"Yeah, so he killed your Dad. Big deal. I'm sure you remember that clearly." Marcus shook his head again.
"What?"
"You were nine. What could you possibly remember that you could trust?" Marcus leaned back a bit.
"Ellis, he did it in front of a hundred people. Also, a matter of public record. There is no disputing it."
"So, you wanted revenge. You still prove my point." Marcus leaned back and frowned. This kid was as immovable as Strebor's Rock.
"And you think you know something. Boy, the world would be shocked to find that Ellis Burke, all of fifteen years old, has all the answers." Ellis wasn't sure how to respond to that. And Marcus wasn't going to give him the time to do so.
"One of the things you're gonna learn Ellis is not everything is as simple as you think you see it. You've got anger and attitude, and just enough intelligence to sound smart. But you are so unbelievably blind to the world around you. And all that anger makes you is very young and very, very stupid." Ellis almost fell out of his chair. Marcus didn't let up.
"The world is black and white, but it is jaded and uncharitable points of view like yours that blur the lines and make everything gray until no one can see anything for what it really is. And that is the most important lesson you have yet to learn." Marcus stood from his seat. "Knowing good is good and evil is evil is the most important skill you will ever learn. It's what separates the knowledgeable from the wise and the smart from the stupid. And Ellis, you’re on a whole other planet right now." With that Marcus turned to walk out. It was not the most successful conversation he'd ever had, but it was certainly one of the more colorful.
Ellis sat back for a moment and thought. Marcus was defending himself, but not the way he expected. Instead of denying it all, Marcus tried to put it in context. Ellis still didn't buy it. But something about Marcus was still different. Something said that Marcus was right. Not everything was so simple.
Sage just couldn't stay away from his own quarters. Donavan had found that Sage seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time there when he wasn't repairing something, or griping about repairing something. It wasn't that Sage was doing anything wrong. On the contrary, as an engineer on a new airship, his work and his service record were exemplary. But Donavan was having trouble getting the man to socialize with the rest of the crew.
Not that he minded so much. Sage had never really been one to join in any of the festivities in Meridian City during the construction of the Triumphant. Sage was a workaholic, he assumed, and Donavan would allow him a bit more leeway before he broached the subject officially. Until then, the ship needed to continue about its business; a shakedown cruise that would land them in Littlefield in another day or so.
Donavan looked about the bridge and smiled. This was what he had wanted. This was the kind of life he had been searching for. Command of a ship, patrolling the skies, ready at a moment's notice to respond to the slightest trouble. He had been looking for a way to make a difference in the world around him, and now, here he was, smack in the middle of it. And he liked it.
The Triumphant itself was an aeronautical marvel of sorts. Sage had been right when he'd said that airships didn't need to look like old clipper ships with propellers. The Triumphant was as far removed from the old style Cloudrunners as the Cloudrunners were from the three-masted schooner. Built with speed and precision in mind, and made to be formidable on both land, sea and in the air, the Triumphant was something of a hybrid.
Consisting of sixteen not so comfortable decks, Sage had designed the ship without any true creature comforts. The only decks that did not have a pure ship function were deck five's observation lounge, which looked out into the skies with big panoramic windows, and the training deck, deck twelve. The rest was either crew quarters or some sort of ship station or relay room.
The ship itself was smaller than the older designs Sage had worked on. Triumphant came in at a trim 984 feet long. Not much larger than a submersible battle-wagon. The ship had no propellers and no visible propulsion units. Instead the back quarter of the ship was dominated by what looked like a giant rounded blue mirror. Sage had been very technical about the whole thing, but Donavan had managed to get him to put it in layman’s terms. Sage called it a hover sail.
The principle wasn't that far removed from repulsion field technology and the theories about aerodynamic propulsion. But if Donavan understood what Sage had explained, then the hover sail literally used the gravity of earth as a kind of springboard, pushing against the earth with a force equal to its pull. Such a technology would allow the ship to hurtle through the air at speeds that approached escape velocity. Not that the Triumphant was ready for space travel. But Donavan was excited about the prospect of moving at nearly seven miles a second.
"Status Mister Nichols," Donavan said, looking ahead at his helm officer. Eddie Nichols had been the southern conning tower chief in Meridian City, and Donavan had felt that his contributions and track record warranted a promotion. His wife, Victoria Nichols, had not been allowed to accompany him on the shakedown, but she had her own responsibilities, being in charge of the newly formed Meridian City security force codenamed Watchdog Alpha, an early warning scanning division that specialized in finding threats before they became threatening.
"All stations report green. Triumphant cruising at a leisurely six hundred and twenty kilometers per hour. All other systems are at station keeping." Eddie always sounded confident these days. Donavan still missed Drandis however. The man had been so knowledgeable, Donavan found it hard to turn to others for the same kind of help. But Drandis had disappeared shortly after Donavan had left the elder Drandis in Mordred's Abeyance. In fact, he had simply vanished in front of a dozen people, mid-sentence.
"Very well." Donavan stood from his chair on the command deck. The bridge itself, which on the official schematics was not given a deck number at all, but was referred to as the forward command center, was actually two decks, the upper housing the helm, weapons and the command station. The bulk of the bridge stations were on the secondary deck, which was just a flight of stairs downward from the command deck.
The Command Deck was not more than twenty feet wide, both sides surrounded by a protective rail. On either side of the command deck, book-ending the forward helm station, were staircases leading down to the secondary deck. On the secondary deck were a dozen consoles, each with a corresponding view screen that towered upwards almost thirty feet. The crewmen didn't use these screens to see. Rather, they were there for the command crew to use from the command deck. This way, anything that Donavan needed to see, from a tactical plot to the weather report, was immediately accessible from his chair.
"Any word from engineering about that little hiccup we had with the hover sail yesterday?" Eddie shook his head.
"Nothing that you haven't heard before sir. Mister Cortez was adamant that he has the problem in hand." Donavan shook his head.
"What did he say exactly, Eddie?" Eddie frowned a little.
"Get the Captain off my neck. Sir." Donavan had to smile. Sage may have enlisted with Donavan's Special Crimes Task Force (SCTF), but he didn't stand on military protocols. This was his ship. This was his baby. And he knew best how to take care of her. Donavan was going to have to get a little more decorum from the man, but until that time, he'd have to put up with his fairly zealous chief engineer.
Chapter 5
Madness & Method
Ian was working out in the Holodrome that evening, getting in a little late-night exercise. The Holodrome simulation programs were putting out some very challenging opponents, and Ian had already worked up a pretty steady sweat. That was what he wanted. Training with Marcus tended to have some kind of a spiritual lesson attached. Right now, all Ian wanted was a hard, simple, lung-searing workout, without any metaphors or hidden meanings.
Ian's attacker, a fairly nondescript bit of hard-light projection, circled him, swinging a large ax-like weapon. Ian ducked, dove, juked and spun, staying one step ahead o
f his competitor. This was something that Ian had worked hard to succeed in. Back in his days as a Waster, he'd honed his skills in Close Quarters Combat. Now, in the midst of his paladin training, he was only just slightly ahead of the curve.
The one thing Ian didn't seem to have mastered was the faith of it all. Marcus had been adamant that to truly gain the strength that he so readily employed, Ian would have to begin to believe in the things he was doing. "Faith is not a statement of fact," Marcus had said. "It's a confirmation of fact, by dedicated actions, and true intent." Ian still didn't quite know what Marcus meant by that, but figured that as he learned, he would grow to understand his meaning.
It was a little frustrating for Ian. He'd never known anything that he couldn't master within a few days. But being a paladin had turned into more than just a series of training exercises and tests. He hadn't been sure what he was getting into. Now that he knew, he wasn't sure he could muster up the strength to even desire the faith he needed. He just wasn't sure. But CQC he had a grasp on.
A quick duck and a slash, and Ian turned his holographic attacker into a series of fizzling pixels. He stepped to the side and reached for his towel. As he turned, he saw Ellis standing there, watching him quietly.
"Ellis," Ian said as he wiped his face of sweat. "Come to criticize something? Because I've got all night. If you're looking for apologies, I'm fresh out." Ellis's face didn't change, and Ian could tell that jokes were in bad taste at the moment.
"I need a question answered." Ian stood for a moment, waiting for Ellis to ask.
"Even if you don't like the answer?" Ellis frowned. "All right," he said after a moment of silence. The rest of the Holodrome seemed fairly empty. Neither of them seemed all that worried about being overheard. Ellis took a slow breath and stepped into the exercise cubicle. Ian sheathed his fist daggers and had a seat, Uther's advice echoing in his mind. "Shoot."
"What's your mentor's problem anyway?" Ian tried not to look taken aback by the question. Ellis wasn't one to pull any punches.
"Interesting question," Ian chuckled. "Why ask me? Your mentor knows him better." Ellis shook his head.
"I don't think I can trust Cecil to give me a straight answer." Ellis folded his arms slowly. "But you, I know will." Ian had obviously done something right when he'd confronted Ellis. At least he would trust him to tell him the truth.
"I'm flattered. Is this because I acted like a jerk the other day?" Ellis shrugged a little. He took that as a yes. "Marcus's just trying to help," Ian said simply, wiping a little more sweat from his face. Ellis looked incredulous.
"I don't need any help." Ian could hear the bite in his tone.
"So instead of making that clear, you accuse Marcus of murder." Ian had meant it as a statement rather than a question. The last thing he needed was Ellis running off because he didn't want to justify himself.
"He killed a man," Ellis said simply. Ian shook his head.
"A lot of people died during that incident Ellis. Some of them were my friends." Ian let his thoughts drift for a moment back to Meridian City, and to the Dread Paladin blade he had wielded. A shudder went through him.
"What?" Ellis asked. Ian took a deep breath and plunged ahead. Telling him just felt right.
"When I was in Meridian, I did a very stupid thing. I was a part of the defense force in Meridian City, and Commander Dirk put me in charge of a quick clean-up detail. We were tagging casualties, getting a head count on MIA soldiers and clearing dropped weapons and armor." Ian shuddered again, more visibly this time. "I decided that we could use the Dread Paladin's weapons and armor against them, since our own weapons were proving . . . ineffective. I took a long sword from one of the fallen and a friend of mine took an ax. We both fiddled around a little, feeling the power in them. And believe me, there was definite voltage going on.” Ian paused a moment, wiping his face. “After a moment, we were so drunk on the power, we were fighting each other." Ian stopped, remembering with perfect clarity, the moment that almost ended a life.
"And?" Ellis asked, suddenly focused on the story.
"And as I was about to kill one of my friends, Marcus stopped me. He took the blade and broke it. And along with it, its hold on me. He stopped me from killing a man that I called friend, in cold blood Ellis." Ellis looked down at the floor. "Why stop me from doing it, and then do it himself?" Ellis didn't have an answer. He stood there for a moment, contemplating what he'd heard. None of the stories he'd heard had contained any of that sort of incident.
"Who told you about Horthok anyway?" Ellis roused a bit, breaking his train of thought.
"I hear things around campus." That was all he'd offer. Ian nodded.
"Well, take a piece of free advice from me. Get the whole story before you go jumping down Marcus's throat. He is just trying to help." Ellis opened his mouth to tell Ian he didn't have a problem. "And I know you don't have a problem. If that is the case, then prove it." Ian picked up his fist daggers and touched a pad on the wall. Two nondescript assailants appeared before him. He smiled a little, not acknowledging if Ellis was still there or not.
Ellis watched Ian work for a long moment, and then turned to leave. He walked down the long hallway to the Holodrome exit and out toward the Youth Barracks. He had a lot to think about, and not a lot of time to do it in. He knew one thing for certain. Something was coming, and if he wanted to keep his skin, he would be gone before it arrived.
The Paladin Council had called Marcus in to discuss a few matters of business that they needed him to know about. Marcus stood before the twelve with his hands clasped nervously behind his back. He didn't like being here. He hadn't ever liked it. This new council seemed more in line with the spirit that the job required, but that still didn't make Marcus feel any better. There was something about being before them that he didn't like.
Sir Garamond sat at the head of the table, a position that Jacob Raven would've normally held. But with Jacob missing and no clues to his whereabouts were forthcoming, Vince was doing his best to cover the position. Marcus had jokingly called it keeping the chair warm. Vince had not thought ill of the statement, but he wasn't necessarily keen on it either.
The members of the current council ranged in age from the mid-twenties to the near forties. Jacob had handpicked them before his disappearance the year before. Vince had taken over operational control when it was determined that Jacob would not be returning anytime soon. So far, the new council had not done anything that had drawn attention to their youth and inexperience. But Ian had noted in a quiet conversation that they hadn't done anything noteworthy either. It seemed apparent to him that they were no more proactive than the previous council. They were just more animated and open about why they didn't act.
After everything had died down in Littlefield, Marcus had gotten the story on what had happened during his absence. Jacob had essentially fired the members of the old council, deeming their lack of leadership and action as a detriment during a time of crisis. Sir Forsch and the others had quietly taken to retirement, though Forsch had made an impassioned and heartfelt effort to overturn the decision. In the end, he had lost, and was now spending his days living in the suburbs of Littlefield, not far from Gerard Burton's home.
"Marcus, the Council has called you here because we have a bit of business to tie up that requires your attendance." Marcus nodded silently. Vince accepted the acknowledgment, opened the folder before him and began.
"Firstly, I know you have reservations about the Paladin Peace Games, due to the resurgence of the Dread Paladins. But the Council has decided after much discussion and prayer, to go forward with the games. Which means you will defend your title as paladin sword master. And as such, your attendance is required at the Littlefield Cotillion." Marcus didn't look all that surprised. The Peace Games were the kind of event that tended to foster brotherhood among nations. The Council would try to use them to unite people, in hopes of putting a good face on the current state of things. Marcus wasn't sure he wanted it to happen, but h
e did hope that they were right about it.
"Also, as an aside, we have been having some funding issues with regard to the Peace Games," Sir Lefein said from the far left of the table. Marcus stood stolidly, not knowing whether the comment was directed at him or not. But since Cristoph Lefein was not looking at him, he figured it was a piece of business that just happened to come up.
"So, who is it that's helping fund things here?" Vince asked. Cristoph looked at his notes to confirm.
"Fall Memoria Publishing," he said simply. "They're a subsidiary of Green Tree Entertainment." Vince nodded. He made no more effort to follow-up on the subject, and Cristoph let it drop. Marcus wasn't sure who Green Tree Entertainment was, but he put it in the back of his mind to check out.
"There is more financial business to be dealt with later," Cristoph said, closing a file folder in front of him. Marcus didn't know Sir Lefein all that well. He'd been a part of the Academy's Mathematical Support staff, assisting paladins in the field with extensive calculation data in an effort to make their decision making more efficient. With the advent of the Lacey AI, the M.S.S. had become less important. Now, with his appointment to the Paladin Council, he was the resident accountant, handling the Academy's book-keeping.
"Secondly, and more importantly, is the matter of Sovereign Raven." Marcus tensed a bit. This was what he'd been wondering about. The Council had kept him in the dark about it, probably for what they thought was his own good.
The Paladin Archives Book Two The Withering Falseblade Page 9