by Joseph O'Day
Adriel stood up and looked at the ceiling. She was silent for a time. Then she said, “Maybe I have been looking at this the wrong way.” Suddenly she turned toward Willum and grinned. “God doesn’t expect me to be a superwoman, does he?”
Willum smiled back.
“Well, I’ve got to get some sleep. Good night, Willum. And thanks.”
Adriel walked across the dark-blue marble floor laced with white and pushed aside a hanging sheet that enclosed her private space. Blankets, packing material, and other items cushioned her makeshift bed. She sank to the blankets and closed her eyes.
Her thoughts returned unbidden to the terrible experience of the War Tribunal. She and the med team had been treated like common criminals. Her face burned with the memory.
“The defendants will rise.”
The medical team rose to face the verdict and sentence of the War tribunal. But they were not cowed. They were solemn and resigned but not intimidated.
“This War Tribunal,” dispassionately intoned the official, “finds you guilty of the charge of conspiracy in a theater of war. The sentence of this court is that you be deprived of your citizenship status forthwith and deposited with others of your kind in a location to be determined. This Tribunal is adjourned.”
Adriel turned and in distress hugged one of the other nurses. They would need the support of each other now more than ever.
The state-provided and largely ineffective defense attorney quickly packed up his papers and scurried from the chamber. Then the security personnel herded the med team together and ushered them out a side door.
The ride to their present location had been Adriel’s last contact with civilization as she knew it. She felt that she had been locked up inside some hideous nightmare—one from which she wanted to wake up but could not.
Now Willum was offering the chance to wake up into the warm and beautiful world she once knew. Adriel opened her eyes and reached for her cherished scan of inspirational poetry to look for a poem that she suddenly remembered. Turning on her stomach and propped on her elbows, she searched for a few seconds until she stopped at a poem entitled “By the Hand.” She read it quietly to herself:
How remarkable is your leading, Lord,
Into the realms unknown,
Through misty places of dark decisions
Where many have been thrown
Into confusion, doubt, or still despair
In pondering their way.
How unknowable is your plan for us
Past each succeeding day.
How you lead us is a mystery, Lord,
Through valleys dim and drear;
How intangible it is to grasp,
Yet unmistakably clear.
You have a way of taking hold our hand
Softly, yet quite firmly;
And though we fall in going on our way,
You lift us high to victory.
Then how vivid the excitement is
To wonder what you’ve planned!
Yet quick we are to tie the knot,
To take it from your hand,
And never stop to think that maybe
You never meant it so.
We step ahead and wrest our hand from yours,
And unheeding onward go!
Then you give a gentle reprimand,
Telling us to wait;
For we are blind without your hand in ours,
Fools who deserve our fate!
“Have I been a fool, Lord?” Adriel prayed, tears dripping on the spread. “Please lead me in your will.”
She rolled over and stared into the shadows. Her mind began to wander again. But this time she began to think of Cirrus, and a longing for home stabbed her painfully. During her years of training and service, she had been homesick many times, but now it was becoming unbearable. Living underground made her feel half-dead. She had grown up in the outdoors of rural Ebinezer; here her spirit was slowly being suffocated, shriveling in the artificial light, the leaden, foul-smelling air, and the grimy walls. Even when above ground, the buildings and the elevated walkways and roads blotted out most of the sky and natural sunlight.
Adriel imagined herself back home, weeding the garden, smelling the flowers, being caught in a shower, swimming in the blazing sunshine. That’s where I belong, she decided at last. I will try to get back to Cirrus.
Instantly she felt better. She took a deep breath and smiled to herself.
Having unburdened her own spirit, her thoughts turned to Brogan. I wonder what’s happened to him since I saw him last.
14
The blue and green planet, wrapped in a wispy mantle of white clouds, rushed to meet the descending shuttle. Brogan viewed the sight with mixed emotions. This time he lacked the naive enthusiasm and anticipation of a young cadet. He was all too aware of the powerful forces arrayed against him and the seriousness of his impending future. In his head he knew that his number-one concern was to clear the charges Josh Mogul had leveled against him in an effort to cover his own cowardice and incompetence. But in his heart he felt the stampeding urge to begin his search for Adriel without further delay.
Somewhere down there, he knew, Adriel was pitted against forces beyond her resources and experience—a powerless noncitizen stripped of all Imperial privileges—if she were still alive. This was her punishment for aiding an enemy of the Empire. He tried to imagine what she was going through. But before long Brogan realized that this was just making his inevitable decision more difficult. He must report to the palace where the Imperial War Court was meeting.
Above all else he must keep his concern for Adriel to himself. The Mogul family was one of the most powerful, perhaps the most powerful, family on Earth. Brogan knew that he could not give them the opportunity to use Adriel against him. The discipline he had learned over the years and applied to mind and body he must now apply to his emotions. Easier said than done, he thought with a sneer.
On this second and last leg of his trip Brogan had tried to familiarize himself with the recent political intrigue on Earth. He felt he had a handle on things, but there was no substitute for firsthand experience. He was going to need friends. Trouble was, how was he to know for sure who was friend and who was foe?
The shuttle neared the docking bay in Rio, and Brogan retrieved his belongings. Once past the VO, he arranged to have his gear sent to the transient officer’s quarters and got directions to the Imperial Palace. Clenching his teeth in a determined resolve, he set out to fulfill his orders.
The so-called palace had long since been abandoned as the primary Imperial domicile, though the Emperor still kept a wing reserved for his private use. Many nights it was easier to stay over than to go to the trouble of traveling to the Royal Residence.
For more than a hundred years the Imperial Palace had been used mostly for high-level government and military business. New wings had been added to the complex over the decades in a helter-skelter manner. Many long, connecting, and intersecting corridors resulted in a potentially confusing maze for the novitiate. Tens of thousands of individuals worked and lived and ate within its walls.
The taxi Brogan hired left him off at the main palace entrance, and he promptly lost himself in the maze of corridors. But it took him a bit longer to admit this fact to himself, and then he was reluctant to embarrass himself by asking directions.
Only the highest-level corridors were equipped with telestrips, so most of the time Brogan had to limp along under his own power. As he turned in oblate circles over the marbled floor, trying to decide which way to go, he noted the fine and rare tapestries hung at intervals along the granite walls.
Brogan stopped in frustration and banged his biopack against his leg and hip in a distracted way. As he did so he leaned against the rough granite wall, and a sliver of light caught his eye, where the edge of an especially attractive piece of tapestry met the wall. He looked closer. With his good hand he pulled the fabric a few inches away from the wall.
Another hallway!
<
br /> The wall fell away to form an opening behind the hanging. As Brogan pushed his head between the wall and the fabric, he corrected his first impression. It was a small alcove equipped with a granite bench carved out of the wall. Brogan stepped in and felt like a kid again, hiding in his own secret place. He sat down to relax for a while, telling himself that he was tired of walking but really just putting off the inevitable.
After three or four minutes Brogan’s conscience became too demanding to ignore, and he was just about to heave himself to his feet when he heard voices coming down the corridor. Maybe whoever it is can help me find my way out of here, he thought. But something, perhaps some instinct honed into him from his military training, kept him rooted on the bench, his muscles tightening as the voices grew louder.
“There’s got to be another way! It’s just too dangerous! If we fail, our lives will be forfeit!”
“Then our plan must not fail! You are anxious enough to share in the wealth and power certain to be ours should we succeed. You must also be prepared to take the risks. Or is the wealth of five worlds not enough compensation for you?” Brogan was sure he had heard the second voice before, but he could not place it.
“That’s easy for you to say! I’m taking all the risks. I’m the one who’s got to pull the trigger!”
“How many times must I explain that I cannot be suspect? I must be visible and apparently uninvolved when the attempt is made. Only then will I have the ability to take over the reigns of government.”
“But to blast the Emperor in broad daylight! It’s insane!” Brogan jolted bolt upright. His blood pounded in his ears.
“The plan is fool proof. Just follow it, and within a few hours it will all be over. I will become Emperor, and you will have wealth and power beyond your wildest dreams.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Look, just be there at 1500 hours, or you may have more to fear from me than you do from the Emperor! We’re in this too far for you to get yellow and back out now! The plan will work. The bribes are paid. You will get away. By tomorrow, no one will be pursuing you.”
The voices were fading, and Brogan could not make out any more of the conversation. He jumped up and pushed open the hanging just enough to see down the corridor, but the two men were just turning a corner into a cross corridor. He let the curtain fall back into place and stood rooted to the floor in a daze, trying to digest what he had just heard.
His first impulse was to rush off to find someone he could report this to. But his orders had been explicit. He was to report to the Military Provost immediately, and he was already later than he expected because of the time he had wasted wandering the exasperating hallways.
“Wait a minute,” Brogan muttered to himself. “I think I remember seeing an office a short time ago with a ‘General Calderon’ or something on the door.” But he still hesitated. His instinct for self-preservation was strong, for Brogan knew he could be jeopardizing his whole future if he went down this rabbit trail. And if no one listened to him, it would all be for nothing.
Finally, having reached a decision, Brogan pushed the tapestry aside and started back the way he had come. After several wrong turns, he finally found the door he was looking for. Yep. ‘General Calderon, Internal Affairs.’ Just like I thought.
As he pushed open the door, Brogan thought he remembered General Darkhow mentioning a General Calderon he had gotten to know at CIO School. I’ll just have to take a chance and hope he’s the one to tell about this.
In response to Brogan’s inquiry, the young captain who served as the General’s aide, arched her eyebrows and dryly informed him, “The General does not receive visitors without an appointment. If you’ll leave your name, your address, and your business, I’ll try to make an appointment for you sometime next week.”
“I appreciate the fact that you have to run interference for the General,” Brogan replied as patiently as he could, “but you don’t understand. I need to get a message of the utmost importance to the General.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but the General does not like to receive unexpected visitors.”
“Listen, Captain . . .” Brogan searched for her nameplate as he leaned forward on the desk. “. . . Sievers! You tell General Calderon that a Major Brogan, most recently having served with General Andrew Darkhow on Peru II, is here with a confidential message. Now do it! I’ll take the flak for it!”
Captain Sievers tapped her pen on the desktop, trying to decide whether or not to be obstinate. Finally she said, “Alright, Major, it’s your funeral.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
*
Brogan fidgeted as he waited with General Calderon. Calderon had assured Brogan that he had done the right thing in coming to him. A report such as his plainly had priority over reporting to the Military Provost. But a small voice inside kept telling him that this was going to cause him a lot of trouble.
“Garrison pressures are sometimes worse than combat, eh, Major?” The general grinned as he noted Brogan’s uneasiness, his white teeth contrasting sharply with his dark skin. “But relax. These political wheels turn slowly in the rarefied heights of power.”
Brogan made a face. “Yes, sir. But with all due respect, sir, I’ve heard what can happen when someone reports late to the Provost. Besides, I’ve got personal reasons for wanting to get everything cleared up as quickly as possible.”
“Personal reasons, huh?” the general replied knowingly. “Sounds like problems of the female kind.”
“Well, uh,” Brogan stammered, taken off guard, “she’s only a friend, sir.”
“Waiting for you, is she?”
Brogan looked down and followed a crack in the flooring with his foot. “No, sir. She doesn’t know I’m here. She was brought to Earth under arrest from Peru II and has lost her citizenship.”
“Hmm. I’d keep that under wraps if I were you. Whatever the story is, it wouldn’t help your case any if it got out,” cautioned Calderon.
Brogan nodded. “That’s my feeling too, General. Adriel was working with a medical relief agency in rebel territory on Peru II. She helped save my life after I was captured. But the whole medical team was charged with conspiracy and taken immediately to Earth.”
“Well, first things first, Major. For now keep a lid on it.” Movement at the doorway caught their attention. “Here comes the Emperor,” Calderon warned.
Both men dropped to their right knee as the royal party entered the small, brightly lit room. Henry the Strong, Emperor of All Known Worlds, was dressed in a thigh-length flowing cape of purple trimmed with gold lace. On his head was the priceless royal crown adorned with glittering gems in settings of white gold. Over his torso he wore a vest of finely woven gold-link mail, specially treated to reflect light laser fire.
Behind the Emperor strode two other men flanked by Imperial Guardsmen: Kepec Mogul and Daniel Mizpala. Mogul made a striking impression dressed in his tailored black jumpsuit, black thigh-high boots, black skullcap, and gold filigreed cape. Mizpala, on the other hand, did not dress to impress, but his eyes gave hint to the power and intelligence he wielded. The First Minister had the habit of walking with his hands clasped behind his back. It was a practice that lent a dignity and authority to his demeanor that the finest of clothing could never furnish.
“What is the urgency, General Calderon?” Henry asked as the party came to a halt. “I have some important business to attend to.”
“Your pardon, Excellency,” General Calderon offered as he stood to face the Emperor. Brogan hesitantly stood as well, following Calderon’s example.
“This loyal young officer,” gesturing to Brogan, “recently overheard a conversation that may be of some interest to your highness. And it may have a bearing on your plans for this afternoon. Major Brogan, please tell his Imperial Majesty what you overheard.”
Brogan related his story again while Henry quietly listened and Mogul squeezed his lips with his fingers, deep in thought. Brogan noted that Mizpala glanced sid
ewise at Mogul several times during the report. “This is indeed serious,” concluded the Emperor when Brogan was finished. “What do my counselors have to say?” He looked at Mizpala and Mogul.
Mogul leaped into the opening. “Brogan . . . I’ve heard that name before, your Excellency.” Speaking to Brogan, he continued. “Major, aren’t you the officer facing a court martial for cowardice in the face of the enemy? Perhaps this is a clever ploy, your Majesty, to gain some favor from higher up. I suggest we dismiss this traitor and be on our way.”
Brogan stiffened, not because of Mogul’s accusations, but because he recognized the voice he hadn’t been able to place before. Mogul is behind the assassination plot! his mind screeched at him. What do I do now? He had a sinking feeling, like a swimmer going down for the last time. Think, Brogan, think!
“Minister Mogul, you amaze me with your intimate knowledge of details of such trifling importance,” frowned the Emperor.
Henry’s comment gave Brogan the opportunity to calm himself down, and with some effort he looked straight at Mogul and said, “The charges are false, sir. And I ask for no special favors—only to be allowed to refute the charges at an impartial Board of Inquiry.”
Brogan decided that it would be wisest not to mention his suspicions of Mogul’s complicity. After all, it was the word of an accused coward against one of the most powerful men in the Empire.
“Touché!” remarked Mizpala with a slight smile. Mogul threw a murderous glance his way.
“Enough of this!” Henry waved his hand. “Major, you have no idea who either of these perpetrators was?”
Brogan noticed Mogul tense, so he purposely delayed responding. “I’m afraid I did not recognize the voices, your Excellency.” Brogan congratulated himself for having figured out a way not to lie to the Emperor.
“Most unfortunate. General Calderon, we thank you for bringing us this information. You may be assured that appropriate precautions will be taken this afternoon, especially around three o’clock.”
Looking thoughtfully at Brogan, he cast an oblique glance toward Mogul and said, “Major, you may be assured of an impartial hearing in your case. To insure this, I hereby charge General Calderon with giving me a personal accounting of your trial. There are those who feel that the Emperor must rule by force of might through armies and secret police. Some of my predecessors used these and other means to rule our Empire. I, however, feel that there is a more important element essential to the power and security of the throne—loyalty. Such loyalty cannot be confined to the noble classes or to a chosen few. Of necessity it must be inculcated into the hearts of the ordinary people—in 78.2 percent of them, the experts say. These are the ones who obey the laws as best they can. But a smaller percentage of these not only obey the law but are morally offended when the law is broken. I suspect that you, Major, belong to this latter category.