THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS
Richard D. Ramsey
Edited by: J. Ellington Ashton Press Staff
Cover Art by: Michael Fisher
http://jellingtonashton.com
Copyright.
Richard Ramsey
©2017, Richard Ramsey
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book, including the cover and photos, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. All rights reserved.
Any resemblance to persons, places living or dead is purely coincidental.
This is a work of fiction.
1
My name is Jacob Mozel, but I’ve been called a great many things in my lifetime. Most of them, I’m not proud of; some of them I am.
“I am.” Now that’s a phrase that’s haunted me most of my life. God refers to himself as “The Great I AM.” Well, that’s what he told Moses his name was. There was a philosopher once named Rene Descartes. He said “Cogito ergo sum.” In English it means “I think, therefore I am.” Does this mean that if we think, then we can become God; or is it more simple than that? I used to think that I knew what I was, only to realize that I was wrong. Most of my life has been about realizations and revelations. When I was a boy, I realized that the world, no, the universe, was a very ugly place. When I was in prison, I realized that I was not nearly as tough as I thought I was. And when I was asked to leave the seminary, I realized that man is fallible and can never be as divine and forgiving as God. That’s all part of who I was, what I was; a pretty easy question to answer. So what am I now? I gave up trying to answer that question a long time ago. Who am I? I’m just an old person with a bible in one hand and a guitar in the other, waiting in this spaceport for God to show me the way.
***
I sat there for four days looking for something. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I was sure I would know it when I saw it. Kids would pass by from time to time and ask me to play them a song. I’ve always been a sucker for an audience, so I’d pull an old folk tune out of my memory and play it for them. It’s amazing that in this day and age a simple musical instrument can invoke awe and inspiration. We have technology that I’ll never even begin to understand. We visit planets at the farthest reaches of the galaxy and mingle with aliens from other worlds, yet listening to a series of simple chords or watching water move still seems to hold a special place in our hearts. I know why, and that’s why I’m here.
I rarely went hungry; in fact, I was sometimes rewarded handsomely for my songs and the occasional story. The food there was something awful, but it kept your belly full. When I was tired, there were bunks to be bought with just a little bit of coin. It was on the thirteenth day that I knew God was laying out his plan for me. It came in the form of a large ship called The Damascus.
As freighters go, it was smaller than most, older too. A single red line down the center of the hull was the only adornment. No symbols of the True Church, which was a good sign. Just the word Damascus, its Federal ID number, and a bar code monitor on the side. All cargo ships have been required to have their ID number written on the side under their names, but the monitor was a relatively new rule enacted sometime in the last ten or so years. The one on the ship dated it somewhat, it wasn’t hard to see that the monitor here was an addition and not part of the original spec.
My heart raced as I watched the antiquated vessel come in at a sharp angle, alter to a rapid descent and land right at the docking port. Whoever piloted the ship was certainly a hot shot and not afraid to show it. It was not uncommon for young pilots to show off their skills when landing at the spaceports, it often caught the eyes of the young ladies and ensured the pilot would have a couple waiting to talk to him when he landed. This seemed like an amateur operation on the surface, but there was professionalism just underneath. Regardless of the pilot’s age, I needed to talk to the captain; it was the only way I was getting on board a ship like that.
When I finally did catch up with him, he was not at all what I expected. Well, I don’t know what I expected, but he certainly wasn’t it. Maybe I anticipated somebody that was warm and friendly or someone that was personable since it seemed that that was where I needed to go, but Captain Stark was nothing like that. I had to ask around to find him. Many people in this port knew the ship, but they didn’t know the crew. When I finally did locate him, he was having dinner in one of the local eateries in the spaceport, by himself.
There were quite a few things I found odd about him at first. One was that he was alone. Freighter captains rarely had a moment’s peace in a spaceport that deep into the trade district. The next thing I noticed was that he was wearing jeans. Six centuries of human development and jeans just never went out of style, unless you were a wealthy businessman. His casual appearance was strange because I knew a man that ran any operation like that had to have a substantial cash flow. A pilot that skilled just didn’t carry trinkets. He was tall and thin and had a bald head that seemed to reflect even the low lighting in the restaurant. He didn’t want to be noticed, that much was obvious. In fact, there was nothing that stood out about him at all, except for one thing. He held his fork funny.
It wasn’t something that was highly remarkable, just a subtle detail that seemed to bring definition to one’s presentation. Most people from well-to-do homes or those who had a fancy upbringing would hold their forks like holding a pencil, or a drumstick if you knew about the old time drummers. Captain Stark held his in a closed fist. If I tried to eat like that, I imagine I would feel very clumsy getting the food to my mouth; but there was nothing clumsy about this man. He kept his eyes on his plate and shoveled the food in his mouth both gracefully and methodically. I guess you can tell a lot about a man by the way he eats. Anyway, I tucked my Bible into a secret compartment inside my guitar, experience had taught me to keep contraband such as that hidden, especially when approaching strangers. With caution, I invited myself into the eatery and approached his table.
“Are you Captain Stark?”
He put his meal on pause, looked up at me and said, “Yes I am” over a mouthful of food.
“May I sit down?”
He gestured to an empty seat at the table and resumed eating.
“You’re the Captain of the Damascus?”
“Yes I am, but I’m afraid all of my bays are full. I can’t take any more loads right now.”
He got straight to the point. “I’m not trying to move freight, I’m looking for transport.”
The Captain shook his head. “I move cargo, not people. You need a commuter ship. There are lots and lots of passenger ships that dock at the starboard concourse. You can find a transport there.”
I smiled and rubbed my beard. It was amazing how fast it grew those days. It seemed to get longer and grayer all the time. “But, I really want to travel on your ship.”
Stark stopped eating, put his fork down and looked me squarely in the face. “Who sent you here?”
I was confused; I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. “Nobody sent me here. I just asked around to find out who captained your ship.”
“Why would you have me believe that you want transport on a cargo vessel? Do you really think I’m that stupid?” His teeth were clenched and I could see his jaw muscles contracting in his cheeks.
I shifted in my seat. Convincing him was not going to be as easy as I thought. “I have no subversive plans. I only want to ‘hitch a ride’ as they said in the
old days.” I smiled real big and tried to turn on as much boyish charm as I had left in me at such an old age.
Captain Stark looked back down at his food and resumed stuffing it in his face. “Find a passenger shuttle. I’m a freighter captain.”
As if to add an additional layer of finality to our conversation, we had an unexpected guest. She was an Inillian woman in a loose fitting leather jacket and skin tight cargo pants. I couldn’t even guess as to how old she was, I didn’t know my alien species that well. I had only seen a handful of them in my lifetime. A fascinating aspect of Inillians, you could always tell what was on their mind. They had a shiny fur coat with a texture almost as soft as a mink and the color of it changed with their emotion. This one was a deep black with layers of purple that rippled across her tender pelt like waves. She was not happy to say the least.
Her face was almost like that of a cat with less of a muzzle and no whiskers. Well, on second thought, not so much a cat; but that’s the closest way I can describe it to you. She strolled up to the side of the table from behind me without a sound. I would have been startled if I hadn’t been taken aback by her striking figure. I may be a priest, but I’m not dead.
Captain Stark set his fork down again and sat up straight wearing a curious face. He knew something was terribly wrong. “Jenna? What is it?”
Jenna. What a fitting name. When she spoke, her voice was as elegant as her fleece. “We’re being boarded, sir.”
“Port guards?”
“No, Transit Authority.”
Stark wiped his mouth with a thick napkin and then threw it on the table. “Transit Authority? What do they want with us?”
That was the last thing I heard him say as they hustled out of the diner. I guess I was going to have to find a passenger shuttle after all.
The Transit Authority were a nasty bunch. They were responsible for monitoring shipments between space ports, looking for contraband and trade violations. Mostly trade violations between different governments. They were formed many years ago as an agreement between planets as a sort of police force to regulate trade agreements. It hasn’t worked out as well as you would think. You see, they’re an autonomous entity that doesn’t answer to one government, but to all of them in theory. As you can imagine, this causes a great deal of problems for traders. I wish I could say that there was no corruption, but it runs very deep. I even had to hide my Bible inside my guitar to get it past them and onto the station.
The captain had left a large portion of his meal uneaten. I would like to say that I wasn’t hungry, but I was. Tips for a song hadn’t come through as much as they had earlier in the week. I helped myself to the rest of what could have been labeled as meatloaf but what would have been called something else.
Upon leaving the eatery, a busy scene was unfolding in the terminal. Captain Stark, Jenna and about eight others were lined up against a wall with their hands flat against it. Several Transit Authority servicemen were standing close by with some high powered rifles. It seemed a little much, but I’m no expert. One serviceman was making his way down the line, frisking each crewman. When he got to Jenna, he lingered a bit on her long legs. She pulled back, turned and hissed at him. Well, it wasn’t a hiss as much as it was a growl with a tongue roll. Either way, her intention was clear and her fur was still a deep black. The serviceman rose quickly and brought his elbow up into the side of her face. She stumbled back and cast him a look that was laced with pure rage. A wave of purple rippled through her coat.
Captain Stark left his position on the wall, put one hand on her shoulder and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and they both resumed their previous stance.
A large crowd gathered to take in the spectacle. I stepped up to one of the sanitation workers and whispered to him, “What’s going on here?” Sanitation workers seemed to be the best sources of information in those places. They went in and out of all situations without being seen or heard, but they were always listening for information that could be sold to the right person with enough currency. That one owed me a favor.
“The Damascus has been running prostitutes. Transit Authority’s finally catching up with them.”
“Prostitutes? Are you sure?”
“Sure as I’m standing here. Heard it was a bunch of little girls from Mo`ak.”
I was very disappointed. “I was trying to get a lift on that ship. The name is… well, let’s just say it has a special meaning to me.”
“Ya don’t want to get a ride on that ship. I’ve seen them come through here more than a few times. They’re a hard bunch. Run a lot of contraband so I hear. You see how they have some of the crew on a separate wall?”
The crew was obviously being separated. A few were left with Captain Stark, but most were moved to the other side of the concourse. “What’s that all about?”
“They’re not registered with the Transit Authority. Every trader has to have a registration. Those guys are migrant workers, picked up at one dock and hired to help on to the other.”
“What will happen to them?”
“Oh, they’ll be detained for a couple of months and then they’ll be released to do the same thing over and over. The authority likes it that way. It gives them a reason to do surprise inspections.”
“And the Captain?”
“Ah, that’s a different story. He’ll be fined for hiring them and have some of his cargo confiscated. Now, if they find the Mo`ak prostitutes on his ship, he’ll go to a penal colony for life.”
With that, the entire crew of the Damascus was lead away in shackles.
I was out of money that night, so I found an empty bench in a less busy concourse of the port and tried to drift off to sleep. It was hard to rest, having seen that night’s spectacle. A certain disappointed melancholy had settled onto me. I was sure that this was the sign that God had sent me. I guess I was wrong. I prayed long and hard, but it didn’t help my fitful sleep or belay my unsettling dreams.
I was woken suddenly by a less than accommodating member of the Transit Authority. He shook me awake, cuffed me, told me I was under arrest and led me off. I told him I needed to take my guitar with me, but he didn’t listen. More than anything, I was worried about losing my Bible.
They led me to a room where a man of some ranked importance was seated at a table. As a presumed measure of intimidation, I was seated directly across from him. He was an older gentleman, but not as old as myself. He had fat jowls that were really too well shaven and a large forehead that gave way to a pitch black flat top hairdo. His bottom lip protruded ever so slightly, almost like a small child having a temper tantrum.
“How long have you been buying prostitutes?” He glared at me as he said this.
I was taken by surprise. “I’m sorry. I think you have the wrong person.”
“I don’t have the wrong person. I want to know about the hookers you ordered from Mo’ak.”
I didn’t know what to say. “I didn’t order any prostitutes. I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
My conversation counterpart twisted his head and popped his neck. “How long have you known Jedediah Stark?” Things were starting to come together.
“You mean Captain Stark? From the Damascus?”
“Don’t play games with me, yes I mean Captain Stark from the Damascus. I saw you having dinner with him yesterday evening. I suppose you’re going to tell me that you weren’t buying prostitutes from him.”
The conversation was beginning to make me very uncomfortable. “I wasn’t looking for prostitutes; I was just looking for a ride to the next space port.”
The fat-jowled man laughed at that. “You were looking for a ride on a freighter? If you want me to buy your lies, you’re going to have to come up with something much better than that!”
I told you that I might not know who I am, but I know who I was. I might not be proud of some of the things I was, but right now my refugee skills were going to have to save me. “What evidence am I being held on?”
My counterpart leaned forward in his chair. “The evidence that you were conspiring to buy goods from Captain Stark. I have witnesses.”
“That’s hardly evidence.” I was able to turn out that part of my personality with relative ease and put the intimidation back in his lap. “You saw us talking but as far as you know, we were discussing the price of tea in China. Now, if I’m not being held on evidence I demand you let me go!”
“On whose authority?”
“You don’t need authority if you have no reason to hold me!”
“I have all the authority in the universe. You’re going to see the magistrate!”
It was about an hour later I was taken to see the judge on the space station. My so called insubordination with the Transit Authority had bought me a black eye and a bloody nose, but I’ve had far worse. The judge resided in a small office and to my surprise; Captain Stark and Jenna were in there also. Things were starting to get interesting.
The magistrate read his docket and spoke up. “You three are accused of conspiring of personal trafficking. How do you plead?
It was unanimous. We all said “not guilty” in harmony.
The magistrate didn’t even look up from his docket. “There were witnesses that saw you conspiring in an eatery last night and I believe the Damascus was reported loading a group of young ladies of the night at its last stop on Mo’ak. Do you dispute this evidence?”
There was a palpable silence. My mouth gets me in trouble frequently, as evidenced by my black eye, but I had to speak up. “Did you search Captain Stark’s ship?”
He finally looked up. Space port magistrates weren’t used to being questioned. “Excuse me?”
“I know the Transit Authority searched Captain Stark’s ship. No evidence was found of wrong doing, or else these fine people would already be in prison and not subject to the authority of a magistrate. As for me, I’m just a wandering spirit going wherever the road may take me. If you’ll review your security cameras, you’ll find that I finished Captain Stark’s meal when he left the table. If I had money to buy young ladies from Mo’ak, I would surely have money to buy my own food.”
The Road to Damascus Page 1