“So, do you just wait around until there is a mission and then wait around to see if someone comes down with an alien virus so you can be a diplomatic second banana?” She responded in a prickly tone. “When I am not on an active mission, I work in the mission archives, cataloguing and analyzing socio-cultural data from the planets we visit. It’s not very interesting, but it is an essential mission function.”
Actually, that sounded to the captain like a pretty good gig. “Where were you educated?”
“The University of Sapphire at New Cleveland,” she told him, laying it down like a line in the sand, daring him to cross it.
Nonplussed, the captain surged ever forward. “Really? Were you in any of my classes?”
“Commonwealth and Colonial History 101.”
“Oh?”
“You gave me an 85. It was the lowest score of my entire university career.”
“I did that?”
“Other than your class, my college scores were all perfect.”
“Well, it’s still a passing score.”
“You said my work was competent, but uninspired. Then, you said your bowels must have been cranky that day and told me I could wax your hovercar for extra credit.” Keeler chuckled and blushed. “Ah, the good days. So, what did you major in?”
“Arcadian Literature and Finance Administration.”
“Oh, the old Lit and Ad. What have you done since then?”
“I had hoped to go into law, but because of your grade, my apprenticeship with the Supremes was rejected. Instead, I took a position with Partridge and Qureshi, I became an advisor on legal issues to the Oz delegation, and later a liaison to the Justice Ambassador on Republic.”
“Sounds much more interesting than living in a one-room studio in the Hall of Justice. Are you married?”
She leaned in toward him. “I’ll make a deal with you, Prime Commander. You are allowed to ask me exactly five personal questions. I will answer them. Other than that, we will confine to exchanges relevant to the mission.”
The captain answered testily. “If you don’t like small talk, why didn’t you say so?”
“That was one, and I just did.”
He shuddered.
Pegasus, Amenities Nexus
There is no City of Love on Republic. (Not even the adminicrats of the Bureau of Geographical Nomenclature (Ministry of Public Works) were that cheesy. There was, however, a restaurant called ‘City of Love’ on Pegasus, the kind of intimate, fine dining establishment reserved for special occasions.
Its style was intended to be a romantic interpretation of Republic architectural and design tastes, which tended to be simultaneously austere and monumental. In the case of ‘City of Love,’ this meant high ceilings, visible structural supports, and heavy geometric chairs and tables. Soft blue and lavender lighting colored the walls. The long, high windows showed a holographic view of an imagined ‘City of Love’ on Republic, a city whose towers glowed in reds and violets and were far prettier than anything the Ministry of Architecture would ever have approved.
There were few patrons this evening. A middle-aged couple from Technical Core were celebrating an anniversary with their two grown children. A woman scientist from biological survey dined alone. And, at a corner table, Matthew Driver and Eliza Jane Change shared a huge plate of truffles, soft meats, roasted vegetables, and that rarest of Republicker delicacies, marjaniw.
“It tastes… salty,” Eliza said.
“That’s from the sea-water,” Matthew informed her. “This is the real thing, from Republic. I’ve been saving my allotment. Kayliegh and Magnus consumed theirs at their wedding.”
“I thought the oceans on your planet were toxic.”
“Aye, but you’d have to eat at least a kilogram of marjani to get a toxic reaction.” He leaned in close to her, the better to see her face in the small light of the hologram candle. “If we were on Republic, and we had been going together for a year, like we have, do you know what the next stage would be?” He always got awkward when the talk became personal.
Eliza pushed slightly back from the table. “Coming from Republic, I guess there’s some kind of process and procedure for whatever the next stage is.”
“Nothing as rigid as that,” he assured her. “But, most people have the Ministry of Health run a genetic compatibility series. It’s mostly a formality, because hardly anyone is ever genetically incompatible.
Then, if we want, we can get a counselor from the Ministry of Family Services to help determine if we have any personality issues, and find ways to work them out.”
“Sounds lovely,” she deadpanned.
“I know it seems kind of bureaucratic to an outsider, but, really, it’s just a way to make sure that people who… are thinking of spending a life together to help make sure they’re making a good choice and that their commitment will last.”
She asked with unmasked dread, “What are you suggesting?”
Before he could answer, they were joined by a third. Eddie Roebuck, proprietor of a far less formal establishment known as ‘Fast Eddie’s InterStellar Slam-n-Jam (Mark I),’ intruded into their alcove. “Hah!
Glad I caught up with you beauties. Stay right here!”
He grabbed a chair from the table where the woman was dining alone and wedged it between Matthew and Eliza. “Truth!
“Shouldn’t you be at the Slam-n-Jam,” Matthew said.
“Beauty, the ‘Slam-n-Jam’ is dead. It is an ex-Slam-n-Jam. It’s as dead as Ex-Commander Lear’s sense of humor. It’s as extinct as the Borealan BroxxC. Medea has more action than the Slam-n-Jam!” Matthew tried again. “Eddie, Eliza and I were having a private dinner.”
“You should have come to the Slam-n-Jam. It doesn’t get any more private.” Eddie grabbed a handful of meat and truffles. “See, I missed out on the whole Independence thing. Everybody wants Independence food. Everybody wants Independence beverage. I totally missed it. If I can’t get more people to come in, I’m going to have to close down and…get … a … job. Also, Puck’s going crazy.”
“Puck is a mechanoid,” Eliza corrected. “He doesn’t go crazy.”
“He’s been pouring ale in people’s laps, then he points at them and makes euphemism noises. He dipped his head in batter and stuck it in the flash-fryer. The other night, he insisted he was a woman and wanted to be called Beverly.”
Matthew tried to remain patient, but irritation was poking through. “When a mechanoid behaves erratically, you wipe its programming, and re-initialize.”
“It took me a year to get his programming right the first time!” Eddie chewed a mouthful of meat and leaned back in his chair. He was not going anywhere, and Matthew’s line of conversation would have to be completed another time.
For this, Eliza was privately grateful.
Winter
Zilla dropped from a slate gray cloud deck and fell gently. Spits and spats of thick heavy snow splattered against her canopy and wingblades. For all the snow and clouds, the atmosphere was surprisingly docile. Winds aloft were gentle, and broke smoothly across the ship, making for a steady descent.
Far below, an ocean the color of a deep bruise rose and fell, creating crowds of foamy whitecaps. The tips of a few icebergs drifted gently in the current. The sea showed no tendency toward violence until it neared the rocky shore, where it pounded against the shoreline in a way that was at least as picturesque as it was destructive.
Zilla was only a thousand meters high, and traveling less than half the speed of sound when it crossed the seacoast. The ship slowed still further still further until she was little more than drifting, circling like an osprey looking for a place to set down. Landing struts unfolded from four points on the fuselage and disappeared into huge drifts of snow as the ship settled to the surface.
The side hatch opened and a half dozen explorers emerged, blinking in the snow-blinding landscape of white-on-white. They wore winter weather gear; standard landing gear but heavier, with more heating and insulation.
And it was barely adequate against the damp, penetrating cold of the planet Winter. Keeler shivered as he emerged from his ship, and shuffled a few steps through the knee-deep snow. He saw his shadow on the ground, shifting like a time-lapse photograph, and looked up into the sun, a pale white disk behind a hazy gray veil of clouds. He held up his hand and covered it, only to see it slowly emerge again, running scared across the morning sky. Through chattering teeth, he asked Flight Lieutenant Blade Toto. “What do you think, Toto?”
Toto was slight, young, with penetrating brown eyes. His arms were crossed around himself, trying to hold in warmth. When he talked, it was with a husky, country twang. “Well, sir, it sure is cold.”
“Indeed. Have you ever been to Hannibal? It’s a Ski Resort in Boreala. Lots of Stone and timber lodges, pools of hot mineral water, bars with drink lists as large as encyclopedias.”
“I’ve never been there, sir.”
“Neither have I, but this place completely doesn’t remind me of it.”.” Gotobed was scanning the structure. “We’re 47.1 meters away from the compound, Commander.”
“You mean that?” Keeler pointed toward four stories of polished and weathered rock, rising in the form of a pyramid with the top lopped off and capped with a design of odd geometric forms. Tall, pink windows marked a great hall that protruded from the front and continued around the far corner.
Gotobed grunted. She had to lift her voice a bit, above the crunching of boots in the snow. “No life signs from the interior. I don’t know if Lord Tyronius is about.”
“I think that’s him over there,” Keeler said, pointing to a stately figure in black robes, standing on a rock near the entrance to the keep, letting the slight wind rustle through his cloaks and long, flowing hair.
“Does he live here alone?” Gotobed asked.
“Mighty big house,” said Toto.
Keeler shivered and began walking toward him. “I only hope he asks us in.” The man waited as they walked over, flowing wraps and hair making him look like some vengeful prophet of the frozen wastes. He gave them a good, long looking-over, giving Keeler, who tried to meet his gaze, the distinct impression he was being judged.
“Greetings,” Keeler began. Tyronius held up a hand for silence. He cocked his head, came down from the rock, and moved around them studiously.
“You must be Lord…”
The hand shot up again.
Keeler shut his pastry orifice. The Lord continued until he had made a complete circle around the entire landing party, then stopped, facing Keeler.
“Cold enough for you?” Keeler ventured.
Tyronius fixed him with a hard stare. Then, a crooked smile broke across his face, and his hearty baritone cut the moist, frigid air. “By the thunder-gods of Ancient Rome, when did humans become so universally tall? What a roundball team I could have made of you. Roundball! Do humans still play roundball?”
Tyronius broke into a hearty laugh. “Welcome to Winter, my children, a planet of extraordinary, terrible, and wonderful things. Come with me. Get out of the cold. You’ll find my house is warm, and I have plenty of mead.”
Gotobed tapped Keeler’s shoulder with her heated landing glove. “According to the Lingotron, the language he is speaking is only a 0.1 degree deviation from baseline Anglish, one of the three languages of the Commonwealth.”
“So, the native language of this planet is almost identical to what the original colonists spoke.”
“The population is small and isolated. That might have helped to preserve it.” Keeler surveyed the semi-frozen landscape. “I bet they have a lot more words for snow and rocks than we do.”
C h a p t e r F o u r
Winter
The Entrance Hall to Lord Tyronius’s keep was as large as a ballroom and immaculately maintained.
The walls and floor were polished stone, something like marble, but with a pattern like shards of broken black mirror, as though it would slice the feet of anyone who walked on it. High above was an elaborate chandelier, dragon claws holding a constellation of white lighting globes. Immense stone staircases led upward to the other parts of the structure.
It was warm inside, and curiously humid. Tyronius unwrapped his cloaks and shook the snow from them. He was stocky and muscular. Keeler judged him to be somewhat older than himself, but wouldn’t have wanted to get in a wrestling match with him.
“Reminds me a little of my own dear home, back on Sapphire,” Keeler distorted. In size alone, there was perhaps a passing resemblance, but Keeler guessed that this structure was much older (although it wouldn’t have been had the original Keeler compound not been destroyed during the Overzealous Barbecue Incident of 6783). In style, it bore as much resemblance to the Keeler compound as a fortress did to a cathedral.
“Sapphire?” Tyronius mused. “I have never heard of that world.”
“Its official designation is 10 527 Pegasus IV.”
“That means even less to me, con permiso. ” He pulled open a large door, beyond which could be seen an army of wooden casks and a veritable library of bottles, the sight of which warmed Keeler’s heart as effectively as any fire. Tyronius quickly vanished among them, and could be heard humming an odd, martial tune as we went.
Gotobed reported to Keeler. “I am reading a number of heartbeats and other life signs in an adjacent structure, but they aren’t human.”
“People?”
“Neg, my guess would be livestock.”
“So, you’re saying he lives alone here.”
“I am saying he is the only human in the structure, besides us I mean.”
“Must get awful lonely, place this big,” said Toto.
Tyronius reappeared, carrying two dark bottles. “Some wine from my hydroponic vineyards, to celebrate our meeting. Follow me up to my balcony, and we will watch the snow fall, which you will find is a popular past-time on this world. In fact, you’ll find it’s really the only past-time on this world. You’ll have to take your own glasses. I only have two hands, you know.” The glasses were arrayed near the entrance to the wine room. They were beautiful, stylish, and apparently hand blown, with a design like jackfrost etched into the bowls. They each took one and followed Tyronius up the stairs to an observation room, where comfortable lounge chairs and couches were arranged facing a huge window that curved in over them. Beyond the window, they could see the mountains and the sea. The sun emerged from the clouds briefly, and for a moment, its light on the snow was dazzling, and it caught the prisms cut in the glass and washed them all in rainbow colors. All too soon, though, the clouds ganged up on the sun again, and showed it how it was unwelcome their neighborhood.
“How is the wine,” Tyronius asked when they had all settled into couches.
“Exquisite,” Keeler answered, and, as Gotobed had assured him poison-free. Given their experiences on other worlds, this was a promising start.
“I make it myself,” Tyronius answered. “Shiraz grapes, fourteenth generation from a strain original brought from the planet Sestina, a lovely place, have you ever been?”
“Not yet,” Keeler told him.
“More is the pity. So, tell me, how fares Commonwealth? Had any apocalyptic wars lately?”
“Well, we’ve been cut off the Commonwealth for most of the last two millennia,” Keeler answered.
“Part of our mission is to figure out what happened to it.”
“Ah, then, you can understand our confusion. Around the same time as you lost contact, perhaps a few centuries before, our First Parliament decided to sever ties with Commonwealth. We requested to be left alone, and we assumed they had been honoring our request the whole time. I suppose I should have known better.”
“Why did you ask that the Commonwealth not return here?” Keeler asked.
Tyronius thought this over for a second, sniffed his wine again. “Well, the truth is, we found something here that we decided humanity was not ready for.”
“Ah,” Keeler said. His heart sank a bit. W
hen part of humanity was lucky enough to stumble across something they did not want to share with the rest of humanity, it seldom bode well. Mighty big of you to spare us the burden, he thought.
“Do you want to know what it is?” Tyronius asked.
“Do you think we’re ready for it now?” Keeler asked back.
“No,” Lord Tyronius answered. “But I am going to tell you anyway. Tell me, Commander, how long does a man live on your world?”
“140 years, sometimes more. You can make it to 200, but it’s usually not worth it.”
“Your bowels start acting up after 160,” Gotobed put in.
Keeler glared at her. Score one for you, he thought.
“Six score years and twenty. Double what humanity was given originally, and still a fair sight more than in my day. You probably consider that a rich, long life.”
“It’s what we’re given. How we fill those years determines how rich they are.” Tyronius smiled and laughed. “You really are precious. I’d like to carve out your tiny little heart in keep it in a jar on my reading desk. Just kidding! Just kidding! I assume you brought men-at-arms to protect that brief, flickering candle you call life from ending prematurely.”
“You mentioned a secret of some kind,” Keeler said, forcing himself to remain calm and steady. He was beginning to suspect that Tyronius was a little bit deranged, and he was dambed glad that there, in fact, were three people carrying pulse-weapons in his party and that his faithful alien quarter-staff was by his side.
Tyronius gestured toward a large mural on the back wall, a landscape whose lushness contracted sharply with what lay beyond the observation window. “We came to this planet during the Eighth Crusade. We, most of us, were living on a colony called New Hibernia. New Hibernia was a place of…
green pastures, blue-black oceans, and gentle rolling hills stretching off to the horizon. The mural, you see, is painted from memory of what my own estate on that world looked like.” Tyronius stared at the mural and recited, with the practiced passion of a professional narrator. “It was a New Hibernian General, General Colfax, who defeated the Phantom Horde at the Battle of Cygnus.
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