The Council of Hhearn Trilogy Box Set

by P F Walsh

  “Thank you, Doctor, you have all permissions to do whatever you think will help ship number five. In the meantime, I agree, we will avoid the local synthesizers, as we did before, until you give us an all-clear.” Sean said.

  “Allister?” He called, “any thoughts on this?”

  “No, Captain. I believe the Doctor is proceeding in the right direction. There is an upcoming decision to be made regarding the brain ships that involves me however. I have not attempted to open direct communications with any of them, especially not number five. They are not silicone-based entities, and communications with them by me might pose dangers for either of us. I do recognize that Central does have communication with them. That strongly suggests it is safe and possible, but I will wish to scan and converse with Central a great deal before doing anything. I plan to request your permission before opening a link, Captain.” Allister said.

  “I agree Allister, be careful on that one.” Said Sean.

  “Rooky, I doubt you have been able to absorb the entire law library here, but there are a few items on my list now. First is the sovereignty of the planet, what is the status and how does it affect us?” He queried.

  “Captain, the Kreig, the Citizen’s Parliament body on the planet Trether recognized discovery of this small planet three-hundred and sixty-seven annuals ago. It was logged as a low-grade discovery since it didn’t have appreciable deposits of precious metals, rare-earth soils, or soils which would meet agricultural needs. It did have a thin atmosphere which has been appended by local atmosphere systems using the abundant supply of polar ice. It was assigned an ‘outpost’ status. Under the Kreig statutes, the planet did not gain full connected sovereignty to the home planet but remained an outpost, used for remote testing and research on a classified basis. An interesting legal point, under Earth astronomical rules, this celestial body does not qualify as a planet. It is just a few Earth miles smaller. Under Council of Hhearn rules, it is an asteroid. Under those rules, you may claim ownership under the rules of occupation, and corporate mining and development use.” He described and went on,

  “The research on creating brain ships was actually forbidden under their unified law as an unpermitted version of slavery. It seems likely that would be the case for both Earth and the Council Worlds too. It appears the activity became known to the members of the Parliament who demanded that the research and activities be shut down. It was at that time that the alien blood cells began to rapidly kill residents and scientists here and was promoted on Trether as a plague. The Parliament declared the planet, its contents and research as “Non sive qualitercumque consociata,” or as you would call it on Earth, “No longer associated or connected.” The planet, its contents, and its infected personnel were abandoned in their entirety. Central was instructed to shut everything down and erase connections to Trether. Of course, Central had embedded programming to prevent self, or accidental, destruction of data, and while it issued a compliance signal to a Trether ship in orbit, in fact, was unable to comply.”

  “Rooky, when did you learn to speak Latin?” Sean asked.

  “Some time ago, while studying Earth law. Very clever to use a dead language so the meanings do not change. I like it a lot.” He said.

  “Well, what does all this mean for us?” Sean asked. “It means Captain, as an Explorer mission, the planet is now under your dominion as the only biological sentient authority in occupation.” Rooky said.

  “I advise you to make that declaration to Central as soon as possible.” He said.

  “Central, did you hear and understand Rooky’s report?” Sean asked out loud.

  “Yes Captain, my records agree with his assessment, and I have recorded the Master Captain Sean Flynn as the dominion power for this planet. I will acquire the star chart of your home planet address from Discovery. Should the location of it be open record, or classified? Central asked.

  “Classified.” Sean answered.

  “Acknowledged Captain. All records will be updated, backed up, and copies sent to the Library for inclusion. A long period of indetermination has been ended. This closes several open files.” Central reported back.

  Chapter Eight

  Book Three

  On New Mak, the Queen pretender screamed at her aids,

  “Get out. Get out, all of you. Send in the Nemesis Master!”

  Queen Elsvig of House Elsvig, and functioning pretender to the throne, was angrier than she had been in many solars. She was the third descendant of pretender Queens from the House Elsvig that had usurped the throne from its hereditary ascender while that ascender was still a small child. Constant efforts over the past two centuries to find and kill the hereditary claimants was ongoing. Despite believing success, each time they discovered that the one the Nemesis Master had dispatched was a mimic, a chimera, to enrage the false powers that they had failed again, and that their hold on power, though strong, was brittle.

  Ketrug-lis was Nemesis Master under the direct command of the Queen. He was one of a handful of people who knew the sitting Queen was unentitled to the throne. Ketrug was a deadly administrator of making things, including people, disappear without a trace. He was feared by all of the Palace staff, and all those who knew of him and his work. He preferred to remain in the shadows, unknown to the populace, but administration of his mission required staff, guards, investigators, geneticists, and they all knew who and what he was.

  He was on his way to answer a demand from the Queen. Likely, she had discovered the last person eliminated had no blood connection to those who claimed ruling rights. He always felt that they should first do a blood analysis before elimination, but there was always the person who would tell of their testing, and the public would begin to wonder why the Palace was checking blood heritage?

  “You called my Queen?” He asked as he bowed.

  “I don’t call, Ketrug, I demand!” She spat back. He could see she was in one of her rages. Waves of insecurity, washing over rational thought again.

  “They play and toy with us Ketrug, what was it this time?” She demanded.

  “His papers were all falsified, as was his genesis. No parents could be found. Once again I think these are chimeras to keep us away from any real blood claimant.” He said.

  “I don’t care what you think, Ketrug, I only care what you do!” She screamed at him, now beginning to tremble as she did when she was in full unfettered rage.

  “As long as she doesn’t reach for that poison-coated dagger she keeps in her skirts, I will endure.” He thought, trying to appear frightened and submissive. He had his own dagger, of course, and was absent any compunctions about seizing the throne for himself, but he saw what she endured as a false royal, and was not convinced it was worth it. He felt that perspective originated from a small spot of self-respect he had never quite managed to shed. He also knew the palace was rife with sneers from those who suspected she was a fake, and could not countenance that inevitable result for himself.

  ”You disappoint me Ketrug, and on top of another failure, you did not notify me so I could watch the inquisitor do his work. You know how I enjoy watching the neutering, and this one was a boy, was he not?” She asked, now in a syrupy, evil delivery.

  That was when she really frightened him. The depth of her enjoyment of watching pain being administered, was a deep sickness. Most like that, were never shed of those desires, until they themselves were dead.

  “I apologize, Your Majesty, the interrogation was done in a dirty village hovel so others could hear the screams.” He said. She nodded her approval.

  She came down from the throne dais and strode about the room, flaring her skirts as she rapidly turned this way and that in some kind of strange dance.

  “This is all mine Ketrug, don’t ever forget that!” She said coldly.

  “It is among my deepest beliefs Your Majesty” He said as he bowed, knowing she loved it when he called her ‘Your Majesty.”

  “Now, get out, tell them to send in some wine.” She said as
she turned her back to climb onto the dais again. He backed-out, bowing and thinking,

  “If I really found the true heir, would I kill them?”

  On Hhearn, Maejel Tripperty the Cultural Attaché from the IRO on Earth was in her office fielding calls for an ever-widening range of requests and questions. Most centered-on music and fashions, and a lot was going on. Several fashion shops from Earth had opened in the new buildings now completed, and all had almost sold out the first week requiring drones to be sent to Earth for emergency restocking. She had included a special request in that message drone and had already received what she needed. Among the other activities that landed on her desk were applications for extended work permits for instructors from Earth to establish dance studios, and beauty salons and music schools. The Royal Ballet had sent her a note they were planning to open a branch Royal Ballet school and requested information on establishing a suitable site and location. The demand for all of this could not seemingly be quenched, since there were fifty other planets of lesser demand, and the aggregate demand was building. On top of that, she was dragged into commenting on the construction of the new outdoor Music Shell along the river and the renovation of the Council Main Hall to prepare for next annual’s State Ball.

  There were now many days when she wished Millie was based on Hhearn to help and not Earth, but she was needed in both places. Another problem to solve. Clearly, they would have to add staff. Today however, she had an appointment that she was both not wanting, and looking forward too. She had called down to the front lobby security desk and alerted them to her guest’s arrival. Security had been increased since the last time her guest was there.

  Her pocketcomm rang and she was advised her guest was being escorted up. She cleared off a table and placed an article in a silk bag on the center of the table along with a silk scarf. She waited.

  Her door opened and three people came in, two armed guards and a Zakarian Plezzo Warrior in his full skins and weapons.

  “Kiz-bel the Younger, I am honored that you have returned.’ She bowed, forcing him to bow as well. She turned to the guards and said,

  You may wait outside. The warrior and I have clan business to discuss.” She said firmly. The guards retreated but stood just outside the closed door wondering what could be going on.

  “So, Kiz-bel, you are back to compare blades?” She said.

  “I am, as we agreed, to answer your challenge. Do you have a slave or a prisoner we can kill to demonstrate?” he asked with his deep, rumbling voice despite his young age.

  Maejel laughed,

  “No Kiz-bel, that would soil my work space, and the harmony of our meeting. We can compare quite easily without the bloody mess.” She said.

  “Draw your sword and I will test your blade.” He drew his sword and assumed an attack pose.

  “Relax Kiz-bel, our interest is in the swords, not your fighting skill, remember? I did not disparage the great warrior fighting skill, only the implement being used. Stand easy and hold your sword straight out, blade edge up, as we begin the ‘ceremony of the blades’ she said.

  He held out his sword. She turned to the table and lifted the beautiful silk scarf she had placed there. She took the scarf, held it over his sword with a bowed head appearing to pray, and dropped the scarf to settle on his sword and hang there. Kiz-bel was now in thrall as he watched this ceremony, he believed was a blessing of his sword. To Zakarians, ceremonies related to weapons were deeply honored and he stood there silent.

  After a bit, Maejel removed her scarf from his blade and said,

  “You may place your sword back in its scabbard now.”

  She then turned back to the table and picked up the silk bag, opened it and withdrew a Japanese Katana sword with both handle and scabbard ornately engraved. She withdrew the sword from its scabbard and exposed its gleaming, curved surface, examining it by moving it so that the light struck the blade several times and flashed into Kiz-bel’s eyes. Then she said,

  “Now we will honor this blade as well.” And she handed him the sword to hold out straight, blade edge up. She picked up the silk scarf and in similar manner, held it over the blade as if to pray. Then, she dropped the scarf and it floated slowly down. As it touched the blade it parted silently and two cut halves floated to the floor. Kiz-bel was stunned.

  “This is sorcery!” He exclaimed.

  “No Kiz-bel, this sword is sharper by many measures, and can cut with just a touch. This is a sword made by an Earth Japanese clan, the Abe clan of Mikawa, descendants from an Emperor. It was made for a warrior who wore it proudly all his life. It is from the middle Muromachi period, approximately six-hundred annuals ago, and is a very rare warrior weapon that has tasted much blood.”

  Kiz-bel kept examining the sword and its amazing detail, sensing the heft and balance of its feel in his hand.

  “This is the finest sword I have ever seen, perhaps in all Zakar.” He exclaimed, excited to be holding it and the sense of power he felt.

  “Kiz-bel, this sword is my gift to you.” She said. He looked at her in amazement,

  “I cannot accept such a priceless gift. I have not earned it.” He said sadly.

  “Indeed, you have earned it, Kiz-bel, and here is how. You came in here, prepared for a challenge of some type, driven by hot blood. But you set that aside to listen and learn. That is the first step of acquiring wisdom and should be rewarded. You have earned this gift, and I have benefitted since there is no blood on my carpet.” She said with a smile, as she handed him the scabbard, a silk bag to contain it, and her Attaché business card.

  “If you have questions about this sword, you can call me at the number on the card.” She said.

  She could see the moisture in the corner of his eyes, but would not mention such a thing to a Zakarian warrior. He slipped the sword into its scabbard and then the silk bag. He set the sword on the nearby table. He quickly withdrew his dagger and cut a small cut on his palm. Then, before she could react, he took her left hand and did the same as she winced. He clasped the two hands together.

  You are now my blood sister. He removed one of his metal blazons, of the Zakar House Bel, and pinned it on her. I am bound to defend you against all that may harm you. I am at your instant call, and bowed. She bowed back and said,

  “Kiz-bel, you have honored me. Thank you. Now, if you are like any other warrior I have known, you will want to share your good fortune with your friends and clan.” She gestured toward the door. He snap-nodded and moved to the door. He turned once more, opened the door, and bowed to her saying in clan-speak and then Shrep,

  “Kretch-va chext nikla siso... all good fortune in your day sister!” He then left with the two puzzled guards who were thinking, “Sister?” It wasn’t long before word spread throughout the Council building that Maejel was also a Zakarian Warrior blood sister, and not to be trifled with.

  Maejel reflected as she put on a small band-aid, and looked in the mirror at the blazon,

  “It seems all that bloody fuss I went through in theater class has paid a bit of cheer.”

  She started going through her daily ‘to do’ list, feeling quite good about herself. “He’s really not a bad chap,” She thought, “but my London friends will never believe I am a blood sister to an Alien Warrior. They’ll say it’s all tosh!” She reset her thoughts,

  “Now, the next thing seems to be to get these drawings of the Hatch Memorial Shell, that were sent to me in the drone along with the sword, over to the Architects and Builders to make sure they get the curve right on the Hhearn Music Shell.” She thought and put on her sweater. She took the drawings and locked up her office, noting before she left, how clean the carpet still was.

  “Central, what is happening with Ship 5?” He asked.

  “Doctor, it appears whatever you have done has made a difference. She is asleep. I have no record of her being in sleep mode for decades of annuals. I believe she rests.” It answered. The Doctor had hoped for a positive result from the filtering of the n
ourishment fluids to remove the alien blood hunter cells. Ship number five had been contaminated, and had been suffering from the contamination for more than a hundred annuals, driving her to levels of insanity. He hoped removal of the cells would return her to a lucid state, but there was always risk from an infection that old. He inserted another filter to catch stray cells. He suspected that he would be doing this daily for a few more days until he was sure he had trapped them all. He dropped the used filters into a contamination bag, sealed it and removed his gloves. He put both into a portable incineration hamper. He had a Central drone bring into the ship cradles. The containment bag was violently combustible and briefly raised the incineration chamber temperature to more than one thousand degrees.

  The Outpost City was heavily populated with research facilities, mathematical centers, computer centers, and the usual staffing support facilities, including lodging, and classrooms for training. There did not appear to be any provision for children, only adults since some of the research he learned had to do with military explosives and nuclear research. The City was a trove of scientific knowledge, much of which none of them understood. Sean wondered about how to control the release of all of this to Earth. Today, he was visiting and inspecting a small factory building. The outside did not look anything like an Earth factory but rather more like a blockhouse of sorts, very few windows and, of course, gray in color.

  The building appeared to have a very complex sorting chute arrangements where stores of bound paper stacks were released to slide down the hundreds of chutes and aggregate into a box. This appeared similar to product selection in an Amazon distribution warehouse. The sorting process was not running as Sean, Doris, and Artie walked about trying to assume some order or rationality to the whole thing.