by Rolf Nelson
CUT TO
Starliner bridge
Helton walks in, now dressed in the sash, dress jacket, aiguillette, flashy broach placed as a medal, and peaked cap, looking for all the world like a serious military man. The captain looks at him in surprise.
Helton: Still have a fix on them?
ComTech: Yes, sir.
Helton: OK. I want you to put the beam on them, start at low power and ramp up fast to full. Then, put me on the beam, so they can see me and only me on their screens.
ComTech: Yes, sir. Ramping up now.
Helton sits down in the captain’s chair, looking at the main screen.
ComTech: Full power now. If they didn’t fry everything, they’ll see you… now.
Helton: (Tough-guy voice and attitude) This is Space Colonel Strom, of the Plataean 3rd Expeditionary Force, to the unidentified ship. We can see you are on an intercept course. Either change course, NOW, or I’ll be forced to have the space marines on board break out the hardware that you are after, load them into the message drone launch tubes, and give you an up close and personal view of what a ten kiloton detonation looks like. It’s not just expensive food down there, as you well know.
Nothing appears on the screen but the image of blank space. Nervous Guy starts looking REALLY nervous.
Helton: Your inside guy here on the bridge gave up where you are, and I’m sure he’ll soon be giving us enough details to make sure we don’t have to launch many at you before we score a hit.
Nervous Guy: NO! I didn’t SAY ANYTHING! I never told THEM anything!
Liner Capt: Security! Take him.
Helton: (To nervous guy) I’ve dealt with pirates before. The only way you live is to keep talking fast, and NOW.
Nervous guy: No, I mean YES, I don’t-
Helton: (To liner captain) Either they change course, or we burn ‘em.
Helton makes a vicious throat-cutting sign to the com tech for her to end the transmission.
The com tech signals that she has cut it.
Liner Capt: You are shipping weapons without TELLING us?!
Helton: I have absolutely no idea what’s in the hold, captain. But it’s something they wanted, unless they are after the ship and passengers, which they now think they can’t take without a fight.
Liner Capt: So you really don’t have weapons, and we’re defenseless?
Helton: I don’t know what’s in the hold. I was bluffing, hoping they veer off. If they don’t, at least we don’t have this guy to trigger gas and knock us all out. Tell every crew member on board to get paranoid, and report anything. If they do latch on, we’ll have to fight them with whatever you DO have, but at least we now have an hour warning.
Scanner Tech: Looks like they are altering course. Yes, definitely pulling G’s away.
There is much general celebration on the bridge, and two security guys haul Nervous Guy away.
Liner Capt: Thank you, THANK you, Mr. Strom! But PLEASE don’t say anything to the passengers. I don’t want them to get scared and panic, or drive up our insurance rates.
Helton looks at the captain, a blank look on his face. He shakes his head, pivots and walks out.
DISSOLVE TO
INT - DAY - Starship liner dining room
Helton walks in with the other three people from Bipasha’s table, and they are chatting and seemingly in good spirits. Helton looks a bit brighter as well.
Sash Guy: (Cheerful) Not at all, not at all, happy to help out!
Helton: Thanks again for everything. I hope the rest of your trip is enjoyable, too!
As he goes past her, he leans over and whispers into Bipasha’s ear.
Helton: (With mock seriousness) Don’t worry, I told the pirates I was a Plataean Colonel, and they should leave or I’d nuke ‘em, so they pulled high G’s away. We’re all safe now. You can thank me later.
Bipasha stares at him with a confused, angry look as he smiles, stands up, and walks back to his table, whistling happily to himself, hands in his pockets, as if the universe is just a dandy place.
FADE TO BLACK
Irregular
FADE IN
INT - DAY - Eridani Parts Depot Office
Helton is in a modest office which is cluttered with various machine parts, electronics, shelves, and ship-related oddments. There are two desks but only one is occupied, a young man in plain clothes eyeing the e-reader in his hands. Helton sits opposite.
Parts Clerk: This is an unusual list.
Helton: It’s just things I need to fix my ship.
Parts Clerk: Many of them are flagged as restricted items.
Helton: Meaning?
Parts Clerk: Well, we have them, but they are only for transfer to military authorized personnel because they are being pulled off decommissioned military ships. I’m going to have to ask about this.
DISSOLVE TO
Same office
A middle aged woman in uniform stands behind the young parts clerk.
Parts officer: Irregular. Most irregular.
Helton: Yeah, I know, I know, my paperwork needs more fiber.
Parts officer: (Looking darkly at him) This is not a joking matter, Mr. Strom.
Helton: Irregular has pretty much defined my life for the last month, so I guess there isn’t any reason to think it’ll stop today.
Parts Officer: Why do you need these parts?
Helton: To fix my ship.
Parts Officer: What kind of ship?
Helton: Old… Very old… Very old and very not-flying.
She eyes him skeptically, clearly implying she wants more specific information.
Helton: A pre-blackout surplused military transport that I’m renovating to use for training, and eventually hauling cargo.
Parts Officer: (Thoughtfully) These parts are quite specific in their uses, but they do not seem to be particularly dangerous. Especially on a ship that old.
Helton: Then why are they restricted?
Parts Officer: Because they are coming off a military ship. I see nothing listed that is a weapons part, or unusually radioactive, or hi-grade computers or com, but your credentials are not the normal military contractor type. Or any other normal type we see here. Why would a diplomatic attaché come here for parts?
Helton: Well, that’s the list that Stenson said we-
Parts Officer: Stenson? Henery Stenson?
Helton: Yes. That’s the guy I have working on my ship.
Parts Officer: I know him. But he’s Plataean military. Why’s he working as a private contractor for you, if you’re a diplomat?
Helton: Well, I’m not really a diplomat, just acting as a courier for Colonel Lag.
Parts Officer: Lag?… A colonel, now? So you are military?
Helton: Well, no, I’m a private citizen of… Well, nowhere right now, but I-
Parts Officer: You are not Plataean?
Helton: No. At least, I don’t think so, but their rules on citizenship are a little fuzzy…
The two look at him like he’s more than a few cards short of a full deck, and pause a few moments while they try to make sense of his statements and apparently lucid demeanor.
Parts Officer: You are not sure of your citizenship? Are you here for parts for your ship, or as a courier for Lag?
Helton: Correct, sort of. Yes. Both.
The parts officer and the Parts Clerk look askance at him, like he’s a total loon. Helton leans back, puts on his most ingratiating voice and smile.
Helton: It’s a very long story. Short version: I’m here on Eridani for Lag as a courier, and I’ve already delivered the package. I am also here, in this building, for myself, at the request of Stenson, to get parts for my ship, a ship Lag thinks might be useful. Lag fired Stenson, but only sort of… He’s technically sort of working with me, but unofficially Colonel Lag calls a lot of the shots. My money, my ship, mostly Lag’s people and orders. I'm carrying Plataean diplomatic ID in order to work for Lag, but my official citizenship is currently uncertain because of
a legal issue on my previous home-world.
Parts officer: Very, very irregular… Just like everything else Lag does. Can’t fault his results, though. Hmmm… The ID checks out, and they are not universally restricted parts, and the letter of payment checks too. I’m going to let you have the parts, but I’m also going to send to Stenson for a confirmation, and even the Lord can’t help you if you are pulling a fast one using his or Lag’s name.
Helton: Whew. Thanks. You are much more understanding and patient than another uniformed acquaintance of mine… By the way, since I’m planet-side… Can you help me track down something else?
FADE TO WHITE
Monks of St Possenti
FADE IN
EXT - DAY - Dry gulch road
Helton walks up a road in a small, deep, dusty gulch, with sparse brush and bare rock around him. He is sweating. The sun beats down. As he rounds a bend he sees a group of six men ahead, working together with hand tools building a gate and part of a stone wall across the wash, looking like they are right out of the 10th century. The rocks they are lifting into place are large and heavy, as are the hand-made wood and metal pieces for the gate. Five of the men look mid-20s, one is older, around 50. All are lean and well muscled. Four are wearing nothing but simple brown breeches and heavy sandals, and the other two (the older, one younger) wearing garments similar to the traditional brown monk’s habit worn by the monk that died in the desert. All are clean-shaven with short hair. A few tattoos of various sorts are visible, including a couple that look like military unit crests. One has a prosthetic leg. They work silently, shaping rocks with hammer and chisel, fitting them and checking the level. They note him with a glance, say nothing, and continue. Helton approaches them.
Helton: I’m looking for Brother Libra. Back in town they said I could find him up this way.
They all pause a moment, looking at him. The older one nods at him and waves at Helton to indicate he should follow, and another nod and wave to the others to indicate they should continue working.
Helton follows the older monk further up the gulch a ways, the tap-tapping of metal on stone fading behind. The monk walks briskly. As they move up the road a song similar to a Gregorian chant is heard in Latin wafting though the air. It is a sort of call-and repeat chant with pauses between lines.
Words in Latin mean:
Oh Lord, Give me the wisdom to understand what I have seen
The strength to carry on when hope fades
The honesty to be at peace and face what is
The forbearance to forgive those who have wronged me
The focus to forget the horrors I have been through
To be accepting of what I cannot change
The humility to follow the lead of those who have trod this path before
Grant me respect for those who try, but are imperfect as I am
The fortitude to lead others out of darkness
The clarity to understand the path I must follow
Please forgive me the things I have done
Give me the bravery to go where I am needed
The discipline to not be a burden on others
As they walk the chant echoes lightly past as they approach a building made of stone. It looks like a cross between a Spanish Mission, a Gothic cathedral, a monastery, and a small walled castle. On one end there is a large St. Possenti Cross. They approach a small, person-sized door next to a large, vehicle-sized door in one wall. As they cross the threshold right at the end of a line of hymn, there is a loud crash of metal on stone. Helton jumps in surprise at the jarring noise. He sees the large courtyard has about three dozen men in widely spaced ranks, mostly young and lean like those at the gate, wearing monk’s robes, standing at attention with rifles at their sides. The rifles are an odd mix of old wooden-stocked hardware (M1s, Mausers, SMLEs, Nagants, etc., all with metal butt-plates), fitted with bare bayonets. There are a few men with all-wooden training rifles, clearly less practiced monks. They chant another line of the Latin chant, and move smoothly into the start of another slow, methodical bayonet drill position like an Eastern martial arts kata, chanting between each movement. Helton looks between the drill practice and the monk leading him in bewilderment. As they walk together around the courtyard to the far side they talk.
Helton: (Quietly) Bang-fu? What is this place?
Brother: (Placidly) This is the Abbey of St. Possenti. You are not familiar with the order?
Helton shakes his head.
Helton: Never heard of any monks teaching gun-jitsu.
The Brother smiles and nods his head knowingly at the comment.
Brother: We serve the young men that society has badly misused and discarded… mainly soldiers who were not prepared to deal with what they experienced and were cast aside as damaged goods. Others in need are also welcome, such as recent widowers or painfully divorced. Their spirits are without trust, unbalanced and broken. They need love, discipline, understanding, meditation and prayer, to talk with those who have similar experience and deeply understand. A simple, understandable life of the physical, solid, the real for whatever time they need while they calm their souls. Most are here for a few years then return to the world renewed. For a few it becomes a life calling. This (nods to the drilling monks) meditation and study, working with their hands, and regular exercitatio in scopum help them to learn self-discipline and restore self-confidence and inner peace. It is not an order that appeals to many. (Wryly) Even within the Church.
The monk leads Helton into an office. It is small and sparse, made of natural materials and with only natural light falling in through a window. In it, a simple desk with three reddish crystals aligned from tallest (about 12”) to shortest (about half the height) on one side, two chairs, an M1 Garand with a long bayonet on one wall, a crucifix on another, a window, and not much else. The monk waves Helton to one chair, closes the door, and sits behind the desk. Outside the chant continues. They look at one another across the desk.
In the near distance the faint boom of a shot rings out. There is a slight rolling echo from around the canyon. Four and a half seconds after the shot is heard, there is a quiet metallic ping of a bullet impacting a small piece of steel. Helton looks at Libra questioningly.
Brother Libra: Sounds like Brother Exactus on the midrange small steel.
Helton shakes his head slightly, eyebrows arched, brow furrowed. It’s a little surreal, and he’s trying to make sense of the situation.
Brother: (Quietly) So, what can I do for you, my son?
Helton: (Surprised) Soooo, you’re…?
Brother Libra: Yes, these last 28 years.
Helton: I’ve got some bad news to bring you… I’m not sure how to… I promised I’d return this…
Helton reaches into a pocket on his travelers coat and brings out the small St. Possenti medallion given to him by the ancient monk and hands it over to Brother Libra. Brother Libra looks it over then starts and examines it more closely. He looks up sharply at Helton, inquiringly and piercing.
Helton: Well, we had gotten dumped together…
DISSOLVE TO
Later, same office
Helton sits quietly, looking at Brother Libra. Libra looks contemplative and a bit sorrowful. He looks up at Helton.
Brother Libra: Thank you for coming. Sad news, but not entirely unexpected. He was very old when he left nearly a decade ago to look for souls in need, and search for a particular lost soul that left the order long ago. And to track down a “flying abbey.”
Brother Libra gives a wry grimace.
Helton: (Quizzically) Flying abbey?
Brother Libra: A small starship used long ago as a wandering monastery that went where it was needed. People sometimes had visions, or claimed they saw miracles aboard. It was lost long ago… before the stars went away. He had directed many to us during his travels; I thought that you may be one such.
Helton: I may a little lost, but I’m not ready for the monastery. Not quite my kind of life.
&nbs
p; Brother Libra: (Nodding understanding) Every life has its own calling in this world. I hope yours is on a favorable path… He will be missed. Will you stay for his service?
Helton: No, sorry, I can’t; I need to catch a return flight.
Brother Libra: Sorry to hear that. Well, we are (holds up medallion) in your debt. If you need anything we can provide, you have but to ask. Again, thank you for coming.
They stand, shake hands, look one another in the eye, then Helton turns and leaves.
FADE OUT with final line of chant (in Latin as VO) saying “let all souls be revived” fading away.
FADE TO BLACK
Marks
FADE IN
INT - NIGHT - Helton’s cabin on the Tajemnica
Allonia comes up to the half-open door from the passageway. A couple of the many computer screens that double as lights are on dim, providing a low, diffused light to the room. The bed is made. She looks around and doesn’t see him.
Allonia: Knock-knock?
Helton: (OC, from the head) Come in, be there in a minute.
Allonia comes in and sits down at the desk. She runs her eyes around the room and sees the book that Helton found in the tunnel on the foot of his bed. She looks at it curiously for a moment, then lazily reaches over to pick it up to look at it. She leafs through it casually, examining the large hole in one side where the grenade blasted a shallow crater about seven inches across the book and nearly halfway through it. The edges of the crater are tattered and blackened. The rest of the pages are silvery white. She runs her hands over the undamaged side, feeling for something she cannot see. She looks more closely.
Allonia: Lights 50 percent.
The room brightens. She looks more closely, angling the book to get the best visibility.
Allonia: Lights 80 percent.
In the brighter light she turns and angles it. She can faintly see a design on the undamaged cover. A set of twelve interlocking cogwheels, loosely encircled by a chain. Helton walks in from the head.
Allonia: What are these marks?
Helton: What marks?
Allonia: These.