by JoAnn Ross
“An actual copy? Bound and everything?”
“The book is a family heirloom,” Sebastian said. “Although it is rather the worse for wear. My father cringed every time she read it because, although it’s kept in a hermitically sealed library, such frequent use has caused more pages to fall out.”
“I can imagine.” Nate shook his head. “Sounds as if your mother’s a romantic.”
“I suppose that would describe her,” Sebastian agreed.
“What about your sister? Is she a romantic, too?”
“Oh, Rosalyn is definitely nothing like our mother,” Sebastian said quickly. “She inherited far more of our father’s traits than I did, although she is, unfortunately, mindblind.”
“Mindblind?”
“Most Logosians possess telepathy,” Sebastian explained. “Especially those descended from the Ancient Ones, as my father’s house is. Unfortunately, Rosalyn did not receive that gift.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, although I’ve been finding it increasingly difficult since I arrived here on Earth. For example, I have received what Kirby referred to as vibes from Whitney, yet I cannot determine what, exactly, she’s thinking.”
“That’s probably just as well,” Nate decided. “How about me? Can you read my mind?”
“I don’t know. Logosians are taught at an early age that it is not polite to enter one’s thoughts unless invited.”
“So now you’re invited.” Nate leaned back, crossed his legs at the ankles and waited. “Give it your best shot.”
Something was definitely blocking Nate’s brain waves. Sebastian looked at him, baffled. “I can’t.” He tried again, then ran his hand through his hair, frustrated. “I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps it’s the difference in atmosphere.”
“Perhaps,” Sebastian agreed, unconvinced. “This inability is decidedly unwelcome. If I were Rosalyn, I would become very frustrated to live this way.”
“And she doesn’t? Become frustrated?”
“Oh, no. Rosalyn would never experience frustration. She’s unfailingly cool and calm along with being logical to a fault. Logical for a woman, that is,” he felt obliged to add. “She does have distressingly strong feelings concerning feminine equality.”
Nate laughed at that as he gathered up the paper napkins, the pizza box, and the two red-and-white cans, putting them into the proper recycling bins.
“Sounds like Kirby. It seems we’ve got a lot more than our work in common, Sebastian.”
“More than you think,” Sebastian muttered. “Both our sisters insist on pursuing work that is potentially dangerous.”
“Your sister’s work is dangerous?”
Sebastian sighed as he thought about his sister’s secret quest. “During a recent research excursion, Rosalyn discovered a packet of documents defaming the Ancient Ones.”
“Your ancestors were among the Ancient Ones,” Nate recalled.
“That’s true. And our history reveres them for bringing peace and reason to a savage, uncivilized planet. But Rosalyn insists that she’s found a diary alleging that a vibrant, matriarchal society existed on Logosia long before the arrival of our ancestors. It also claims the Ancient Ones came not in peace but at the bequest of the husband of the Elder Mother—the planet’s ruler.”
“Yours certainly wouldn’t be the first society to fudge when writing its history books.”
“True. But if Rosalyn’s documents prove legitimate, our entire system of belief and laws is based on a falsehood. The diary claims women ruled Logosia in peace and prosperity for several centuries with a vision of equality for all.”
“That is a bit different from what you’ve told me about Logosia’s past,” Nate allowed.
“It gets worse. Rosalyn also has letters alleging that the Elder Mother’s husband—with assistance from our ancestors—initiated a bloody purge to gain absolute control. And when it was over, to ensure that the females would not be allowed to reestablish their claim, any members of the original ruling families who weren’t brutally killed were banished to the moon Gaoliana, which eventually became a penal colony for those individuals who could not adapt to the strict rules of Logosian law. A law based on logic and reason. And the unequivocal biological superiority of males.”
“Wow.” Nate whistled softly. “If those papers really are legitimate, your sister is sitting on a virtual powder keg.”
Sebastian cursed and dragged his hand through his hair. “If anyone at the institute discovers what she is working on, she could be arrested for heresy. Or treason.”
There was a long, drawn-out silence as both men considered that unpalatable possibility.
“Well,” Nate said finally, “I suppose that’s all the more reason to figure out how to send you home in the proper time. In case you have to break your sister out of prison.”
The intended joke fell decidedly flat.
Their spirits lowered by the peril Rosalyn Vardanyian insisted on courting, Sebastian and Nate returned to the lab, where they worked for the next two hours. Sebastian was plotting new data into the computer when he stood up so quickly the chair overturned.
“What’s the matter?” Nate asked, glancing up from his perusal of the lettuce-green printout.
“It’s Kirby. She’s in trouble.”
Nate’s brow furrowed. “I thought you couldn’t read minds here on earth.”
“I can read hers. And she needs a backup.” He frowned as the ecumenical translator remained distressingly mute. “What’s a backup?”
“Help.” Nate hit a few vital keys on the computer keyboard, saving the information while locking it safely from probing eyes. Then he was on his feet, as well. “Can you see where she is?”
Sebastian closed his eyes and concentrated. The image was vague, as if he were looking through a thick cloud of fog. “There are a great many trees.”
“Terrific,” Nate muttered. “That could be anyplace on the island.”
“And a rocky shore with a sand beach.”
“At least that narrows it down a bit,” Nate said. “Keep trying.”
“There is an old building. It has writing on the side.”
Sebastian was finding it difficult to concentrate when his heart was pounding so hard. Since he’d never experienced absolute fear, not even his first day on the island when he’d thought he was going to die out in that blinding-white blizzard, it took him a moment to recognize it.
“It reads Willow Fish Hatchery.”
“Bingo.” Nate grabbed his coat and headed toward the door.
“Wait,” Sebastian called after him. “She is not there.”
“What?”
“She passed it on the way to her destination.”
“Which is?” Aggravation roughened Nate Pendleton’s tone.
“There is a lighthouse. And boats. And many bright buoys bobbing in a cove.”
“Those mark the lobster traps. So she’s at the wharf.”
“It appears so.” Sebastian nodded. “There’s another building. The sign says The Stewed Clam. That’s where she is.”
“Oh, hell,” Nate muttered. “That’s a harbor bar—no telling what kind of mess she’s gotten herself into this time.”
Sebastian remembered seeing a bunch of Janurian warriors get into an argument over an attractive Alean barmaid after imbibing too much Enos Dew. The ensuing fight had practically brought the place down.
“I will meet you there,” he said, not wanting to waste the time it would take for Nate’s machine to maneuver over the snow-packed roads.
He crossed his arms, focused every atom of his being on his target, and vanished from the laboratory.
17
Kirby was determined not to let what had begun as a reasonably harmless fistfight escalate into a brawl. Experience had taught her that a calm word, a quiet attitude, and a low but authoritative voice could settle a situation with more efficiency than physical strength.
Even in a situation as potential
ly dangerous as this one. Two lobstermen were accusing another pair of raiding traps, which in this part of the country was on a par with horse stealing in the days of the Old West. The fact that all the parties involved had been drinking did not make matters any easier.
Kirby was still trying to determine the facts of the case when the door opened and an all-too-familiar face appeared in a sudden flash of light.
* * *
Sebastian felt literally drained. The brief astro-projection had left him physically exhausted, which wasn’t encouraging. But he had more important things on his mind at the moment. Garnering much-needed strength, he glanced around, taking in the situation.
The waterfront tavern was much the same as the skyport taverns in his own galaxy. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, fish, sweat, and a moldy odor that was a distinct contrast to the crisp salt air outside. The bar shelves held only the basics—whiskey, vodka, tequila, rum, and gin, from the labels. The gin bottle was dusty, suggesting that it wasn’t used all that often. Peanut shells and empty beer bottles littered the tops of tables.
Neon beer lights flickered, valiantly trying to cut through the clouds of smoke pouring from an ancient wood stove in the corner. Although three bare light bulbs dangled from long cords, and a tree that was dripping its needles onto the floor was lit with colored lights, the tavern was still dim.
The silver on the back of the mirror behind the bar had worn away, cracking the faces that looked back from it. Sections of brass bar rail were worn through. Above the bar was a painting of a well-formed woman clad in thigh-high rubber boots and a yellow hat, tilted at a rakish angle atop her sleek blond head.
Four men, wearing mackinaws and watch caps, stood in the center of the room, hands curled into fists, faces twisted in anger. One man had a cut and bleeding lip, while his companion squinted through an eye surrounded by skin that was rapidly turning a bright blue. Realizing that Kirby had interrupted a brawl hit like a punch to Sebastian’s gut.
He strode over to where she stood between the two pairs of men, looking very small and very vulnerable.
“What is the problem?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” she said.
“None of your damn business,” the man with the cut lip spat out at the same time.
“Well, whatever the problem, I’m sure we can settle it without bloodshed,” Sebastian offered, ignoring the blistering glares directed his way.
“Sebastian—” Kirby warned quietly.
“Logic can be a very useful tool,” he said helpfully, ignoring her warning as he ignored the men’s glares.
“Who the hell is this guy?” the lobsterman with the darkening bruise slurred.
“My name is Sebastian Blackthorne.” Sebastian held out his hand. “And you are—?”
“Fed up.” The taller of the two alleged poachers turned to leave, brushing Kirby aside.
The sight of that man’s beefy red hand touching her shoulder made something snap inside Sebastian. Although he’d never engaged in any sort of physical violence, something dark and primal, something decidedly un-Logosian, surged hotly through his veins.
He struck out with a speed barely perceptible to the human eye. The only proof he’d moved at all was the sight of the four men crumpling to the floor unconscious, one after the other, like falling timber.
As he stood over his vanquished opponents, Sebastian tried to remember a time when he’d felt so vividly, wonderfully alive and came up blank. He flexed his fingers with decided satisfaction.
He had studied Tal-shoyna for years, appreciating the way it stressed mental, rather than physical, control over an adversary. But there was a seldom discussed darker side to the ancient martial arts method, as well—a movement that, if not carefully controlled, could break an opponent’s neck quickly and cleanly.
Although there had been an instant when Sebastian had felt entirely capable of murder, he’d managed, at the last possible moment, to restrain the power surging through his fingertips.
“What the hell did you do?” Kirby turned on him, her fists on her hips.
“They’ll come to in time,” Sebastian assured her. She seemed angry at him. Which was, of course, impossible. She should be grateful that he’d managed to rescue her with a minimum of violence. “Although their necks will be stiff for several days.”
“You had no right.”
“You called for a backup.”
“I did not!”
“Yes.” He nodded. “You did.”
There had been one moment when she’d wished that she could simply call for a backup in case things got a little sticky, the way she would have in California. But it had only been an instantaneous, fleeting mental wish.
She had no more time to think about it, because at that moment, the men awoke with ragged groans, appearing a great deal more docile than they had earlier.
Kirby was deciding what to do with them when the tavern door opened again, revealing Nate. Behind him was Danny Mayfield, looking decidedly sheepish.
“I figured you might need a little help,” Nate greeted her. He glanced down at the men lying peacefully on the floor. “But I guess you and Sebastian have everything under control.”
“I had things under control,” Kirby snapped. “Before Sebastian interfered.”
“Interfered?” His earlier satisfaction fading away like morning mist over her planet’s rocky seacoast, Sebastian stared at Kirby in disbelief. He would have been no more surprised if she’d grown another head, like the aliens from planet Duality.
“Yes. Interfered.” She shot him a hot, angry glare. “You’re just lucky I’m not going to arrest you for obstruction of justice.”
She turned to Danny. “Let’s get these guys locked up so they can sleep it off. And then you and I”—she pointed at Sebastian—“are going to have a little talk. So stay the hell put until I get back.”
Although he always enjoyed listening to Kirby Pendleton’s musical cadence whenever she spoke, Sebastian realized that the promised conversation would be anything but pleasant.
“Well,” Nate decided with false cheer, “now that everything’s under control, I think I’ll get back to work.”
“You’re afraid of your sister,” Sebastian diagnosed.
“You bet your sweet ass,” Nate agreed. “I’ve always made it a point to avoid pissed-off women packing pistols.”
He patted Sebastian on the back and handed him some folded green bills. “Buy yourself some Dutch courage while you’re waiting,” he suggested. “And good luck. If you’re still alive later this evening, I’ll see you back at the lab.”
With those ominous words ringing in Sebastian’s ears, Nate left.
Sebastian glanced around and realized that he was still the subject of a great deal of interest. Telling himself that he didn’t really need a drink to fortify his courage, that he was merely thirsty, he went over to the bar.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.
He nearly asked for a flagon of Sirocco ale, then, remembering where he was, just in time, he said, “I’ll have what he’s having.” He gestured toward the fisherman sitting on the stool beside him. The amber liquid resembled ale.
“One draft beer, comin’ right up,” the bartender agreed. He took down a glass and pulled a lever that dispensed the brew. Foam billowed over the top of the glass, ran down the side, and went ignored. “That’ll be a buck.”
Having no idea of the denomination of the bills Nate had handed him, Sebastian pulled one loose from the small stack and put it on the bar, hoping it would be sufficient. The bartender scooped up the money and returned more green bills to Sebastian.
“You’d be new around these parts.”
“Yes. I am.” Sebastian took a tentative sip of the sparkling gold drink, felt the foam tickle his lips, then swallowed. The beer was smoother than the ale he was accustomed to drinking, more like water than a proper brew, and carried less of a kick.
“Since you know Nate Pendleton, you must
be workin’ out at that brain factory.”
“Yes,” Sebastian said noncommittally. “I am working at the laboratory.” He took another drink of beer, finding that the taste was improving.
“What on?”
“Excuse me?”
“What ya workin’ on? Or is it classified?”
“Yes. It is classified.”
“Ayuh, I figured as much,” the bartender agreed without rancor. He began wiping the bar with a damp rag. “Most of the stuff they’re doin’ out there is pretty hush-hush. Which is why them space alien reports didn’t much surprise me.”
“Space aliens?”
“Little green men,” the man next to Sebastian supplied. “A whole spaceship load of them landed in the town square and hightailed it into the woods.”
“The ship was this shimmering blue light,” the man on the other side of Sebastian divulged. “I was drivin’ home and it damned near blinded me.”
“’Tweren’t blue at all,” the first man argued. “It was white. And shaped like a cigar.”
“I heard it was silver and shaped like a flying saucer,” the bartender said. He took Sebastian’s empty glass without asking, filled it to overflowing again, and plucked a bill from the stack still lying on the bar.
“It was blue,” the man to Sebastian’s left insisted. “Filled with three-foot-tall green men with a single flashing red eye in the middle of their foreheads.”
“You can’t get anything right,” the other man insisted. “They were seven feet tall and were wearing Reynolds Wrap.”
“Now where the hell is a spaceman gonna get his hands on Reynolds Wrap?” yet another man called out from a nearby table.
For the next twenty minutes, everyone in the bar was heatedly arguing about whether the aliens were here on a peace mission to warn of impending global destruction, planning to take over Earth and enslave its population, or merely looking for brides to take home to their womanless planet.
Sebastian sat quietly, sipping his beer, waiting for Kirby, and wondering what these men would do if they knew the alien they were so enthusiastically arguing about was sitting in their midst.
“So what do you think?” the bartender asked him suddenly.