Winter

by James Wittenbach

  Trajan was immediately alarmed at that. “Monitor me?”

  “Your piloting skills, your reactions, to see if you’re paying attention to all the things requiring a pilots attention.”

  “Could you read my thoughts through the link?”

  “Only what you actively transmit to the ship. I won’t be able to detect anything personal, if that’s what you mean. Try it with me. Try reading my thoughts.”

  “Nay, I wouldn’t… I can’t.”

  “Go ahead, try it.”

  Trajan closed his eyes, and tried to connect with Matthew’s mind. It was a half-hearted attempt, and he could see nothing. He was already considering how best to keep his private thoughts to himself.

  A voice came into Trajan’s ear. “Pegasus Flight Control clearing Aves Prudence for departure. Signal when prepared for launch.”

  “Do you want to respond to that?” Driver asked. “Go ahead.”

  Trajan answered. “Aves Prudence to Pegasus Flight Control. Completing final systems check. Will advise again when launch ready.”

  Winter – Habi Zod

  Lord Tyronius convened the Parliament Ball in the ballroom of his estate, a piece of interior real estate as large as a groundball field. A large, ironwork dome covered it, its glass sections like petals, now etched with intricate patterns of hoarfrost. Several balconies and bridges overlooked the main floor. It could have held a thousand people, and on this evening was almost halfway there.

  Nearly two hundred of the crew of Pegasus joined nearly three hundred of the Lords and Ladies and Villagers of Winter. A small orchestra was setting up in one corner, a massive larder of food had been opened and spread across great tables of polished red wood. By far, the wine was most popular. Lakes and oceans of purple and burgundy wine were swirling in the glasses of the guests.

  Redfire and Keeler stood at the periphery of the great hall, watching the half-a-thousand guests talking, laughing and swinging. “Nothing like a good mixer,” Keeler said, pouring some kind of local fruit juice into another local kind of clear alcohol.

  Redfire was not drinking, but instead scanned the room with bright attentive eyes. “There could be Aurelians in this room right now.”

  “Lord Tyronius doesn’t think so,” Keeler said. “Everyone on this planet knows everyone else.”

  “Commander, half the people in this room are wearing masks.”

  “I would still know anyone in my crew even in a mask, but if it will make you feel better, you can talk to each one and see if you get that damnable Aurelian headache.” A pair of woman’s hands came from behind and covered his eyes. “Guess who?” He felt up her arms toward her shoulders. “Marine Buttercup?”

  Lady Goldenrod swung around him, so that he was forced to catch her in his arm. “And just who, pray, is Marine Buttercup.”

  “Someone for whom you would never be mistaken, O vision of sweetness.” She turned her eyes toward Redfire. “How embarrassing.”

  “What?”

  “You showed up in the same outfit.”

  Keeler looked at the golden captain’s stripes on his uniform and compared them to the silver lieutenant commander’s stripes on Redfire’s. “Well, almost, fortunately, Ranking Phil doesn’t know slag about how to accessorize.”

  Specialist Gotobed, in a shoulder-less, evening dress uniform, approached on the arm of Lord Tyronius, a breathtaking vision of femininity. Her not him. A single blue jewel on a thin silver chain adorned her neck, directing attention directly into her comely bosom. She was conversing with a delightedly attentive host. “Lord Tyronius, what became of the children that came to this planet? Did they grow up?”

  Tyronius got a slightly pained expression. “Ah, children. The younger set, as we called them. Very few survived the Bacia plague. Those that did grew to adulthood, or near adulthood, on the journey here.

  Those that were not fully adult did have their development arrested when they settled on the planet. We sent them away, into space. Some reached adulthood and returned to live out their lives. Some never returned.”

  “Have any been born since you arrived?”

  “Alas, we are infertile. Whatever keeps us alive also prevents mitotic cell division in zygotes. By now, all of our women have exhausted their reserves of eggs.”

  “Now, was that level of detail really necessary?” Lady Goldenrod asked. “I mean, really?” I could have done without the imagery, Keeler thought to himself.

  In another part of the Ballroom, Trajan Lear and Matthew Driver stood next to a food table that featured several different kinds of meat encased in bread. “How did I do?” Trajan asked.

  “You did fine. You need to concentrate more. I sensed several times during the descent where you were not focused on the flight.”

  “Do I have to be? I mean, most of the time, the ship navigates itself, and the conditions were smooth.”

  “Aye, true enough, and eventually it will become instinct for you. Until it does, you have to concentrate every minute. It’s just something every pilot needs to force himself to do.” Mathew glanced down at his cuffs, and rather awkwardly excused himself. “Eliza will be getting off her watch about now.

  I need to check in with her.”

  Trajan looked somewhat lost as Matthew moved away. He set down his wineglass on the table and scanned across a whole roomful of people he didn’t want to talk to. He considered slipping off quietly to find a room for the night. Suddenly, there was a chop to his shoulder, just hard enough to hurt without being cause to fight. He spun around to find himself facing Max Jordan. “Hoy, Tray.”

  “Nice uniform,” Trajan said to Max, trying to make a conversational joke. They were both wearing the newly designed dress uniforms of the ship’s cadet training core. These consisted of black pants and a gray and blue jacket with an intricate grey and blue pattern on the sleeves worn over a gray shirt. They both considered the outfit hideous.

  “I make it look good,” said Max with grinning confidence. “You came down on Prudence?”

  “Aye, I co-piloted with Flt. Lieutenant Driver.”

  “Balls! I co-piloted Amy with Flt. Commandant Jordan. She let me do the landing sequence.”

  “I just handled the commlink,” Trajan said, modestly, but jealously.

  “Mom always let’s me do the comm,” Max answered, popping a bread and meat hors d’oeuvre into his mouth.

  Trajan nodded. “Of course she does. Listen, can you remain here while I find a euphemism.” Or, some other place where I don’t need to be reminded of my inferiority.

  Keeler, Redfire, Gotobed, Goldenrod and Tyronius were joined by the thin, dark, dour figure of Deacon Blackthorn and the leather clad Lord Brigand. “Capital ball, wouldn’t you say, Blackthorn,” Tyronius asked in his aristocratic baritone.

  “Still quite early,” Blackthorn replied grimly.

  “The Deacon Blackthorn was once my physician,” Tyronius told Keeler, as Blackthorn bowed slightly in the background. “We have observed something about you new humans.”

  “The height?”

  “Well, yes, that, you are taller than we, and your musculature is larger and more dense, your metabolisms are faster, yet your hearts beat more slowly.”

  “If it makes you feel better, most of the more vulgar and malodorous bodily functions are still intact,” Keeler told them.

  “Based on the conversations I’ve overheard, I am willing to bet your intellectual capabilities have also been enhanced,” Tyronius continued. “Technologically, though, my inspection of your ship suggests you are somewhat behind the Commonwealth, at least at its apex.”

  “Is there anything else?” Brigand asked. “Anything not quite so obvious?”

  “We’re mildly telepathic,” Keeler told him. “If that’s what you mean.”

  “Really?” said Brigand, with genuine interest.

  “We had that in the Commonwealth,” Blackthorn sniffed. “A small amplifier worn behind the ear…”

  “We’re born this way,” Keele
r explained. “Most of the improvements you describe are a result of evolutionary adaptation to the planet Sapphire, but telepathy is something we’ve never been able to pin down. It has been suggested it is a natural outgrowth of increased mental capacity, or part of the linear evolution of our species.”

  Tyronius and Blackthorn were laughing heartily. “What?” Keeler asked.

  “They have no idea, do they?” Blackthorn said, in gasps between bursts of laughter.

  “None,” Tyronius answered, through laughter and with tears in his eyes. “None whatsoever, the fools!”

  Brigand, finding none of this amusing, stalked off toward a drinks table, leather crunching tightly around his buttocks.

  Someone pressed a huge plate covered with neat rows of chopped meats, anchovies, eggs, and vegetables into Keeler’s hands. He looked up to see Lady Goldenrod. “Have you tried my Salmagundi, Commander? It’s my signature dish.”

  Keeler regarded the plate. It looked actually quite tempting, even with a primitive quality. “Thank you.”

  “Keeler, Keeler, Keeler,” Goldenrod mused. “I know where I have heard that name before. My uncle Lazlo served a ship in the Christian Fleet under an Admiral Keeler. I wonder if you’re related.”

  “If you speak of Lexington Keeler, I am one of his descendants.”

  “Really? Oh, of course, I forget, Admiral Keeler must have passed away centuries ago, millennia!”

  “You would think so.”

  “I know someone you absolutely must meet,” Goldenrod gushed, laying her hands on his forearm.

  “Really? Who would that be?”

  “An old acquaintance of the admiral’s. You won’t find him here. He’s rather anti-social, always has been. Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Uh,… answer hazy, ask again later.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Old Sapphirean oracle joke. What do we call you people anyway?” Keeler asked. It was the sort of question that would have made Lear grind her teeth down to the nubs. “Winterians? Wintermen?

  Polaroids?”

  “Most of us come from the Hibernia colony, and still like to be called Hibernians,” Lady Goldenrod answered.

  “I prefer Ancients myself,” Tyronius said.

  Goldenrod stretched on her toes and whispered in Keeler’s ear. “If you’re very good, some of us will come without being called.”

  There was a sudden eruption, a commotion in a room to the side of the party. A boy’s voice came shouting. “Get away from me!”

  “That’s Max,” said Redfire. He cut away from the captain, and pushed his way through the throng toward the epicenter of the commotion. Keeler trailed behind him.

  There was an alcove there, another window looking out into the gloomy Winter’s night. Max was red-faced, the front of his formal uniform was torn open, revealing a stretch of smooth pale skin. His expression was furious, and he was shouting madly. “Get away from me! Get away from me! Get away from me you sick disgusting ratgash pervert. Get away from me! Get away from me or I’ll rip your head away and shove it so into your anus you’ll be licking your own tonsils.” When they got close enough, Keeler could see that there was a chubby, pudgy, balding middle aged man in the alcove with Max. Keeler recognized him as Manchester. Redfire didn’t, and wouldn’t have given a damb if he had. He grabbed him by the lapels and swung him toward the wall, slamming him hard.

  “What the interjection is going on here!” Tyronius thundered.

  “That man attacked me,” Max screamed, pointing at Manchester.

  “I did not try to force anything on him,” Manchester protested. “I told him he was a beautiful boy and invited him back to my chambers.”

  “You did what?” Redfire growled furiously, and his face became nearly as red as his hair.

  “It’s true. He said he want to try things with me!” Max wailed, all of his composure lost. “He was grabbing for me.”

  Redfire turned toward Manchester, filled with rage. “Did you?” he demanded.

  “No, no, that isn’t it at all,” Manchester insisted.

  “He said he wanted to have sex with me.” Max insisted.

  “I asked if him if he would like to return to my chambers… for sex. I never intended to force him. I only asked him.”

  Redfire battered Manchester hard against the wall, then dropped him to the floor. He kept his arms outstretched, as though he didn’t want anything to do with them after they had touched such a vile creature. Jordan reached the front of the crowd and laid her arms around her son. “Take me home,” he whispered. “Please take me home, now!”

  “Can’t you people see?” Manchester insisted weakly, desperately searching from one face to another among the Lords and Ladies for someone who would support his case. “When you live as long as we have, you see that, something like this is no big deal. Age doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is new experiences, and that was all I was offering him. It was an act of… of love when you think about it.” His nose had begun to bleed, and he wiped it with the end of his shirtsleeve.

  Tyronius growled at him. “Manchester, there are 183 adults here from the Pegasus. Why did you try to force your attentions on a child?”

  “His innocence was so beautiful,” Manchester half-sobbed, his lips quaking. “None of us are innocent any more. So beautiful. Innocence, it lasts a few years and then you spend thousands jaded. I wanted to taste innocence again. I never… never…”

  Max shook his head. He was shivering. “I want to go back to the ship. Please take me back to the ship right now.”

  “We’ll go,” Jordan said.

  “I’ll go with you,” Redfire offered.

  “No, just you,” Max insisted to Jordan. “Just you, just take me back to the ship. Please. Now.” Manchester had a look like a beaten dog?. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  Deacon Blackthorn turned to Keeler, “What Lord Manchester has done is a grave offense to us, although I am uncertain whether it violates laws.”

  “Assault on a child?” Redfire interjected.

  “We have no children on this planet, and so no laws to protect them. But I understand the need for redressing grievance, and I can order him held pending further investigation or charges. We might be able to find something in our law books.”

  “I’ll leave that to the boy and his mother,” Keeler said.

  Tactical TyroCommander Redfire extended an arm Manchester to his feet. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “I think so, yes, I do think so.”

  “You shouldn’t be,” and with that Redfire punched him hard in the gut. Two crewmen grabbed for him and Lord Brigand interceded, placing his big, leather clad body between them.

  “Enough,” Brigand barked. “No violence is permitted at the Parliament Ball.”

  “I never meant to harm him. I never would done anything he didn’t want…” Manchester tried to say, but seeing the flare in Redfire’s face deduced it was best not to complete that sentence.

  Tyronius leaned to Manchester, and fiercely whispered, “Pack and leave. You are no longer welcome in my house. Be gone by sunrise.”

  C h a p t e r S i x :

  Prudence – Ascendant

  “I wanted to see more of the house, so, I started looking for a way out of the ballroom.” Max Jordan was sitting in one of the four-way seats in Prudence’s main cabin. His mother was next to him, and Medical Technician Jersey Partridge was across from him. Flight Lieutenant Driver was in the command module with Trajan Lear.

  “The old man started following me, and asking me, like, if I was enjoying the party. I tried to be cordial, but he was staring at me in this really creepy way. Then, he asked if I wanted to…” Max broke off, struggling a bit. “Asked if…”

  “You don’t have to say it,” Jordan counseled him, stroking the long hair above his forehead.

  Max steeled himself. “Neg, I have to … just now. Just right now. He asked me if I wanted to go back to his chamber and drink wine with him. I told him
no. He then said… he said…”

  “Max…”

  “He said I was beautiful and he want to ‘teach me the arts of pleasure,’ or some slag like that.” Max looked disgusted. “That’s when he made a grab for me, and that’s when I clocked him.”

  “Is that when your uniform was torn?” Jordan asked, stroking her son’s forehead.

  “Neg, he grabbed it to stop me from hitting him again. He wouldn’t let go, so, I hit him again.”

  “Good for you,” said Jersey Partridge. Partridge had been attending the Ball as a regular guest. He had left immediately to accompany Max and his mother on the trip back to Pegasus. Prudence had taken on the task, being configured for fewer passengers and having a pilot eager to leave the Ball.

  “Is a medical exam really necessary?” Max pleaded. “I already told you I’m fine.”

  “You’re still pretty agitated,” Partridge told the boy. “I can give you a calmative to help you relax, if you want.”

  Max shook his head. “I’ll get over it. I just don’t want to be around people for a while.” He reclined his seat until it was almost flat and stared out through the viewport.

  “We’ll be back on Pegasus in twenty minutes,” said Jordan.

  Max suddenly sat up. “Don’t tell Sam about this,” he told his mother in an urgent and pleading tone of voice.

  Jordan nodded, but she knew something like this was going to be spoken of. Much of the crew would be angered and disgusted by what had happened. It would be hard to keep news of this from reaching Sam for very long.

  Max leaned back in the seat, his arms folded behind his head. He closed his eyes, but Jordan could sense that this was troubling him even more deeply than he had let on. She folded a ship’s blanket over him, then went with Partridge to the galley.

  “He seems all right,” Partridge told her. “I am detecting elevated adrenaline and some minor trauma to the knuckles of his right hand, but physically, he’s fine.”

  “What about emotionally?”

  “I’ve only had a little training in counseling, but I am guessing he’ll be okay. There are people in Medical Core trained to deal with this kind of thing.”