by Tom Shepherd
Elach Raud leaned forward. “We do not understand your meaning, beloved Thyrd.”
Jakok’s head fin bristled slightly. “I believe—if you will allow me, Holy Father—I believe the facts are quite clear. Since this Council speaks with the infallible Word of Truth, the two are invariably one.”
“Invariably, yes. And how specific does this legislation need to be?”
The High Pontiff shook his head fin, side-to-side. “Again, we do not understand.”
“If a man carving a side of meat, cuts himself and says, ‘I’ll wager the damned Pontiffs never have to slice their own meat!’ Is that speaking against the Supreme Council? Shall we execute him for a momentary lapse in proper respect?”
Jakok’s head fin snapped upright. “The intent of the law is to suppress sedition against the Protectorate and blasphemy of our religion, not to punish men who grumble because they cannot properly carve a roast.”
“See how it improves the matter?” Pontiff Raud said brightly.
Bergé pulled out a data pad and made notes. He fervently respected the age-old system of Suryadivan democratic theocracy, regardless of its tendencies to whimsy. He also fervently despised Pavic Jakok.
“You want certain acts of free speech to become ‘sedition.’ What other improvements in the law do you propose? Forgive me, I meant to say, require?”
“A strong deterrent to exploitation of Suryadivan colony worlds, especially during the Sacred Hunt on Adao-2,” Jakok said.
Elach Raud winked at Bergé. “Another good idea, no?”
“And how strong will that deterrent need to be?” The First Secretary studied the faces of his spiritual leaders. Most were ambitious ciphers, the Chief Pontiff a harmless simpleton. But Jakok. Beware of Jakok.
“You will move the bulk of our naval forces within one light year of the Adaon system,” Jakok said. “If any vessel violates the quarantine zone, we will take three successive actions—alert, warn, destroy.”
Bergé addressed his reply to the Supreme Pontiff. “Your Holiness, this is… non-traditional.”
“In what manner?” the presiding Pope asked.
His response horrified Bergé. How did Elach Raud fail to grasp what it meant to declare a no-fly zone in space legally contracted to the most powerful Corporation in the Terran Commonwealth? If the gods of war ascended, his people would suffer a humiliating loss of life and territory. War gods favor nothing but blood and death.
“The Sacred Protectorate never dictates specific tactics to our brave forces.” Bergé carefully reigned in his screaming outrage. “Like most democratic societies, we establish limited strategic objectives and let the military commanders determine tactics to achieve defense goals. Other ways are not in harmony with our political and spiritual traditions.”
“What is nontraditional about protecting Suryadivan space?” Jakok demanded.
Bergé slowly expanded his head fin to indicate more information forthcoming. “The new Terran Jump Gate is under construction within your proposed circle, just beyond the Adaon star system. We have a longstanding agreement to allow Matthews Interstellar Industries access to the site. Humans are a powerful, dangerous race. We must not provoke—”
“Nonsense,” Jakok snorted, snapping his fin. “They are not the Parvian Republic, First Secretary.”
Bergé dipped his head fin and fluttered left to right. “Parvians are fearsome warriors, Pontiff Jakok. But Terran combined navies are even larger and more powerful. I give thanks to the Forty-Six that humans have chosen to expand by exploration and commerce, not by the sword.”
“This Council does not fear them,” Jakok said.
“Nor should any Suryadivan,” Bergé countered. “We should, however, honor a binding contract.”
“The matter is under adjudication,” Jakok said. “Meanwhile, we need the navy in place to enforce whatever decision the Court makes on the matter of the Matthews Jump Gate.”
“And you will, of course, abide by judgments from the Court?” Bergé feared the answer.
Elach Raud’s head fin fluttered as he attempted to re-enter the conversation. “Why, of course. This Council has always based its decisions on the Eighty-Second Commandment from Adroxii, god of Justice, who said, ‘I send ye forth to bring justice—’ ”
“Holy Father, he is no theologian. Let me explain in layman’s terms to this politician.” Jakok’s head fin stood up in full deployment, an unmistakable gesture of dominance. “Heed my words, First Secretary. The Council of Pontiffs will take command of our military forces. We will defend our space against intruders. Any resistance to this decree—by the legislature or the Courts—constitutes blasphemy of the Forty-Six and treason against the Sacred Protectorate.”
Bergé felt his stomach quiver. “No previous Council has nullified a decision of the legislature or a judgment of the Court. It violates all historic precedent and—”
“Enough!” Jakok thundered. “Your disobedience disgusts this sacred Council. You will cooperate or be removed from office.”
“Removed? A sitting head of the elected government?” Bergé felt his head fin droop, like Jakok had deflated his body energy with a hard blow to the chest. “Does the Supreme Pontiff concur with this…requirement?”
“Well, of course, I suppose. It seems the best policy, doesn’t it? I am sure the Forty-Six want everyone happy and cooperative, no?” Raud brightened. “Are you certain you would not like some cakes?”
“Quite certain, Holy Father.”
Jakok flapped his head fin. “We have a final requirement, if you will. It concerns espionage.”
“I serve the Sacred Protectorate.” He bowed slightly, dreading what came next. All his life, Bergé looked to the Council as the voice of the divine wisdom. Now he wondered how the Forty-Six could possibly speak through such confused, avaricious men.
“Our informants report that terrorists have infiltrated your so-called People’s Assembly. They style themselves the Suryadivan Resistance. We direct you to order the secular security forces to arrest, court-martial, and execute the traitors on this list.” Jakok tapped his data pad and sent Secretary Bergé the names.
“This must be a mistake. The chairs of Finance, Public Morals, Judicial Review, Public Works, Health Services—the Defense minister? This is half my leadership. If these people are traitors, your citizens have elected a treasonous government.”
“Will you not simply trust this Council, follow our guidance?” Elach Raud implored.
“With deepest respect, I absolutely will not. Our democratic traditions allow no bills of attainder. Declaring someone guilty without due process of law contradicts everything we believe, politically and spiritually. If you have evidence against Assembly members, bring it to me, and I will have the charges investigated. However, a call for summary executions? From any authority—sacred or secular—it violates the law and is repugnant to Suryadivan religion.”
Pavic Jakok rose from his seat. “How dare you lecture us on the Suryadivan religion!”
“Someone needs to,” Bergé said. “Because you obviously don’t understand the faith of the Forty-Six.”
Jakok raised webbed hands, as if pushing away heresy. “Shield us, great Huffix the avenger!”
“Oh, I love the white-eyed one.” Elach Raud laughed. “This is a very good debate, no?”
Jakok stepped toward Bergé. “Do you challenge—do you defy—the authority of this Council of Pontiffs?”
First Secretary Bergé fluttered his head fin. “Not your spiritual authority, Holy Father, your political judgment. As leader of a popularly elected People’s Assembly, I cannot arrest and execute males and females—whom I know to be loyal and pious Suryadivans—without compelling evidence presented against them in a tribunal of law.”
“You are deposed of your office! You are under arrest for treason and blasphemy.” Jakok called for the Pontifical Religious Police, and a squad of armed men wearing white sashes rushed into the room.
“Must we do this, Father Jakok?” E
lach Raud said. “It was such a good discussion. Can we not pause for prayer and seek a spiritual solution, share a few cakes?”
“This is no time for cakes!” Jakok said. “By his disobedience to this Supreme Council, Secretary Bergé threatens the foundations of our Sacred Protectorate. We have no choice but to remove him. The gods allow no compromise.”
“Tyrants claim they have no choice,” Bergé said. “Religious tyrants blame it on their gods.”
Religious Police seized Bergé by the arms and escorted him to the Pontifical Rehabilitation Center, a network of confinement suites for high-ranking prisoners at the deepest level of the Gobikan, the huge egg-shaped building at the center of Suryadivan government and religion.
The deposed First Secretary glanced at the white walls of his fully furnished “retreat” room, then sat on the carpeted floor to meditate on his situation. Supreme Pontiff Elach Raud hadn’t a clue about what was happening politically. The old prelate suffered from dementia. All he cared about was prayer and pastries.
The following day, guards taunted Bergé with the news that an “appropriately spiritual” replacement, named by the Council of Pontiffs, had assumed political leadership of the Sacred Protectorate. Bergé knew the legislator Jakok elevated, a dull-witted cypher in the religious caucus.
The First Secretary’s political instincts told him that, somewhere above this high-tech dungeon, Pontiff Jakok was moving his players into place within the political leadership of the government to consolidate the Supreme Council’s theocratic grip on Suryadivan society. Next year, after Pavic Jakok becomes Supreme Pontiff, the old freedoms will wither away or fall to Jakok’s frenzied scythe. Soon, this society of spiritually oriented amphibious marsupials will become one big dungeon of the soul.
Bergé thought about his hatchlings, warm and safe now inside their mother’s pouch, but soon to emerge into a Suryadivan society where power has replaced reconciliation as the guiding principle of government.
Thyrd Pon Bergé prayed for liberty, or the courage to accept an honorable death.
Fifteen
After a flight of thirteen hours at max FTL, the Matthews-Solorio expedition reached the rendezvous point with Chief Paco León, half a light year from Delta Theta 1271-E, a white dwarf hanging in the thinly starred gap between the Perseus and Cygnus arms of the galaxy. Suzie’s long range scanners found one ship orbiting a frozen gas giant about nine AUs from the star. Another quick hop at FTL brought the Sioux City within visual range of the oddest starship Tyler had ever seen.
After telemetry confirmed she was the PH, Tyler ordered a slow approach to the strange vessel. The ship looked like a sleek, ocean-going craft, streamlined for minimum wave resistance, but leaning forward like a parallelogram. Tyler estimated the low-swept, rhomboid design wasted at least twenty percent of available space that could have held cargo or passengers or supplemental instrument packages. Like the Sioux City, she displayed no signs of weaponry beneath that smooth, bronze-colored hull. The sweeping lines of the vessel almost shouted speed, even though hull configuration had nothing to do with velocity in the vacuum of space.
Tyler repeatedly hailed Paco, but so far, no answer. He called J.B. to the flight deck and they discussed their options—run or dock—while Suzie continued hailing the strange ship. Finally, a voice crackled in the flight deck speakers, and a breath-taking face appeared onscreen. A stunning, dark-haired beauty with olive skin, ebony eyes, and a face that could stop Halley’s Comet.
“Please come aboard. Opening boat dock bay. You may proceed to ventral access.”
The Matthews brothers exchanged astonished looks. Tyler spoke into the comm. “I love a pretty face, but who the fuck are you?”
“Expletive deleted.” J.B. killed Tyler’s comm. “Forgive my potty-mouth brother, ma’am. This is J.B. Matthews. Please identify yourself.”
“Lieutenant Arabella Maboob, executive officer. Please proceed to the docking bay. Chief León will brief you when the Sioux City is safely aboard.”
Tyler reactivated his communications panel. “Lieutenant Maboob, this is Tyler Matthews. Let me speak with Chief León.”
“Captain Matthews, the Chief requests that you board first and—”
“No way, baby,” Tyler said. “Get Mr. León on the comm. Now, Lieutenant. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir. Please stand by.”
J.B. gawked at him. “Did you just call a employee ‘baby’? You’re exposing Matthews Corporation to a sexual harassment lawsuit.”
“We’ll settle later. Dad has money.” Tyler rotated his command chair to the navigational array. “Suzie, plot an escape course,” Tyler said. “Although, it will break my heart to sail away from a mega-hottie called Ma-boob...”
“It’s a common Lebanese surname, you deviate,” Suzie said. “Escape course plotted… baby.”
J.B. snickered. He adjusted the audio to clean up the crackle. “Must be the right ship. We quantum encrypted the coordinates to Paco’s voice pattern.”
“Too many people want to kill us,” Tyler said. “We shouldn’t take any chances out here.”
J.B. nodded. “Agreed.”
A familiar voice came on the speakers. “Hey, sirs. It’s me, Paco. I was working on last minute corrections in the ship’s systems, so Lt. Arabella answered your hail. Come on aboard. And please tell Dorla it ain’t like it looks, and I’ll explain everything.” He closed the link.
“Voice pattern recognition at one hundred percent,” J.B. said. “That was definitely Chief León.”
“How well do we know Paco León? He could be working for pirates, or some other enemy of Dad’s enterprises. Suggestions?”
J.B. shrugged. “Proceed with caution?”
“Yeah…what other choice do we have? Activating interface sequence.” Tyler handed the controls off to Suzie’s docking program. “Hope it’s not a trap. I can’t wait to see Lieutenant Ma-boob face-to-face.”
“Oh, bloody hell.” Suzie muttered a string of expletives beginning with sexist and ending jerk.
A few minutes later, Tyler and J.B. ambled down the ramp to a grinning Paco León on the boat deck of the PH. Lieutenant Arabella waited behind him in a lemon-yellow Matthews Corporation jumpsuit. She was slightly taller than the Chief, and even the company uniform could not obscure that perfectly proportioned body. Tyler forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand.
“Where’s Dorla?” Paco said.
Tyler said, “I asked everybody to remain aboard until we sort out the details.”
“That works, as long as she joins us soon. I’d rather have Dorla nearby with so many…uh…distractions available.” He glanced at Lieutenant Arabella Maboob and raised his eyebrows mischievously.
J.B. nodded thoughtfully. “I can understand that.”
“Okay, let me give you the tour.” Paco whispered a few quick words to Arabella, who scampered off to perform whatever chores he’d assigned. Tyler watched her delicious figure until the door closed.
“Where did she come from?” J.B. said. “Did you hire a crew, Chief?”
“Yeah, sorta.” Paco smiled. “At no expense to the company.”
J.B. pressed him. “Did you run a background check on her?”
“Ain’t necessary. I’ll explain everything, sirs. I promise.”
Tyler whistled. “That woman could give King Tut’s mummy a boner.”
“And his pappy, too,” Paco agreed.
“You’re a bit of a rascal, Chief,” Tyler said. “How long have you and Dorla been married?”
“Sixteen years.” He scratched his cheek. “My fifth attempt at settling down.”
“You’ve been married five times?” J.B. gasped.
“Yes, sir. But them was only practice wives. Got the right one now.”
“Show us the ship’s layout,” J.B. said. “And I want to hear more about your Lieutenant Arabella.”
The boat deck offered another berth large enough to accommodate a second small craft, but it still felt cramp
ed compared to the flight hangars aboard Matthews Corp starships. Paco explained the vessel had twelve decks, from entryway and boat dock to upper decks that housed FTL engines, environmental controls, and the Command Bridge.
“The eight decks in the middle two-thirds of the ship contain a large computer array and specialized service areas for the particular amenities of this vessel,” Chief León explained.
“What kind of amenities?” J.B. said.
Paco smiled faintly. “Lemme show you.”
The Chief led them to a lift and punched in deck 4. When the door slid open, they stepped into a large, empty bay that seemed to run the length of the ship. Circular lenses in triangular patterns studded the bulkheads and overhead space, but the deck itself looked slick as a gymnasium floor. Paco went to a control board near the bank of three elevators and activated the panel. Tapping a coded sequence, he smiled and briefly paused before entering the last few keystrokes.
“Oh, I figured out what the letters PH on the tail mean.” He tapped the last numbers. “The registered name of this vessel is the Pleasure House.”
The empty bay disappeared, and they stood at curbside on a cobblestone street lined with palm trees and two-story, natural wood buildings. The temperature was mild; a light breeze stirred tropical foliage. Smiling, beautiful women waved to them from every doorstep and window along the row of weathered houses.
“Welcome to Tropical Amsterdam,” Paco said. “That’s what the program is called, anyway.”
“Is this deck equipped with tangible holographics?” J.B. said.
“Better,” Paco said. “It’s an Advanced Energetic Application.”
“Advanced how?” Tyler said.
“Everything you see in an A.E.A. environment is tangible, like current generation holographics. But the buildings and holo-characters are not solidified photons, they’re real objects with a molecular structure. Think of energy outpicturing as solid matter.”
“Energy and matter are essentially the same thing in different forms,” J.B. said. “Water, ice and steam.”
“Exactly,” Chief León said. “I don’t understand the physics behind it, but this street is like frozen energy. Go into a tavern, order a cold beer, and you’ll taste it. You can even program the calorie count.”