Sixteen – Brother Zebedee
Molon, Voide, and John followed Brother Martin through the corridors of Hornet’s Nest. The ship was much roomier than Star Wolf, though only around twice the tonnage. Even full-sized carriers were normally cramped, but this degree of spaciousness was particularly out of place on Hornet’s Nest; a tiny, Hive-class pocket carrier.
Yet Hornet’s Nest, according to what Voide had told Molon, had executed a proximity jump in order to ambush Revenge. She had been on the bridge during the attack and the sensor officer hadn’t mentioned a battle carrier or any other support class ships. Apparently, Hornet’s Nest had undergone a refit even more extensive than the tweaks he had done to Star Wolf. This piqued his curiosity.
“So, Brother Martin,” Molon asked as they wound their way through the ship. “Hornet’s Nest has an internal voidspace drive? That’s an extremely unusual configuration for a Hive-class carrier.”
“Ah, yes,” Brother Martin replied. “Well, I am afraid I don’t know much about all that. I know we came through voidspace to get here, but I am only a simple cleric, trained as a bookkeeper and administrator, so starship particulars are beyond my purview. You would have to ask Captain Smythe about Hornet’s Nest’s technical details.”
Molon wasn’t sure if Brother Martin was just engaging in pleasantries or if he genuinely foresaw an opportunity for Molon to speak with the carrier captain. If it were the latter, they might not be in quite as serious a pickle as Molon feared. On Tede, Brother Martin had been a stiff-necked negotiator and the whole involvement with the Brother’s of the Lion with the raid on John’s house was shady, but overall Molon had no reason to suspect that the Brothers were not on the same side as the Theocracy. If they were genuine Faithful, the likelihood of Star Wolf and her crew just disappearing was much lower than when they were in the hands of the Provisional Imperium or GalSec.
“So we will be meeting Captain Smythe, then?” Molon pressed.
“Once we are done with Brother Zebedee, I shall see if I can arrange a private dinner with the captain, if you like. I’m sure that once he knows we are all on the same side, he would be happy to share details with a fellow shipmaster.”
There was the rub. This was not going to be just a friendly meet and greet. Apparently, Brother Zebedee was going to lay conditions on the table for continuing to be “on the same side”. If those conditions proved untenable, the rest of their stay aboard Hornet’s Nest would doubtless turn considerably less cordial.
Brother Martin tapped a door panel. The portal opened to reveal a respectable-sized conference room. An older man, slender of build and dressed similarly to Brother Martin, sat at the table. The fellow had a long flowing white beard and soft brown eyes, with a slight, but sincere, smile. His bronzed, leathery skin and plethora of wrinkles bore witness to someone accustomed to planetary life under a proximate, blazing sun.
A slightly rotund man, in an Old Empire Navy formal dress uniform, sat next to him. His high-and-tight salt-and-pepper hair and clean-shaven face marked him as a career military man. Only his slight paunch bore evidence of at least a few years in the private sector. The epaulettes on his uniform bore the rank of captain, but also carried the emblazoned leonine emblem of the Brothers of the Lion.
“Captain Molon Hawkins,” Brother Martin said, motioning to direct Molon’s gaze toward the elderly monk, “allow me to introduce the High Abbot of our order, Brother Zebedee. And this is our beloved friend and host, Captain Malachi Smythe, shipmaster of Hornet’s Nest.”
Smythe stood and offered a smile and deep nod in Molon’s direction. Brother Zebedee took a moment or two longer to rise, leaning heavily on the table, aided finally by a steadying hand from Captain Smythe.
“Captain Hawkins,” said Brother Zebedee in a soft but strong voice. “Or may I call you Molon?”
“Sure, call me Molon. After all, we’re on the same side, right?”
Molon flashed an insincere wolfish smile at Brother Martin before returning his attention to Brother Zebedee. The opportunity to make a dig at Brother Martin’s earlier comment, while simultaneously setting a tone of cooperation with Brother Zebedee, had been irresistible. Molon’s response brought a tender smile from the aged monk.
“Yes, I certainly hope so,” Brother Zebedee replied, wavering a bit on his feet. “I must apologize for my instability, I’m a born and bred lightworlder, and Malachi’s dogged insistence on maintaining one-G is giving me quite the workout. No mercy at all for an old man from this one, I tell you,” Zebedee noted with a fond smile toward the captain.
“Oh, quit your bellyaching, Zeb,” Smythe replied, matching Brother Zebedee grin for grin. “A week or two aboard Hornet’s Nest will do you good. A farmer should have some muscle about him, even one as old as you.”
“Brother Zebedee, Captain Smythe,” Brother Martin interjected, interrupting the exchange and looking dismayed by Smythe’s casual attitude toward High Abbot Zebedee. “Allow me to introduce our other guests. This young woman,” he said, motioning toward Voide with the slightest tremble in his voice, “is Yasu Matsumura, Star Wolf’s chief of security. And this gentleman,” he said nodding toward John, “is Dr. John Salzmann, about whom you have heard so much recently.”
Molon’s hackles raised, and he fought the instinct to curl his lip back over his canines. If John had been the subject of some recent discussions among the Brothers, then Molon suspected that a battle over control of the doctor, or at least his wife’s research, was behind this rescue. Molon prepared himself mentally for a continuation of his aborted conversation with Brother Martin back on Tede.
“Please, everyone,” Brother Zebedee said, motioning to the empty seats to his right. “Take a seat, and make yourselves comfortable. I am afraid I cannot stand for very long in this gravity myself. Malachi is a great friend to the Brothers, but he is obstinately unaccommodating toward his guests. Possibly the least gracious host the Creator ever made.”
Zebedee sunk heavily back into his chair, his aged muscles succumbing to the one-G. Zebedee slipped a slight but definite sideways glance at Captain Smythe, who responded with a wide grin, obviously taking the good-natured jibe as a compliment.
“That’s right, Zeb. Ship’s gotta fly straight, and crew’s gotta be on their game at all times,” Smythe said. He turned to Molon, apparently looking for understanding or affirmation. “I don’t tone down the lights for darkworlders, or turn ‘em up for brightworlders. A captain can’t rightly go pitching his crew all stagger-jacked just because some weak-legged, lightworld landlubber climbs aboard. Ain’t that right, Hawkins?”
“Captain’s call,” Molon replied, deciding not to join in whatever game of mutual chiding was being bandied between Zebedee and Smythe.
Zebedee’s smile showed this verbal roughhousing did not faze the elderly abbot. From the ease with which these two interacted, they had known each other a long time.
After Voide found a seat, Smythe, courteously deferring to the only female present, settled into his own. Molon remembered that human custom of politeness taught him by his adoptive father. He shook his head in wonder at Smythe’s queer blending of manners and maladroitness.
“A Pariah for security chief, huh?” Smythe said to Molon, shaking his head. “That’s a dangerous proposition, ain’t it?”
“Yeah,” Voide interjected, “kind of like proximity jumping a PI cruiser with a lone pocket carrier.”
“Touché,” Smythe said beaming a huge grin in Voide’s direction before turning to Molon once again. “I like her, Hawkins. A captain needs officers not afraid to speak their minds, and to blazes with propriety.”
“Honey,” Smythe said, returning his gaze to Voide. “If you ever decide to jump billets, I’ll find you a bunk aboard Hornet’s Nest even if I have to toss a raggedy old monk or two out an airlock to do it.”
Brother Zebedee showed no sign of offense at Smythe’s rough manner, but Molon noted Brother Martin’s face darkening a shade or two.
“It’s
good to know a girl has options,” Voide parried playfully.
Molon realized the jibe was more for his benefit than Smythe’s. Voide often joked about leaving, but in truth he knew that, aside from himself and Twitch, Voide was the most loyal officer aboard Star Wolf. That was saying a lot.
“Molon,” Zebedee began once everyone had taken their seats. “Please excuse Malachi. He is notoriously uncouth; quite unsuitable for mixed company, actually.”
This drew another smug smile from the boisterous captain.
“Nonetheless,” Zebedee continued, “I hope his medical team has amply seen to your recovery?”
“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” Molon answered, his ears darting forward and his tail raising slightly, signaling his readiness for a fight. “Especially considering it was his neural cannon that put us in need of medical assistance in the first place.”
This drew a wry smile from Zebedee and a loud laugh from Smythe.
“Hah, I suppose that is on me,” Smythe said, slapping the table with his palm. “But then again, given my crew pulled everyone but Miss Pariah here out of the brig, danged if we didn’t improve your situation, give or take a good brain scramble in the bargain.”
Molon had to admit, even if they did just exchange jailors, they were certainly in no greater danger from the Brothers than they had been from Mark Russel and some GalSec interrogator.
“Why, heck fire,” Smythe continued, “if Martin here hadn’t told us to look for your gray-skinned girly there, we’d have probably left her behind thinking she was part of the Imp crew.”
Adopting a sly smile, Smythe tilted his head slightly and locked his eyes on Voide. His jovial demeanor took a dark turn.
“Now I wonder what exactly you did, little missy, to get yourself sprung from the clink all by your lonesome, hmm?”
Voide curled her lip, baring one of her fangs. Her voice dropped into a cool calm that set Molon’s ears back on his head just hearing it. He could sense violence swimming just below the surface of that tranquil tone.
“I snapped the neck of some officer who made a sleazy insinuation. Apparently, that gets respect aboard an Imp ship.”
Smythe smacked the table with both hands and let rip a hearty belly laugh, leaning so far back in his chair that only the magnetic locks anchoring it to the deck kept it from toppling over.
“Flaming supernovas, Hawkins you’ve got a real fire-spitter right there. I haven’t had this much fun since I dropped a class of newly ordained Brothers off on a nudist colony world! By the Lion that was a riot.”
Brother Martin reddened deeply as he cleared his throat, trying to regain some sense of decorum. Brother Zebedee seemed utterly unperturbed. Molon mused that Brother Martin’s blush might be an indication he had been a member of the ordination class Smythe just referenced.
“Ahem, Captain Smythe,” Brother Martin interrupted. “Your past questionable antics aside, I am certain our guests are anxious to know why we have asked to meet, and Brother Zebedee has many other duties to attend to, so if we may…”
“Yeah, sure, junior. Don’t go getting your cassock all twisted. Go ahead, Zeb, and get on with your business. I’ll watch my P’s and Q’s, don’t mind me none.”
“I never do, Malachi,” Zebedee quipped through just a hint of a smirk. “But as Brother Martin has said, Molon, we do have serious matters to discuss.”
Molon’s whiskers twitched. Here it was.
“Brother Zebedee,” Molon began before the monk could pose any uncomfortable questions about John or his late wife’s research. “Please don’t think for a moment I’m ungrateful for your intervention on our behalf, but let me be direct. Brother Martin informed us we’ve been followed since we left Tede. Your order relocated off Tede months ago, yet here I sit with the High Abbot of the Brothers of the Lion. That makes me more than a little curious what it is about Star Wolf that warrants such attention.”
Brother Martin tensed, but Brother Zebedee remained undaunted by Molon’s bluntness. Giving Molon a kindly look, he folded his hands and leaned slightly forward over the table.
“Yes, friend Molon, as you rightly guessed, you have become embroiled in a matter of great importance to the brotherhood and to Faithful everywhere. I actually arrived on Tede some time ago, just before agents of Dawnstar abducted John and Elena Salzmann. I had wanted to meet with her in hopes of succeeding where others had failed in persuading her to lend her efforts to our cause. I believe Brother Martin spoke to you on Tede about our interest in Elena’s research?”
“Yes,” John sat forward in his chair, interjecting before Molon could respond. “And Elena told the Brothers who visited us before; she had no interest in her research being used as a platform for committing genocide.”
Molon saw the slightest flash of annoyance snap into Brother Zebedee’s soft, brown eyes, but he maintained remarkable composure. His calm tone continued as he turned toward John.
“If you say so, John. I hope you don’t think it too forward if I call you John. Titles can be so divisive.”
“You can call me whatever you want, but it’s not going to change the answer. The point is moot. Elena is dead, and her research died with her.”
Molon knew that had to sting John to say, especially since the entire reason they were in this system to begin with was chasing the source of a ghost recording on the chance Elena might somehow still be alive. Unfortunately, lying was not John’s strong suit, and his lack of conviction in that statement permeated the room.
A slight huff from Brother Martin belied his suspicion that John was not being truthful. Smythe was more subtle, with just a twitch of his mouth indicating he was weighing John’s words heavily. Zebedee’s visage, however, unwaveringly pleasant, was unperturbed by John’s statement that their efforts to gain possession of Elena’s research were in vain.
“Please understand, John,” Zebedee continued, “objection to genocide was not the reason for her refusal.”
“What are you talking about?” John replied, puzzled at what Brother Zebedee might be insinuating.
“Only that your wife was a woman of complex convictions. Elena did not fully understand the gravity of the situation. You two were Faithful, yes?”
“We were, and I still am,” John answered.
“Then you know the demons have been a plague on humanity since the fall of Adam.”
“Every Faithful knows that.”
“Well, as is so often the case, the demons have once again become the agents of their own downfall.”
“How’s that, exactly?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.
“It’s really quite simple, you see,” Zebedee explained. “Lucifer sealed his fate and the fate of his entire rebellious faction when he enticed humanity to kill the Lion of Judah. His own hand delivered the eventual stroke that marked his destruction. And now, again, when the demons developed the malmorphsy bioweapon, they gave us the means to destroy them.”
“I think you got your facts flipped, Brother Zebedee,” Molon interrupted. “The mutavirus was genetically designed to affect everyone but Daemi, with the Angelicum apparently still being close enough genetically to also remain unaffected.”
“Exactly!” Zebedee’s eyes lit with excitement. “Which means it was capable of recognizing Daemi genetics, don’t you see? Elena Salzmann’s research can help us redesign and repurpose a mutavirus specifically targeting the demons rather than ignoring them. This would end them once and for all, freeing humankind to reunite and expand our border coreward among the stars until the Lion returns. Surely you see this, don’t you?”
“What I see is this,” Molon replied, fighting to keep his lip from curling in disgust at how casually Zebedee was proposing genocide on a galactic scale. “The Daemi are sentient beings, just like the rest of us.”
“Yes, but—” Brother Martin interjected before Molon cut him off.
“Hold your tongue,” Molon growled, baring his teeth at the younger monk. “I ain’t done talking yet.”
Brother Martin paled and remained silent.
“As I was saying,” Molon continued. “I believe the Daemi are the demons of your Scriptures. I also believe the Angelicum are the angels the ancient humans wrote about, but we know now neither are supernatural spiritual beings. They are sophonts as much as any of the major races, Lubanians, Fei, Dractauri, Doppelgangers, Prophane, as well as the thousands of other minor, non-voidspace-capable sophont races we have encountered on other worlds. If you create a weapon that biologically targets a specific race, you have become no better than those you seek to destroy.”
“And why stop there?” Voide added, aggression rising in her tone. “When you are done destroying every man, woman, and child of the Daemi, what’s to stop you from tweaking your bloody new toy again for use on, say, Prophane, or Lubanians, or anyone else you view as a threat?”
“Please calm down,” Brother Martin said, breaking his silence and trying to defuse the rising discord in the room. “Brother Zebedee has done nothing to earn your ire, so I would ask that you treat the High Abbot with the respect his station deserves.”
“So much for setting aside titles,” Voide quipped.
Brother Zebedee shot Brother Martin a warning glance. The older cleric clearly felt he had matters well in hand without help from his junior. Captain Smythe was rocking back in his chair wearing a face-splitting grin and obviously using every ounce of willpower within himself to keep from laughing aloud.
“I meant what I said about titles,” Zebedee continued, “and Brother Martin has spoken out of turn. This is a deep and troubling topic. It is perfectly understandable that emotions would run high. Yet let me assure you, we are only here to discuss possibilities. I had hoped simply to persuade, not coerce.”
“Well you persuade in vain,” John answered. “I have already told you, Elena is gone, and her research was destroyed. You missed your chance at justifying your genocide.”
Star Wolf (Shattered Galaxy) Page 26