Occam's Razor Read online

  Occam’s Razor

  J.E. Gurley

  Copyright © 2014 J.E. Gurley

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 10-1494423944

  ISBN-13: 978-1494423940

  Cover art by Al Sirois Copyright 2014

  Dedication

  Without the love and support of my sweet wife, Kim, this book would not have been possible. She is my inspiration, my guide, and my grounding. She is my biggest supporter. I dedicate this novel to her.

  J.E. Gurley

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank every one of my writer friends for their support, advice, and inspiration. The writing community teems with authors willing to share their knowledge and experience. Two writers, especially, come to mind – Jonathan Maberry, for providing the tools I needed to become a better writer, and Weston Ochse, a fellow Arizonan, for his inspiration and friendship.

  A special thanks to Al Sirois, who developed the cover art. Thanks a million. Great job!

  J.E. Gurley

  1

  We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

  The Tempest, Act IV, Sc1 Wm. Shakespeare

  “I’m starving. Did your dream friends tell you where we might perchance find food?”

  Ulrich Stumphman’s whining voice grated on Jazon Lightsinger’s ears. He tried hard to ignore his friend’s incessant grumbling, but Ulrich was making a spectacle of his discomfort, stumbling along the dusty streets of Ithira with his hands covering his ample belly, moaning loudly.

  Jazon was becoming acutely aware of the rumblings emanating from his own empty stomach. Passing rows of inviting, open-windowed kiosks displaying mounds of freshly baked goods and large bowls piled high with steaming vegetables only increased the rumbling. Strolling street venders brushed by, hawking both savory and sticky sweet treats on wooden skewers. The mesmerizing mélange of aromas made Jazon’s mouth water. They had eaten nothing but blackseed bread and wheat porridge for two days. Now, even that was gone.

  “I guess they left that little matter up to us,” Jason tone was sharp, as he answered his companion’s query. “We don’t have a surfeit of credits, Ulrich. In fact, we have exactly four credits between us. That will buy us a loaf of stale blackseed bread and perhaps a few pieces of fruit. If you can stave off starvation for a short while longer, I’ll try to find a game of chance and increase our funds.”

  “And if you lose?” Ulrich grumbled. As he spoke, he eyed a particularly scrumptious tray of roasted root vegetables lathered in sweet tisel butter. Though as ugly as the misconceived offspring of a donkey and a wombat, the diminutive Ataxan herbivores produced a milk rich in butterfat. Ulrich inhaled the musky aroma and groaned.

  Jazon shrugged nonchalantly, as if losing was only a remote possibility. He fingered the half-credit token in his pocket, his lucky piece. “In that case, we work for our food.”

  He was certain the prospect of working for wages didn’t appeal to his companion any more than it did to him. Somewhere, he would find a dice game or even a game of Sevens. The odds against him were higher with Sevens, especially with only four credits in his purse, but with a little sleight of hand manipulation of the cards, he could earn a few credits before anyone caught on to his cheating. He despised resorting to cheating, but honesty and good sportsmanship took a backseat to starvation.

  As luck would have it, a lively game of Sevens was underway on the outdoor patio of the next establishment they encountered. The bedraggled pair drew a few stares from the gamers, but the odd assortment of customers sitting around the table said nothing, as Jazon took his meager purse of four credits and anted up. To his delight, he hardly needed to cheat. His companions were drunk and poor players at best. He quickly ran up his small stake.

  Sevens appeared a senseless game to most Terrans, filled with unfathomable, ever-changing rules. A great deal of bluffing was involved, and the best hand did not necessarily win. The players could vote the winner of a particular hand by adding to the pot in that player’s name, or refute a winner by lowering their wager. Winning involved luck of the draw, successful bluffing, and ingratiating oneself with the other losers. Since two of the players were Ataxan who did little to encourage camaraderie, Jazon slowly built up his pile of winnings.

  He began to enjoy the game, the familiar fever of gambling coursing through his blood making him forget the gnawing hunger in his stomach. However, with Ulrich tugging nervously at his sleeve in fear, he decided that the twenty-four credits he had accumulated would be ample for their immediate purposes. Besides, a couple of the losers were beginning to eye him disapprovingly as their losses mounted, especially one large, drunken Ataxan.

  “Thank you gentlemen for the pleasure of passing the time,” he said, as he raked his credits into a satisfyingly large pile, preparing to leave the game. A tremendous, beefy fist closed over his hand, squeezing until he thought his knuckles were going to pop out of joint.

  “I lose! Play more!” shouted the intoxicated Ataxan to whom the enormous fist belonged. He spoke in broken Terra lingua, a language ill suited for his enormous lipless mouth and thick tongue. His spittle sprayed Jazon’s face, a mixture of cheap Ataxan ale and astringent juice from the cud of frax leaves the Ataxan was chewing, a mildly intoxicating herb that usually induced a state of euphoria when imbibed. However, it was having the opposite effect on the drunken Ataxan.

  Two knobby protuberances sprouted from the boney ridge of the Ataxan’s forehead. Butting heads was a favorite sport of Ataxans, one for which Jazon, as a human, was poorly designed.

  Jazon attempted to pry his hand from the Ataxan’s vice-like grip, but it was too tight. To avoid a confrontation, he tried addressing the Ataxan civilly.

  “I regret your inability to play Sevens, but my friend and I must be off.”

  The Ataxan simply tightened his bone-crushing grip on Jazon hand and stood, towering over Jazon’s 208-centimeter frame by another 45 centimeters. “Play more!” he shouted again.

  Jazon’s eyes searched the room, but he saw no potential hero coming to defuse the possibly volatile situation. He would have to extricate himself before the Ataxan attracted the attention of the Constables. From previous experience, he knew that the Constables would not look kindly upon a Terran involved in a public fracas. Ataxans rarely drank liquor and for good reason. Once intoxicated, they lost the thin veneer of civilization separating them from their primitive bovine ancestors. Ataxans were quite capable of causing serious harm to most species. They had the strength of their bullish ancestors and could drive a nail into wood with the heel of their hand. The other players cautiously backed away from the table, unwilling to become involved in the impending brawl.

  “Sir!” Jazon cried, feigning offense to hide his growing concern. “I have played fairly, and I now desire to leave. I have no wish to call for a Constable.”

  As Jazon hoped, the threat of a Constable loosened the Ataxan’s grip just enough for him to pull free.

  “Thank you.”

  He bowed and turned to leave, but the Ataxan, rethinking his position, grabbed Jazon by the shoulder and lifted him into the air until Jazon’s feet dangled a half meter above the dirty floor, crushing his shoulder. The pain radiated through his shoulder and down his arm.

  “My money,” the drunken Ataxan shouted in Jazon’s ear.

  Jazon wished to avoid a scene, especially one in which he was so badly outnumbered, but he now had no choice. He had first-hand knowledge of the Ataxan penchant for inflicting pain.

  Unfortunately, he could not return the money. He and Ulrich needed it too badly. Besides, it now became a matter of principle. He slipped a small nerve stunner from the pocket of his jacket, pressed the illicit device against the Ataxan’s bee
fy neck, and pressed the firing stud. Sparks flew, and the sickly smell of singed flesh filled the air.

  The Ataxan dropped like a sack of grain, slamming into the wooden table, splintering it on his way to the floor. Wooden shrapnel flew through the air, scattering the players onto the sidewalk. His spasms scattered chairs and customers. Jazon rolled across the floor out of reach of the thrashing legs.

  A rush of satisfaction washed over him as the Ataxan fell; slight payback for the atrocities he had endured at Ataxan hands, but a sense of urgency quickly replaced the thrill of victory. Before any of the onlookers could react to his flagrant breach of conduct, he scrambled to his feet and stunned the downed Ataxan a second time, smiling as the alien shuddered violently when the high-voltage charge surged through his body.

  Jazon replaced the illegal stunner in his cloak, grabbed an open-mouthed Ulrich by the hand, and dragged him inside the tavern. Struggling through the throng of drinkers, he located the rear entrance and raced into the alley, ignoring the shouts of the fallen Ataxan’s companion. Ulrich simply starred at him as he trotted alongside Jazon, his mouth moving wordlessly, a trembling finger pointing behind them to the crowd.

  “Unless you want to rot in an Ataxan jail cell,” Jazon warned, “I suggest you run.”

  The clamor grew louder behind them, but he didn’t turn to look. The crowd could easily turn ugly. The use of illegal technology, while tolerated to some extent in port cities such as Ithira, was strictly forbidden by Ataxan edict.

  Thankfully, all Terrans looked alike to most of the other races. Jazon only hoped there were a few more Terrans in Ithira to confuse any would be pursuers. After a few minutes of running, winding, twisting, and doubling back through the maze of streets and narrow alleys, he felt safe enough to stop to catch his breath.

  “What possessed you to stun that Ataxan?” Ulrich demanded breathlessly, his pudgy face red from exertion. “You know technology like that could get you Mind-wiped.”

  “What choice did I have? He was crushing my shoulder and was about to clean the floor with me, or were you about to step in and stop him?” he asked pointedly.

  Ulrich lowered his gaze but did not reply.

  “I thought not. More of your Savant vow of nonviolence, I suppose,” Jazon said with disdain. “Well, now we have enough credits for a good meal, a bottle of wine, and a place to sleep. Are you still famished?”

  Ulrich nodded, still struggling to catch his breath. Only a few centimeters shorter than Jazon, Ulrich outweighed him by almost eighteen kilograms. Jazon hadn’t seen Ulrich move as fast in the two years that they had traveled together. He tried not to smile at his friend’s physical discomfort and decided to make light of the situation.

  “Ah, I see a suitable establishment just up ahead. See, they boast of Terran cuisine. Maybe we can dine on rare roast beef or succulent turkey.”

  He was teasing his friend, and Ulrich knew it. Any place on Ataxa that advertised Terran food usually meant meat of dubious origin fried until it was crisp, dry, and tasteless. Few species, especially Ataxans, included meat in their diet. Of the dozen space-faring species inhabiting the Local Arm, the only carnivores were Terrans, the Trilock, and Mrumbans.

  Many races scorned humans as primitive because of their omnivorous ways. The Trilock, on the other hand, were true carnivores, usually eating their meat warm, bloody, and raw, but no one protested their eating habits – and lived. Mrumbans consumed mostly fish and shellfish, though they preferred their seafood cooked.

  Jazon knew that many Terrans now emulated the Dastoran distaste for meat, but he was not among them. He considered meat a high priority item, something of which he could not seem to get enough. It had been almost by divine intervention that he and Ulrich had been able to purchase a few pounds of genuine pork bacon for their journey from the northern coastal city of Tilica to western Ontara. Since he had arrived on Ataxa over two standard years earlier, Jazon had satisfied his craving for meat only a handful of times. Their two-week journey through the Oxicil desert depleted their meager store of rations. They hoped to replenish their supplies once they reached Ontara. Instead, the dreams had started.

  Each morning, he awoke from that wistful realm between tender sleep and harsh reality with vague, often disturbing memories of a face and of a voice calling to him. Snippets of dream would flit about in his foggy mind, confetti dropped in a high wind. Indistinct images flashed in his consciousness, finding no purchase in his weary mind. Only in the last four nights had the image become clearer – a Dastoran High Lord beckoning to him, calling to him by name. It was a compelling dream; one that he could not ignore.

  Convincing Ulrich to abandon their original destination of Ontara for the spaceport city of Ithira had not been easy, but Jazon managed to convey to his friend something of the urgency the dreams imparted to him. Now, they were in Ithira but no closer to their goal.

  As Jazon suspected, the promised Terran cuisine of which the establishment boasted was merely roasted kettathrop, a local rodent the size of a small dog – a creature of the northern marshes, eating the reeds that grew in abundance there. Once one got used to the oily flesh and slightly salty taste, the meat was palatable, especially to someone who had eaten worse. The sweet memory of the last of their fried bacon served well enough to dissuade him from the kettathrop. Instead, he ordered a thick vegetable soup with real wheat bread. Ulrich followed suit.

  Blackseed bread was a local favorite, but it was bitter and grainy and as tough as leather. He had learned to tolerate it but never to love it. Wheat was one of the few Terran exports that had found favor among the other races, along with vodka, hot chili peppers, and certain varieties of potatoes, one of the few tubers that each race seemed to have in common.

  Around a mouthful of wine, Jazon said, “I would kill for a bottle of real Terran vodka or even a taste of sweet Corvis from Flox, but for two and a half credits, this bottle of Ataxan dewseed wine will suffice.” He slammed his mug down on the table hard, sloshing its contents onto the tabletop.

  “Don’t drink too much,” Ulrich warned.

  Dewseed wine presented a problem to Terrans if overindulged. A chemical process in Terran physiology changed the wine into a bitter ointment if it remained in the stomach for too long. It was a beverage best sipped in moderation. Having once suffered from the gut-numbing effects of imbibing too much dewseed wine, Jazon heartily agreed.

  “Just a glass or two,” he assured Ulrich.

  Ulrich, Jazon noticed, ate with great gusto, gobbling down spoonfuls of soup, his wooden spoon drumming a staccato beat on his wooden bowl. Jazon ate more slowly. Each time he broke a piece of bread from the loaf, a severe pain shot up his wrist and into his throbbing shoulder. He hoped nothing was broken since they had no money left for an Apothecarian that might know anything about Terran physiology. Another reason he ate slowly was that he had a lot on his mind.

  Now that they had finally reached Ithira, he was undecided on how best to proceed. His dreams had brought them this far. The next step would be more difficult. The Dastorans were a clannish race, seldom dealing directly with lesser races, choosing instead to use intermediaries. How did one go about gaining an interview with the esteemed Highborn Lord of a Dastoran Enclave?

  Jazon suspected a wayfaring Terran, especially one that appeared down on his luck as he was, would more likely wind up in jail than aboard a Dastoran ship. He carefully examined his dirty threadbare tunic and ripped and torn pants – not the garb with which to impress a Highborn Lord.

  He spotted a game of dice in the corner of the restaurant. “We need better clothing,” he said.

  Ulrich followed Jazon’s gaze. “No!” he bellowed, soup spraying out of the corners of his mouth. “Do you want us to go to prison?”

  Jazon shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right. It might be better not to tempt fate a second time in one day.”

  Sated and slightly intoxicated from the dewseed wine, he decided a night’s sleep in a clean bed would be a welcome change
after two weeks in the desert.

  The innkeeper, an Ataxan female with a pronounced limp, stared at them for several seconds with undisguised disgust until he produced a handful of coins. Then, she handed him a metal key hanging from a threadbare string attached to a wooden tag.

  Jazon could decipher enough of the blocky Ataxan script to recognize a room number. For an additional half credit, he purchased a bar of soap and a hot bath for the two of them. The room, like most of the others he noticed, had no working lock. The doorjamb to their room had been repaired so many times that the door barely closed. An iron bedstead with a lumpy mattress, a soot-stained fireplace, and a rickety table were the room’s only adornments. The window faced the filthy blank stone wall of the building across the alley.

  Jazon bathed first, while Ulrich remained in the room studying his precious leather-bound copy of the Three Principles. Jazon’s knowledge of the Three Principles was limited to Ulrich’s repeated attempts to enlighten him, but he felt no comfort with the idea that all species were related and equal. He had been to too many planets to believe that.

  Still, Ulrich had kept the dog-eared book nearby during the entire journey; often reading it at night by the flickering light of his homemade kettathrop-fat candles whose noxious black smoke irritated Jazon’s eyes and lungs. He hoped his friend’s interest didn’t cause them to go their separate ways. They had trekked Ataxa’s deserts and mountains together for two years, spending hours huddled over a warm campfire discussing ways to return to Earth. Though a loner by disposition, he had met worse people than Ulrich with which to associate.

  While many of the inns in Ithira were modern with running water, electricity, and vids, these establishments were well beyond Jazon and Ulrich’s meager means. Their inn did have electric lights, but the communal bath was a large room abutting the inn, as if added as an afterthought.