The Whisper
Nobody knew if the Gift-Givers had a plan for Shepherd’s Fifth. It was just one moon among dozens that orbited the crimson gas giant, their shepherd, and not even the most interesting one. Under its airless surface ran a network of vast lava tubes, like arteries with nearly-extinct volcanoes as their slowly-dying hearts.
For thousands of years, the Gift-Givers’ machines had been filling these caverns with breathable air, somehow harvested from solid rock. Perhaps this miracle was just the first step in a long terraforming project, or maybe they’d wanted to uplift some slime mold that long since went extinct.
Whatever their plan, it was taking its sweet horking time!
The Franchise’s plan for Shepherd’s Fifth, on the other hand, was painfully apparent. They’d built a squalid, tumble-down city in these caverns — and stocked it with the greedy, the craven, and the desperate — because they wanted a whaling port above Shepherd. Feral ships gathered here to feed, mate, and ween their young. There were no better hunting grounds anywhere in the Fray.
Such work attracted two kinds of people: pirates and merchants. They shuffled past each other in crowded markets and narrow alleys, regretting their life choices. They dreamed of returning home to the beaches and jungles of Canopy, blue jewel of the local system. All they had to do was work off their debts and save enough money to afford transportation back the way they’d come. Maybe next year.
Bough had his own reasons for being on Shepherd’s Fifth, but then he’d always been too curious for his own good. As a child, he’d nearly been trampled to death by an elephant squid, because he wasn’t content to watch from the canopy like everyone else. It was his parents’ fault; they’d named him Long and Delicate Branch that Reaches Always for the Light. The Franchise shortened it to “Bough.” They had no patience for poetry.
He’d been first in line to learn the Franchise’s ways, lot of good that’d done him. These days, he spent most of his time trudging up and down the lava tube, plying his trade with the rest of the street priests. He’d tune radios, repair ice boxes, and reboot machine trees for whatever alms people could spare, but this lady… this lady was going to send his spawn to college.
So to speak.
She lived in a sweet pad half way up the cavern wall, with a vista view of the mist-shrouded squalor below. Bough examined the place while she tended to her brood, which was already awake and merrily climbing about the ceiling. The floor was stone tile and water-heated from below, radios in every room, kitchen well-stocked with fruit and songbirds. He’d have to stretch this out until dinner.
Once things had settled down, she beckoned him into the kitchen and spoke in the forbidden tongue of their people. Complex, color-shifting patterns played across her bioluminescent face. Bough was shocked, of course, but maybe not as shocked as he should have been.
Her name was Sweetest Fruit of the Spring and the machine tree that fed her brood was on the fritz. Three other street priests had already tried to fix it; each left more embarrassed than the last.
This kind of heat, Bough did not need. You never knew when the Whispers were listening. He responded in Codex, vibrating his air bladder to create a modulated drone. “Give me some time and I can work miracles.”
Over an hour later, time had made him a liar. Nothing worked! The machine tree sat, resolute, in a large pot of soil, its lights blinking out of sequence, its fruiting branches bare. He’d gone through all of his relics, most of them twice, and forced it to reboot more than once. The darned biscuit remained spitefully as it was: broken and as fruitless as his labors. Bough had half a mind to take it apart with his bare tentacles!
Then, looking around like a proper paranoiac, the street priest decided to put doctrine aside and actually think through the problem. The tree itself was working properly; there was no other possible conclusion after everything he’d already done to it. Yet, it refused to produce any fruit. Follow the signal path, Bough. There must be something wrong with its inputs. The machine pulled raw material from the air and soil, like any tree. There was nothing wrong with the air — it was so well-conditioned in here, he could work with his helmet open — so that just left the soil.
Bough knelt his robot body down, put it in park, and hopped from his saddle to the wall. Deftly, he climbed down to the edge of the pot and tasted the dirt with his suckers. It was was too acidic! Maybe the brood had spilled something, or hidden unwanted dinners in the pot, and mom hadn’t yet caught on to their treachery.
Whatever the cause, Bough knew the solution. It was simple chemistry. He scoured the pantry until he unearthed the entombed remains of some baking soda.
“Are you alright in there?” Sweetest Fruit of the Spring grumbled through the door.
“Almost done!” the heretic responded before muttering through a Franchise-approved prayer, just to cover up the sound of his real work. He massaged sodium bicarbonate into the soil, neutralizing the acid. Then he washed himself in the sink before climbing back on his chassis, flipping through his ring of relics, and plugging one of them into the tree’s i/o port. It dutifully blew a fuse and rebooted itself.
Success! Its lights came on in sequence and its internal workings purred contentedly. After a few minutes, its branches even started to bud.
“Like I said,” he told his client upon exiting the room, “miracles take time.”
Her mantle lit up and she pushed her way past him, a little too forcefully. She examined the buds, then thanked him profusely. Less profuse was her payment, sadly. He’d been hoping to take a few weeks off after this score, but instead he was looking at a shopping binge and a nice dinner.
Still, it wasn’t the worst day he’d ever had.
Bough could remember a time before The People rode around on bipedal robots. It wasn’t that long ago. Strictly speaking, they didn’t really need them; their many-armed bodies were more than dextrous enough for any task a biped could do. In arboreal environments, they were actually more agile than apes. However, most of the Franchise’s technology was designed with humanoid meat sacks in mind, so trotting around in these behemoths just made things easier.
The market was packed full of them, clockwork bodies draped in black cloth and topped with dark, climate-controlled helmets that sheltered their riders from the dry air. Bough controlled his using a thicket of levers and switches inside its chest. Walking was easy; it was operating the hands that took skill. Clumsy, five-fingered hands.
Vendor stalls huddled together under string lights, serving soup and songbirds to hungry customers. Those without a chassis swung from metal grates on the ceiling, dangling shopping bags from their trailing arms. Humidifiers belched water vapor that then drifted through the space like banks of fog. Bough opened his helmet and let the aromas tickle his suckers.
He’d already bought the power conduit he needed from an uphill scrap dealer and now it was time for dinner. He still had enough coin for something nice, maybe a thrush or sparrow. His stomach gurgled its approval.
“Hey! Street priest!” A human accosted him in line, barreling through the crowd like a right nutter.
“I’m off duty,” Bough droned.
“That’s okay,” they improbably asserted, pulling into Bough’s orbit. “It’s not about business.”
What else could it be about?! Bough turned his chassis around and found a hairy biped in a very fine coat, slate black with crisp lines. He was smiling idiotically behind a high collar and through a perfectly-manicured beard. Bough wasn’t the best judge of these things, but the man looked young.
He must’ve taken Bough’s silence as consent, because he continued, “You live around here, yeah?” Bough was not prepared for such a personal line of inquiry. He squirmed in his saddle. “It’s not easy, telling you lot apart, what with those dark helmets and everything, but you stand out.” The human was referring to Bough’s blaze-orange, priestly robes. It paid to be easy to spot. Usually. “I’m here on business, staying at the Bishop’s Rest. Just got in a few days hence. How long have you been on Shepherd’s Fifth?”
Bough couldn’t even process what was happening. People were staring; he could feel their eyes boring into his mantle. The woman in line next to him picked up her bags and left. Bough closed his helmet, for whatever that was worth. “Look, I don’t want any trouble.”
The human smiled, either sweetly or aggressively. Bough couldn’t tell. “It’s no trouble,” he asserted, in clear contravention of the evidence. Passers-by were beginning to whisper. This was bad, really bad. “I just thought, well… I could use a drinking buddy. You do drink, don’t you?”
“As a priest or as a squid?” Bough countered, using the Franchise’s term for his species.
“Well, I just meant — “
Bough jabbed one, steel finger into the human’s chest. “Don’t bother. And don’t ask people personal questions, especially in public! Who raised you?!”
The human bristled. “I assure you, I had the best social tutors money c— “
“It shows,” Bough cut him off. “Look, rich human, this is the Franchise. You don’t need people thinking you’re a Whisper, and I certainly don’t need people thinking the Whispers are interested in me, so keep your questions to yourself.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” Bough sighed, giving up on his dinner and directing his chassis to walk away, “but keep it up and you will be.”
Slam. Click. Safe. Bough paused inside his door and relocked the deadbolt a few times, just to be sure. Anxiety was a petty taskmaster. On the way home, he’d imagined somebody was following him. To be honest, he’d imagined everybody was following him. You’re a certified street priest, he’d argued with himself, over and over. They know where to find you. The thought had not calmed his nerves.
He clanked his way down the stairs to his cellar apartment, a dingy affair he’d selected more for its proximity to infrastructure — the water and power lines that ran beneath the building — than for its creature comforts. A pram to sleep in, a sink and ice box against the back wall, absolutely no windows for peepers to peep. Simple. Monkish, even.
Bough hung his helmet by the bottom of the stairs, but he still needed his chassis for a while. Its battery would be good for an hour or three. He dug some leftover nuts and berries out of the ice box and devoured them greedily, suckers savoring whatever juices escaped his sharp beak.
Still no substitute for a proper meal. That human had been either an incompetent Whisper or a total palooka. Bough prayed it was the latter.
Biological imperatives staved off for another day, he picked up his sleeping pram and moved it away from the wall, careful not to leave any drag marks. He braced his chassis and pushed against the now-bare wall. Slowly, silently, it gave way and slide backwards into a concealed space. A counterweight click-click-clicked on the far side, storing up energy for later.
Bough flipped a switch on the inner wall and a single, bare lightbulb sputtered to life, revealing the street priest’s blasphemy. A cancerous mass of scientific apparatus grew out of the wall: pneumatic tubes, pressurized canisters, banks of batteries, burners, evaporators, condensers… and a small stockpile of lunar regolith. An acrid smell came from a pair of burned wires sticking out of an aerosol container.
This new power conduit should handle the load better. He turned on the radio and let the finest music from a dozen cultures — and absolutely nothing else — cover the sound of his labors. Remove the old wires, splice the new ones into the mainline, recover from unfortunate electrocution incident, finish connecting the anode and cathode, load the regolith and seal the aerosol container.
Okay, moment of truth. Bough double checked the electrical connections, blew across his chassis’ fingers for luck… and threw the main switch. Power surged from cathode to anode, dumping energy into the aerosolized stone. Gas began collecting in a bladder above the chamber.
He’d done it! This was how the Gift-Givers made air from solid rock! Bough had stolen their secret and that made him mighty. Soon, it could make him rich beyond his —
Knock, knock, knock! Bough shut it down, shut it all down, quickly as he could. He hit the release and slipped through the hidden door as the counterweight pulled it shut. “Just a moment! My, um… chassis is charging.” Smooth. Silently, cautiously, he picked up his pram and moved it back against the wall. Illusion complete.
Outside, he could hear a nasally, peevish voice complaining. Bough wrestled open the door slot and looked out. “About time!” shouted a face for radio. It was another human male, but the funhouse mirror version of the man at the market. This one’s beard was wild, patchy, and confined to his chin. His coat hung open, revealing an ostentatious vest of brocade silver, and his teeth seemed hastily assembled from factory rejects.
A top hat slouched drunkenly on his head, threatening to jump as the man leaned in, filling Bough’s vision. “Open up, please,” he requested, rapping on the door with his thunderbolt cane. “Let us have a look at you.”
Fudge it! A Barker. And who was “us?!” Bough mentally reviewed the state of every last object in his apartment as he turned the deadbolt and opened the door. Felt like an eternity. He should be good, couldn’t think of a thing out of place. And there’d better not be or his goldfinch was good and cooked!
“How can I help you?” he started to say, humble priest persona snapping into place, but then he noticed the woman standing behind the Barker. It was the harried mom from earlier. She’d set him up.
She’d set him up!
Not good. Not good! Quite the opposite of good, actually. Some might consider it bad. Still… it’d be her word against his. Certified street priest versus treacherous Whisper. This Barker might not even understand what it was she claimed he did.
“Ah, there you are,” those teeth greeted him. Definitely aggressive. “My name is Most Prosperous Endeavor and I’m afraid it’s my duty to follow up on every nasty rumor, mean-spirited bit of gossip, and bloody-minded accusation of blasphemy this rancid outpost can produce. No offense.”
Why would Bough be offended? This moon blew chunks.
The Barker stepped theatrically aside, so the harried mom could see him. “This is the gentleman in question?”
“It is,” she confirmed, droning in Codex. Smug traitor. She probably only used the People’s Tongue at her place so he’d let his guard down. She must be a Whisper! Bough wondered what her payday would be like.
“Well, then I suggest you invite us inside for a nice chat,” concluded Prosper, “before the neighbors take notice of our visit. Never a good look.”
On that, they could agree. Bough turned and clambered down the stairs, trusting his guests to close the door. There was barely enough room for the three of them between Bough’s relic workbench and the spare chassis parts piled near the charging port. Didn’t stop the Barker from prowling around, poking his cane into every nook and cranny.
“My associate, here, claims you used heretical methods to repair her food machine,” he said nonchalantly. “How do you respond?”
She looked pretty sure of herself, must’ve thought she’d hung a nice, pretty frame around his mantle. Bough could play innocent, feign offense, possibly trick her into perjuring herself. He could also grab the Barker’s cane and electrocute himself. So many options!
“While I’m sure my client’s knowledge of doctrine is impeccable,” Bough danced, “she’s obviously not clergy. There are several prescribed methods for reconsecrating a machine tree. Took me a while to try them all, twice, but there was nothing wicked about it. I admit, I may have played up my ingenuity to the lady. Guess I wanted to impress her.”
That got her dander up. She flashed him some vulgar patterns behind the Barker’s back.
“Perhaps,” Prosper purred, tapping his cane against the walls. “What brings you all the way out to Shepherd’s Fifth?” Would Bough’s false wall ring hollow? He didn’t think so, but was he willing to bet his freedom on it? His life? Barkers had wide latitude when it came to punishing heretics.
“Same as everyone else,” Bough demurred, maneuvering himself suspiciously toward the chassis port and away from the false wall. “Opportunity! Prosperity! Destiny!” he droned, caricaturing a Barker’s boisterous delivery. Nobody laughed. “I came to find my fortune.”
“Hrm…” mused Prosper, inspecting the empty ice box. “How is that going for you?” Bough didn’t take the bait, let the Barker keep fishing. “I see you keep up with scripture,” he noted, kicking over a stack of technical manuals. “That’s admirable.” Then, he stalked across the room toward Bough, pushing the Whisper aside with the tip of this cane. It hummed with energy. “What are you hiding back there?”
“What?” Bough stammered. “Nothing!”
“Step aside!” The Barker yanked Bough away from the charger, throwing him into the Whisper, who tilted madly backward into the sleeping pram. Bough grabbed her and let his robot body hit the floor, dragging her with him, away from his dirty secret.
“Get off me, moron!” The waves of bioluminescence that crashed over her mantle expanded greatly on the poor state of Bough’s intellect and the various acts of maternal depravity that could be to blame.
Meanwhile, Prosper seemed to have blown through his enthusiasm for trying to find a secret vault or whatever behind the charger. He’d already torn out the cables and bent the frame. Bough doubted the Church would reimburse him. “Mayhaps the lady is wasting my time,” he complained, straightening his vest.
“No!” she droned, air bladder convulsing. “He’s lying! There’s no way he could have fixed the tree, because it wasn’t broken. I made sure of it!”
“Sounds pretty witchy to me,” Bough muttered. The Whisper just about punched him off his saddle. “But I am good at my job, we can agree on that. If the esteemed Mr. Barker ever has need of a street priest, I’d be happy to give him a demonstration. Free of charge, of course.”
“Where’s the power conduit, then?” she challenged. Fudge! It was in the secret room. “I saw him buy a spool of it from this shady dealer. He had it with him when he returned home, I saw it! Where is it now, if you’re so innocent?!”
Prosper looked around, perhaps a little embarrassed that he hadn’t noticed.
“She’s lying.” It was a desperate gamble, but hey… Bough was desperate. “She just wants a payday. She knows I can’t produce any such thing, because she made it up.”
Fuming, the Whisper snatched Prosper’s cane and thrust its business end into Bough’s chassis. It discharged its thunderbolt into the robot, blowing fuses and melting its more delicate components. Bough leapt off the saddle and clung to the wall, over the sink. His heart pounded, first anticipating electrocution, then overjoyed that he’d survived.
“Enough!” barked the Barker, reclaiming his weapon. Fully discharged, it wouldn’t be dangerous again for hours. “It’s not enough that you’ve wasted my time, now you’ve gone and wasted my money.”
“What?!” she wailed, mantle red as an algal bloom.
“When I do it, it’s administrative justice,” the Barker explained, opening his purse. “When you do it…” He threw a few coins on the floor around Bough’s smoking chassis. “That’s for damage done by my unlicensed associate. Consider displaying more humility in the execution of your duties, ladykiller. The tallest blade of grass is the first to get cut.”
He turned on his heel and marched up the stairs, confident the Whisper would follow. And she did, but only after her colors vowed specific and vulgar revenge.
Even alone, Bough felt a thousand eyes on him. They’d be watching, now, waiting eagerly for even one step out of line. He dared not return to his laboratory. It didn’t exist; he had to live that lie.
Fortunately, he didn’t need it. He’d already learned the Gift-Givers’ secret and that made him like unto the gods. If he could do that, he could find a way off this moon, out into the Fray, where freedom and the stars waited.
Bough would learn their secrets, too.
Written by Daniel Bayn
Introducing…
- Bough, street priest and future switch witch
- Most Prosperous Endeavor, flamboyant Barker of the Franchise
- Sweetest Fruit of the Spring, a Whisper who can hold a grudge
- Shepherd’s Fifth, a moon in the Bale system, home to a whaling port
Based on “Fast Ships & Cool Swords,” a shared storytelling universe by Daniel Bayn. Fast Ships and Cool Swords © 2024 by Daniel Bayn is licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0 #FightTheFranchise
Daniel Bayn is a prolific author of games and strange fiction. He’s written three tabletop roleplaying games, monthly columns, short stories, and one non-fiction book on the psychology of online social behavior. He holds an interdisciplinary master’s degree from the University of Minnesota and works as a user experience designer, strategist, and researcher. http://DanielBayn.com
His premier novel, Mercyblades, is available on Amazon.
