Precious Cargo © Jenean McBrearty
Patti worked for a flower wholesaler who hired people like her to sell bouquets at kiosks in the star-malls – those mammoth orbiting retail centers that served planets unable to grow or produce what their consumers demanded. Not only did the gig require her to be away from home for months at a time, she was also expected to secure on the on-board warehouse and oftentimes provide good customer service to aliens who thought courtesy was a four-letter word.
“If the pay wasn't so good, I'd quit in a heartbeat,” she told her friends when they expressed envy for her opportunities for travel, an experience few of them would have because of government restrictions.
True, she had seen the “Fairy Lights” on Frigate 2, the dark planet made bright by artificial sunlight from orbiting reflectors shaped like fairy wings. She'd witnessed, close up and personal, the explosion of Andalusia , a blast that created fireworks that would be seen for centuries. And she'd actually set foot on the silky sands of Mojave Beach , a once desert area on Earth that was now an ocean side tourist destination reserved for the uberrich .
But Patti didn't feel privileged although she had a New Britain Class One passport. “The Okruma Dynasty's official flower was red and white striped lilies and the king required they be hand delivered via shuttle – a waste of their subjects' money if you ask me when they own a fleet of private shuttles,” Patti observed to her friends when they pressed her for details about the coronation at Mojave's Caesar's Palace. After ten years in inter-planetary retail, she was just plain tired of waiting on autocrats.
“This is it, Chuck. My last trip,” she told her boss as he handed her an itinerary schedule to file with the Ministry of Transport.
“Yeah, sure, like I believe you. You live pretty well on the bonuses you get for extended sales.”
“No, I mean it. I'm done. Rob's naggin' me about the kids not knowin' me, and I've got enough bonuses saved for retirement.”
Chuck gave her one of his famous skeptical eyebrow lifts, and ripped off the original copy of the inventory manifest. “Make sure you get enough pink roses to Endora – Mother's Day is on the 12th.”
Patti scanned the list, and stopped at number seven. “Three thousand orange tipped red roses for Smyrna ? What, the Dag'gar win the lottery?”
“The Dag'gar died. The royal florist will be picking them up on May 10 th , and wants all the red tips he can get.”
“Talk about going with a traditional theme… Smyrna hasn't ordered flowers for a state occasion since their economy tanked in '75.”
“There's a lot to be said for tradition when it puts florins in our pockets, Patti.”
“Maybe so. I'm outt'a here.” Chuck was right. The Dag'gar's funeral would generate a hefty profit. Smyrna 's soil couldn't grow a weed, and the cost of importing luxuries like flowers was always a hot debate in parliament. “The royal florist better pay with cash,” she said to Chuck's empty office. “There's no way I'm lettin' go of three thousand red tips if he can't guarantee the Exchequer will pony up.” Patti boarded the shuttle to the World Mart star-mall – the largest in the universe. The flower warehouse was a sixteen hundred square foot cooler where five by six by four foot crates were stacked from floor to ceiling, alphabetized by name and color of contents in bold black letters. From here, Patti would pull the special orders and continually restock the thirty kiosks for the sales associates. Once the Mall's orbit was stabilized, shuttles of customers would arrive and overrun the esplanade, and she'd be loading and reloading her electric cart for the next twelve hours. Smyrna was no exception. The royal florist, Clef'tar, arrived on the first shuttle with five hundred eager shoppers.
“My condolences to the Gag'ger,” Patti said, shaking hands with the man in red robes. Clef'tar was a typical Smyrnian – short, blue, and sporting a flat, ring-pierced nose.
“We're all very distressed. With the rumblings of war between Altura and Cooney once again … we have lost a great leader. Have you heard anything?”
A feeble attempt to distract me, Patti thought. She gave Clef'tar a delivery confirmation to sign. “Only rumors and a warning to commercial vessels to be on alert for con men,” she said. “Such alerts are routine now even though a truce was signed. Which side is threatening to break it now?”
“Cooney, as usual. Blast those idiots. You'd think they'd be content with being the leading Kerillion supplier for the Orion Quadrant. Do you have time for coffee?”
“Naw. I've got too many special orders to pull, and the shuttle dock is full.”
Clef'tar gave her a quick bow. “Have a good trip to Greenfield .”
Patti dropped her clipboard. “I didn't see that on the itinerary.”
Clef'tar was already on his cell phone to the loaders who reported the roses were on the transport shuttle, and they were waiting on him. “The Dag'ger paid for a quick delivery. She can't bear the thought of her husband's soul being cooped up in a thermocube with lord knows what kind of people. You understand.”
It seemed to Patti his voice grew fainter as his body grew larger. “Yeah. Rank has its privileges.” She watched him glide out the door, and contemplated the impending danger to World Mart. Unless, by some magic, an alternate route to Greenfield had been discovered, they would have to pass between the chronically warring planets of Altura and Cooney. The Dag'ger must have spent half the royal treasury to arrange a special delivery through a battle zone. She called Chuck to confirm the side trip to Greenfield , and give him a tongue-lashing if it was true.
“Patti, I swear I didn't know,” he insisted, but he refused a teleconference that would have let her see him lie. “I have it on good authority its safe.”
“Without military escort? No vessel is safe in the Straits of Chamblis. Malls are notoriously unprotected – succulent fruit for poachers.”
“O-kay. I'll double your bonus and add hazardous duty pay.”
“Thanks a lot. I have customers.” Patti disconnected and walked towards a handsome man in a white suit. “If you're not here top pick up a special order, you'll have to wait for the kiosks to open. No one is allowed ...in the…warehouse.” As she gazed into the man's eyes, Patti realized he was an AOD, probably the one transporting the Dag'gar to Greenfield .
“You don't have to be afraid,” he said.
“Forgive me, Pal. Interplanetary travel, I'm used to. Inter-plane, not so much.” Patti saw he was barefoot and thought of how cold the cooler floor was.
“You have political objections to angels of death?”
“I doubt sanity can prevail in a world where some are bound by physical laws, some aren't, and some can choose whether to obey them or not. The barrier between life and death is necessary. I mean, the first act of God was making an orderly something from a chaotic nothing. Your specie is too unpredictable – spooky.” Patti was wearing a down-filled nylon parka to keep warm and the man wore only thin cotton. “Where is … where are ...”
“Where
are the souls of the dead?” “Shouldn't
you be guarding them or something?” “They're safe.”
Patti felt her throat close. “Are you here for …me?” “Clef'tar called me here.”
Patti looked at the floor again and noticed it was wet. The man extended his hand and when he drew it back, there was a blood-covered blade in it. “Clef'tar's murder weapon,” he said.
Patti walked to him, and turned to see her body slowly drift to the floor. She wasn't afraid, just sad. Mall security would find her, take pictures of the crime scene and beam them back to New Britain . “She died of a stab wound to the heart,” Chuck would tell Rob. And Rob would have to tell Benjamin and Carolyn that his wife and their mother's last words were, “Thanks a lot. I have a customer.” How pathetically banal.
“Why'd he do it?' she said.
“Simple greed. You're a smoke screen. While security is handling this incident, pirates will commandeer the helm.”
“We have to stop them,” Patti yelled.
“No. We don't.” The AOD returned the stiletto to her body. “Security will stop them.”
It was obvious the emergent activities of life were over for her. “What now?” she asked as she watched the look of horror come over the face of the customer on finding her corpse. The woman's mouth was agape, but Patti heard no sound. “You don't want to go to Greenfield , I take it. Your family will join you soon. Cooney has decided to forgo a space attack on Altura's air force, and instead attack its ally New Britain – a surface attack of chemical weapons.”
“That's the trouble with you Angels. You see everything, but do nothing.”
“We do have rules, despite what you believe.”
“Will they suffer?”
“Only for an instant. They won't remember.” He saw a cloud of concern cover her face. “It' another rule – we can't lie.”
Reassured, Patti walked with Death through the swelling crowd, unseen and unheard. I would quit in a heartbeat, she had often said, and now she'd quit life in half that time. She didn't remember Clef'tar plunging the knife into her, whether it hurt, or what he said. She didn't see a white light or hear a wind in a tunnel. She sensed nothing. Her death had been quick, thus kind.
“Tell me,” she said to the AOD as they passed through walls and windows and scurrying people, “What will happen to Greenfield when the scientists figure out how to land shuttles on its gaseous surface – when man walks among the souls of the dead – will he turn heaven into hell?”
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