Tales from the Orion Arm: Book 3
Two moths entered the lecture theatre and danced near the stage lights. Dimble would now have an audience of eight, if he counted the hawk moths. A Tentacled Shrew strode anxiously into the hall, but only because she had forgotten one of her eight gloves.
Two of Caspar Moonlake’s fans finished chatting with him and hurried out.
Dimble’s head drooped. A moment ago he was fearful of too large an audience, or any audience for that matter. But at least he had Zeen Crawdex and his Sirian companion.
He joked to himself: if things were going this good maybe Moonlake would stay too.
In fact, why not beam his old crew-mate, Insomniac Fluton, on the Anaconda? Send him a live stream of the talk. Then persuade him to leave the ship and return home to Crete 581d.
In his last call with Fluton, chemist Thuris Thranganis was on the line too. Thranganis believed Marley could never have survived the photon annihilation incident. Such a high speed collision of subatomic particles would have warped the local quantum fields, turning anyone and anything into unknowable unknowns. Dimble brushed these thoughts aside. He told himself to get through the lecture first, then continue worrying.
He glanced at the heavy reference book clutched to his chest: Colonisation of the Orion Arm: Conditioning, Culture and Survival. A primer on how to interact with non-human species and adapt in non-human living conditions. Dimble wanted to argue that these principles of adaptation applied equally to Baconians and Sirians as they made new lives in the colonies. Rather than bemoan their lack of integration, we should provide them with the means to adapt, and not just leave them to fend for themselves.
But most of all, we needed to acknowledge our past. Even if that meant returning some of the artifacts acquired during the various wars that littered humanity’s colonisation of the Orion Arm. Although no wars were currently openly waged, disenfranchisement still occurred. But now it wore a velvet glove. He rather liked this phrase. And if it went down well, he would add that he had evidence of a powerful artifact that had only recently been ‘stolen.’ An artifact so powerful it could decide the fate of the galaxy. Or, at least, this sector of the galaxy.
He hesitated, watching as Caspar Moonlake’s last admirer vigorously shook his hand and ran out. He was probably heading to the Quasar Bar to let everyone know he had shaken hands with one of Crete’s great motivational speakers, and that he wasn’t going to wash it for days. On the way out he shoulder-charged Dimble – accidentally, of course. The eager student turned around and thought about apologising, but then realised that happy hour at the Quasar Bar ended in 10 minutes.
Dimble crouched on the floor and looked at the papers scattered around the entrance. He had been published in several academic journals, but these notes were freshly handwritten. And without page numbers! How could he have forgotten that again? He gathered the papers without thinking about the order.
A silence fell about him. Caspar Moonlake was watching; his eyes narrowed in an expression of curiosity and amusement.
Dimble tucked his papers under his arm and turned around awkwardly, intending to grab a Gelsem X from the nearest vending machine. He tiptoed towards the exit.
“You!” The voice darted through the air and hit the retreating scholar on the back of his head.
Dimble jerked to a halt like a puppet on a string.
“Come here!”
Gaston limped over to Moonlake. The heavy reference tome on planetary colonisation shifted him to the right, ultimately forcing a correction to his trajectory every three feet.
Moonlake grabbed the tome off him with the ease of a Khanaklooosian weightlifter. He tossed it in the air and caught it on the ridge of his spine. Retrieving it with his left hand, he deftly transferred it to his right and spun the book on the tip of his little finger.
“Reminds me of those days when I was coach of Skulke 07. Proxima Centauri will always be an outpost; it can barely sustain a microbe. But I took a ragtag bunch of technicians, miners, traders (and air-traffic controllers) all the way to the Outer Rim playoffs. If I’d been allowed to play we would’ve won. But I hadn’t registered as a player!” He lifted his face, recreating the cheering stands. He imagined his players running over for a group hug. He recalled fondly how the diminutive Klogen Mathias had led the team song in the change rooms, spilling beer over Moonlake’s expensive pink suit.
Then he remembered losing a week later to Real Centauri, a team which—to him—had no real character. The players of Real Centauri were paid such astronomical salaries that they were written in scientific notation. He was not expected to win. But defeat was crushing. He quickly shelved this sour memory and pretended to kick the book back to Dimble. “Colonisation of the Orion Arm.” Moonlake enunciated each syllable as if the sentence was an ice-cream and each word a lick.
Dimble half smiled. “Nothing more than a paper weight. A book I was going to use…for the lecture I’m about to give.”
Moonlake adjusted his collar. “About to give? What’s stopping you.”
Dimble though the answer was obvious. But he chose his reply carefully. He gestured at the almost empty hall. “There’s not much point if there’s no one here.”
Moonlake pretended to clear his throat. “I do not believe,” he leaned closer, “that no one is here.”
Dimble gathered his wits. “I don’t mean to offend you sir. But once you leave, it will be.”
“Who said I would leave?” Moonlake tapped his right foot.
“Sir…”
“Call me Caspar please.”
“Caspar please. I mean, ‘Caspar’. Sorry sir. I‒”
“Well?” This was pronounced with a long rising inflection.
“Er, surely you have better things to do than sit through a talk on…” Dimble fumbled through his notes and read the first subheading he found. “Zorgon customs prior to first contact.”
“First contact? And what’s happened since then. Settlement. Occupation! Corruption.” Moonlake made no effort to hide his contempt.
Dimble was surprised to find common ground so quickly. “Not entirely. By the way, my business partner, Chuck Marley,” how would he say this? He cleared his throat and put his book down near the pedestal. “We helped the Zorgons recover some autonomy. But I fear we haven’t done enough to end their exploitation. I’d like to talk about this some more. But my notes are out of order and‒”
“Notes? Speak from the heart, my friend.” Moonlake thumped his chest. Then added as an afterthought, “But carry notes as back up.”
Dimble sighed. “Well…”
“Get up there! To the dais.”