Coriolis and nowhere else!”

The thin lips were pursed as if their owner had bit into something sour. The bureaucrat seemed to think that the people down there probably were happy to be rid of her.

“Formally you need stamps here, there and here. Formally.”

“From…”, though she knew the answer. The young man pointed downwards with a skinny

finger. “The Monolith?” He nodded and added:


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“Formally.” Now it was Daniyah’s turn to take a deep breath. She

had learned that trick from old Luqman before she left the plantations. She had expressed anxiety of what would happen, an attack of hesitation before the decision to follow the trail to Coriolis.

“Dani”, Luqman had said, “what can you do well, what are you best at?”

He was the only one who always used her nickname. Her mother had also done it except when she was angry. Then the daughter was “Daniyah!” While Daniyah was thinking Luqman had quickly added:

“Except tracking and shooting.” That made it harder. “Ekilbri, I’m good at handling ekilbri”, the answer came out

after some time. It was true. The chattering and half-human ekilbri handled

most of the harvest on the plantations. For some reason they had been fond of her and she, somehow, of them.

“Why?” Luqman always taught her through questions. “I give them space, I go to them but always let them come the last

few steps to me. If they want to.” Luqman had nodded. “And?” “I’m not afraid of them?” “And?” “I don’t know.” “Do you understand them?” “Not really.” “But you solve it anyway, even though you don’t understand the

entire problem? “Yes, maybe.” “Make yourself think the problems you face are ekilbri and it will

sort itself out.” “Is that all?” “No”, Luqman answered with a smile, “sometimes you’ll

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have to track and shoot too.” She imagined the young bureaucrat as an ekilbri, with

soft fur, big round eyes and long, strong fingers that ended in soft fingertips.

“Formally”, the young man repeated, now more intensely and with a knowing look at Daniyah.

”Excuse me.” It was the man behind her in the line who softspokenly

interfered in the conversation. With an even softer and lower voice he continued:

“Surely you mean, my dear bureaucrat, that she can resolve this by paying a cooperative fee … right here?”

The bureaucrat nodded discretely, and looked around with a worried glance.

“About 50 birr? 75? 90?” At 90 birr a semblance of a smile spread across the bureaucrat’s lips.

“Dabra.” The man who had interfered on Daniyah’s behalf

confirmed the deal. “Dabra”, and looked at her. She shook her head. 90 birr. Not a chance. Her savior

handed a tag to the bureaucrat who quickly swiped it along a decorative armband. A few buttons swiftly pushed and the business was concluded. Three stamps in Daniyah’s papers and she passed through the airlock into Coriolis. The man behind her swiped his tag along the wall of the airlock and was let through.

Daniyah set down her trunk, so natural on the plantations with its braided rattan and leather handles; so out of place here among the docks out on the Ring of Coriolis with rubberized floors, pillars of light broadcasting news from the entire Horizon and panoramic windows towards eternity. The stars drowned in the light from inside the station and left only darkness behind.

The hugeness of the station had also taken concrete form. From the plantations on the planet Kua the Coriolis


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station could just be made out on cloud free days. Sometimes it was called the “day moon” by the people of the terrace farms, sometimes more saucy things. A pillar through a ring invited it; the hired hands of the plantations needed less than that to make crude jokes.

On the way up in the shuttle Daniyah had also caught a quick glimpse of the Web, the skeleton of the ship Zenith that had been used as a source of raw materials when constructing the Coriolis station. The Web couldn’t be seen from Kua, regardless of weather, unless a bulk freighter was docked. The huge freighters that docked at the Web were said to weigh hundreds of thousands of tonnes. They came to unload their cargo for further transport into the star system or down to the Monolith. The Ring that encircled the majestic pillar had looked enormous from the shuttle on the way up. Now she saw it from the inside, a few hundred yards to either side – beyond that walls closed the view off. The curvature of the Ring was easy to see but very slight, and she tried to imagine how large it must be for the ends to meet on the other side of the pillar. She gave up. Large, at any rate.

Daniyah stopped by a pillar of light. An incredibly beautiful man in what Daniyah surmised was the latest fashion spoke with a soothing voice about horrible events in some system, or maybe on a planet, or a place on a planet. Daniyah didn’t understand which. Wherever it was, some disease had befallen the inhabitants, not unlike the intestinal fever on Kua if Daniyah wasn’t mistaken. The anchorman wore no beard, his hair was long with a dash of grey and artfully styled with long needles. Daniyah found herself wondering if women could have hairdos like that too. She would if she could afford it, just once to send a picture to Luqman who often complained she didn’t take proper care of her looks. He had taken on that responsibility after her mother passed.

“Perhaps you should consider getting a tag straight

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away, as soon as the bureaucrats see papers and have to stamp them they get even more stubborn than usual.”

The man who had helped her was short, somewhat shorter than Daniyah herself, but broad as two of her. He wore a crew-cut and his beard was just as short, the face deeply tanned. Wrinkles around his eyes hinted he was as used to squinting across sundrenched vistas as he was dealing with the bureaucrats of Coriolis. He wore wide pants and a short tunic under a coat of patterned leather. A heavy suitcase rested easily in a hand big as Daniyah’s two. The other hand was stretched towards her.

“Gavril Hamba.” “Daniyah.” “Well Daniyah, let’s get you a tag instead of papers, put

the weapons you’re carrying into storage here by the docks and get us into the Promenade. I am hungry and you are starving, neh?”

Daniyah nodded, she hadn’t eaten properly since the outskirts of the Monolith, but going hungry was also something she knew how to do. And she had some ara seeds left in her pocket, if she nibbled on them she could go on for another day without food. But a warm meal would still taste well. They passed another queue.

“We’re going there soon”, Gavril commented, “but first we’ll stand in that queue.”

Other travelers, tired faces, odd clothing, bulky packages and large bags. Finally at the front of the line Daniyah had to hand over her rifle and cartridges, but she held on to her war knife. The gun meant more to her with its worn engravings, blackened butt and smoothness from years of use. She had loaded the cartridges herself just like her mother taught her, and polished the bullets according to Luqman’s principles. But she had also been warned of Coriolis, first by Luqman, then by more trustworthy sources in the Monolith.

“It looks quiet, but it can be more dangerous than the jungles of


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Kua. It really isn’t like the Monolith, not at all.” The outskirts of the Monolith were a shantytown,

dangerous in a way she understood. The slummers were hungry, needed things. The towering core of the Monolith was clean and orderly but haunted by other dangers under the tranquil surface. Words were dangerous in the Monolith if the rulers didn’t like them. Coriolis was even worse, and she didn’t understand. It seemed everyone had what they needed, and yet they weren’t content. She hid her war knife under the caftan. A heavy hand, calm and strong, landed on her shoulder.

“I see. That’s wise, but I’ll take that.” Gavril opened his heavy suitcase, loosened the lining on

one side and slid the knife, long as forearm, in between two compact pistols. He winked at her. Daniyah also handed over her papers and the rest of her birr, twenty-three to be exact. Ten birr turned the papers into a tag the size of Daniyah’s pinky finger, made of compact ceramics with a hardly visible pattern. The tag contained her personal information and thirteen birr.

In the next queue they were left standing for a long while, more people with papers probably. Close by another pillar of light flickered with the beautiful man again.

“Is … he one of the courtesans?” Gavril’s mind was elsewhere. “Is…?” “Jalab Korihan? No, but I’m sure he’s been schooled by

Ahlam’s Temple, many of the famous faces of the Bulletin have. Why?”

“I’ve heard much of the courtesans, about how beautiful they are, and thought he might be one of them.”

The smile again, broad and crooked. “True courtesans are schooled for many long years on

Mira, but the temple has a presence on Coriolis too. Few people have what it takes to stand the full training, but many have studied with them to hone their manners. Jalab

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Korihan among others.” The photogenic face almost burned at the center of the

shining pillar while it announced that the stevedores of the Free League and the representatives of the Consortium had reached an agreement. Both sides had ceased all industrial actions. Daniyah remembered the stories about riots and raids in the Monolith, were many had died. It seemed everything wasn’t worse on Coriolis even though the Monolith seemed more orderly, less chaotic.

“Where are you planning to stay?” Her shrug prompted a tip: “We’ll enter the Promenade not far from Spice Plaza.

There are plenty of lodging houses there, I can recommend Nara’s.”

The queue had stopped completely and a group of pilgrims had stepped aside to settle down in an informal camp. They shared a wineskin and spoke quietly while some of them tuned melancholic instruments. Soon the sounds of flutes and tender strings echoed through the arrivals hall. Dani imagined a desert wind, the heat of it. Some day she wanted to feel the desert for real. Her native Kua offered a variety of environments but no deserts, instead an abundance of jungles, swamps and endless vistas of grass. There were deserts near the frozen poles of Kua, but it wasn’t the same as planets like Dabaran where the sands were everywhere if Luqman’s worn old atlas of the Third Horizon was to be believed.

A couple of the pilgrims, a young wife and her even younger husband by the looks of it, hid under each other’s cloaks and soon were fondling each other underneath. The sounds of kisses and giggle made the other pilgrims smile and made Dani feel lonely.

“Is it always this crowded?” “No. Usually it’s much worse.” “I can’t … pay back your birr.” “Don’t worry, I’m sure we can make some kind of deal.


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What can you do?” “I know ekilbri, I can track and I can shoot. And I’m

learning about cooperation fees.” “And what are you tracking now? It wasn’t shooting or

ekilbri that led you here, neh?” “My … father is here … somewhere.” Gavril Hamba nodded sternly. Then the parchment-like

face split into a wide smile and the eyes almost completely disappeared behind his sun wrinkles.

“A pathfinder no less, I think we’ll get along well, for sure, abzo, abzo.”

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3. COMPLICATIONS

“What have we got?” Akil straightened the newly washed uniform while

asking the question. He avoided looking directly at his young deputy guardsman. The deputy sat on the edge of the seat cushion, wound up like a greyhound before a race. Akil stood by his old file cabinet. The air in the guardsmen’s office was thick as mud as the climate control system had gone nova. The week before it had made the office cold and damp, but since yesterday it was as if the desert winds of Dabaran had died in there.

The ceiling fan did nothing except wisp the heat around and also contributed to a persistent creaking noise. The heat didn’t mix well with Akil’s headache. People often wondered why he had a file cabinet when all the information was in the terminal. He usually answered that he was a traditionalist and liked papers. Now he had another argument.

In truth there was information that was a burden to carry in one’s head but also inappropriate to put in the terminal where everyone could read it. But that was evidently beyond the limited comprehension of his colleagues.

“Fatal shooting in the outskirts of the Mulukhad district.


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Two dead, one of ours, Ada, you don’t know her, she was new, the other well-dressed but no identity yet, you look tired, the kids of course, warned you.”

The flood of words came out of deputy Lomor’s mouth, which at the same time was sipping smoking hot coffee from a small glass. The deputy handed Akil a similar glass. Akil made himself drink. The night had been rough. He had had nightmares of a dog he never had. He was a child again and had lost the non-existent puppy, it was on a deserted farm that reminded him of the place where he grew up, down on Kua. Wherever he looked for the dog he only found bundles of crawling worms. Some of the worms had faces, but he couldn’t remember any of them when he woke up.

Lomor’s staccato continued as Akil sipped the coffee sludge. Old beans and too much sugar.

“Someone tortures the victim, Ada kicks the door in and puts a salvo in the wall. Some pearls hit the swine in the chair, the torturer ducks down, shoots back. Ada takes a shot right in the face, stops her dead.”

Akil tried to force himself to swallow the sugary grease. It just grew in his mouth.

“The swine?” “Abzo. I found proxy trips…” Lomor tried to find

words for what he had experienced. Only now Akil noticed that Lomor seemed slightly nauseous. Akil realized why.

It had fallen on Lomor to check the proxy. The deputy had hooked up to a cheap proxy reader found among the seized goods in the office. Akil had seen him trying to get the hair net into place and fit the diodes on his temples. When the contact to the skin was weak the artificial sensory impressions of the proxy wouldn’t be able to compete against Lomor’s own impressions: the sensation of the chair underneath him, the chafing of the uniform’s collar, the smell of sweat and coffee in the station – all that would take over and the recorded sensations of the proxy would drown

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in the impressions of the present. Now, Lomor was probably glad he lacked proxy experience – to suddenly drop into some nasty scene, and experience it as though you were in it yourself, could shake even the most hardened investigator. Lomor wasn’t hardened, not at all.

“I pulled out the proxy from the jack after just a second or two, but what they were doing … the screams of the boy are still in my head.”

Lomor shook his head and muttered: “Sick, so sick. Most likely a relative to the boy knocked

off that well-dressed pervert.” Lomor seemed to enjoy the fantasy of some relative of

the victim getting a hold of the man in the chair and giving him what he deserved. Akil had only tried proxy once, and received someone else’s erotic conquest straight into his brain as if he had been there himself. Akil realized he had found his drug, a distraction to really live for. The proxy Lomor spoke of was something else entirely. Black proxy. Not just illegal, but condemned by the Icons. To harm others for pleasure and then sell that pleasure…

Akil had in any case sworn never to use proxy again, whatever the kind. He had kept himself to arrash and kohôl. Drinking and smoking Akil could control, he could live with them without them taking over.

It took Lomor some time to come back from the dream of poetic justice. He kept on thinking out loud: “Or a competitor?” The conclusion was delivered with a slightly tired tone. Lomor elaborated on his line of thinking: “Lots if birr in proxy, especially in those black products. By the Icons, they should be executed for stuff like that, straight through the air lock, now please die…”

Akil interrupted the deputy: “So far?” There was something in Lomor’s staccato that

brought out a similar style of speaking from Akil. Days could pass without them saying full sentences to each other. Lomor collected himself:


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“Nothing, zero, empty space.” Lomor greedily sucked down the last coffee from his

little mug. Akil kept going: “We can’t bring in other guardsmen for a sweep either.

The Founding is near and all troublemakers are to be isolated. If something comes up I want to know it.”

Lomor left him alone just to come back a short while later.

“Confirmed: The man in the chair was Harun Adkarra, explains the proxy, a swine like I said.”

Akil looked up, tried to seem truly surprised. He had searched Harun himself and found the light globe. The corpse didn’t have any proxy trips on it when he left the residential unit. The question was who put the proxy there – and why.

“Then we should be able to get some more people?” Akil asked rhetorically.

Lomor nodded quickly, left the room to join the other guardsmen who all kept the rumor mill going. Akil understood Lomor’s reaction. It was the deputy’s first homicide and the victim was a notorious ex-correspondent, later scandal reporter at the Bulletin, and most lately a famous party organizer. More hated than loved perhaps, but in any case well known by most on the station. Strange that no one had recognized Harun already in the chair. Then again, with his lower jaw shot off and massive blood loss he might not have been his usual charming self.

The question was what to do with the extra guardsmen. Sending them to raid the proxy dealers was a possibility; it wouldn’t solve the murder and would also be appreciated by the Governor who wanted peace and quiet before the Founding.

Lomor stuck his head in again, with blushing cheeks and staring eyes.

“Judicator!”

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Of course. A preacher was all he needed to make his day complete. He waited briefly for the worms, they should react to an approaching judicator if they had any sense. But no nausea, no worms, no whispering voices.

“Does he have a preacher with him?” Lomor gave him an inquiring look. Akil sighed. “Never mind.” Lomor nodded. “She’s alone.” Akil waved the deputy away and took an extra glass

from the holders on the samovar. The glasses were yellowy green and had a thin golden line around the rim – some of the few things his mother in law had managed to bring with her from the Sadaal system.

The judicator was a tall woman of indeterminate age, just like many other well-preserved Zenithians he had met. It was something about the aristocratic blood – all Zenithian officers were related it was said.

Akil asked her to sit. She pulled her long leather coat to the side and sat down comfortably on the seat cushion. The stiff leather of the coat creaked and the gun belt struck the table. The high collar forced her head into a noble angle but the woman would probably sit with a straight posture even without it. A long-barreled accelerator gun rested slick along the judicator’s thigh, an energy baton hung from the opposite side of the belt and a short handle rested to the front. Mercurium blade.

As if more signs were needed to tell the woman apart from the guardsmen and the other people at the station the symbol of the judicators, a stylized star with the points cloven and folded to the sides, glittered on her dark uniform. People who had the right to investigate, judge and punish on the crime scene didn’t need to make much of a fuss about themselves – people learned to recognize them from afar.

All aristocrats be damned by the Icons.


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“Miranda.” She nodded. “Akil.” He served them tea. She declined the honey but pressed

some lemon into it. “Ada?” “Neh?” “Your colleague, who was killed along with Harun

Adkarra.” “Right, her.” Akil had expected that the judicator’s visit was prompted

by the more famous victim. “There is a possible connection to smuggling, between

guardswoman Ada and the Lama gang, in service of the Birbasil family.”

“And the connection to Harun?” “Unclear. How long had Ada been on duty in the Hub?

Why was she transferred from the Ring?” The sharp face of the judicator was hidden by the tea

glass. Her eyes were calm but watchful. Akil made an effort to sound unconcerned. He thought judicator Miranda assumed him to be just another stupid guardsman on the take. She should leave the conversation with that belief strengthened. That the judicator should underestimate him was paramount, this talk would surely not be their last on the matter.

“Just under a segment, I think she came here on her own request.”

“So her presence, her death in the presence of Harun Adkarra, was … a coincidence?”

Icy cold eyes over the rim of the tea glass. “Happens to a lot of newbies, they step into the wrong

room. Some make it back out, others remain on the threshold.”

Akil yawned, tried to make it seem genuine. He added: “She should have knocked” and hoped he didn’t overdo it.

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Akil cursed himself for not thinking about it sooner. Why would Ada seek a transfer to the Hub? He should have sensed it as soon as she showed her face, should have figured out the real reasons for her transfer. Should have. Now he sat here with a dead guardswoman and a snooping judicator. The worms churned in his stomach and an acidic taste rose through his throat. So it was time. He swallowed hard.

Miranda: “Knocked? So possible gang members would have time

to get away or hide what they were doing?” Akil shrugged and added apologetically: “With a pay of a hundred birr per segment, what spirit

of self-sacrifice could you expect?” Raised eyebrows, lowered tea glass. A final touch: “Crime is just crime, we isolate it, if it’s good enough for

the Governor then it’s good enough for us.” Akil was pleased with the tone of his voice. Tired,

unconcerned. The contempt in the judicator’s eyes was almost

physical. After that there wasn’t much to say, Miranda required all information they had and was served the theory Lomor had come up with. The judicator adjusted her gun belt, thanked dryly for the tea and excused herself with a stiff bow.

Guardsman Akil – judicator Miranda: 1 – 0. A shame the duel wasn’t fought on the arena. Akil could have betted some money on himself and received a well-needed addition to his next pay check. Now he just had to stay ahead.

“Lomor!” “Neh?” “What unit did Ada serve with out on the Ring?” “Don’t know.” Brief pause. “I’ll find out immediately!” “Good idea.”


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Ada’s colleagues could still be out there. The ones who hadn’t already left the station could perhaps be persuaded to seek their destinies elsewhere in the Horizon. If not, accidents happened so easily on Ozone Plaza, where Akil had a hunch that Ada’s former colleagues – and accomplices – could be found.

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4. THE WAKE

The cool room gave Jasper pleasant shivers as he lay in his alcove. Despite an extended massage, performed by the most skilled masseuse on Coriolis, the steam bath hadn’t had the desired effect. Not even the tensions of the body had been dispelled by the well proven alchemy of the bathing rituals: the warm room, the hot steam bath, the icy chill of the water, the washing, the massage and now the dim coolness of the silent alcove. Jasper listened to his own breath, slow and deep but with a slight tension, noticeable as vibration at the final stage of the breathing cycle.

From the other rooms of the bath house a subdued murmur of voices was heard. The deeper voices of the men almost drowned in the slosh of the water while the lighter tones of the women bounced against the mosaic on the walls. From the ceiling the Icon of the Dancer was watching.

The breathing wouldn’t flow, it kept chopping, tightly across his chest. He tried too hard, as usual. Jasper let the breathing be, let it congest. It was a day of broken circles anyway. Jasper rose, dressed slowly, black over a deep blue, over white. The mourning veil was difficult but came into place. He retracted the folding fan and put it into the bodice. Jasper left the bathhouse dressed in the subdued


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garments of the Lady of Tears and went to weep the Icon’s tears at the funeral of Harun Adkarra.

Adkarra’s residence in the Hub was crowded as befitted the wake of an influential person. The widow Ksara’s cheeks were kissed hundredfold, thousands of flowers were placed on the bed of the deceased. Jasper moved from mourner to mourner, took their prayers to the dead, wiped uncountable tears from beautifully made up cheeks and cried alongside the hired weepers.

The wake lasted a long while, but was broken up when it was time to honor the departed with food and drinks. For a person like Harun Adkarra the tables were set at the Alkamaar restaurant at the top of the Spire, with starry space draped over the glass of the cupola. The widow and Jasper stayed behind to prepare the deceased for meeting the Icons. When the widow went to join the guests at Alkamaar Jasper was left alone with Harun. He completed the lengthy dance of the Lady of Tears. Then he added:

“Only the one who is not in love with you can love you the way you deserve. The paradox of pleasing. Everything else comes from the self-love of the heart.”

Harun’s reconstructed face didn’t answer. Jasper tried again. “That you would die I already knew. That you would die

now I didn’t want.” The face underneath the shroud had raised eyebrows,

the embalmer’s attempt to recreate the beauty of the deceased, now like an ironic comment to Jasper’s words.

“I apologize for letting you get killed, my love.” When the body of Harun Adkarra was lowered into the

cremator alongside the flowery gifts Jasper cut open a lotus flower and counted the cavities. There were nine of them, a good omen and a sure sign the Icons were waiting for Harun beyond the darkness.

The tears that Jasper cried now were his alone. Want to read on? Visit the book’s official website.

http://www.paradoxplaza.com/books/coriolis

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