Back From the Dead Page 12

  Helton looks around the bridge. Everyone seems to be studiously watching screens or going about their work, except for one nervous guy watching him out of the corner of his eye. Helton bites his lip and looks at everyone closely. They all have perfectly fitting uniforms, except Nervous Guy, who tugs at his a bit to adjust it. “Any other cargo of note, or crew changes recently?”

  The captain shakes his head dismissively. “All pretty ordinary, and we always have a few newer crew members, it seems.”

  “Any new techs or bridge crew?”

  The purser points to Nervous Guy. “Just him.”

  “Who’s the com tech?” Helton asks. A middle-aged woman off to the side raises her hand. “How tight a beam, and what kind of power can you put on him?”

  “Narrowest beam is an arcsecond. We could pump that up to about four kilowatts.”

  “That oughta warm their coffee. Good. Can you aim well enough to nail him center beam?”

  “Maybe, sir. No problem if we widen to two or three arcseconds.”

  “Do that.” Helton turns to the captain. “But no missiles or beam weapons?”

  “Nothing but anti-debris micro-lasers.”

  “Well, then I guess we’ll have to go with Plan A. Which is a long shot, but it’s the only plan that comes to mind. Get security in here and watch him,” Helton nods at Nervous Guy, “make sure he doesn’t touch anything until I get back. I’d quietly post security anyplace with access to the air system, in pairs that don’t normally work together.” He turns and strides off the bridge.

  Back in the dining room, Helton walks directly to Bipasha’s table, the purser following him. Bipasha glares silently at him as he ignores her and politely addresses three of her well-dressed table mates: a man wearing a sash with several medals, a woman with a flashy star-and-cross broach, and another man with a high-peaked cap with an impressive insignia and decorative aiguillette.

  “I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but a situation has come up and I really need your help for just a few minutes. Could you three come with us, please?”

  “Is there a problem?” The rich lady asks.

  “No, not really, but it’s … complicated. It’ll just take a few minutes of your time.”

  The purser lends his authority. “If you could help us out, I’m sure the Captain would be ever so grateful.”

  Sash Man needs no further entreaties. “A favor for the captain? Certainly!” The three rise from their seats and join Helton and the purser as they exit.

  Helton walks back onto the starliner bridge, now wearing a peaked cap, the dress jacket, aiguillette, and sash, with the flashy broach placed as a medal, looking for all the world like a serious military man. The captain stares at him in surprise.

  “Still have a fix on them?” Helton asks the com tech.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay. I want you to put the beam on them, start at low power and ramp up fast to full. Then, put me on the beam, so they can see me and only me on their screens.”

  “Aye-aye, sir. Ramping up now.” Helton sits down in the captain’s chair, looking at the main screen. “Full power now,” she says. “If they didn’t fry everything, they’ll see you … now.”

  “This is Space Colonel Strom, of the Plataean 3rd Expeditionary Force, to the unidentified ship. We can see you are on an intercept course. Either change course, NOW, or I’ll have the space marines on board break out the hardware that you are after, load them into the message drone launch tubes, and give you an up close and personal view of what a ten kiloton detonation looks like. It’s not just expensive food down there, as you well know.”

  Nothing appears on the screen but the image of blank space. Nervous Guy starts looking REALLY nervous. Helton continues, “Your inside guy here on the bridge gave up your position, and I’m sure he’ll soon be giving us enough details to make sure we don’t have to launch many at you before we score a hit.”

  “NO! I didn’t SAY ANYTHING! I never told THEM anything!”

  The captain points at the man and speaks firmly for the first time. “Security! Take him!”

  Helton faces Nervous Guy, eyes hard. “I’ve dealt with pirates before. The only way you live is to keep talking fast, and NOW.”

  “No, I mean YES, I don’t–”

  Helton turns to the captain, and uses a harsh voice he was only dimly aware he had. “Either they change course, or we burn ‘em.” He makes a vicious throat-cutting sign to the com tech, and she ends the transmission.

  The liner captain is appalled: “You are shipping weapons without TELLING US?”

  “I have absolutely no idea what’s in the hold, Captain. But it’s something they wanted, unless they are after the ship and passengers, which they now think they can’t take without a fight.”

  “So you really don’t have weapons, and we’re defenseless?”

  “I was bluffing, hoping they veer off. If they don’t, at least they don’t have this guy to trigger gas and knock us all out. Tell every crew member on board to get paranoid, and report anything. If the pirates do latch on, we’ll have to fight them with whatever you DO have, but at least we now have an hour warning.”

  “Sir,” the scanner tech interrupts, “looks like they are altering course. Yes, definitely pulling gees away.”

  Celebration bursts out around the bridge. Two security guards haul Nervous Guy away. The captain becomes much more effusive: “Thank you, THANK you, Mr. Strom! But PLEASE don’t say anything to the passengers. I don’t want them to get scared and panic, or drive up our insurance rates.” Helton looks at the captain blankly, shakes his head, pivots, and walks out.

  Helton, dressed normally again, returns to the dining room with the other three passengers from Bipasha’s table. They are chatting animatedly and all seem in good spirits. Sash Guy is especially cheerful. “Not at all, not at all, happy to help out!”

  “Thanks again for everything,” says Helton. “I hope the rest of your trip is enjoyable, too!” As he passes Bipasha, he pauses, leans over, and whispers into her ear with mock seriousness. “Don’t worry. I told the pirates I was a Plataean Colonel, and they should leave or I’d nuke ‘em, so they pulled high gees away. We’re all safe now. You can thank me later.”

  Helton smiles, stands up, and walks back to his table, whistling happily to himself, hands in his pockets, because the universe is just a dandy place.

  Irregular

  “This is an unusual list.”

  Helton is in a modest office of the Eridani Parts Depot, which is cluttered with various machine parts, electronics, and ship-related oddments. There are two desks but only one is occupied, a young man in plain clothes eyeing the e-reader in his hands. Helton sits opposite.

  “It’s just things I need to fix my ship,” Helton says.

  “Many of them are flagged as restricted items.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, we have them, but they are only for transfer to military authorized personnel because they’re pulled off decommissioned military ships. I’m going to have to ask about this.”

  “Irregular. Most irregular,” says the parts officer.

  She’s a middle-aged woman in uniform, standing behind the young parts clerk. She sounds even more skeptical than the clerk.

  “Yeah, I know, I know, my paperwork needs more fiber.”

  She looks at him darkly. “This is not a joking matter, Mr. Strom.”

  “Irregular has pretty much defined my life for the last month, so I guess there isn’t any reason to think it’ll stop today.”

  “Why do you need these parts?”

  “To fix my ship.”

  “What kind of ship?”

  “Old,” says Helton. “Very old. Very old and very not-flying.” She eyes him skeptically, waiting for more specific information. Helton continues, “A pre-blackout surplused military transport that I’m renovating to use for training and eventually hauling cargo.”

  The minutes tick silently by as the parts officer looks over th
e rest of the list thoughtfully. At last, she says, “These parts are quite specific in their uses, but they do not seem to be particularly dangerous. Especially on a ship that old.”

  “Then why are they restricted?”

  “Because they are salvaged from military ships. I see nothing listed that is a weapons part, or unusually radioactive, or hi-grade computers or com-tech, but your credentials are not the normal military contractor type. Or any other normal type we see here. Why would a diplomatic attaché come here for parts?”

  “Well, that’s the list Stenson gave me, and he said–”

  “Stenson?” she interrupts, looking at him sharply. “Henery Stenson?”

  “Yes. That’s the guy I have working on my ship.”

  “I know him. But he’s Plataean military. Why’s he working as a private contractor for you, if you’re a diplomat?”

  “Well, I’m not really a diplomat, just acting as a courier for Colonel Lag.”

  “Lag? A colonel, now? So you are military?”

  “Well, no, I’m a private citizen of … well, nowhere right now, but I–”

  “You are not Plataean?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so, but their rules on citizenship are a little fuzzy.”

  She pauses a moment, trying to make sense of his strange statements, but apparently lucid demeanor.

  “You are not sure of your citizenship? Are you here for parts for your ship, or as a courier for Lag?”

  “Correct, sort of. Yes. Both.”

  The officer and the clerk look askance at him, like he’s a total loon. Helton leans back and puts on his most ingratiating voice and smile.

  “It’s a very long story. Short version: I’m here on Eridani for Lag as a courier, and I’ve already delivered the package. I am also here, in this building, for myself, at the request of Stenson, to get parts for my ship, a ship Lag thinks might be useful.

  “Lag fired Stenson, but only sort of. Technically, he’s working with me, but unofficially Colonel Lag calls a lot of the shots. My money, my ship; mostly Lag’s people and orders. I’m carrying Plataean diplomatic ID in order to work for Lag, but my official citizenship is currently uncertain because of a legal issue on my previous home-world.”

  “Very, very irregular,” says the parts officer, “just like everything else Lag does. Can’t fault his results, though.” She thinks for a moment. “The ID checks out, and these are not universally restricted parts, and the letter of payment checks too. I’m going to let you have the parts, but I’m also going to send to Stenson for a confirmation, and even the Lord can’t help you if you are pulling a fast one using his or Lag’s name.”

  “Whew. Thanks. You are much more understanding and patient than another uniformed acquaintance of mine. By the way, since I’m planet-side … can you help me track down something else?”

  Monks of St. Possenti

  The sun beats down and Helton sweats as he walks up a road in a small, deep, dusty gulch, with sparse brush and bare rock all around, and faintly in the distance, a rhythmic sound of metal striking stone. He rounds a bend and sees a group of six men ahead, working with hand tools, building a gate and part of a stone wall across the wash. The rocks they are lifting into place are large and heavy, as are the hand-made wood and metal pieces for the gate. At this distance they look like a scene from the 10th century.

  Four of the men wear nothing but simple brown breeches and heavy sandals. They appear to be in their mid-twenties, lean and well-muscled. All are clean-shaven with short hair. A few tattoos of various sorts are visible, including a couple that look like military unit crests. One man has a prosthetic leg. The other two wear traditional brown monks’ habits. One of them is as young as the first four, but the second is older, perhaps in his fifties. All the men labor silently, some shaping rocks with hammer and chisel, others fitting them and checking the level. They note Helton’s approach with a glance, say nothing, and continue working.

  “I’m looking for Brother Libra. Back in town they said I could find him up this way.”

  They pause a moment, looking at Helton. The older monk nods and waves at Helton to follow, then signals the others to return to their work. The monk walks briskly up the road, and Helton follows.

  The tap-tapping of chisel on stone fades as they move further up the gulch, gradually replaced by the sound of male voices in chorus. The words are Latin, a call-and-response chant, with pauses between lines.

  Oh Lord, Give me the wisdom to understand what I have seen

  The strength to carry on when hope fades

  The honesty to be at peace and face what is

  The forbearance to forgive those who have wronged me

  The focus to forget the horrors I have been through

  To be accepting of what I cannot change

  The humility to follow the lead of those who have trod this path before

  Grant me respect for those who try, but are imperfect as I am

  The fortitude to lead others out of darkness

  The clarity to understand the path I must follow

  Please forgive me the things I have done

  Give me the bravery to go where I am needed

  The discipline to not be a burden on others

  The singing grows louder as they approach a stone building that looks like a cross between a Spanish mission, a Gothic cathedral, a monastery, and a small walled castle. On one end there is a large St. Possenti Cross. The monk leads Helton to a small, man-sized door next to a large, vehicle-sized door. They cross the threshold into a large courtyard just as a line of the hymn ends and there is a loud crash of metal on stone. Helton jumps in surprise at the jarring noise.

  The courtyard holds about three dozen men in widely spaced ranks, mostly young and lean like those at the gate, wearing monk’s robes, standing at attention with rifles at their sides. Their rifles are mostly an odd mix of old wooden-stocked hardware (M1s, Mausers, SMLEs, Nagants, etc.) with metal butt-plates, fitted with bare bayonets. A few of the men have all-wooden training rifles. They chant another line of Latin, then move smoothly into a slow, methodical, bayonet drill, like a kata from an Eastern martial art.

  Helton looks at the monk in bewilderment. As they walk around the courtyard, heading for the far side, Helton speaks quietly to avoid distracting the men. “Bang-fu? What is this place?”

  The Brother speaks placidly. “This is the Abbey of St. Possenti. You are not familiar with the order?”

  Helton shakes his head. “Never heard of any monks teaching gun-jitsu.”

  The Brother smiles and nods knowingly. “We serve the young men that society has badly misused and discarded. Mainly soldiers who were not prepared to deal with what they experienced and were cast aside as damaged goods. Others in need are also welcome, such as recent widowers or the painfully divorced. Their spirits are without trust, unbalanced and broken. They need love, discipline, meditation and prayer. A community of those who have similar experience and who deeply understand. A simple, understandable life of the physical, the solid, the real … for whatever time they need while they calm their souls.

  “This meditation and study,” he nods at the drilling monks, “working with their hands, and regular exercitatio in scopum; all these help them to learn self-discipline and restore self-confidence and inner peace. Most are here for a few years then return to the world renewed. For a few it becomes a life calling. It is not an order that appeals to many.” He pauses a moment before continuing wryly. “Even within the Church.”

  When they reach the far side of the courtyard, the monk leads Helton into an office. It is small and sparse, made of natural materials, lit only by sunlight falling through a window. On the opposite wall hangs a crucifix. On another, an M1 Garand with a long bayonet. In the office is a simple desk, two chairs, and not much else. Three reddish crystals arranged on one side of the desk are the only decoration in the room.

  Outside, the chant continues. A gunshot booms in the near distance, and a low rolling ec
ho sounds from around the canyon. Four and a half seconds later comes the quiet metallic ping of a bullet impacting a small piece of steel. Helton looks questioningly at the monk, who says, “Sounds like Brother Exactus on the midrange small steel.” Helton shakes his head slightly, eyebrows arched, brow furrowed as he tries to make sense of the surreal situation.

  The monk closes the door, sits behind the desk, and waves Helton to the other chair. They look at each other across the desk. “So, what can I do for you, my son?”

  “You’re Brother Libra?”

  “Yes, these last 28 years.”

  “I’ve got some bad news,” Helton says. “I’m not sure how to…” He stops and breathes deeply. “I promised I’d return this.” From a pocket in his travelers coat he takes out the small St. Possenti medallion and hands it to Brother Libra. The monk inspects it casually, then starts. He examines it more closely, then looks up sharply at Helton.

  “We had gotten dumped together…” Helton begins.

  Helton sits quietly after finishing his tale. Brother Libra, eyes down, is contemplative and a bit sorrowful. “Thank you for coming,” he says at last, looking up at Helton. “Sad news, but not entirely unexpected. He was very old when he left — nearly a decade ago — to look for souls in need, and to search for a particular lost soul that left the order long ago.” He gives a wry grimace. “And to track down a ‘flying abbey’.”

  “Flying abbey?”

  “A small starship used long ago as a wandering monastery that went where it was needed. People sometimes had visions, or claimed they saw miracles aboard. It was lost long ago … before the stars went away.

  “In any event, the Brother has directed many to us during his travels; I thought that you might be one such.”

  “I may be a little lost, but I’m not ready for a monastery.”

  “Every life has its own calling in this world. I hope yours is on a favorable path. He will be missed. Will you stay for his service?”

  “No, I'm very sorry, I can’t. I need to catch a return flight.”