by JC Cassels
She popped her g-locks and pushed herself out of the pilot’s seat. “Let’s go see what this is about, shall we?”
Sundance knew to recognize rhetorical questions and made no comment.
Bo skipped down the steps from the flight deck and down the companionway to the galley/rec lounge. The internal lights flared on as she walked in. Moving to the imaging platform, she inserted the data card and switched on the power. It took a moment for the platform to warm up, but soon a diagram flickered to life in the air above it. Bo walked slowly around the platform, viewing the diagram from every angle.
“Sundance, is there a message in there?”
“Difficult to tell.”
“Is this an accurate diagram of your asoning injection system?”
“Negative.”
“Is your asoning injection system contained within this diagram?”
“Affirmative.”
Bo tapped her lip thoughtfully. “Okay. That’s a start,” she murmured. “Royce wouldn’t make it too difficult to decode. He’d just make it personal.” Bracing her hands on the edge of the platform, she leaned closer and studied the image. “Overlay your asoning system.”
The bulk of the image lit up red.
“Remove the redundant diagram.”
The image flashed and a huge section of it disappeared. What was left behind resembled gibberish.
“Is there a discernible message in the remaining data?”
“Negative.”
“Of course not. That would be too easy.” She squinted at the data. “Is there a way to evenly divide the data so exactly twenty-three percent of the message can be isolated at even intervals?”
Another series of figures glowed red.
“Okay…is there a message in the isolated data?”
“Negative.”
“What about the remaining data?”
“Negative.”
Bo groaned in frustration. “Royce you’re killin’ me!”
She stared at the data, willing some pattern to emerge.
After a long moment she straightened. “Sundance, are your asoning injectors operating at factory efficiency?”
“Negative.”
“Are they operating above or below factory efficiency?”
“Above.”
“By what percentage?”
“The asoning injector system is operating at above twenty-three percent of the factory efficiency.”
Bo smiled. “Five-Point! Undo the last highlight, Sundance.”
The red data faded back to green.
“What’s the current frequency of the asoning injectors?”
“Eight point seven.”
“Isolate that, please.”
The data flashed red.
“Is there a message in either group?”
“Affirmative.”
“Yes!” Bo punched the air.
“There is an embedded holo.”
“Play it, Sundance.”
The data flickered and solidified into a hologram of Royce.
“Happy birthday, Princess,” he said. “Sorry I’m not there to celebrate. I found a lead on your dad. There’s a black market collector by the name of Rex. He’s a bad dude. Word is he has your dad’s stasis pod. No one knows for sure if Bhruic is still in it. Rex has a base of operations in the Sixth Sector, out of Czern. I’m going to try to wrap up this job I’m on so I can help you go after him, but he’ll be expecting you and me. Bring Blade in on this. We’ll need him. If you can’t wait for me before you go after him, be careful. People have a way of disappearing around Rex.”
The holo flickered off and the imaging pad went dark.
Bo stared at the pad for a long moment. Ordinarily, calling Blade in to help wouldn’t be a problem. Not this time. Even if he weren’t recovering from a major accident, Bo wasn’t sure she wanted him around until she worked out her feelings…if at all.
“Sundance, there’s been a little change in plans,” she said. “Lay in a new course for Czern in the Sixth Sector… and find me everything you can about this Rex my uncle was talking about.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
After recuperating for so long on the cold medical ship and the flight through deep space, the blazing heat and humidity of Kah Lahtrec rolled over him like a comforting wave. He breathed deeply, drawing the familiar air deep into his battered body. At times, the air could get so humid you would swear runnels of condensation were dripping down the insides of your lungs. Today it was perfect. The sweet fragrance of flowers from the fruit trees wafted in, borne on the fresh ocean tradewinds. The pungent tang of the jungle swirled around him. The earthy smell of freshly cut lawns tickled his nose. From some distant, open-air kitchen, tantalizing aromas drifted in.
His stomach rumbled in response.
Middo chuckled. “You are hungry,” he said. “We find good food. Fresh food.”
He was hungry, but food could wait.
“I just want to go home, Middo.”
With his good arm around Middo’s shoulders, Blade leaned heavily on him as he limped slowly down the ramp. His brow gathered in concentration, he carefully shuffled off the bottom of the ramp and onto the dusty tarmac of the landing field that passed for Kah Lahtrec’s space port. With the good-humored patience he’d come to expect of the Lahtrecki people, Middo neither rushed him nor dawdled, letting Blade set the pace.
When his feet touched solid ground, Blade stopped and closed his eyes, lifting his face to the sun, reveling in the heat and light. The marrow in his bones began to thaw. A small smile curved his lips. Home.
The rising whine of a groundcruiser’s engine swirled closer on a cloud of dust. The sleek, black, antique vehicle undulated in the heat waves rippling off the tarmac and finally solidified and slowed smoothly to a halt nearby. If the low, expensive cruiser didn’t scream dignitary, the Lahtrecki flags flapping from their anchors over the engine compartment did.
Blade’s good leg shook with the strain of holding him upright. He tried to shift his weight, but even the slightest pressure on his injured leg set off an explosion of pain. Wincing, he hissed through tightly clenched teeth, praying silently that he wouldn’t embarrass himself. Closing his eyes tightly against the glare and the pain, a tear squeezed through in defiance and sought freedom down his cheek.
Other hands joined Middo’s to make a seat, lifting him off his feet, taking his weight and relieving the pressure on his aching limbs.
“My apologies, my friend.” The clipped, lightly accented voice boomed across the landing field.
Blade opened his eyes. Ballanshi, Tryrium te Kah Lahtrec, the gray jacket of his business suit askew, and Middo carried him towards the waiting ground cruiser. His lips twitched at the realization that the slightly rotund, middle-aged leader of the Lahtrecki people and a small, wiry fisherman carried him like a sack of grain. Only on Kah Lahtrec.
“I did not mean to leave you standing for so long.”
Too weak to protest, Blade nodded, meekly submitting to their care.
“You look terrible,” Ballanshi confided.
Blade’s lips twitched. “I feel worse.”
“Yes, I know,” Ballanshi said in a much softer tone. “Let us get you home. I will have something brought to you to eat.”
“I don’t want to be a bother,” Blade said. “I just want to be left alone.”
“Your wants are irrelevant,” Ballanshi said. “You have given yourself over to our care, and we will care for you until you are able to care for yourself again.”
He nodded to his driver, a young, white-liveried Lahtrecki male. The driver moved quickly to open the rear door of the passenger compartment. The three men carefully maneuvered Blade into the cooled interior and eased him onto the wide, rear-facing bench seat. Blade tried to move on his own, but failed miserably. Finally surrendering to the idea that he was still helpless to fend for himself, he heaved a resigned sigh and leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes once more.
“Once you are able to care for
yourself, you and I shall play endless hours of bumper ball, drink and argue politics well into the night as we always do.”
Blade smiled just a little. “You’re going to have to find someplace else to hide from your wife, Ballanshi. I’m not up to bumper ball yet.”
“Then I shall drink your liquor while you sleep in the sunshine.”
“Knock yourself out.”
“That, my friend, is your habit, not mine.”
Blade peeled one eye open and peered at him.
“It is good to have you home,” Ballanshi said.
“It’s good to be home.”
The Life and Times of Cantrell was his most successful holofeature to date, and his most critically acclaimed. Based on a true story, his performance as the young missionary who’d led a revolution had garnered praise and elevated him from two-fisted action hero to serious actor. Peering through half-closed eyes, he studied the man across from him.
Any brilliance in his performance had been due entirely to the help of Ballanshi. In his youth, Ballanshi and Cantrell had been friends. Cantrell’s sacrifice had secured continued autonomy for the Lahtrecki people as an Outland Fringe territory, and not a member of the United Galactic Commonwealth proper. The Tryrium, expressing his desire for Cantrell’s story to be properly told, had spent countless hours with Blade, patiently answering questions about the unusual War of Lahtrecki Independence and Cantrell himself.
That war had been the first in a series of events leading to the Trade Wars that had nearly destroyed the Commonwealth a few years later, when Blade had been little more than a baby. Those same Trade Wars had been directly responsible for his mother’s death, and had altered the course of his life forever.
To say he felt a connection to the Lahtrecki Independence was an understatement. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly why it was, but he felt inextricably tied to Cantrell and that war. Perhaps it had been his passion for the story coming through in his performance. No matter the reason behind it, telling Cantrell’s story had felt like Blade’s own personal mission. It had been something he’d felt compelled to do. If he’d been prone to whimsy, he’d have said that, without Cantrell’s sacrifice in the War of Lahtrecki Independence, Blade Devon would never have existed at all.
He must have dozed off. The next thing he knew, Ballanshi was pulling him from the vehicle. With the skills of a man versed in battlefield medicine, the Tryrium extricated him from the cruiser and steadied him until the driver could take Blade’s other side.
Blade lifted his head, half-expecting to find himself a guest at the Tryriate. The cruiser had pulled beneath a wide portico that shadowed a pair of heavy, barbur wood doors. A cool wave of contentment washed over him as he realized he was well and truly home. Here, out of the reach of Lord Marin and the ravenous media, he could finally relax and recuperate from his injuries.
It had been so long, Blade had almost forgotten how beautiful the villa was. It loomed above the beach like a giant ivory sentinel, the oversized windows reflecting the brilliant sunlight back out into the waves. From the tiled roof to the wide terrace, it was immaculate. Dark wooden shutters, the same shade as the roof, pivoted in open windows to allow cooling breezes access to its nether regions. In anticipation of their arrival, the portals stood wide open, inviting them into the coolness of the interior.
Without fanfare, Ballanshi and his driver carried Blade inside. Blade’s heart thudded against his chest with the sheer joy of finally being in the one place he wanted to be.
“Steady, boy,” Ballanshi said softly. “You’re not exactly a light weight, and I’m not looking forward to taking a tumble on this stone.”
Blade smiled. “I’ll behave,” he said.
Hand-painted barbur wood beams supported the high ceiling. Arched doorways led to other rooms. As they passed, Blade glanced to make sure that all was as he remembered it. Musical instruments of all sizes decorated one of the front rooms. Bumper ball tables stood in another, the only other adornment in that room being the accoutrements of the sport.
Their footsteps echoed sharply, reflected off the gleaming stone floors and the walls, which were covered in a local plaster mix.
Gauzy curtains, lazily stirred by the pervasive breezes, hung in front of the windows. Most of the barbur wood trimmed windows stood open, shutters askew. Tables, chairs and other furnishings, though sparse, gave the rooms simple warmth and charm. Everything complemented the raw natural beauty of the planet. Much of the wooden furniture boasted carvings of intricate detail. The rest of the furnishings remained in their rough-hewn state, each piece a work of art in itself.
At the heart of the villa, a series of steps junctioned off in three separate directions. A long, curving staircase led up to the master suite, a pair of elegant rooms joined by a large, well-appointed lav that would rival any on Altair. A set of wide steps led down to the guest suites, which followed the curve of the mountain and opened onto the terrace. Ahead, another set of steps let up into the main room. Without pause, Ballanshi and his driver mounted the steps for the main room, the largest in the villa.
The vaulted ceiling stretched high above their heads, no supportive pillars divided the room. High in the wall, just below the vaults, ran a series of open arches for ventilation and light. An enormous mirror, trimmed with nearly a meter of silver filigree, sat behind a rugged bar in one corner of the room. Beside the bar rose an intricately woven pair of matching metal circular stairs. One led to his suite, while the other to the library, which offered a panoramic view of the ocean and the jungle. A large woven rug in shades of scarlet and black covered much of the wooden floor. At one end of the room, an entire wall of glass-paned doors opened onto the terrace. Some of the furniture had been moved to accommodate a medical bed that had been placed near the doors.
“You’ve thought of everything,” Blade said.
Ballanshi grunted as they eased him onto the bed. “Not I,” he said. “Madine deserves the credit.”
A smile tugged at Blade’s lips. “The Tryrine is as wise as she is beautiful.”
“Save your flattery for when she’s around,” Ballanshi advised. “Not that it would do you any good. My wife is immune to your charms.”
“I have only the greatest respect for her, you know that.”
Ballanshi smiled. “She loves you, too.”
With a small sigh, Blade relaxed back against the fluffy, white pillows on the bed. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
The Tryrium dismissed the driver with a nod. Then he ventured over to the bar and pulled a glass from the cabinet behind it. He reached underneath and pulled out a bottle.
“You can thank me by healing quickly,” he said. He took his time pouring the drink. “Tahar says you are running out of time to meet your destiny.”
Blade chuckled. “Tahar is always saying things like that.”
“Scoff if you must.” Ballanshi waggled a finger at him and carried his drink over to a chair near the bed. Settling himself into it, he crossed his ankles and leaned his head back. “How do you explain that Tahar knew to send Middo for you before you’d even crashed?”
“I don’t know,” Blade said.
The two men sat in companionable silence for a long time. Ballanshi sipped his drink while Blade dozed. Sometime later, a commotion woke him. Blade roused himself when a parade of Lahtrecki marched in bearing trays of food. The smells of the still-warm dishes brought him fully awake, his stomach growling.
Under Ballanshi’s amused eye, the caterers served and pampered Blade like a conquering hero. He was too hungry to be anything but thankful for the attention. He ate as much as he could of the hearty fare. There were delicacies aplenty on Kah Lahtrec, but the Tryrine had ordered a good supply of simple meals, thank the Maker.
Later that evening, after the Lahtrecki sun had set, Blade finally dropped into a deep, healing sleep. Sometime in the night he startled awake. His heart pounding in his chest, his eyes flew open and he looked anxiously around.
A wizened old man with a bushy shock of gray hair and a face etched with the lines of responsibility stared, unblinking, at him. His dark eyes stared past a long hook of a nose, his cheeks sunken from a loss of teeth. His skin was burnished dark from countless decades under the harsh Lahtrecki sun. His gnarled hand wrapped tightly around a twisted staff, nearly as tall as he.
“Tahar!”
Relieved and delighted, Blade struggled onto his side and used his elbow to lever himself upright. The ‘wise one,’ the spiritual leader of the Lahtrecki people, had come to visit him. Blade would be damned if he spent the visit on his back. The old man’s weathered face split into a wide, gap-toothed grin. Moving silently on bare feet, Tahar rushed to his bedside and wrapped his frail arms around Blade.
“Blade, my son!”
Blade held on as tightly as he dared with his good arm. A more gentle, loving soul Blade had never met. Even in his weakened state, he was careful not to crush the old man.
“My grandson had to return to the Tryriate, so I am here to nurse you,” Tahar said. He was Ballanshi’s grandfather and, though Blade had never been able to learn exactly how old the man was, he had to be pushing the century mark.
Between his lack of teeth and his age, there was an inflection to his speech that made even Basic, the common language of the civilized Commonwealth, sound unfamiliar. It always took a bit for Blade to readjust his ears to his manner of speech.
“I’m surprised you left the temple,” Blade said. “Aren’t the holy days coming up?”
Tahar took hold of Blade’s arms and eased out of his embrace. Mischief twinkled in his dark eyes. “I am an old man,” he said. “It is time the younger priests learned to do without me.” He patted Blade’s shoulders and ran his hands along his arms, feeling for injury. “I told them my son needs me now.”
Upon their first meeting, Tahar had pronounced Blade the reincarnation of his son, Bayan. No matter how much Blade had protested, the old man refused to budge.
Tahar searched his face. His expression grew sad, distant. He nodded to himself and looked Blade over from head to toe, taking stock of his injuries.
“Your body is broken.” He pointed a gnarled finger at Blade’s leg, encased in a medical splint to keep it immobilized while the bones finished fusing together. He lightly ran his fingers over the sling that held his left arm against his body. “Battered…you have suffered grave injuries the eye cannot see.”
