Earth Singer

Chapter Four

'I'm sorry sir, but those are the rules.' The petite, uniformed figure on the other side of the glass might have been cute if she weren't so cold and overtly uninterested. She was even a brunette, Vorden's type.

'And I told you I have special clearance, check the papers again.' He ground his teeth rather than raise his voice. It had been almost twelve hours in this Pax-forsaken terminal. Not to mention previous twenty-four hours that had led himself, and the other two-thousand odd passengers and crew landing in this filthy corner of the system.

'Your papers say Forrax sir,' she repeated for what felt like the eightieth time. 'This is Servile-IV, you cannot leave the terminal area without the necessary papers. If you like you can request a transfer...'

'To the next available ship to leave for Forrax,' Vorden parroted back at the focus of his frustration. 'I am not waiting a full cycle to get on a piece-of-shit slag-freighter back out there. We...Were...Attacked! Do you hear me? A whole convoy of ships. Inside the Regnum!'

The woman's eyes were busy reading something on a nearby screen. Something that made her smile just a little too much for Vorden to take. He slammed his fists on the titanium counter between them.

'Hey! I said we were attacked! We're the only ship that made it are you hearing me!' Droplets of his vitriolic outburst slid awkwardly down the pane of plexi-glass between them as the uniformed woman raised a peevish eyebrow.

'Ships are not attacked in the Regnum.' Her voice, if possible had become even icier as she abandoned her screen and turned again to the papers Vorden had slipped through the space in the glass what seemed like an age earlier.

'If you are in need of special consideration for your unauthorised arrival you can make an appeal to the Outer Regnum Citizen Distribution Consulate.' She muttered automatically as she thumbed through the mess in front of her.

'Finally,' Vorden sighed, leaning over to gather a satchel and other assorted carry bags that nested around him. 'And where is the consulate?'

The tiny figure peered over the collection of papers she was scrutinizing. 'On Forrax...'

The next few moments were largely unintelligible to the other officials and passengers throughout the terminal. But the volume in-and-of-itself, spoke volumes. Through the words that could be deciphered Vorden was pointing out that he had special clearance as an official for the Tetrachy itself. Something about Assistant Undersecretary to the Chief Cerk of Labour Delegation and Accounting.

The crowded terminal was thick with passengers. The tired mass of refugees from Vorden's own ship were a drop in the sea of tens of thousands of travellers ebbing through the space-port. Not that Vorden would ever consider himself a refugee. He, was too important for that. The endless throng pressed their way through the snaking queues of the terminal. Not one of them able to muster more than a fleeting interest in the scene that was unfolding at the head of but one of a hundred other queues in the oppressively hot terminal.

The woman behind the glass had returned to ignoring the irritation at her window. This time however, she was at least keenly interested in something. Something in Vorden's papers.

Suddenly her hands were kinetically tapping away at a series of panels on her side of the titanium counter. The change in demeanour was enough to diffuse Vorden's rage, replacing it momentarily with hope, but quicker still, with smugness.

'Aha you see!' he perked up. 'You see I told you all the paperwork was in order.'

The woman continued typing and peering intently at her screen. Feeling his blood pressure begin to settle, Vorden took a moment to bask in his victory against the bureaucratic bug-bear before him.

'Now see here,' he boomed, a strut returning to his voice, 'You may as well put your name on whatever you are typing while you're at it, I should want to speak to your superiors about this hold up. And contact the Under-Under Secretary at the Labour Consulate for a shuttle I'll want to make it there at once.'

'y-yes, Mr Philas... I'm sorry it won't be much longer.'

'Mr Who?' Vorden Vein felt the wind knocked out of him for a moment, just as two thick black gloves bit into his shoulders from behind.

'Mr Philas, by the authority of the Tetrachs you are ordered to come with us,' a metallic voice coursed through and equally metallic helmet behind him.

Two security custodes already had Vorden's arms securely pinned, and as his face merged with the glass screen of the terminal booth, two other custodes had already collected his bags.

'Wait, wait, you said Philas,' Verdon peered down pleadingly at the girl on the other side of the glass, who stared up at him with something other than indifference now, something like genuine fear. His eyes glanced down at the strewn papers on her counter. There it was again. That name... Philas. Verdons face was wrenched free from the glass as the custodes began manhandling him toward an unassuming door in an unassuming corner of the terminal.

'Wait,' something like hope had returned to Vorden's voice. Yes. It was all a simple misunderstanding.

'Those aren't my papers! Who's papers are they? Hey!' Vorden, buoyed by his hope managed to struggle free and take several steps back towards the terminal window.

'Those aren't my papers! My name is Verdon Vei...' Shuddering convulsions cut short Vorden's plea, and two more blows from the power-cudgel of another custode rendered him all but mute.

It was a ragged, dribbling; and most pathetic looking sight that was carried away through non-descript door at the side of the terminal. A low muttering, repeated phrase barely audible on its lips.

'Those... aren't... my... papers...'

The uniformed woman behind the glass had already lost interest and decided it was time for her break. Flicking a small switch, the transparent glass of her booth polarised to and opaque red. Block letters flashed 'Booth Closed' in bright yellow. The morose mass of passengers that had been waiting shifted emotionlessly to the next queue over. At the head of which, a darkly hooded figure was having his papers returned.

'Enjoy your time on Servile-IV Mr Vein, would you like me to contact the consulate to send a shuttle?'

'Not necessary,' the unusually deep voice replied stepping through the now disarmed gate that separated the crowded terminal from Servile-IV proper.