John stared even more intently at the old man. He had seen holopics of High Abbot Nichols, but the bright-eyed vibrant clergyman bore little resemblance to the broken, empty, emaciated shell sitting before him. Still, there was something very familiar about his features.
“By the Lion, you are right!” John said at last. “This is High Abbot Nichols. But what in the galaxy have they done to him?”
“I don’t know, but I will try to find out.”
Shamira stepped over to the bed where the old man sat. Focusing deeply, she gently reached out and took the old man’s hand, and stared deeply into his vacant eyes. John imagined she was watching the panorama of whatever world was playing out in the former abbot’s head. The two sat motionless for minutes, locked in some invisible dance that John was not privy to.
“How’s it going?” John asked, losing patience.
“It is really quite wondrous,” Shamira replied, apparently undisturbed by John’s interruption but still not unlocking her eyes from the abbot’s. “It is like the Lion has helped him to create a beautiful refuge within his mind. He hasn’t been suffering all these years, he has been with the Creator. He’s not lost, he just doesn’t want to leave.”
Suddenly Abbot Nichols turned his eyes from the nowhere and nothing upon which they had been fixed and stared directly into Angel’s. His vacuous visage softened into a kindly smile. Suddenly John could see the image of the Abbot Nichols he remembered from the holopics. The man had aged considerably, but his identity was without question.
“My beautiful child,” Abbot Nichols said in a dry and crackling voice, taking Shamira’s other hand in his free one and lifting them both to his lips. “Has the time truly come for me to return to my physical home?”
“Yes, Falcion, it is time.”
John was taken aback by her familiarity with the former high abbot, given that she’d admitted never having met him. John had always been taught one respected one’s elders and always used their proper titles. He would have gotten a beating if he had ever, during his time in Faithful school, addressed a teacher or clergy by their given name. How amazing it was at his age to still feel that lesson so strongly.
“And what is your name, my dear?” the abbot asked.
“You can call me Angel,” Shamira answered.
“An angel you do appear to these old eyes. My dear child, He,” Nichols said, pointing a finger toward the ceiling, “told me this time would come, you know?”
Nichols sounded as if his voice was struggling to find its normal rhythm after such a long period of idleness.
“Did He?” Shamira asked.
“Yes, sweet Angel. I know His word is true, but it had been so long. I wondered if my body would last until this day came. I felt a bit like Abram waiting for the child God promised him.”
“The Lion has sustained you, Falcion,” Shamira replied. “Enoch needs you now more than ever.”
“Enoch? What a dear boy. Terrible thing that happened to his parents. I imagine his grief is great indeed.”
“It has mellowed some over the past eight years.”
The abbot’s forehead furrowed deeply and his smile vanished.
“Eight years? Have I been gone that long?”
“Yes,” Shamira answered. “If you would come with me, we will get you something to eat, and I can tell you all about it.”
“That would be wonderful, my child.” Nichols turned to John as if noticing him for the first time. “And who is this man, my dear? He is far too old to be your husband. Your father, perhaps?”
Shamira laughed and gave John a knowing wink. John suspected, if even half the rumors about the Angelicum were true, she might well be far older than himself and Nichols added together.
“No, your grace,” John said, bowing his head deeply and using the proper honorific for a senior clergyman in the Faithful. “Just a friend.”
Shamira took the abbot’s hand and began to help him to his feet. She turned to look at John.
“If you do not mind, I will take Falcion to the mess hall for something to eat. Could you direct me? I will catch him up on everything he has missed.”
John was torn. He was physically exhausted, and finally had the first chance since they last left Ratuen to have his quarters all to himself. Shamira might have rescued them on Revenge, and be an ally as part of the Angelicum Host, but John was fairly certain Molon would not approve of him letting a rescued hostage and an almost complete stranger have the run of the ship. He opted for a compromise.
“Come with me,” John said.
Shamira walked slowly as the abbot shuffled after John. He exited his quarters and led them next door to the sickbay.
“Patch,” John called out to the attending corpsman.
“Yeah, Doc?”
“Please escort our guests, agent Angel and Abbot Nichols to the mess hall, and see about getting them something to eat.”
“You got it, Doc. But what about Twitch?” Patch said pointing to the convalescing XO.
“I’ll stay with her,” John replied.
Patch shook his head as he held up an outstretched palm.
“Doc, I already told you, you are dead on your feet. You need rest.”
“I’ll rest here,” John replied.
He gave the corpsman a reassuring smile. Truth was, after their last discussion, John wasn’t sure how at ease he was leaving Twitch in Patch’s care. He doubted the corpsman was doing anything more than speculating, but John was still new on board, so he didn’t dare assume he had a definite read on many of the crewmen just yet.
“I assume you have the med bed configured to alarm if any of her vitals becomes unstable?”
“I do,” Patch confirmed.
“So I’ll be fine.”
Patch shrugged and laid the datapad he had been reviewing on the small table beside Twitch’s med bed.
“If you say so, Doc. Truth is, the med bed respirator is breathing for her. There’s not a lot can go wrong as long as she don’t give up.”
“From what I know of her,” John smiled, “giving up isn’t in her.”
“Hu-ah!” Patch said, giving the Imperial Marine equivalent of heck yeah. “Given what she’s facing, she’s going to need every ounce of that fighting spirit.”
“Yes, she will,” John said, dreading the conversation he would have to have with Twitch once she was awake again. “By the way, Patch,” John said, grasping for any excuse to change the subject. “The captain has given agent Angel here use of Twitch’s quarters for the trip to Furi. Please show her where they are.”
“Aye, sir,” Patch replied.
John guessed the acknowledgement came from his position as CMO giving him some sort of equivalency of officer rank. Or maybe Patch was just being polite.
“Also,” John added, “if you could do me one more favor.”
“What do you need, Doc?”
“Alert the deck crew that my second roommate has been relocated to the auxiliary area med beds. They can reconfigure my room now that the impending trouble is over. Just have them leave one extra bunk in there for the abbot, if you would.”
“Sure thing,” Patch answered.
“Shamira,” John said, turning to the Angelicum agent. If you and Abbot Nichols will go with Patch, he will get you something to eat, see you to your quarters across the hall, and show you around the ship. If you need anything once you get settled, I’ll be here or in my quarters.”
“Thank you, John,” Shamira answered as the three of them exited the sickbay.
The room grew silent, save for the gentle pulsing of Twitch’s med bed and the respirator tirelessly performing its duty. John slipped off his shoes and reclined on one of the empty med beds. The gentle pinging of Twitch’s med bed provided a familiar rhythm that took him back to his residency days.
A mandatory life skill for medical residents was the ability to grab a quick nap anytime, anywhere, when circumstances allowed for it. His current posting wasn’t quite the same workload
as a doctor in a major hospital, but if life aboard Star Wolf maintained the constant level of excitement and danger the past few weeks had demonstrated, this skill would come in quite handy.
John quickly reached that hazy realm between waking and sleeping when the sound of the sickbay doors opening interrupted his journey toward unconsciousness. Giving his head a quick shake, John roused himself and looked up to see who had entered.
“Hello, John,” Mel said. “How is Jane?”
“Who?” John asked.
“Commander Richardson,” Mel replied.
It sounded so odd to hear Twitch’s real name. Mel called crewmates she had a deeper connection with by their first names. It occurred to John that Shamira doing the same thing with Abbot Nichols might have a similar rationale. Was it a psionic connection?
He knew Fei were empathic, but his own experiences with Mel suggested her abilities went beyond that. Shamira had admitted her own psionic abilities. Perhaps there was something deeply intimate about touching another person’s mind or feelings that gave rise to a certain level of familiarity. John found Mel calling him by his given name comforting somehow.
“She’s stable for now,” John answered. “She’s got a tough road and some tough decisions ahead, though.”
“We all do,” Mel replied, giving him a soft smile. “Now that you know Elena is alive, what will you do?”
John’s stomach tightened. So much was going on and he had been so focused on doing everything he could for Twitch that he had not taken a spare moment to process the whirlwind of feelings he had about Elena. He wasn’t sure this was a conversation he wanted to have with Mel of all people. Still, he couldn’t leave her question unanswered.
“Elena is dead,” John said through clenched teeth.
He realized his fists had also clenched. He had inadvertently met Mel’s inquiry with far more bitterness than he intended.
Even Mel’s kind, powder-blue face contorted slightly at the bile in John’s tone. He instantly regretted letting that side of him show, especially to her.
“It must be hard to discover someone you knew and loved is not who you thought they were.”
“You have no idea,” John said, biting his lip hard to hold back the tsunami of emotions threatening to overwhelm him.
“I have some idea.”
Mel lowered her head and slumped her shoulders. Her eyes, for a moment, drifted off as if reliving some distant memory John wasn’t sure he wanted to share. Someone had hurt her deeply. Thinking about that unknown someone, John’s jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might break.
Seeing her like this set John’s chest ablaze as he labored to breathe. He had left Revenge uninjured, but agony riddled his body nonetheless; the raw wound Elena had left in him burning with the salt of bitterness toward whoever would cause such pain to a creature as gentle as Mel. He had only known her for a few weeks, but the connection, the desire to protect her, was something he could not shut out.
“I’m sorry,” John said, wincing at his insensitivity and self-absorption. “I shouldn’t be dumping my frustrations on you. I am just very tired and have not had a lot of time to process everything just yet.”
“I will let you rest,” Mel said, her sweet smile returning a darker flush to her cyan skin.
John ached to touch her. He reached out, longing to take her hand and let whatever the effect she had on him take control, but she had already turned to leave. John dropped his hand back into his lap, his eyes watching her walk away.
“If you ever need to talk,” she added, glancing back on her way out the door. “You know where to find me.”
“Thanks, Mel,” he replied, and she was gone.
John sighed and rubbed his face hard with both hands. Worry for Twitch, disillusionment toward Elena, and Lion-knows-what-he-felt for Mel whirled inside him threatening to tear him apart from the inside. He would need time and a lot of prayer to sort through everything. But right now, what he needed most was sleep. He hit the controls on the med bed he had appropriated, dimming the lights as he let exhaustion drag him willingly across the threshold into unconsciousness.
Thirty-One – Hey, Abbot
Molon stared at his long-time friend. Her frail form lying in the med bed barely resembled the vibrant, determined woman who had been his partner for most of his career in the Imperial Scouts. He was only minimally aware of John and Bob, the tailless Lubanian corpsman, standing by awaiting his order.
He swallowed hard, trying to get what felt like a ball of sandpaper out of his throat. He reached a fur-covered hand out to take ahold of Twitch’s. She felt so cold, so limp. The med bed had been tapped into her chest muscles and diaphragm. Electric feeds had taken over the job of her brain and nerve function and were now sending signals to the muscles controlling her breathing.
With no need for breathing tubes other than the slender oxygen line looped over her ears and the tiny nozzles feeding into her nostrils, Twitch’s face was so familiar to Molon. Their years as partners had etched every line, every feature into his mind. She was so pale now, though. The usually sharp, vivacious woman he knew had been replaced by this sallow replica. Was his friend even still in there at all?
“Whenever you are ready, captain,” Bob prompted.
Molon nodded. Bob inserted a small, vacuum-sealed test tube into the med bed’s medication dispenser unit and closed the lid. He punched a couple of the buttons, and the readout showed the contents of the tube being injected into Twitch via the med bed’s intravenous interface.
Twitch’s eyelashes fluttered briefly. She smacked her lips and slowly opened her eyes. As those eyes blinked and blinked, trying to focus on Molon, the slightest grin graced her parched lips.
“You throw one helluva party, Molon,” Twitch quipped, her weak voice struggling to regain its former strength.
Molon blinked back the moisture he felt welling in his lupine eyes. His whiskers twitched and his muzzle wrinkled slightly before he could force it into a wolfish grin.
“I knew we should have cut you off sooner,” he replied. “Never could hold your liquor. You should see what you did to Star Wolf’s paint job.”
“Friends don’t let friends fly drunk,” Twitch replied. “But hey, whatever Doc’s got me on, this is way better than booze. I can’t feel a thing.”
Molon couldn’t maintain his grin. He squeezed Twitch’s limp hand hard. Some part of him expected her to yank it away and chide him for playing rough. She didn’t. Her hand was just as cold and limp as it had been before Bob had given her the stimulant to wake her up.
Twitch’s smile also faded.
“You’ve got that hangdog look, Molon. What’s going on? Did the doc refuse to give me a collie nose job while I was unconscious? You’ve been threatening for years.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Molon replied.
“So spill it then,” Twitch replied, her brow furrowing. “Will I ever play the violin again?”
“You couldn’t play the violin before,” Molon said with a shake of his head.
“So that’d be a no, then.”
Molon tried to smile. If Twitch could be flippant at a time like this, surely he could smile for her sake. But she didn’t know what he knew. He just couldn’t force the somber mood from his face.
“Come on, Lobo,” Twitch said, her face showing she knew something was very wrong. “I’m a big girl. Give me what you got.”
Molon flinched at hearing his call sign. Rarely did anyone ever use it, and Twitch was one of the few that could get away with it unscathed. When she called him Lobo, it meant all joking aside she was angling for straight talk. The moment of truth had arrived.
“It’s bad, partner,” Molon replied.
“How bad?”
Molon scrambled for the words. He glanced to John, standing by Twitch’s bed checking her vitals on the med bed readout. Fortunately, Molon’s awkward silence had gotten John’s attention.
“I’m sorry, commander,” John replied. His answer failed
to draw Twitch’s gaze away from Molon. “You suffered a severe injury to your upper vertebrae. Your spinal cord is severed in multiple places. Currently you are paralyzed below the shoulders. While treatment options are limited, there are a number of technological advances that can restore some basic functionality. I assure you, I will spare no expense to get you the best biomechanical assistance tech in the Theocracy.”
“So,” Twitch replied, finally shifting her gaze to John. “I guess this is going to take more than a bandage and a pint of Imperial Gin to fix, huh Doc?”
John gave her a tight-lipped, forced smile.
“I’ve been researching this for our whole trip to Furi. To the best of my knowledge, commander, there is no fixing this. As I said, I can use my medical connections to get you the best technology to begin restoring some mechanically-assisted functionality, but you won’t ever be the same as you were.”
Apart from the rhythmic pings of the med bed readouts, silence dominated the room. Twitch had locked her eyes on some fixed point on the ceiling. Molon still gripped her flaccid hand. John looked like he would rather be anywhere else in the galaxy but this sickbay. Finally, after what seemed to Molon like an eternity, Twitch’s gaze, now filled with fire, locked back onto Molon.
“And you let me wake up?” she said, a smoldering edge to her voice matching the ire in her eyes.
“What?” Molon asked, caught off guard by her question.
“I could have had a genuine blaze-of-glory exit,” Twitch continued, “and you brought me back for this? You selfish cur! How could you do this to me?”
“It wasn’t his call,” John interjected before Molon could reply. “I’m chief medical officer. I brought you back.”
Twitch’s fiery gaze turned on John.
“You can’t wipe your own backside without Molon’s leave. He’s the captain on this ship. It was always his call, no matter what you think. He was just too scared to make it. Well I’ll make it. Put me in an airlock and have Monkey rig a remote and put it between my teeth. I’ll finish things myself.”
Molon felt like he had been shot in the chest. He knew Twitch was processing her situation. Rage was a natural reaction. Being the target of it, especially from his best friend, wasn’t fun though. Molon shook his head
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