by Ben Bova
Why? Was it so important to you to see this project begun that you had to sacrifice your life this way? Brendan sighed heavily and tossed fitfully in the small bed. He rubbed tired, burning eyes and silently added, And mine?
Hours passed and he was nearly asleep when there came a soft knocking at the door. Not bothering to attempt to light the oil lamp on the table, he stumbled across the room with only moonlight to guide him and opened the door a crack. "Yes?"
It was Sarah, the innkeeper's wife. She carried an electric flashlight and he blinked at the brightness of the beam streaming in through the door. "Sorry to be disturbing you, sir, but the traveler you were expecting has arrived. He and his wife are waiting downstairs at table."
Brendan shook his head to clear it. "What traveler? I was expecting no one."
"I'm sorry, sir," she replied, "but he did not give his name. Shall I tell him you shan't be disturbed until morning, then?"
Curiosity got the better of him and he quickly pulled on his boots. "No. I'll see him." Sarah stepped back and allowed the glow of the flashlight to guide them both down the narrow staircase.
The man stood immediately when Sarah led him into the dining room, surprising Brendan with his size.
"Will you have some more coffee, sir?" She indicated a large pot and several cups sitting on the table.
"No, thank you, ma'am," the bearded stranger said politely in a deep, resonant voice. "We'll be fine for now." He turned his attention to Brendan. "Come, sir, and join me at my table."
Brendan sat down and gratefully took the offered cup of steaming coffee. He sipped carefully of the hot liquid and studied the stranger. The fire had burned down, but the mound of glowing embers in the fireplace cast an eerie light that reflected in the man's feral eyes. And even seated, he still looked taller than any Earther Brendan had yet seen.
"I'm afraid you have the advantage," Brendan began. "Do I know you?"
"My name is Johnson."
Brendan offered his hand and winced at the strength in Johnson's handshake.
"It's good to meet you…" Brendan hesitated, looking for the proper salutation. "Uh, Mr. Johnson."
A dying log shifted suddenly in the embers, momentarily bathing the room in orange brightness. In the few moments since Brendan had come downstairs, most of his attention had been focused on Johnson, and he'd paid little heed to the woman sitting at his side. But as the flow in the room increased, he saw her clearly for the first time.
She had darkened her hair and her face was nearly hidden by the high collar of the Earther coat she wore, but as the glow of the fireplace bathed her features in a dance of flickering light, there was no mistaking that the woman playing the role of Johnson's wife was Rihana Valtane.
As he had numerous times since his father's death nearly three weeks earlier, Javas met now with the Emperor's two closest friends and advisors in what was to have been his father's study. There was much to do now that the Planetary Council had, by an overwhelming margin, given official approval to Dr. Montgarde's project, and Javas had consulted with Fain and Bomeer repeatedly. The Commander, having realized the benefits of the project to the Imperial military fleet, had proven himself to be one of its staunchest supporters. Bomeer, too—although still quick to point out every flaw or negative aspect of his planning—seemed, at least, to have mellowed in his opposition.
Commander Fain paced slowly in front of the viewscreen. "Pallatin has been a thorn in the Empire's side since it was colonized three centuries ago," Fain said in a voice now husky from overuse. "They have had little discourse with other worlds, still less trade, and except for minimal representation on the Planetary Council, have preferred to allow themselves to develop without Imperial assistance. They even seem unconcerned about how their gene pools have drifted and have no interest in preserving a genetic baseline. It was no surprise that the representatives from Pallatin's governing body, the 'Joint Dominion,' were among the few of the Hundred Worlds to refuse, outright, their cooperation."
Fain crossed the width of the room quickly, retaking his seat next to Bomeer's. "Unfortunately," he went on, "they also possess more raw materials necessary for shipbuilding than any of the worlds. Their construction facilities, likewise, are among the finest in the Empire—"
"But they are a member of the Empire, even if in name only," Javas finished for him. "As such, they cannot, will not, outright refuse the needs of the Empire."
Fain shrugged, nodded in understanding. Many of the outermost worlds of the Empire had seen unrest and had shown a certain level of defiance. The chief of staff of the Imperial Military Forces had maintained throughout his career that a firmer hand was needed with the frontier worlds and, while he did not exactly welcome the opportunity to use force, agreed that it was necessary and that he was prepared to use it.
"We need Pallatin's cooperation in this," Javas said firmly. "Do what is required, Commander."
Fain nodded in sharp agreement, the slight hint of satisfaction in his manner telling Javas that he was not displeased with the decision.
This meeting, like so many of the others, had lasted hours. Javas rubbed his face with both hands in an attempt to perk himself up and a sudden feeling of frustration swept over him, interrupting the subject at hand. He blinked the tiredness from his eyes and let them wander over the study. He took in the viewscreen and the handcrafted woodwork of the cabinetry, felt the massive wooden desk beneath his fingertips; he'd personally designed this room and all its contents for the Emperor, had it equipped with every convenience, every comfort his father might want. Javas was surprised, when he reluctantly took the study as his own, at how comfortable the room was, how it seemed to "fit" him. The feeling disturbed him.
"Why did he do it? Why did he pardon his own murderer?" Javas pounded a fist on the desk in frustration, startling both men seated across from him. He leaned forward and rested his chin on steepled fingers, staring intently at the two. "You knew him, Fain, better than anyone. Why?"
"I can't answer that, Sire." Fain sat rigidly in his chair, not quite at attention, and returned the new Emperor's gaze. There was strength in those eyes, Javas realized, but pain and frustration lay behind them as well.
"Nor can I," Bomeer added softly. He ran a hand absently through thick brown hair that was more unruly than usual. "Sire, no one could have detected the extent of the threat your father's—'caretaker' presented to his health. No one." He let his gaze fall to the floor as he chose his words, then regarded Javas seriously, but carefully. "Sire, I served your father all my life, and spoke candidly to him of my feelings in all things—even when my feelings went against his, as they did concerning this project. It is true that the bluntness of my remarks angered him on occasion, but my advice was always accepted at face value. May I be so bold as to speak bluntly now?"
Fain turned slightly in his chair, an eyebrow arched almost imperceptibly.
"If I've learned nothing else from my father, it was to seek—and carefully consider—the counsel of others. Speak freely."
Bomeer cleared his throat softly, and without further hesitation said, "Sire, you are blaming yourself for your father's death."
"Is that so, Academician?" Javas heard the anger rising in his voice. "And how about you, Commander? Do you concur?"
Fain's answer was instantaneous. "I do." He paused then, as if taking further measure of his new Emperor before continuing. "And if I, too, may speak candidly, Sire?"
Javas nodded.
"It is my considered opinion that this preoccupation with your own possible guilt in this matter can serve only to weaken your resolve in achieving your father's goals."
Javas opened his mouth to refute the statement, but realized that the man was right and instead shook his head slowly in resignation, allowing his anger to drain slowly away. Looking first to one, then the other, he saw that each seemed as tired as he himself felt, and he was certain that a glance into a mirror would show the same dark circles under his eyes that he saw under those of
his companions.
He pushed away from the desk and crossed silently to the viewscreen on the opposite wall. Arms folded across his chest, he stared idly at the graphic representation of the Pallatin system Fain had been discussing.
They're both right, he thought, still standing before the screen. I am blaming myself. He sighed heavily and returned to the desk.
"Thank you for your honesty," said the Emperor of the Hundred Worlds, nodding to each of them in turn. "Commander, when can you have a ship crewed and ready to depart for Pallatin?"
They lay next to each other, legs still entangled in the satin sheets of the huge bed, and stared tranquilly at the branches of the trees swaying gently above them. From time to time the rustling boughs parted enough to see the sky, revealing a field of stars as unfamiliar to Javas as those seen from Luna. He propped himself up on an elbow and smiled at the way the holographic forest around them was augmented by the scent of leaves and flowers, and how the singing of a night bird in the distance seemed to call forth the twin moons now rising brightly through a clearing of thin saplings. He watched her as she lay, taking in the way her hair cascaded over her pale shoulders, the rise and fall of her breasts as her breathing slowed. Her face was turned to watch the rising of the moons, and he couldn't read the expression there. Their lovemaking had been passionate, but preoccupied in the knowledge that she was leaving.
Despite the impression of openness suggested by the holographic forest, the room had grown warm, and as Javas stroked the smooth flatness of Adela's stomach with his left hand, his fingertips glided softly over a thin sheen of perspiration. He furrowed his brow in concentration and silently ordered the temperature lowered a few degrees. An extra moment of will as he concentrated gave rise to a whisper of air that enveloped the bed chamber like a breeze, seeming more a natural part of the "forest" than that of the room's cooling system. Although Javas was still unaccustomed to the integrator, and was still learning to use it with the effortless ease his father had shown, he was already beginning to appreciate some of the finer opportunities it presented.
Adela's breathing had slowed to normal and was now almost inaudible. She took his hand in both of hers and brought it to her lips as she turned to him amid the jumble of sheets. She pulled Javas to her and embraced him in a long, warm kiss. He was about to return the kiss, but she pulled away and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Without a word, she left his side, crossing to a small settee marking the edge of the room and stood, her back to him, silhouetted against the moons as she admired the vista around them.
"Thank you," she said tenderly, "for the vision of home. I've missed it so."
"I had it programmed some time ago," he replied, still leaning on his elbow. "It was to be a gift." She's so tiny, he thought, watching the moonlight shining through the moving trees play across the gentle curves of her body. "Although I'd not intended it as a going-away gift."
It made sense, of course, for her to leave. If anyone could convince the Pallatins to the necessity of their cooperation, it was she. Hadn't she, after all, convinced him? If the ship Fain was sending ultimately had to use force to bring the Joint Dominion into line, it wouldn't be for lack of her persuasive talents. Then there was the time factor. They both had come to terms with the fact that she would need to follow this project through to its conclusion, requiring either long periods of cryosleep or travel at near-relativistic speeds or, more likely, both. The round trip would take forty years, in realtime, while she would age only a few.
A bird flew past so close she started for a moment, then giggled in the realization of how silly it must have appeared to be so completely fooled by something that wasn't even there. Javas smiled. I love all the childlike, joyously simple things about you, he thought silently as her gentle laughter reached his ears. I'm going to miss them. The thought reminded him of another, more important reason why he hadn't fought her decision to go: her personal safety. Until he'd managed to learn the truth surrounding his father's death, he preferred that she be somewhere else for now.
There was a soft chiming, so faint that it might have gone unnoticed but for its intrusion in the peaceful setting all around them.
"Acknowledged." The chiming stopped. Javas pulled a robe around him, then went to Adela, who had not moved from her spot near the settee. Standing behind her, he encircled her in this strong arms and kissed her once on the neck.
"It's time, isn't it?" she whispered.
"Yes."
He followed Adela as she wordlessly retrieved a light knee-length wraparound from the tangled covers at the foot of Javas' bed and slipped it on, smoothing it down with the palms of her hands before cinching it around her narrow waist.
"I have to go."
Javas nodded and, after taking one last look around at the serene Grisian forest, addressed the room system. "Cancel and store display." The scene instantly dissolved and was replaced by his bed chamber.
He wanted to hold her, ask—no, command—her to stay, but knew better than to try. Instead, he took her upturned face in his hands and kissed her once.
"Good-bye," he said simply.
Adela smiled and, reaching up to his face, played smooth fingertips over the stubble on his cheek. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him, then turned and quietly let herself out of his bed chamber.
And out of his life for the next forty years.
PART THREE
COMING OF AGE
CHAPTER TEN
Eric's breath came in sharp, painful gasps. There was a stabbing ache in his side and a hot, metallic taste in his mouth that burned down the very length of his throat each time he swallowed. The day had been chilly when he'd started his hike, but sweat covered him now as he ran, making the tiny scratches and lacerations on his face and forearms from low branches and briars sting. Fatigue steadily overtook him, causing him to misplace his hurried steps more and more frequently now; he was stumbling more often, and he knew that any lead he once had over his pursuers was beginning to dwindle, if, in fact, much distance remained between them.
He had never taken the main trail this near the town before, and was now beginning to regret having left the grounds at all.
There was a clearing up ahead where the hulk of a fallen tree—an enormous oak, its battered old trunk more than a meter thick—lay across the path. It had been there for some time, apparently, because someone, perhaps a local farmer or one of the townsmen who regularly hunted these woods, had taken the trouble to hack crude steps into the rounded sides with an ax. The steps were little more than boot holds scooped out of the wood and he should have slowed, he knew, and sacrificed a bit of time to scramble carefully over, but instead he made an attempt to leap it. His right leg actually cleared the top as he leaped, but his left shin banged full force into the downed tree, snagging him and sending him tumbling onto the damp, hard-packed dirt of the path on the other side.
Eric rolled onto his back and, staring at the patches of blue sky visible through the treetops, lay still and waited for the ground to stop spinning around him. He closed his eyes, shutting out the dizziness, and enjoyed for a moment the delicious chill seeping through his sweat-soaked shirt from the damp ground beneath him. Listening carefully, he tried to detect the sounds of the boys chasing him, but his breathing was still too labored and, to him anyway, too loud to hear much of anything other than his own blood rushing in his ears at the same accelerated pace as his heart pounding in his chest.
He struggled to his feet, wincing when he put weight on his left leg, and was about to start down the path once more when a sudden, stinging pain thudded against his left shoulder, followed by another further down his back. Eric tried to run, but the weakness in his leg made him stumble to his knees as a third piece of lead shot grazed his ear. His hand flew instinctively to the side of his head and he cried out, against his will, and fought back tears.
"Hold now, pup, or my next shot will crack your skull asplit!"
He clenched his eyes tightly, trying to drive the p
ain away. Eric felt a warm stickiness in his fingers, but refused to lower his hand and look at the blood he knew he would find there. Instead, he fell to a sitting position and pivoted slowly around to face his tormentor. The boy stood atop the fallen bole of the oak tree, aiming a slingshot at his forehead. His aim was pulled back fully, ready to fire, and if the lead ball contained in the slingshot was of the same weight as those he'd already used, Eric was sure the boast of cracking his skull was no idle one. Still holding his ear, he lowered his head in a sign of surrender.
"That's a good pup," said the boy atop the log, barely winded by the chase. He was at least five years older than Eric, maybe sixteen or seventeen, and jumped down from the log with an agility that said he was no stranger to the rugged terrain of the backwoods. There was something about the older boy that was familiar, Eric thought, but he couldn't quite place him. Perhaps he'd seen him in the village on one of the rare instances McLaren had allowed him to accompany him, or maybe he was a son of one of the servants or groundskeepers at Woodsgate.
He strode casually to where Eric sat, the slingshot never wavering. A grin spread across his face, and Eric noticed the thin beard the boy was attempting to cultivate. The whiskers were very light in color; lighter, in fact, than the long copper-red hair that tumbled unkempt over his collar.
"Paulie! Mobo! Come on around!" There was a thrashing sound from the woods to Eric's left, and presently two more boys appeared at the edge of the trail.
The three of them were dressed in similar clothing: roomy, belted pants of a dark broadcloth fabric, linen shirts with long blousy sleeves, leather lug-soled boots, and vests of leather and heavy canvas. Their clothes showed obvious wear from repeated hiking in the backwoods, but the colorful nylon knapsacks the two newcomers wore appeared new. Each of the three wore a knife sheath on his belt, while the boy with the slingshot also wore a whip coiled at his side.