Free Fugitive From Asteron by Gen LaGreca

that injured his face. After
his alien-trained surgeons operated, Feran’s face became ugly, like those of
the aliens who mined our gold and who somehow had more of everything than we did.
Although Feran ceaselessly condemned them, he just as zealously courted them
for aid and assistance. We citizens wondered if Feran had used the occasion of
his accident to change his looks in order to promote better relations with the
aliens through his resemblance to them. People whispered hopefully that the change
in Feran would somehow bring more food. But this did not come to pass, and our
flesh continued to wither away because of the famine.
    With a shrug of my shoulders, I
dismissed my preoccupation with Feran’s genes and took his clothes. Then I
showered and shaved. I checked my bruises in a mirror and applied fresh
ointments, something I had begun doing the day before. With the aid of an alien
medicine kit unknown to me on Asteron, my wounds were healing remarkably fast.
Patches of healthy new skin were already growing over the lashes on my back. For
the first time since my punishment at the Theater of Justice, I could open my
eyes completely, because the swelling was receding. My face was changing too, I
noticed. The hard cast of anger that had pulled my features tight seemed to have
loosened a little into a look of cautious calm.
    Although food had not yet been
loaded when I seized the craft, I found potable water and an ample supply of powdered
fruit drinks and milk, beverages available to me only rarely on Asteron. I rehydrated
some for a satisfying meal. On this new day in space, I was now in the rare
state of being well rested, clean, and fed.
    I wished I did not have to be
concerned with Feran’s affairs, because outside my window I noticed a bright
star, one I had not seen before. I went to the flight deck to take a closer
look through the ship’s telescope. With remote controls, I adjusted the telescope’s
lens outside the craft, searching on its monitor for the star. It was behind the
ship. I marveled at the power of the instrument to reveal so many secrets of
the universe and wished I could spend the rest of my life on this ship peering
at the stars, so content was I at this task. I adjusted the telescope until the
bright little image came into view. Then I gasped. The object I saw was no
star. It was a spacecraft pursuing me.
    Suddenly a blast from the radio
receiver overpowered the ship’s serene hum, confirming my fears.
    “Animal!” It was Feran. “I demand
an account of my ship and cargo. Speak!”
    I did not reply.
    “I order you to respond!”
    Again I said nothing.
    Feran unleashed a string of
Asteronian curses before he was coherent again. “If you dare touch my
cargo, you will rue the day! I am not far behind, and when I get you—as I will,
pig!—I will turn your punishment over to Coquet. She will want to try all her
tricks, to linger with you, to watch you die . . . slowly . . . very
slowly.”
    Feran had brought with him his
favorite companion, the weapon notorious on Asteron for its beams of torture.
My moment of calm had ended, and I listened with dread to the plan he and
Coquet had for me.
    “We will meet again soon, because I
know something you do not.” He laughed viciously. “I know where you are going
and how to catch you.”

Chapter 8
     
    With Feran’s threats grating on my nerves like a missile
alarm I could not turn off, I headed to the cargo bay to take a closer look at
the object of his concern, the mysterious cargo I had hauled onto the
spacecraft.
    I released the object from the
brace that had kept it intact during the violent maneuverings of my takeoff. I
ran my hand along the smooth gray metal that covered all six sides of the
rectangular box. It measured up to my knees in height and also in width, and
half that distance in depth. The object stood on four small feet of the same
metal. Each of the four sides consisted of a solid plate of metal. On the
bottom there was