A Mind for Sale

A Mind for Sale

"You have knowledge?"

"Yes."

"To what scale?"

"Greyscale."

"What will you relinquish?"

Michael fell into a lost stare while his thoughts spun in the background. The rest of him froze like a robot with its core processor locked in the "compute" cycle.

What will I sacrifice for a friend? Would it be my thesis on human psychotic episodes due to exposure to the upper spectrum of subliminal wavelength radiation found in the outer rings of debris on this side of the belt? Or maybe the memory of my first fishing trip with "Pepa?"

"Do you have any information on human erratic thought behavior while inhabiting asteroids in the Belt?" Michael asked.

"Too much." The Trader huffed.

"How about a fishing trip with my grandfather?" Michael settled back in his chair and crossed his arms.

"I don't know. Did you catch anything?" The Memory Trader's glare fixed on Michael, and spittle flew from his lips as he huffed.

Did we catch anything? My grandfather reeled in a three-pound catfish while I caught a cold and the tail feather of a life's story. My grandfather had one hell of a story to tell, and I ain't giving that up cheap, even for her.

"Yeah, but it's gonna cost you, and it'll cost plenty."

"What?" The Memory Trader settled back into his seat, crossing his massive arms atop his well-rounded belly.

"I want the girl and all her memories intact." Michael asserted, with an unbroken stare.

The fat man sucked back drool through his bulbous lips, leaving behind a slimy trail smearing across several rolls of his chin. At the end of the drool's path, his spittle soaked into the wrinkled collar of his tattered jacket. He smelled bad, too. Michael hated dealing with these Memory Traders, but when all you have are your memories, they have you.

Just before I capitulated, the Trader's cheeks jiggled, and he huffed, "Give me a peek, or there'll be no deal. I've got another bidder for the girl. You know that."

"I know, but he doesn't have a story like mine." Michael lifted the headset from the table before him and placed the contacts just over his right temple. Not touching his temple, mind you, but hovering about two inches off his skin. "Pull all you can from there. I'm no fool. I've seen how fast these things work."

Hazy images assembled over the halo platform in front of the Memory Trader. The image showed an old man laughing loudly as he jerked a fishing pole into a tight arc. The fishing pole bent tighter and tighter until the Memory Trader flinched as if he thought it was about to break.

In the background, a young boy danced around the old man, almost slapping him with the fishing net in his hands—

Michael yanked the headset off. "That's all."

The Memory Trader's eyes narrowed into angry crescents, and he snorted. "Let the trade begin."

"Not so fast!" Michael's experience in the art of barter told him now was the time to ask for more. "We need food."

The Memory Trader raised in his seat but quickly settled and nodded in agreement.

"And weapons. Without weapons, there can be no deal. I want new clothes too, and the color must be forest green." Michael's senses told him to push a little further. At least until he spotted "retreat" in his adversary's eyes.

"No! No trade!" The Memory Trader turned toward the person standing behind Michael. "You! Do you have knowledge? Do you trade dreams—or facts?"

Michael took a carefree step away from the table, with his back to the Memory Trader. "Of course, it's a shame you didn't see the mermaid."

The Trader stood and reached with a massive left hand, pushing the next person in line back into his earlier spot. "Mermaid?" The question sounded more like a command. Everyone in line flinched a little, and one person even placed a hand on the shoulder of the woman ahead of him to steady himself.

A fat hand fell on Michael's shoulder, turning him to face the Trader's table again. "Mermaids are outside the realm of reality. Do you have an imagination?" The Trader asked as he finished shoving the other person back in line behind Michael.

"A little, but it mostly belonged to Pepa. However, it is now in my memory. You can have the whole thing in living color if you meet my price." Michael spoke as he settled into the chair, crossing his arms over his chest and grinning.

"Weapons and clothes?" The Trader's question came with a foul smell, pushed toward Michael with emphasis on each word.

"Forest green! And don't forget the food. I want barbecue chicken, potato salad, and lots of water. It would be nice of you to throw in some of those thought-nullifiers you use to shackle Dreamers. I might find a couple of those imaginative creatures for you. If you still pay a bounty on them, that is." Michael lifted a bit of food from the table before the Trader and sniffed it. His arm jerked the rotten morsel away from his nose. He shivered, then threw the rotten crumb over his shoulder. Another shiver crawled down Michael's spine with the memory of its fetor.

Michael scanned the dark shadows of the dank cargo bay where the Memory Traders held court. A line of desperate people trailed into the shadows from the front of each dimly lit throne, where the fat, disgusting Traders slouched. The smell of fish leaked into the ship's hold from the muddy docks outside, even though the boat had sat upon that scarcely moistened sand for decades.

That long-abandoned cargo vessel served double duty as a storage building. Behind the ring of Traders, a curtain of darkness shrouded the booty stacked to the ceiling of the ship's bay. If someone wanted something, they had it. They would trade for memories about anything the Tyr home world found entertaining.

"You did say your Memory had imagination?" The Trader leaned toward Michael, still clutching his assistant's vest. The assistant stood ready to run and order the "traded" items brought to his trade table.

"Mermaids and Sirens, does that not sound like imagination?" Michael knew the Tyr paid bundles for any story involving imagination. The Traders were only middlemen for the Tyr Home World, but he had to get past this "middleman" to get to Tahlia.

"We have a slight problem." The Trader said, still clutching his assistant's vest. "We have no clothing in—uh—forest green?"

"The deal's off!" Michael slammed his fist onto the table. "I'm damned fond of that color and won't accept anything else." Michael also liked Tahlia, but if the Trader sensed that, then Michael would have to kill too many people to get her out of this mess. "Too bad, I think you would have liked the little dance the mermaids do?"

"We have dye; do we not?" The Trader turned to his assistant, pulling his face into the foul breath the Trader spewed.

The muscles in the assistant's shoulders pulled tightly into a cringe. Sweat beaded his forehead as he vigorously nodded, and saltwater droplets fell onto the Trader's arm. The Trader bent to lick each droplet from his flesh as they fell. "Good," the Trader said with a grin as he released his assistant, shoving him into the darkness to retrieve the items. Then the Trader leaned onto his elbows atop the table before Michael. "I want to see the dance. Now!"

"You'll see the dance when I see the girl." Michael's features melded into stone with each word.

Ten pounds of blubber swayed under the Trader's arm as he waved for the guards to bring Tahlia to his table. "She's prime. Better be a good dance, or you'll have Dargo on your tail." The Trader pointed into the shadows, where an enormous hybrid-human appeared with his fingers clasped around the back of Tahlia's neck. A long chain connected the two clasped neck-to-neck, and the giant half-human monstrosity sported red and purple marks, peaking from under his collar, revealing Tahlia's resistance.

When the monster loosened his grip, Tahlia swung her leg in a half-circle and kicked him in the groin. "You damn Oaf!" Any ordinary man would have winced in pain, then wadded into a whimpering lump on the ground. This mammoth only crossed its arms and placidly awaited its master's command.

Centered in the circle of Thrones, deep inside the curtain of darkness, a flicker of light flashed through the void. Sparks flew from that spot, enlarging into a single shimmering column of light, stretching up to the cargo bay's ceiling. Then, a cloud of illumination roiled across the top of the cargo bay, revealing its immensity. The light then dwindled, displaying a larger transport column. A hand reached out of its center, and then its fingers flexed several times, seeming to feel the air for something familiar. A hulking humanoid stepped into the bay from the column. A radiating spray of colored light emanated from its collar, distorting its head's features.

Deep growls drew into rolling sputters, then short guttural grunts. The creature stepped further from the column of light and turned toward Michael, pointing while more grunts issued. One of the Traders trudged through the darkness to where he conferred with the creature. They communicated with more sputters and grunts, and then the Trader screamed, "The woman and the one with mermaids in his dreams. Package them for transport!"

Michael turned to Tahlia, "I don't know? I guess it's time for plan B. You make up your part because I don't have time to explain." Michael drew a weapon from the table and began to fire rapid bursts around the cargo bay.

Michael enjoyed creating a cover out of Mayhem, and Tahlia knew that, so she looked up at the behemoth she shared the chain with and smiled. "Say, you're not such a bad guy. You don't want trouble, do you?" When those last words cleared her lips, one of Michael's shots struck the giant in the forehead. He toppled, pulling Tahlia across the table with the chain stretching from the shackle on her neck to the shackle around his neck. She lay atop the table, staring down at the toppled giant, choking until someone's hand reached out of the shadows, grabbed the chain, and broke her free with brute strength.

"Father Klignen!" Tahlia gasped, pulled again at the chain, throttling her voice, and drew a deep breath.

"Yes, my child, it is I." The giant answered.

"Where the hell did you come from?" Tahlia loosened the surprised shout before she gasped for breath once more.

"Darkness, my child. I carry the light with me in these hands." Father Klignen stretched his arms straight from his shoulders, then swung in a circle, flooring two Memory Traders' assistants. "These hands do the Lord's bidding, revealing the light to all those huddling inside the Darkness."

The Tyr's guard stepped from the transport column, heading toward Tahlia. That guard was as large as Father Klignen, clothed in leather holsters, each holding a different instrument to deliver death or a condition causing one to wish for its embrace.

Father Klignen then maneuvered between the guard and Tahlia. Father Klignen was once a priest from a Gothic Christian Church, so he abhorred violence. At least when that violence had no purpose. However, a good, meaningful fight…"Nothing works better to cleanse the mind of frustration and purge the soul of aggression."

"That should make you relax, my son," Father Klignen said as he slammed his fist into the face of another Memory Trader's assistant. Father Klignen had followed Michael like a shadow from the day Michael found him dying in the snow atop the Himalayas. Michael had placed him in the shadows in case he was needed. Michael needed him tonight, just like he had always needed him since that night.

Father Klignen and the Tyr's Guard met inside the light that fell from the transporting device and illuminated the dead center of the cargo bay. Father Klignen's welcoming grin flustered his opponent. The light from the transporter showed the Guard's eyes darting around the fringes of the illuminated ring where they stood. Then the Guard's eyes returned to Father Klignen's grin. The Tyr's Guard pulled at his vest until he found a weapon and drew it from its holster.

Father Klignen crossed himself while kneeling on the deck in prayer.

The Guard noticed Father Klignen's unguarded posture and tried to exploit it. The Guard intended to use the razor-sharp cord between the bolas to behead his opponent. Father Klignen's gloved hand rose into the bola's path, and it wrapped around the heavy leather glove instead of his throat.

Then, Father Klignen rushed at the guard and, with one fluid motion, twisted the bolas connecting cable around his assailant's neck. "Amen," he said, never raising his head from a prayer while pulling the cord tighter and tighter around the Guard's throat.

The expression on the Guard's face revealed pure terror when Father Klignen peered down at it lying on the floor at his feet. He caught the collapsing body in mid-fall and gently laid it beside the head. That empty stare remained with the Guard's body lying on the deck beside Father Klignen, who knelt to gaze into the emptiness of his stare. Then Father Klignen rose from his kneeling position.

A sudden flash of light cut through the right arm of the headless Guard, leaving a bloodless, cauterized stump on the floor as the Guard's body and the rest of his arm were transported away. Father Klignen quickly recovered from his lack of oxygen. The three companions wasted no time as they ducked into the darkness that cloaked ninety percent of the cargo bay. Then, they meandered through the confusion on their way out of the ship.

****

The trio ran full throttle until they found cover under the Moon on that cloud-covered night. Father Klignen bent to one knee, breathless, and said, "Okay…" A few puffs of breath interrupted his speech. "…we are all free…and still alive." His breath continued to explode from his nostrils. "Let's find something to eat."

The End