Beyond Asimios - Part 4 by Martin Fossum Read Free Book Online Page A

said.
    —Why
not, said Graf.
     
    It
was only after Graf had left Asimios behind that the full realization of his
circumstance hit home. As the ship increased velocity and Stelos Alpha and Asimios
fell farther and farther away, Graf began to wonder whether or not he had made
the right decision to join Oreg on his jounce across space. He had, after all, abandoned
the evil ESCOM and its barbarous withdrawal from Asimios Station to commune, in
solitude, with the memory of his deceased wife. Now, after a hasty and complex series
of events, he was hurtling toward some unknown point on the galactic map with an
alien and an android (make that two androids) and with hardly any idea of what lay
ahead.
    Even
though the idea of meeting an alien was fascinating and something of historical
significance, the truth was that the director was tired: his back was stiff— very stiff—from all the crashing, hiking,
fighting, and rolling around on the ground. His left arm was in pain and in
need of attention and he was only beginning to recover from a near-death poisoning
from one of Oreg’s toxic quills. After Graf heard from Oreg that the trip to
the portal would take at least six standard sols, the prospect of being holed
up in this can of sardines for almost a week was something that bordered on the
unendurable. If there was one thing Graf knew, it was that he slept poorly in an
unfamiliar bed—this was one of his many character flaws—and even
with all the comforts of the ship (it was better than Camp Heyerdahl by a long
shot), his mood descended like a stone fading quickly to the bottom of a murky
pond.
    After
wriggling out of his oppressive pressure skin Graf allowed Miranda to examine
his arm and wrap it with a new medisplint. He was then given a clean robe and shown
his quarters (the bed was rather comfortable, he had to admit) and once the
lights were dimmed he tried to coerce himself into sleep, but it was only a
matter of minutes before he found himself staring through the ship’s walls at
any number of anxieties that hounded him through the infinitude of space. After
what seemed like hours of tossing and turning, Graf got up to use the bathroom
and to his surprise he found Oreg sitting in the bridge, in his captain’s chair,
appearing to be just as downcast and overtired as the station director himself.
    —You’re
awake, Graf muttered as he wedged his large body into the empty seat next to Oreg’s.
    —Sleep
eludes me, came the translation over Graf’s VI.
    Graf
looked up at the holo that centered on a tiny point making incremental progress
through a haze of empty space. A lattice of graphs and meters bobbed at the
corners of the image and foreign symbols flickered and pulsed in varying
iterations and translucencies.
    —I
don’t know why you brought me along, Graf muttered through a yawn. I’m clearly of
no help to you.
    Oreg
looked over at Graf and then turned back to the holo. It was your choice, Oreg hissed,
his large eyes slits. You could have stayed behind.
    Graf
stroked his mustache and studied the alien and it occurred to him that Oreg might
qualify as a cross between a bipedal woodland beaver and a caricature of a slick
Hollywood producer. Oreg’s dark skin covered most of his broad countenance, and
his beard—a cut that ran from ear to ear—was neatly trimmed. His whiskers
ended on his round and reclusive chin in a comely point. In addition to being well
groomed, Oreg seemed to have a refined taste in fashion. He wore a sturdy
waistcoat over stylish red tunic that covered most of his nano-fabric body suit,
all of which was designed to allow freedom of movement for the thick mat of spines
on his back. Around Oreg’s midsection clung a light leather belt inlaid with
emeralds in silver settings, and on this belt was affixed three or four pouches
of varying size. Finally, pulled over his long feet was a pair of soft moccasins—a
perfect accoutrement for any comfort-seeking space savvy traveler. Seeing