Galaxy's End: Book One by LeRoy Clary (popular ebook readers txt) 📗

a year ago, Bill and I were on a rough patch and hadn’t eaten in three or four days. A storm was predicted. We had our ragged tent, no food, no credits. We were hungry and the storm might last for days, a time where we wouldn’t eat.

Bert was never helpful. His ethics were always of the highest order.

We were on the prowl when a drunk stumbled in front of us. The inebriated being stood in front of a minor gambling house and Bill helped steady him while he removed a little of his cash from the drunkard’s pocket. It was enough for us to sit out the storm in a warm and inexpensive inn and eat a few cheap meals. We were thrilled for a time.

It turned out the victim was a cop. His drunken act evaporated as his weapon appeared in his hand. He was going to arrest us. I was in a panic.

Looking back, two things struck me as significant. First, we should have allowed him to arrest us and place us in a warm, dry cell where we were fed three times a day. That was far better than what we ended up facing, which was a storm of epic proportions and a howling wind that chilled us so much I now feared any upcoming storm. I thought we would starve to death.

The second thing I remembered was reaching out to the officer with my mind. At the same time, I took the money from Bill’s limp fingers. With a flash of distraction for the officer to turn and look to where I’d made a pair of women who were strangers stop and scream at each other on the street a dozen steps away from us. As he looked at them, my fingers deftly replaced the cash.

I muddled the cop’s memory of seeing it in Bill’s hand. Then, in desperation, I gave the policeman a mental image of the women coming to blows. He was confused.

That was enough. I placed my hands on my hips and demanded indignantly, “Why are you stopping us when we were just trying to help you?”

“I’m working undercover. You stole my money.”

I held my empty hands up, palms facing him. “I don’t have your money, as you can see. Search me. And my friend.”

Bill lifted his empty fingers and wiggled them as if that told the cop enough.

“The money was right here.” The hand that had entered the pocket emerged with the money. His face contorted in confusion. His eyes shifted. I made a few small mental touches and he shouted in frustration and confusion, “Get out of here and if I see the two of you around here again, I’ll lock you up.”

We got out of there.

Unfortunately, the storm was already arriving, and we spent a miserable and hungry next couple of days. We should have gone to jail, I thought again, where it was warm and dry, and we’d have food. But that would have added to our juvenile rap sheets which were growing too long to ignore.

After gloating about our experience with Bert, he’d told us that the incident had been captured on three individual videos. They clearly showed our deception. If the cop ever looked at them, he’d be after us. He wouldn’t know what happened, but it was not a great leap to wonder if I was an empath.

My actions had endangered all of us.

Fortunately, Bert managed to wipe a few time-units from each cam. He’d saved us again. That seemed a more frequent occurrence in the last two years. Bert’s warnings were a regular topic of conversation.

Bill finished his pump assembly and spun an internal unit with obvious satisfaction on his face. Me? I’d have asked if there was a spare unit in a storeroom. I said in my snarky voice, “Okay, it spins freely. What now?”

He turned to me. “Nothing. It is doing what it is supposed to do. There’s a beauty in that.”

I didn’t see beauty. Instead, I said, “Can you take a break? I want to talk.”

“Go ahead,” McL, the old engineer’s voice interrupted from right behind me. “Hell, you’ve earned it. I didn’t think that the old pump would ever work again. Nice work.”

We mutually headed for the dining room. Not for ice cream again, although it did sound good. The conversation was limited, the dining room empty except for a single steward who greeted us with a smile.

He asked if we would be eating. I told him yes and pulled up a menu. Nearly all the items were unfamiliar.

At my confusion, the steward said, “Is there a problem?”

“What do humans eat for meals?” I asked bluntly.

He scrolled the menu selection down until pausing at a page. He said, “Sorry, I assumed you were human.”

It was beginning to turn into an awkward situation, and I didn’t wish to explain. I said, “What would be appropriate?”

“Soup, followed by a layered sandwich?”

“Two,” Bill said.

It appeared the steward was about to ask what kind of soup and sandwich but held off as I gently suggested with my mind that he had all he needed from us. I had every confidence he would choose well. Besides, we had no idea of the options available.

Bill said to him, “Bring two beverages, also.” He turned to me and said, “What is the topic?”

I filled him in on the latest information and speculation on the pair of ships following us, where we were headed, and rambled on until the soup arrived, steaming hot. I avoided any mention of Chance because I wanted more privacy and time to think about what he’d told me and what I’d surmised.

The soup was a sickly green. Despite that, it smelled good and I tentatively tasted a spoonful. I liked it and Bill followed suit after carefully watching me and waiting