Your Truth is Out There (Find Your Truth Book 1) Page 4

  Next he found a hotel that was sufficiently inexpensive but not too seedy looking.

  “I need to check in,” said Henry to the desk clerk. “I’ll be staying for two weeks, and will need a room on the first floor, in as quiet of a spot as possible.”

  “This is a busy hotel,” said the clerk, giving him the once-over. “We don’t have any rooms like that available. You’re going to have to go somewhere else.”

  She started to turn away when Henry plopped down fourteen hundred dollars in cash on the counter.

  “Two full weeks, in advance,” he said. “Are you sure you don’t have the room I’m looking for?”

  The clerk looked at him again, counted the money and handed him a key.

  “I’ll need a receipt, too,” said Henry with a smile.

  When Henry got to the room, he pushed all of the furniture into one corner and set up his studio in the open space. He planned to spend the next two weeks painting to his heart’s content. By the time he finished settling in, which included a trip to the art store to pick up canvasses, brushes, paints, and other supplies, it was too late to obtain the last item necessary to his plan. That would have to wait until morning. With nothing else to be done, he ordered a pizza, turned on the radio, and began painting.

  Chapter 6

  Zaras 7

  Et Qilzar sat at his desk, nervously sorting the same stack of files he’d already sorted seventeen times since he’d fired that miserable little show-off, Gsefx. He knew it had been seventeen times because he’d counted. Qilzar also knew it was only a matter of time before his boss, Et Xtlar, Galacticount’s Chief Financial Officer, showed up at his office to shred him into little tiny pieces for firing that clelchin’s ass. Gsefx may have made his life a waking nightmare, but he was one of Xtlar’s favorite pets. As Qilzar began sorting the files for the eighteenth time, he realized his foot was bouncing up and down in time with his racing heart.

  “No, no, no,” he said aloud as he put the files back down. “This won’t do. He’ll be here any minute and I have to be ready. I have to focus.”

  He took a deep breath and then punched a code into his vidcon.

  “You are Qilzar,” said a voice from the vidcon, his own voice. “You are a Dremin, and as such you are a born bureaucrat. Whenever someone questions you, remember that no one knows or understands the rules, regulations, and policies better than you. It’s who you are. It’s what makes you special. Don’t let anyone take that away from you. You can do anything …”

  The door to Qilzar’s office burst open interrupting the recording, and Xtlar came in, not making the slightest attempt to hide his rage. It must be noted that Fweurlians were not a common site on Laxor, and even less so at Galacticount. In all of Qilzar’s twenty turns there, Xtlar was the only being from the planet Fweurl that had ever worked at the firm. His five legs, four arms, enormous torso, and even more enormous head often caused quite a stir to the company’s newer employees. Even so, after a while, most of the employees, including Qilzar, had grown accustomed to Xtlar’s unique appearance. It was only on the rare occasions when he was in a foul mood, did he get those strange, “I don’t believe what I’m seeing” kind of looks. When Galacticount’s CFO was angry, like he was now, his normally smooth light-green complexion turned a very deep purple and the small patch of normally docile blonde hair on the top of his head stood straight up, turning a brilliant shade of red.

  “How dare you fire the best up-and-coming accountant this firm has seen in turns without first discussing it with me,” said Xtlar with a roar. “I ought to fire you immediately!”

  Because he was seated, it was hard to tell that Qilzar was actually quite tall and thin, as were most Dremins. His pale gray skin and sharp features gave him a look of seriousness that matched his personality. At the same time, his nervous mannerisms tended to make others take him less seriously than he felt he deserved. Though belated, the recording had helped Qilzar prepare for his boss’ outburst, enabling him to respond calmly, (the knots in his stomach notwithstanding). He reached over and turned the recording off, seemingly not at all disturbed by the rantings of his immediate superior.

  “Et Xtlar,” he said in a smooth voice that belied his nervousness, “you know I am as fond of young Gsefx as anyone, but this was his fifth unexcused tardy this semi-turn and company policies are quite clear on this matter. I hated to let him go, but he gave me no alternative.”

  Xtlar leaned closer, placing all four of his fists on Qilzar’s desk and glared at the Dremin with eyes that had now turned a terrifying shade of crimson. He said nothing, but focused his gaze with an intensity so deep, he might have been trying to drill a hole straight through Qilzar’s head. Qilzar was quite certain that was the intent.

  “The Chief and I met with Pigawitts earlier,” said Xtlar, “you remember Pigawitts, one of our oldest and most influential clients? His company is up for a GTCA review soon and you know what that means. I told him not to worry, that I had exactly the right individual in mind to handle the prep work. Now, tell me Qilzar, how do you suppose I felt when I tried to contact Gsefx to assign the job to him, only to find out that you fired him?”

  Against his will, and all the resolve he had just built up, Qilzar began to shrink under the force of that stare. He had expected some anger, of course, but it was impossible to be completely prepared for something like this.

  Then, almost as if someone had flipped a switch, Xtlar cleared his throat, straightened his jacket and tie, turned, and moved quietly to the corner opposite Qilzar’s desk. A few moments later, when he turned back to face Qilzar, his skin colors had returned to normal and his hair was once again docile and blonde. It was, in every regard, an impressive transformation.

  Qilzar had been too unsettled by the intensity of his boss’ earlier outburst to notice. At the moment, confusion was the best he could manage.

  “Sir,” he began, “I know you’re upset about this turn of events and I assure you my team can handle the Pigawitts …”

  “Shut up Qilzar,” Xtlar said with a sigh. “Just shut up and listen.”

  Qilzar opened his mouth as if to speak, but thought better of it and closed it again. Then, unable to keep silent, he exploded, “I was completely within my authority as section supervisor! You can’t fire me for doing my job!”

  “Oh be quiet, will you. I’m not going to fire you.” Xtlar paused for a moment, as if in deep thought. “In fact, you were correct in your actions.”

  He began pacing back and forth in front of Qilzar’s desk.

  “We can’t have slackers like Gsefx setting a poor example for the others, can we? Why, if we let him get away with such insolence, others will follow suit and it will be chaos around here. Thank you, Et Qilzar, for pointing out my error in judgment.”

  Qilzar was speechless—this was not at all going as planned.

  “Qilzar, you’re an outstanding supervisor and long overdue for a promotion. A district directorship has just opened up and I believe you’re the perfect candidate for the job.”

  “Really,” said Qilzar slowly. A part of him had to believe this was some sort of cruel joke Xtlar was playing on him. Yet, he did deserve a promotion. Perhaps, just perhaps his actions this morning had nudged Xtlar into recognizing that fact. It would certainly be about time, even if the circumstances weren’t the most ideal.

  “May I ask what section and district it would be?”

  “You’ll remain in corporate tax accounting,” said Xtlar, “just at a higher level and in a different location. Zaras 7, to be exact.”

  Qilzar’s jaw dropped and what little color there was in his pale complexion drained away completely. His hands began to shake.

  Zaras 7 was the single most undesirable location in the entire civilized galaxy. In fact, most questioned whether Zaras 7 could be considered civilized at all. The harsh conditions, and the exceptionally odd behavior of the natives, made it nearly impossible for anyone to maintain their sanity for long. As a direct result of these
conditions, Zaras 7 also boasted an incredibly inexpensive cost of living. So inexpensive, in fact, Galacticount decided it would be the perfect location for a field office servicing that portion of the galaxy. It was difficult to keep employees there, but even considering the turnover and the additional costs of mental health insurance, it was the district with the lowest cost structure in the entire company.

  “Zaras 7?” he stammered. “I thought Et Faspai was the director out there.”

  “He was, right up until they found him curled up under his desk a few rotations ago, rocking back and forth, and mumbling to himself. Something about giant squids, if I recall. He’s now under full-time observation at a maximum security clinic on his home planet.”

  Xtlar turned to leave.

  “Report there at the beginning of tomorrow’s rotation. I’ll take care of the paperwork immediately.”

  “NO!” Qilzar said with a cry. “You can’t send me there. I don’t want that kind of promotion. I won’t go.”

  Xtlar looked Qilzar directly in the eyes.

  “What did you say?”

  Qilzar’s shoulders slumped and he looked down at his desk as the realization set in that he’d been had. He paused, swallowing hard before responding.

  “I … I said I won’t go … I don’t want a promotion if it means going to Zaras 7.”

  “Are you sure, Et Qilzar? I don’t want there to be any confusion on this point. You do realize that refusing an assignment is grounds for immediate dismissal? Oh, who am I talking to? Of course, you do. You know the corporate policy handbook better than anyone.”

  “Surely we can work something out, sir. I mean, can’t we work something out?”

  Xtlar leaned over and placed all four of his fists on Qilzar’s desk again.

  “Have Gsefx in my office, ready to work, by the start of tomorrow’s rotation, or you’ll be on Zaras 7 before the rotation is over. That’s the deal and it’s not negotiable.”

  Xtlar turned and started out of the office. Qilzar didn’t bother trying to hide the fact that he was shaking when his boss turned to look back at him in the doorway.

  “Don’t ever try to play me again, Qilzar,” said Xtlar, his voice deathly serious. “I’ve been around too long and you’re no good at it.”

  “But sir, what if Gsefx won’t come back?” said Qilzar, “Or is late again? He was supposed to begin his break tomorrow.”

  Xtlar turned and left without answering.

  Qilzar wasted no time in gathering his coat and case. He was out of his office before Xtlar rounded the hallway corner.

  “Hold all of my calls,” said Qilzar to his assistant as he passed by in a flash, “indefinitely.”

  Chapter 7

  Get Me on the Ground

  It had been established long ago that emerging cultures, still in the primitive stages of development, are extraordinarily paranoid. Almost without exception, once they attain the technology, either on their own (preferable) or through the interference of an outside, more advanced culture (highly illegal, although it does happen), they begin exploring the space in the immediate vicinity of their planet, sometimes going further into the galaxy, sometimes not, depending on the inquisitiveness of their species. In the course of this exploration (and paranoia), they nearly always devise a way to detect any extraordinary activity in the space around their planet. A fascinating sociological study, these primitive cultures usually believe themselves to be the only sentient beings in the galaxy, yet they insist on building such detection devices, nonetheless.

  It had also been established long ago that no matter what precautions the Galactic Community took, it could not seem to keep its citizens from passing too close to these various primitive planets and being detected, usually wreaking havoc in the process. So, after a particularly nasty incident on Carobashius Minor, where some misguided tourists nearly caused the complete annihilation of the planet’s entire population, all vehicles were required to be equipped with standard tamper-proof anti-detection devices. This way, any vehicle, from the most inexpensive economy ship to the most luxurious jumbo cruiser, could pass through a planet’s atmosphere, or indeed descend all the way to the surface, and be invisible to whatever type of detection equipment the inhabitants were using. The devices do not make the vehicle truly invisible, they can always be seen by the naked eye, but as long they stay out of visual range, the ship will remain hidden from detection.

  So it was when Gsefx entered into a high orbit around Irt and began scanning for albalan music, and anything else of possible interest, he gave no thought to the possibility of being detected. Instead, he was relieved that he’d finally reached this backwater planet after one of the most boring trips he’d taken in some time. This entire section of the galaxy had only recently been explored and charted, and there were few habitable planets, even fewer with intelligent life on them, no established routes to travel, almost no other vehicles, and absolutely nothing in terms of interesting scenery. He’d never been more thankful for his music collection in his entire life.

  Gsefx’s first attempts to scan the planet’s radio waves achieved only limited success. There was so much activity it was impossible to separate it into intelligible segments.

  How can such a small planet, he thought, with such a limited population, have so much to say to one another?

  He let out a deep sigh and started in for a closer orbit. This was not going to be as easy as he’d hoped. Just as he was about to lock into the lowest orbit possible, he heard a loud thud and nearly lost control of his vehicle. A warning light came on indicating his automatic attitude control had failed.

  “Gralt!” he shouted, struggling to maintain control. “I know, I know! I should have taken you in for your juricking check-up today instead of coming out here.” He knew the ship couldn’t hear or understand him, but it didn’t stop him from talking to it regularly. His ship was long overdue for a check-up—a check-up that would have detected any impending problems, such as a worn attitude control. But since it hadn’t given him any problems, he’d put it off, telling himself he didn’t have enough time to get it done. He was now paying the price for his procrastination.

  Forget about the music now, thought Gsefx, I’m in serious trouble. Without repairing, or somehow bypassing the attitude control, I won’t be able to break out of orbit, much less make it home.

  The good news was that it wasn’t a difficult repair. The bad news was that he’d have to land to make it, while avoiding any of the planet’s inhabitants.

  “Just hang in there and get me on the ground,” he said to his ship. “I’ll patch you up and then I’ll get you a complete work-over when we get home, I promise.”

  He scanned for a location on the planet’s surface that would be completely unpopulated and that had the best possibility of containing any materials he might need as well. It took a while, but he finally found a suitable spot and began his descent. The on-board computer directed him toward a location in the very center of a large landmass on the sunlit side of the planet. Landing on the darkened side would provide better cover from prying eyes, of course, but it would also force him to wait until the sun came around to make his repairs. He couldn’t wait that long. Not if he wanted to get home in time for dinner—and avoid a long, uncomfortable conversation with Lhvunsa.

  It has been said that ignorance is bliss. It has also been said that what you don’t know can kill you. Gsefx knew enough about basic mechanics to make a relatively minor repair like this, but not enough to realize that his ship’s anti-detection device was dependent on a properly functioning attitude control.

  Chapter 8

  A Happy Ending

  What a turn my life has taken over the past two weeks, Henry thought as he stared at the greasy burger and even greasier fries sitting on the plate the waitress had set down in front of him. I never dreamed I could ever be this content.

  He’d spent nearly every waking hour in his motel room-turned-makeshift studio, reaching an almost nirvana-like
state as he sketched, drew, and painted. More than once, after falling exhausted into his bed, he had been tempted to ditch his plan and make another attempt at living a normal life. He knew if he could find this kind of happiness, even for just a small part of each day, it would make up for all of the rest of life’s pain and drudgery.

  But these thoughts were nothing more than illusions, pipe dreams that disappeared quickly when mixed with the harshness of reality. His money would not last forever (indeed, he had spent most of it already), which meant getting a job, which, in turn, meant devoting most of his time and energy to accomplishing rote tasks that meant absolutely nothing to him. By the end of each day, the life and heart would be sucked out of him, leaving nothing for his art.

  His art.

  If only he could make a living at painting, his heart would overflow with joy. The darkness in his soul would be kept at bay, if it didn’t disappear altogether, replaced by an inextinguishable light rooted in his unwavering pursuit of truth and beauty. The very thought filled his eyes with tears.

  Sadly, the stark reality was that there was no money in art, not for Henry anyway. Though a part of him always believed his talents were beyond ordinary measure—his former boss even confirming those suspicions recently—monetary compensation only comes when someone with money sees the beauty within the work and is willing to pay for it. In a world filled with so many things competing for attention, he simply couldn’t find anyone to give him or his work a first glance, much less a second. Even though Jason’s earlier encouragement had been comforting, it wasn’t enough to base a career on. Failure would come and it would break his heart beyond what he could stand. The more he thought about it, the clearer it became that the balance between practicality and happiness necessary to survive in this world was something unattainable for him. He knew what he had to do. He had stayed in his little room and painted almost non-stop for two weeks straight. Not for money. Not for fame. Not for anyone or anything but himself. Rarely eating, and sleeping even less, it was the most joyous time he had ever experienced.