by Jason Parker
Whitestorm shook her head and smirked. “That was a meaningless effort,” she accused. “The only purpose of that idiotic mission was to cover the Triumvirate's collective asses. The mission did not even extend to the outskirts of the Northern Territory. That’s where the trouble is—not in Egenton or at the Science Institute.”
Blaze couldn't argue with her assessment. Sending Wexworth on such a mission had seemed rather odd and odder still, according to rumor, it had been suggested by the High Priestess.
“And now, the Triumvirate has sent us,” Whitestorm continued, her voice dripping with contempt. “A token party of four which has no hope against what I have seen. So much time has passed, the Northern Territory is likely nothing but a sea of carnage and mindless savages.”
“And yet you survived,” he mused.
Whitestorm's eyes grew hot with tears. “I survived because I was lucky,” she shouted. “I survived because I killed everyone who ever meant anything to me rather than letting them live as something less than human.”
Blaze held up his hands. “I didn’t mean to make you relive the horrors you experienced,” he said gently. “I was just thinking out loud. You rangers are skilled and resourceful warriors. If you spread warning—as you said—there’s a good chance many of your people found a way to survive as well.”
Whitestorm returned her gaze to her hands.
Reneac woke up and looked around the car. “What's going on?” he asked.
Tari stood, looked at him, put a finger to her lips and sat next to Whitestorm. “Blaze is right,” she said, “and if other rangers have survived, we will find them and offer assistance. We truly do want to help. I know you were hoping for more than a reconnaissance mission and I'm sorry the Triumvirate has not offered more, but that is beyond our control. We can only do the best with what we have been given, and we will.”
“I understand,” Whitestorm said and wiped away tears. “The three of you seem capable. Despite my frustration with the Triumvirate, I realize you want to help me.” She shifted her eyes from one to the other. “I apologize and would appreciate being accepted as part of this team.”
“I think we can arrange that,” Blaze said. “Just keep focused and don't lose hope.” He reached out his hand to her and smiled. “Oh, and try not to be such a bitch.”
Whitestorm shook his hand and returned his smile. “Call me a bitch again and we'll see how tough you really are.”
“Duly noted,” he said.
Blaze nodded. He was satisfied with her renewed spirit. He needed it to endure. He suspected she would be a formidable opponent in battle. He hoped he wouldn’t have to find out.
CHAPTER 15
“Dammit!” Nightlocke tore off his goggles and threw them on his lab bench. Another failed attempt. He resisted the urge to sweep his equipment onto the floor and kick it to pieces. Instead, he pounded the lab bench with his fists, sank down onto his stool and wearily rubbed his eyes.
In the two months he had spent at Dagan Garris's castle making use of the exceptional lab equipment and supplies, Nightlocke had made rapid progress. The components for the force beam were formulated. His small scale, controlled tests had produced short, powerful energy bursts capable of reducing a brick to rubble. Exactly what he wanted. However, when he put everything together in the device he fabricated to produce a sustained beam, nothing happened. Nothing at all. He was confident his most recent adjustments would solve the problem. Alas, after two weeks of testing and adjusting, he was at an impasse. He wasn't sure what to try next.
“Excuse me,” a voice said from near the lab entrance.
Nightlocke looked up toward the door to see Dagan standing just inside the threshold. He had not heard him and wondered how long he had been standing there. He bristled at the amused half smile upon Dagan’s face.
“Can I help you with something?” Nightlocke asked sarcastically. “Offer you some advice perhaps?”
Dagan held up a hand. “Hold on, I realize you’re frustrated, but I…”
Nightlocke cut him off. “Yes, I’m frustrated. Frustrated the advice and wisdom you offered seem to be in very short supply. I’ve been here two months. You have been greatly hospitable, but I’ve learned little from you and when I ask questions, you answer with questions. It’s frustrating. You’re frustrating!”
Nightlocke gritted his teeth and shook his head. Maybe it was time to move on. He would have already returned to the Institute if not for Dagan’s unparalleled lab facilities.
“I understand your frustration with me,” Dagan said with a slightly broader smile. “Remember, I told you when you first arrived. I firmly believe most accomplishments are made when you work through problems on your own. Failure is an important part of the discovery process.”
“And now you’re patronizing me,” Nightlocke responded sharply. “If you recall, you also told me you have vast scientific knowledge and that I should use you as a resource whenever needed!”
“Yes, but up until now,” Dagan said, still smiling, “you have not needed me. You have been unaware, but I’ve been monitoring your progress quite closely. You have been on the right track all along.”
Nightlocke pushed back from the table. “I’m grateful for the use of your lab facilities, but with all due respect, I’m tired of the game you’re playing.”
Dagan laughed. Nightlocke’s vision swirled red. Standing, he gripped the edge of the lab bench so tightly his knuckles turned white. He spoke in a slow, tremulous voice, “Excuse me, but I think I'm done here.”
“Whoa, whoa!” Dagan said, holding up his hands. “I apologize. It's just that you remind me so much of myself in my younger days.”
Nightlocke glowered at him, unimpressed. He had heard that cliché before. He looked down at the beakers and flasks on his lab bench. The urge to sweep it to the ground returned.
“I’ve expressed myself poorly,” Dagan continued, moving closer to him. “Allow me to try again. Your work thus far has been phenomenal. You are one of the most gifted chemists I have ever met. However, your mechanical skills leave a bit to be desired. You are trying too hard to recreate Wexworth’s constructions. Wexworth has many scientific shortcomings, but mechanical engineering is not one of them. He is capable of creating extremely intricate machinery. You need to focus on your strengths.”
“Wow, thank you for that insightful assessment,” Nightlocke retorted, shaking his head in disbelief. He leaned on the table, sweat beading on his brow. “I am well aware of my limitations with mechanics, but I appreciate the reminder. Wexworth’s device did not appear to be some elaborate masterpiece. I was using it as model for a starting point.”
Dagan drummed his fingers on a stool. “Again, I think it is the wrong approach,” he said. “If you are insistent, I will assist you with your device. I have a strong background in mechanical engineering.”
“Of course you do,” Nightlocke said with a grand sweeping gesture. “I’m sure you have vast knowledge of the subject—just as you do of everything else, including bullshit.”
“That is quite enough,” Dagan responded tersely.
“Yes, I agree,” Nightlocke said. He tried to pull both arms out of his lab coat at the same time, became tangled and fumbled around. He finally freed himself, violently threw the lab coat to the ground and stormed past Dagan into the hallway.
His thoughts raced as he stomped down the corridor. Was it time to move on from this place? Had he overstepped his bounds with Dagan? Why did Dagan offer him an apprenticeship in the first place? Why was he withholding help? Was Dagan actually a great Master Scientist or just someone playing an elaborate role? What the hell was wrong with the force beam device?
Nightlocke stopped walking and rubbed his temples. His head was starting to ache. His anger and frustration were replaced by weariness. He contemplated going to his quarters to rest but then caught the scent of baking bread and roasted beef trailing to him in the air. His wandering led him near the kitchen and the wonderful smell emanating
from it.
Nightlocke walked into the kitchen. A large island with a smooth oak counter occupied the center of the room. An array of copper pots and pans hung suspended above the island on iron hooks. He saw the plump figure of Arletta busily working at the brass accented stove with her back to him. Humming a low tune he didn’t recognize, her thick hands were dropping sliced carrots into a boiling pot. Her long gray streaked brown hair was neatly braided and twisted in a bun.
“Hey, Arletta,” he said. “What's cooking? Your famous beef stew?”
Arletta turned and smiled at him with a grin that was missing a couple of teeth. Her white apron was dappled with various stains and the right cheek of her matronly face sparkled with a dusting of flour.
“Ah, Nighty-Night, right you are,” she answered, paused, and frowned slightly. “What's wrong, you look like you lost your best friend.”
Nightlocke couldn't help but think of her as a grandma even though she was absolutely nothing like his true grandmother, the retired soldier who had raised him. From the moment he first met her, Arletta had treated him like a long lost grandson and nicknamed him Nighty-Night. “Nightlocke sounds too scary for such a sweet young man,” she had said.
“Well, not quite that,” he said with a half-smile. “It has been a very difficult day.”
Arletta gave the large pot of stew a stir and peeked at the bread baking in the oven.
“I have a few minutes, sweetie. Why don't you sit down with me at the table and tell Arletta all about it?” she said soothingly. She put an arm around him and guided him toward the large kitchen table.
Nightlocke was a bit chagrined at allowing himself to be drawn into the fold of a pity party. In truth, perhaps it was exactly what he was looking for, exactly what he needed. A dose of Arletta, the consummate mother hen, to help him recover from his failures in the lab and his argument with Dagan.
Once they were seated at the table, Arletta gently patted his hand and asked, “What's troubling you so, Nighty-Night?”
“Well, I've reached a dead end with my project and I just got into an argument with Dagan. I'm not sure it was the correct decision to come here in the first place. I mean, things seemed to be going well at first, but now I don't know,” he babbled. “Dagan seems like a nice enough guy, but I'm not sure he is the right mentor for me. I'm not sure who would be, but I don't think Dagan and I mesh very well together.”
She smiled at him. “Now, I don't know the first thing about that fancy science of yours. I can't help you with any of that, but I do know that Mr. Garris practically gushes about you at every opportunity. He gets all excited and says you are the best Scientist he has seen in years.”
“Really?” Nightlocke responded in surprise. “I feel like he hardly knows me. We have done little more than engage in idle chatter since I’ve been here, and even that has been infrequent. He won't tell me anything about himself. I'm not even sure he is qualified to judge my scientific capabilities.”
“Mr. Garris keeps to himself for the most part. That's true enough,” she nodded. “I've been in his service almost three years and I can't say I know much about him. I suspect the woman before me, Essie, rest her soul, knew a little something. But, she didn't pass it along to me after she took ill and recommended I pick up for her. Essie worked here for Mr. Garris near thirty years, maybe longer.”
“Thirty years?” Nightlocke’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
“Oh yes,” she replied. “Essie and my mama were good friends. I remember visiting Essie here at the castle a few times with mama when I was a young girl.” She stood up and ambled to the oven to check the bread.
“Anyway, what was I getting around to?” she asked aloud then brushed her hands on her apron. “Oh! Mr. Garris hardly ever leaves the castle and doesn't get many visitors, but some people from your Science Institute have shown up a couple of times.” She counted on her fingers as she said, “Their names were Rainman, Sandy, and Fatson, or some such.”
Nightlocke burst out laughing. “I think you mean Rainstel, Sandstar, and Fodjan.”
“Well, I was close, and I really don't understand why people as smart as you Scientists go by such silly names anyway.”
Still chuckling, he asked, “Do you know if Dagan has a silly name?”
“None that I've heard of. At least Mr. Garris has some sense in that matter. Now when these Science Institute folk show up,” she continued, taking her seat back at the table, “they treat Mr. Garris like he's the king. They practically fall all over themselves. I figure if they act like that, Mr. Garris must have done something special.”
Nightlocke tapped a finger on the table. “You've lived in Brighton all your life, do you ever remember hearing anything about Dagan when you were growing up?”
“No, as I said before, Mr. Garris keeps to himself. I think he's always been like that.”
None of this makes sense, Nightlocke thought. Dagan could not be much over sixty. An unknown recluse for thirty something years in addition to supposedly building a distinguished career in science didn’t add up.
“Dinner will be ready in about half an hour,” Arletta said, interrupting his thoughts. “You go find Mr. Garris and make peace so you can break bread together.”
Standing she moved her hands in a shooing motion. “Get going now,” she said with feigned impatience. “I've got cooking to do.”
He smiled at her and reluctantly arose and exited the kitchen.
Out in the corridor, he sighed and admitted to himself that Arletta was right, he needed to find Dagan and apologize. Despite who Dagan may or may not be, he had welcomed Nightlocke to his home and offered up his facilities. At a minimum, Nightlocke owed him gratitude and graciousness.
He surmised Dagan was in his quarters. Instead of heading in that direction, he exited the castle into the courtyard and walked toward the stables. The thick humid air and oppressive heat of the late afternoon struck him like a hammer blow and briefly stole his breath away. As beads of perspiration began to emerge on his forehead, he mentally clicked through the calendar and was surprised to realize it was already midsummer. Consumed with his lab work, he had not ventured outdoors in two weeks. With icers running throughout the castle, he was oblivious to the seasonal change. Icers were remarkable devices created by the renowned Tarkanian Master Scientist, Cultivachek, and Calerian Scientist, Mekhane, thirty years ago. Nightlocke shuddered at the thought of how sweltering the lab would be without them.
Dabbing sweat from his brow with his shirt sleeve, Nightlocke approached the stables and saw Lassernan grooming a horse. Lassernan was a shy man of about forty, although his sun-wrinkled face aged him. His family operated all the stables in Brighton and cared for most of the privately owned horses.
“Hi, Lassernan,” he said with a wave.
“Hello,” Lassernan responded, looking up from the dark brown horse he was brushing. “You need me to saddle one up for ya?”
“No, thanks,” Nightlocke said. “You know, your nephew, Harlan, rented me the horse I rode here on my first day.”
“Lucky it wasn’t my brother, Hogan. He would have charged you double. He manages the lot.” Lassernan slowly smiled as did Nightlocke.
Nightlocke swatted at a fly buzzing in his face. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
Lassernan squinted at him then put the brush to the horse’s withers and stroked the sweaty mane. He looked back at Nightlocke and finally responded, “I suppose that would be all right.”
Lassernan was a loner who kept to the stables and the kitchen. The two of them had exchanged little more than pleasantries since his arrival. Nightlocke did not expect to elicit much information from Lassernan, but he figured it was worth a shot.
Nightlocke pulled at the front of his shirt to circulate some air. “So, um, what do you think about this hot weather?”
Lassernan frowned at him and returned to brushing the brown gelding. “Not much different than it usually is this time of year.”
Nightlocke
took a breath and cut to the chase. “How long have you worked here, Lassernan?”
“Oh, about ten years or so,” he replied without looking up.
“Did Dagan have another stable hand before you?”
“Yeah, my brother worked here before me,” Lassernan said.
Nightlocke pressed on. “How long did your brother work here and why did you take his place?”
Lassernan paused his brushing long enough to shoot Nightlocke a suspicious look. “I don’t know exactly how long Hogan worked here, but he quit when Papa died and he had to take over managing the stables.”
“Do you know Dagan very well?” Nightlocke asked.
Lassernan put the brush down and looked at him with what appeared to be confusion.
Nightlocke rephrased the question. “I mean, do you know much about him personally.”
“No,” Lassernan said. Annoyed, he continued, “Mr. Garris keeps to himself. He’s fair and pays me well. Aside from that I mind my own business.”
Nightlocke wasn’t learning anything new. Lassernan’s words basically echoed Arletta’s. He made one final attempt. “Have you ever heard anyone call Dagan by any other name?”
“You mean like dumbass or some such?” Lassernan asked, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a smile.
Realizing he had just been cleverly called a dumbass by an uneducated stable hand, Nightlocke felt his cheeks redden and muttered, “Not exactly.”
“Well then, no,” Lassernan said in a half-laugh.
Chagrined, Nightlocke uttered a sardonic, “Thank you so much.” He retreated back to the castle willfully ignoring the muffled laughter emanating from the stables.
Nightlocke shivered as his sweat-dampened skin encountered the cool interior air of the castle. It was a sharp contrast to the sweltering heat outside and he wished he hadn’t made a show of throwing his lab coat earlier. As Nightlocke walked down the hall, he pondered the mystery of Dagan Garris. Who the hell was he? What little he knew of him seemed to be a big contradiction. Finding himself at the door of Dagan's quarters, he hesitated briefly and then knocked.