Magus Star Rising
Chapter Six

Turning: Fact or Myth?

The debate on religious splinter

groups continues.

NEW TERRAN PRESS

Waiting Time

Simon Weller absently scratched his stomach through the sleeveless T-shirt he wore. It was damp with sweat. His ceiling fan did little to dispel the late afternoon closeness. Modern air conditioning was a technological luxury only some of the rich high-born Senittes seemed to be able to afford. A dry, hot breeze blew in through the open windows (early summer in the western hemisphere of Alpha-Seni was always something to reckon with in any case particularly now in the time of year the Senittes had defined as the month, or moon, of Ayob). From his bedroom, the murmur of voices drifted in and out of range.

Weller sat at his desk in his living room, a small chamber with few embellishments--a couch, a Senitte-woven throw rug and a couple of framed lasepics hanging on the wall. His old-style wooden desk and filing cabinets took up most of the floor space. Open archways led to small kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom niches. He lived in an older, cheaper section of Frenati City, in a dome-hut constructed in a retro style of wood, stone and mortar. Quaint though not very fashionable by current standards. That suited him just fine. At least for the moment.

“Do ya want me to turn iss off?” a more animated voice called out from the bedroom.

“Yeah, thanks.”

A soft click and the voices vanished. A woman emerged from the bedroom niche. Tall, indeterminate age, heavy with jewelry and makeup, she wore a brilliant, multi-colored dress and high-heeled sandals. But her long, braided, red hair and white skin were anything but Senitte.

“Don’t ya get tired of ’ose viddies?” her voice crooned, husky and tinged with a ghetto slang. “I think ya like ’ose better ’n me.”

Weller shrugged, not looking back. “It’s called a movie.”

“Whatever ya say, hon.” She walked up behind Weller and put her arms around him. Strong perfume swirled around Weller’s head. Painted lips whispered in his ear. A long-nailed hand, with the faded remnants of blue body-paint still clinging to it, rubbed his chest. “Riffin’, as usual, starbaby. Do ya want me to come back tomorrow?”

Weller handed her a credit disc. “No,” he said softly. “I’m going to be busy. I’ll call you.”

The woman fingered the chip. “This wane be bouncin’ like the last one, will it?”

Weller snorted. “Don’t be an ass. You know I’m good for it.”

“Oh, yeah. You good, all right. Nothing like a afternoon special, huh?” The woman pressed her face against the side of his head and slipped her tongue in his ear. He jerked away as if irritated by some buzzing insect.

“Don’t do that,” he murmured, wiping his ear with his finger. “I don’t like that.”

With a little chortle the woman turned to walk away. “Ooo, yeah,” she said. “I heard ’at one before. See you at the festival, mebbe, huh?” Laughing softly, the woman walked out, slamming the door after her.

Slag. Weller lit a cigarette, hoping to cover up the lingering smell of cheap perfume. Soon I’ll be able to afford better than her.

He took a hit off the cigarette and inhaled deeply. Walking back over to his desk, he poured himself a locally-distilled whiskey and sat back down. Well, it’s been an interesting day so far, he thought with a smirk. Better get back to business.

He leaned back, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and once again reviewed his meeting earlier with Claudia Honin-Zay. Yes, some things didn’t quite add up with this scenario. He felt that from the start. Why didn’t she just ask her husband what he’s been doing? he thought, relaxing a little as the whiskey settled. She has that much influence. Or have that space-bogey Kazrah follow him? Damn these high-born Senittes and their ritual codes of behavior!

He shook his head, blowing a smoke ring up toward the ceiling fan. Learning how to cope with the native population, especially the wealthy Senittes, was forever an ongoing process. Nothing was ever done directly but roundabout, through third parties and cryptic meanderings. Hints and asides and puzzles upon puzzles abounded. They could be so damn frustrating! Sometimes he felt he understood them and then other times, it seemed hopeless.

How the hell had they negotiated with the Rim World Conglomerate?

“Turning?” Weller had asked Claudia Honin-Zay near the conclusion of their interview. “Why do you suspect it? Isn’t that pretty extreme for a man in your husband’s position?”

The merchant’s wife’s face had clouded over, a gamut of emotions visible beneath the blue skin and makeup. “The last few cycles have not been easy,” she had answered slowly, lightly touching the side of her face. Weller remembered now. The skin, even under the makeup, had been darker, more pronounced. A bruise? “Our life together has changed. It is just a feeling I have. Things he has said. I do not know exactly.”

The ancient cleansing and transformation rite of Turning was a myth, he had wanted to tell her; a type of folklore insidious in its staying power; carried down through the years by hopeful, misguided indigenes and con artists. He had wanted to explain that the Turning Brothels were all fakes, holding little more than staged performances to take money from the poor and hopelessly gullible. Even the Senittes themselves had outlawed the ritual for centuries. The hope of shedding one’s sins through such a rite and gaining a purer life wasn’t real, he had wanted to say. None of it was.

But he hadn’t. He had seen what the statistics stated was unexplained by rational methodology. He had seen what had happened to Selina, the Senitte fem he once loved.

In fact, he still dreamed of that incidence. His sleep last night (and for almost every night for the last few years) had been troubled and erratic, filled with a mixture of dread and anticipation, not only for the job at hand but with the fear of those same dreams that haunted him. Sometimes the nightmares, when they came, were about Selina, sometimes about his life before Alpha-Seni, when he had been younger and idealistic, trying to make a difference.

Yes, once he had tried to make a difference. Or so he had thought. A very long time ago. Instead, he had made a mistake then, one with fatal consequences.

He wouldn’t make a mistake like that again and, if it wasn’t for the money Claudia Honin-Zay had promised, he might not have taken this job at all. He liked to keep his distance and not get involved. Getting involved had gotten him into trouble before.

Yet involvement in something was exactly what it looked like Marcus Honin-Zay might be up to. Weller doubted Honin-Zay was going to a Turning Brothel. Too big a stick up his ass, Weller thought as he remembered the ‘proper’ Senitte merchant. Why would a beautiful, intelligent woman like Claudia Honin-Zay marry someone like him?

He shook his head. Could have been an arranged union. She and her husband come from different clans. Some of the older Senittes still do that sort of thing. No matter. He still faced two incongruities here, it seemed. Despite his formal bearing, Marcus Honin-Zay had something happening on the side. And, Weller realized, Claudia Honin-Zay was indeed beautiful.

No. He had no interest in indigene women any more. Of any type.

He stood up, paced irritably and then walked toward the kitchen. A little dinner would help, maybe another drink to get the rest of his motor running (too bad there was no freza water here; he thought he had gotten over that vice!).

Claudia Honin-Zay suspected her husband would go out tonight. Early evening seemed to be his time. Weller might as well begin his... ‘stake-out’? Was that the correct usage? Some old vids he had watched made use of that term.

But thoughts of the meeting with the merchant’s wife kept replaying through his mind. “I will contact you in two or three suns,” she had told him. “I have to be away on some business matters of my own but I wish to meet again to discuss your replaceings.” Weller had wondered about that. Though Senitte society was patriarchal, the females, especially those of the high-born caste, controlled most of the finances of the household, even in the merchant families. Nevertheless, travel and commercial dealings were severely limited in most aspects for fems of all castes. Weller was sure Claudia Honin-Zay had ways to get around that--arts-related or religious, maybe. Something to do with the ubiquitous, all-knowing Vanera again. A retreat or conference of some kind.

Why me? he wondered again, thinking of the reasons she told him. Her explanation made sense, he was known to the Honin-Zays. Some doubt still lingered. But the money he would get, what he had already been paid, put those doubts away for the moment.

He stopped at one of the lasepics hanging on his wall. Despite the memories the image dredged up, a smile slowly and sadly made its way across his face. There he was, what, two years ago? He had been on holiday, the beaches at Hombrun Isle. Beautiful. Beautiful. It was the only time he had taken Selina anywhere outside the Yharria.

Selina, he thought, touching the woman’s image standing next to him in the pic. The woman smiled back at him from the glossy photo. Light blue skin, Terran features, long black hair. Selina was half Terran and half Senitte, which, as he remembered, had been part of the attraction. She had helped him forget about his life before Alpha-Seni. At least for a while, while he was with Selina, the nightmares had stopped.

Why do I even keep these images? He thought again for the millionth time. I don’t have time for stroking sentiment! The sooner I start this job, the sooner I get it done and get paid.