The Backworlds

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Table
of Contents

The Backworlds edited by:
Leigh T. Moore
--
http://leightmoore.blogspot.com/
Thank you for the guidance, Leigh.

Thanks to: Mom, the Husband Unit,
William Pax
, Kimberly Nicole,
Dennis
Strachota
,
Cleopatra Welsh,
Ella Zane
,
Mike
Rettig
,
Trudy
Schoenborn
,
Tony Benson
,
Misha
Gericke
,
Lindsay
Buroker
,
Loretta
Stephenson
, and all my wonderful fans, the best there are on this planet
and all others. Couldn’t do it without you.

Dedicated to Mom. I wrote you something.

The Backworlds

by M. Pax

CHAPTER 1

Craze never imagined his pa would
turn on him. Bast served up manipulation and cold calculation with cups of malt
to strangers, to suckers, to fools, and competitors. Not to his son, not to
anyone in the family.

Bast had always said, “Never trust
a con.” He pounded in the lessons until Craze could recite them inside-out and
could smell a schemer from ten kilometers away. Craze should have known to
ignore the one on how dodgy fathers don’t count as cons, should’ve known Bast couldn’t
be trusted.

Craze snorted, glowering into the
single malt. The wooden cup added to the flavor, deepening and enriching the
magic carpet in the tumbler. Craze had dubbed it magic, because just a few
swigs could transport him out of reality, even this horror pit his pa had just
shoved him into.

“This world ain’t big enough for
both of us,” his father had said while pouring the drink. “Time for you to find
new opportunities. For us.”

For us? Craze wanted to laugh.
Shit. That kind of talk was for uncooperative members of the council of elders
or business rivals.

Swirling the liquid smoke around
his tongue, the fire mellowed into a flavor akin to pleasure. Craze let it
trickle down his throat, savoring the burn trailing deep into his stomach. It
staved off the damp and his father’s chilling words, “Time for you to go, Son.”

They sat at the bar of the family
tavern, sharing the end of the day as they often did. Only this time, they
didn’t conspire about how to rise in status among the Verkinn, or discuss which
council elder they needed to manipulate into doing what. They didn’t laugh over
the saps they’d duped out of chips either. Years of acquiring chips and
standing Craze had assumed would come into his hands, making that ancient
saying about assumptions, older than Backworlder genes, right.

Craze found it hard to meet his
father’s gaze. His meaty fingers flicked over a corner of his tab—a data device
the size and thinness of a card with funds transferred onto it. He stared at
the figure. “That ain’t much, Pa. Won’t even buy me a place to piss.”

Outside the window next to Craze’s
right elbow, dew settled as the sun sank among the tangled jungle of
ganya
tree leaves and branches, reaching high and low like
an enormous bramble thicket. The moisture thickened, cloying as the day grew
long, pooling into puddles, seeping in through the panes. The heaters couldn’t
keep out the cold of the coming night, couldn’t warm up his pa’s order for him
to leave either.

The painful sentence echoed like bad
hooch stuck in the digestive tract. Go where? Craze’s chest constricted, his
thoughts went round and round. He rubbed at the ache between his breasts and
the one at his temples, hoping he’d heard his father wrong.

The malt numbed it some. He threw
the rest of the drink back, licking off any remnants clinging to his fleshy
lips. His dark eyes narrowed, studying his father. The man stood behind the bar
like a boulder, his square jaw set, which widened the splay of his nose and
cheeks that were so much like Craze’s.

Everyone had always remarked on how
much Craze and his pa were alike in appearance and manner. They could schmooze
better than a slick-tongued peace negotiator bargaining a new truce, and they
both had ebony hair and eyes, dusky skin, and an intimidating, beefy build.
Craze used to take pride in that. In one moment, one sentence, it all changed.
His father had broken the rules he’d set up between them. He’d sold his son in
order to rise in the Verkinn elders’ esteem. Craze swore right there and then
to never become like his father, and he didn’t want to do what his father asked
of him, resented it’d been asked at all.

Tapping out the last droplets from
the cup into his needy mouth, Craze held it out for a refill. His pa made the
finest malt on all the Backworlds, drawing connoisseurs from all over the
Lepper System—the portals of transportation the Backworlders traveled on. Craze
would need a whole keg to deal with the words filling his flat, indistinct
ears.

“I’ve saved money for this day,”
Bast said. “I know the startup fund ain’t much, but it be enough for a position
where you can make better ‘n move on. You’ll make the most of it. I know.” He
poured the equivalent of three shots into a cup, the malt gurgling pleasantly.
“Then you ‘n I will come to dominate the Backworlds. Folks wanting our malt,
mead, and ale. Hollering for it everywhere. Telling us their secrets as they
sip down our hooch, sometimes secrets we can profit from.”

Bast toasted Craze, then swigged
his finely-crafted booze. “Later, I’ll send on your sisters with their families
‘n more son’s. You’ll send out your offspring ‘n the galaxy will be liquid
resin in our hands. Moldable and shapeable to our whim. Yup, the boys of Bast
will take the stars. Our ..., your, your future is so bright, my boy.”

His pa’s chest swelled and his eyes
gleamed as he gazed wistfully into the tomorrow he envisioned, lips twitching
into a faint smile. “Talked the council elders into agreeing. So, this be
sanctioned. Yup, you’ll be the Verkinn’s next great hero, spreading our people
out in hopes you can make something amounting to success on what’s left of the
Backworlds. Make a statement our kind be not done. No, the Verkinn will rise
again ‘n you’ll lead the way.”

Craze heard nothing beyond the
glory of Bast. “My
leadin
’ greatly benefits you. So
you hope.”

His father frowned, spitting,
starting to snarl. Then he fell quiet, saying nothing. Eyes brimming with
moisture, he washed cups and wiped off bottles and kegs. His shoulders sagged.
“If you want to think me so low ... after all we’ve shared ... I thought you
knew me better, Son.”

Craze cradled his head in his large
hands. Shit. His father had kept him and taught him all these years. Maybe his
pa did mean well, did mean to further Craze’s standing in life. Craze wanted to
believe that more than his father turning on him.

“Where do you suggest I go, Pa? No
other suitable world’s been found for us. Not for
thrivin
’,
so the Verkinn council has said. As soon as I set foot on another world, I’ll
go into hibernation if the air isn’t right.”

“The council lied. They wanted the
Verkinn all in one place to regroup after the war. So our people could grow
strong again. I don’t know where you should go, but go you must. Many worlds
won’t be suitable for you. The council ‘n I planned for it though.” Bast leaned
over, resting his elbows on the counter. “We met a man with a mechanical woman;
she was a cybernetic Backworlder, an engineer type. She invented a pair of
coveralls that’ll keep the right amount of organics flowing in your blood,
enhancing whatever oxygen there be on whatever world you end up on, keeping you
from hibernating if you don’t wish to. The garment be in your pack. See, I be
looking out for you, my boy.”

His father thrust his chin at the
corner by the door where a canvas sack laid. Wrinkled and deflated, the worn
bag sank in on itself decreeing not much was in it.

If they’d engineered a whole
freaking garment to keep Craze from hibernating in less ideal environments,
Bast and the council had known about this day for some time. Just how long had
they been planning this? Craze’s stomach churned cold, creating a granule of
ice in his center. He felt certain he’d never warm up.

A lantern sat on the bar between
Craze and Bast. It flickered out of beat with the fire crackling in a pit in
the center of the dim room. The tavern had been created from a
ganya
tree—intelligent flora that adored the Verkinn. The
walls, floors, and ceiling spanned in a natural canopy, and the trunk twisted
and arced as Craze’s father had commanded, scented with a sweet spice inviting
customers to hang around. The bar and shelves were formed from limbs crossing
and braiding. They swathed the walls and counter in swirls. The bark had become
smooth from years of being touched by Backworlders of all kinds, but most of
all by the Verkinn. The tree had absorbed the softness of Verkinn flesh, making
the trait its own.

His pa’s living hair slicked itself
back, taut and straight, pulling his wide face into an expression used to send
unwelcome patrons out the door. Mixed messages. One second he was the loving
father, the next a self-serving bastard. Which Bast did Craze deal with? A tiny
inkling in the back of his mind whispered the
slickster
Bast was the true man standing there. No matter what Bast said or did, he
served himself. Craze didn’t really want to listen. There was comfort in
thinking he dealt with the father. It wasn’t to be though.
Bast’s
sneer grew more menacing, belying all the good Craze wanted to put his faith
into, showing the reality beyond the charismatic facade. The bastard.

The tavern belonged to Craze as
much as to his father. He wouldn’t give up his position without a fight. He had
his hair braid itself into a single plait, matching crusty expressions with
Bast. “This is my place, Pa.”

“No.” His father folded his
powerful arms over his barrel chest.

Craze had the same physique, so
Bast’s
stature didn’t intimidate him. Nor did the surly
posture. Craze could take the older man on and win, therefore, he copied the
stance and kicked the bar. The
ganya
tree trembled
from the blow.

“All Verkinn live here. Here! Where
am I to go?” he asked.

Bast grabbed at Craze’s shirt,
lifting him off the chair, growling. “Watch your manners. You ain’t my only
means of branching out. I can marry your sisters off to some saps who’ll follow
my every word. You do what I say, or I’ll take the funds back ‘n give you the
boot anyway. You understand?”

Bastard plus two. Craze pulled out
of his father’s grasp, wheeling about to face the window. The setting sun
twisted the glow of daylight, distorting colors in the village. Not so
different from Bast lifting the veil over Craze’s eyes. How had it come to
this? Craze’s fists balled.

Bast clapped Craze on the shoulder,
an affectionate caress, a more fatherly gesture, which shifted the mood between
them again. “Look, I know this be hard on you, but you need to toughen up.
Become your own man. It’s for the best. This be as far as you’ll ever get on
Siegna. You need to go off on your own. No more tagging on my sorry example.
Follow the Lepper, talk to folks ‘n you’ll find something. You resourceful,
Son. You’ll figure it out.”