Dust and Echoes/In the Immediate Distance - Chapter 1

A woman pushed her way out of the dark confines of a stark, industrial-type building and strolled into the bright city square, ringed with benches and plants and people of every conceivable type. The woman seemed so naturally at ease with her surroundings that she became the piece that no one realized was missing from the puzzle. Her smile made a good day into the day that would be remembered for a long while, somehow more idyllic than the all the ones that surrounded it. She would not be remembered, though whatever events followed her secret smiles surely would be. Only one person in all noted her arrival, though everyone there felt it; one person who was watching very carefully to see what this newcomer would do. Anyone with that powerful of a presence had to be, if not dangerous, at least interesting. The woman walked around the fountain that dominated the sightlines from the surrounding buildings and observed it for a few seconds - a stream of water cascading down from a seemingly unsupported semi-transparent red bowl with stone salmon leaping up against the current towards it, something that only few on this planet would have ever actually seen in person.

"Brandon Cailan?"

The name shot under a red- and tan-striped canopy that held shaded tables and chairs for the parents of the children playing in the fountain; it echoed back out without an accompanying response.

The accuser's High-British lilt called out again. “Brandon Cailan?”

“That would be me.” a coarse brogue replied, finally, the accompanying body rising from its seat. “But who exactleh are you?”

“Eliza Gunningham, of course.” The woman angled towards Cailan, flashing the charming smile that she reserved for concealing rapid calculations of the capability of prospective employees and for curious  potential clients (as well as generally everyone else as well).

“I think that’s supposed to mean some’n to me, innet?” said Brandon Cailan.

“ What, you weren’t notified?” replied Gunningham. “You were sent two messengers by the names of Clifford and Samuel; they were from my employers.”

“Ah, them.” Said Cailan. “They were, and are currently,  … unable to deliver their message.”

“What on earth and her colonies do you mean?”

“They didn’t give the gal I was with the respect she deserved, and I don’t appreciate two heavies using their size as some sort of diplomatic immuniteh," Cailan shot back, "so I gave ‘em, out of the goodness of my heart, the naptime they both desperately needed. They forgot about this message though.”

Gunningham maintained her easy demeanor. “This must have been some lady.”

“Eh, I barely knew her,” replied Cailan. “I did it mostleh to prove a point, and about 40 percent because I had nothing better ‘a do. I seem to have been wanderin’ rather aimlessly between worlds at the moment.”

“Well,” Gunningham said at last, “My superiors won’t be very happy about the humiliation of some well paid insurance, but at least we can safely come back to the subject at hand.” She sat, and motioned for Cailan to do the same. “You see, Mr. Cailan, we happen to know quite a bit about your travels, recent or no. We feel you would be perfect to run a particular mission for us.”

“Firstly, “ said Cailan as he fell into the chair opposite Gunningham, “this is not a good start for you. Paid muscle, extensive background information, and a mission - I’m guessing it’s morally ambiguous? It all adds up to a rather dead-end career, if you ask me. And secondly, my only area of expertise died out decades ago, as I’m sure it says in those litt’l files you have on me.” He gave Gunningham a piercing look that firmly established this as a minefield of a conversation.

“Now, now, Mr. Cailan, the only reason our messengers seem to be a touch large, bumbling, and altogether clichéd is because they are the only ones dumb and reckless enough to confront wealthy debtors, but still big enough to come back with some money. The weight behind the big stick, you might say, even if no one actually uses it. If you think of them as credit card debt collectors, it becomes altogether less threatening. Nonetheless, Mr. Cailan, we must talk of you rather than us. We know, from these ‘little files of you’, as you say, that you are well versed in moving through the galaxy with an extremely low profile, and these skills are all we need. Let us handle the morals, get in, get out, and get paid. Sounds nice doesn’t it?”

“I would rather stay with my current arrangements,” Cailan said with finality. “I don’t regard my safety or my time very highleh, because I don’t seem to have much to lose at the moment, but what I do regard with a touch more affection is the feeling from my gut saying this is a once in a lifetime opportunity to avoid a dead shitey road.”

“Well, you may be the most capable one for the job,” said Gunningham, “but I told them we didn’t want anyone particularly insightful. You aren't exactly the type to keep your head down and feet in line, are you?” She pulled out a flask and two collapsible hard-light glasses and filled them with the dark, familiar color of whisky - and good, too, by the smell of it.

“I always liked the hard-light ones,” said Cailan, “but they’re too damn expensive.”

“They do a wonderful job of preserving the flavor, don’t they?” replied Gunningham. “Well, then you can have them; a present of good faith. And now, a toast: to long lives for each, and let us never meet again.” They drank, and Eliza Gunningham disappeared as suddenly as she had appeared, cheerful in any and all visible ways. As Brandon Cailan sat on one of the benches on the edge of the square with his recently acquired collapsible hard-light glasses, he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of daring mission he had just passed on, regardless of the moral implications. He listened for a few seconds to the laughing of the groups of children playing around the fountain. The more he thought about it, the more he agreed with Gunningham; things would be not be going well if they met again.