“Was Wu’s sight restored?” Live Keeler asked, feeling like a kid, almost.
“The sight came back to his right eye when Reyhan was regained, and to his left eye when Alia was brought back to light. The Third Crusade would rage through the Eta Carinae arm for another forty-three solar years, but after the Battle of Draconis, the Red Horde never recovered.”
“Is that it?” Live Keeler said, his agitation severe. “What about the other battles? What tactics did they use? What were the names of the ships? I want to know it all! I must know it all!” Ziang yawned again. “All of that is trivial. There were more battles and ships, but what you must remember is that the Third Crusade was widely known as the War of Miracles…” Ziang began, but then Dead Keeler cut him off.
“Miracles, bah! Miracles! It should have been called the war of overheated propaganda. The only miracle was that our side did not lose despite the arrogance of General Ruhullah Wu.” Ziang answered, with only a touch of anger in his voice. “Through God’s intervention in this Crusade, our eyes were opened that humanity was a part of something greater than the physical universe. Our purpose crystallized. We saw the physical realm as but one part of a great whole, and we saw our duty.
Good and evil, order and chaos, light and darkness were continually in conflict. Even though our reality was just a shadow of what went on the higher planes, we still had our duty; the galaxy was occupied territory and we were freedom fighters. On one side the faithful. On the other, nihilists who believed humans were no more than meat.”
“And in the middle, forty billion other people just waiting to see which side came out on top,” Dead Keeler spat.
“The greatest trick Satan ever learned was convincing people that he did not exist,” Ziang answered.
“I apologize, to my guests. You have unwittingly become caught in the springs of a very old and unsettled argument. The jibes grow meaner, the hearts grow harder, and every old offense and slight is revived to walk the night again.”
“I think you just described every Keeler Christmas party I’ve ever attended,” Live Keeler answered.
“Listen to both of you,” the Old Man snarled in a way that made Queequeg howl in his sleep. “This all happened a thousand years before he was born and he talks like it happened to him. You take everything he tells you at face value. He could tell you the entire Army of Light painted themselves blue and juggled kittens, and you’d believe him. To hell with both of you.”
“Was he like that when you knew him?” Live Keeler asked.
“And you’re even worse,” Lexington Keeler turned on his descendant. “Why don’t you tell the General how you had let a whole world fall under the Forces of Darkness? How you let them mow through you like a harvester in a pansy patch, when you could have wiped out their invasion force with a single nemesis warhead, but no-o-o-o-o-o-o. ”
“The Nemesis warhead would have opened a white hole and immolated the entire system in a supernova,” Live Keeler answered in a defensive growl. So, he had been told anyway. Alkema had told him and he trusted Alkema .
“That’s your excuse for everything. In my day, we would have taken the hit. Believe me, they would have been better off dead,” Lex Keeler insisted. “I know I am! The enemy has returned. There is no holding back against evil.” In a flash of light like a genie returning to his bottle, he disappeared.
The Prime Commander was shocked at the behavior of his dead ancestor – even more so than usual.
William Keeler had known Lexington Keeler to be ornery, bad-tempered, peevish, crabby, cantankerous and grouchy, but this was the first time he had seen him mean and bitchy. There is something else between them, he thought.
Pegasus – Fast Eddie’s InterStellar Slam-n-Jam Eliza Jane Change sat across the bar from Eddie Roebuck, who was telling her what her problem was.
“You know what your problem is, beauty?” Eddie challenged her, pouring a triangular glass of orange janeberry juice. “You don’t want to be happy. That’s what your problem is.”
“You’re right, I don’t,” she agreed with him, which, as usual, failed to dissuade him from elaborating.
“On Sapphire, we used to have these entertainments, they were called ‘situation philosphies.’ There was one about this rich merchant from Coolsville who adopted three Borealan children. That was one of the really big ones. Did you ever watch any sit-phils?”
“No, Eddie. In the Guild, our primary forms of entertainment were ‘Caged Heat’ matches, in which men and women settled their personal conflicts by battling naked in big metal cages in zero gravity.” Eddie winced. “I always knew I should have been a guilder. Anyway, one of the big themes of sit-phils is that you make your own happiness, okay. It’s not a matter of what you get, or what you do, or who you’re with… it’s just you. You see how I am?”
“Not really.”
Eddie sighed, spitting out janeberry juice onto her uniform sleeve. “Okay, when you were in the Guild, did you have some kind of plan you were working on?”
Eliza admitted it. “I thought that if I saved, I have enough money for my own ship, eventually. Just a little courier ship, nothing big, but enough for me.”
“Did you think it would make you happy?”
“Of course not. It’s just the way I wanted to live.”
“All right, point is, that’s you. No illusions. Total reality woman. Captain Sky-Pilot, on the other hand, has spent three years on your trail because he thinks it’s what he needs to be happy. He thinks happiness is getting you to play house with him. No fallback plan.” She nodded.
He continued. “However, I get the feeling being his house-woman wouldn’t make you any more or less happy. You’d just be the same. Right? Because you, by natured, are not happy, and can not be made happy. You don’t know how.”
“Are you trying to make some kind of point, Eddie?”
Eddie rolled his eyes and violated the barkeeper’s first rule. He took a slug of his own drink. He grimaced. “Neg, I’m pretty sure I don’t. I did when I started. If I think of it again, I’ll tell you.” Winter – Habi Zod
Executive TyroCommander Lear and Chief Inspector Churchill were sitting across from each other in the great, red leather chairs of Lord Tyronius’s study, which he had lent to them so that they could better organize the search for Redfire. On a low table before them was a holographic map of the estate and grounds, showing the locations where Watchmen were positioned, and places that had not yet been searched.
Lear was saying, “I have no doubt in my mind that Redfire was innocent of this murder. He knew these people were going to find him guilty and so he, rather than wait for us to resolve this situation, took it upon himself to escape.”
“But you don’t believe his goal is to get back to Pegasus, ” Churchill prompted.
“Anyone else in our crew would attempt that, but not Redfire. First, it is too obvious. Second, he is still loyal to that romantic, Sapphirean Code of Honor. His code, I believe, will compel him to try and find the actual murderer.”
“And you want us to confirm your hypothesis.”
She nodded quickly, as though not wanting to acknowledge their arrangement out loud. “ In the meantime, the best I can do is to try and contain the diplomatic fallout. It would be a terrible shame if a potentially valuable alliance, were sacrificed for the sake of one individual. I am going to meet with Lord Tyronius to discuss the next steps. His people are justifiably furious. This entire mission is in jeopardy, and salvaging it will require dedicated effort by our people.”
“The impossible is what we’re here for,” Churchill answered, just as a knock came to the door of the study. Lear gave him a look that said “Our business is concluded,” and he called to the door “Come in.” The door opened. Sukhoi and Brickbat appeared. “All of the vehicles on the estate have been accounted for,” Brickbat reported, as soon as he walked into the room. “If Redfire got away, he got away on foot.”
“Good morning, Executive TyroCommander,” Sukhoi
said to Lear. He looked at Churchill, somewhat perplexed as though he had missed a scheduled meeting. “Were we…”
“Chief Inspector Churchill was just advising me on the progress of the investigation,” Lear said as she stood. “He has expressed the highest degree of confidence in our ability to assist local law enforcement.” She gave a smile and nod to Brickbat. “I think the best role for me at this point is to step to the side, and let you gentlemen continue with your important work.”
She showed herself out of the office. “Nice lady,” Brickbat said.
Churchill and Sukhoi were not the kind of men to say “And you call yourself a detective” out loud, but they were the kind to think it to themselves.
“How do you wish to proceed from here?” Churchill asked, patiently.
“We’re waiting for the guards to come around, but they probably won’t remember anything. We don’t think Redfire would have left the estate through the front door, but there are four different tunnels and doors in the cellar that he could have escaped out of. I bet you didn’t know about those. We’re running them down.”
“Excellent good,” Churchill said. “Our ship’s sensors have scanned an area twice as large as Redfire could have been expected to reach since escaping. Low-flying probes have taken over, but the chase is young.”
“Just let me know if you find anything.”
“Of course,” Churchill said. “I should like to converse with Specialist Sukhoi.”
“About the search,” Brickbat asked suspiciously. No one was going to cut him out of any communication loop.
Churchill reassured him. “A minor administrative matter that will only bore you. You ought to continue with the search.”
Looking little reassured, Brickbat left, closing the door slowly behind him and loitering in the hallway to see what he could overhear.
Churchill took Sukhoi to the very back of the room, and spoke to him very quietly. “There is someone on board Pegasus who might be able to help us find Redfire.”
“Flight Commandant Jordan?” Sukhoi asked.
“She is already being interviewed by one of the regulars,” Churchill said. “This job calls for a Centurion.” He activated his datapad and showed Sukhoi a picture.
“John Hunter?” Sukhoi couldn’t believe it. “What has he to do with anything?”
“Two years ago, he kidnapped the Executive TyroCommander’s son. The only reason he is not now dead, or in stasis, is because of certain knowledge about Hunter, that would someday be of use to us. That day may have arrived.” Churchill answered. “If Hunter can help us find Redfire.”
“How?”
“All will become clear when you show him this.” He handed a datapad to Sukhoi. It contained a file for him to read, and another file, that could only be read by Hunter himself.
“You want me to bring him down to the surface?” Sukhoi asked.
“If possible, but at least find him and make contact.”
“How will I get back to Pegasus? What about the quarantine?”
“Executive TyroCommander Lear needs to return to Pegasus as well. You will go in her ship. It’s going to be thoroughly searched and scanned before launch. Our two Detectives and Lord Tyronius have agreed to let the Aves Chloe depart when Executive TyroCommander Lear is ready. Once on board Pegasus, it will be immediately placed under a detection shroud and guarded by four Watchmen and four of their people, continuously.”
Sukhoi waved the datapad in the direction toward which Goneril Lear had departed. “Does she know about this?”
Churchill snorted. “Of course, she does. As far as she knows, the idea was hers.” C h a p t e r T h i r t e e n
Pegasus – Flight Commandant Jordan’s Suite
Max Jordan’s room was cool and dark, optimized for sleeping, cloaking him in the silence he required.
Some persons preferred soft music, sea sounds, or white noise while they slept, but Max had spent most of his young life in a place where waking up at the snap of a twig could mean the difference between life and death, and could only sleep in complete silence.
In addition to keeping him cool and quiet, his sleeper unit ionized the air to maintain his relaxation and monitored the alpha waves of his brain to keep his sleep peaceful.? When it detected excessive agitation, it altered the ionization of the air and activated positional cushions and massagers to relax him.
Some demons, however, were too strong and too deep in the mind to be warded off by crude techno-mechanical manipulation. Although the monitors showed his skin was cool, feverish sweat had already soaked through his linens and the silken pajama bottoms he wore. His alpha waves were skittering all over the graph, and nothing the machine could do could quiet them.
“Look pretty at you come, my let you little boy.”
Max kicked and turned over, unable to awake, unable to escape his awful dreams. He had never mastered his mother’s teachings on dream mastery, the Sapphirean discipline of shaping the dreamworld, making it coherent, and using it as a place to confront fears and challenges. Black and White images, came and went. He was in a great forest, or a ballroom, or a long, long hallway. He could hear voices all around him, chattering and chattering.
“you will very so pretty now live let I for are you.”
“will you very now I for let are you live so pretty “
“very so pretty are now live let I for you will you will.”
Sometimes he could see the people who were talking, just flash-impressions of people, staring at him but pretending not to. They were all men, and they were all bald, with fat fleshy hands reaching for him.
Then all was calm. The hallway, the forest, the ballroom had become a long mall, with short walls on either side leading toward an immense stone courtyard where children were playing. Max was much younger, and he was naked, and even though it was all in monochrome, he knew the color of the grass and stones.
In the middle of the courtyard stood Manchester, smiling and playing with the children, dressed in furs, He looked like a great big urso, and his teeth were pointed like a urso’s and glistening with spittle. He turned toward Max and called to him.
“Come here, you pretty little boy and let me look at you.”
Max Jordan fought not to obey. He did not want to go to the man… the Manchester… no, not the Manchester. He was someone else using the Manchester’s face. Max Jordan knew if he could tear off the mask, he could see who it really was. In fact, he could know who it really was if he just put his mind to it, but he could not bring himself to.
The Manchester leered at him, smiling with dripping, pointed teeth. “Come here, you pretty little boy and let me look at you.” Max Jordan would not go to him, and steeled his body for a fierce resistance. Somehow, though, he was moving ever closer to the Manchester, who now wore a suit of armor with the image of a hanging man on it. He was reaching out with fat, bald hands. His teeth dripped. Laughter. Voices.
He was on top of Max, smothering him. His skin was hot and smelled of dirt, body odor, blood, and dank basements where things were left behind and forgotten to rot. Max struggled to breathe. Manchester laughed. They stood apart.
“Come here, you pretty little boy and let me look at you.”
Manchester reached for him, not with a hand, but with an arm that ended in syringes and daggers.
It was too much for the sleeper. Max woke up and cried out into the empty room, which sensed his panic and gradually brought up the lights, just enough to show that he was safe. He struggled for breath as though he had been drowning, gasping four or five times before realizing he was in his own room, his mother was sleeping in the next room, and no one on this ship would ever, ever harm him.
He could take no comfort in any of that. His mind felt as fragmented as the images in his dreams, all fading now except for the feeling of being smothered, and the long metal knives pointed at his throat.
He turned over, grabbed his pillow, and began to sob uncontrollably.
Pegasus – The Unde
rDecks
With a wet cloth, the woman wiped the dried blood from John Hunter’s upper lip. He hurt thoroughly. His pain filled him like water fills the sea, as though his very bones had been scraped raw.
Whenever he breathed, he smelled dried blood. Whenever he swallowed, it was like squeezing a lump of glass through his throat.
“I feel terrible,” he told the woman. He lay on the floor of a maintenance compartment directly behind one of the composting units the recycled Pegasus’s organic waste into rich fertilizer for the vivaria. The deck was freezing, unfinished alloy with painful safety-step treads protruding outward, but at least the recycler gave off enough heat to keep him warm.
“Who attacked you?” she asked him, her voice soft. She was very pale, even her hair was white, and it made her seem somehow insubstantial, as though it were a ghost tending to him. So was she called, in the UnderDecks where everyone had an alias, Ghost.
“He wore the suit of a Watchman.” Hunter did not know which hurt worse, getting the words out of his bruised lungs or squeezing the words out from his throbbing mind.
““A Watchman… this deep?”
“I only said he wore the suit of a Watchman.”
“If he had been a Watchman, he would have taken you into custody.” She had one of the one-liter bottles of water from his pack, and after she finished cleaning him, she offered it for him to drink. He shook his head, and felt his sore brain sloshing around inside his skull.
“If he had been a Watchman, he wouldn’t have shot me.” He painfully raised an arm as a shield and slowly opened his eyes. He was still achingly sensitive to light.
Over the shoulder of the ghost, he made out the shadow of a figure behind her. With reflexes only slightly impaired by pain, he reached toward his pulse cannon.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said the voice, strong, certain, and a little contemptuous.
“Tyro-Centurion Constantine, my old friend,” Hunter said, clutching the pulse cannon at last.
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