Seeds to the Wind (The Medicean Stars Saga Book 2)

by McCullough Crawford

  As they walk across the plush carpet, the general’s reflections are cut short by the perky voice of a receptionist.

  “Good morning gentlemen, your jet should be available shortly. Would you like me to make you both some fresh coffee?”

  General Long watches the receptionist as she busies herself behind the imposing counter that serves as her desk. Something about the way she acts, a jerkiness to her movements, an almost imperceptible strain in her voice, bothers him. As a commander, he had always been gifted at reading the subtle cues of the people working for him, and something about this woman seems off to him. When she brings them their steaming drinks, he can’t help but ask.

  “Ma’am, if you don’t mind me asking, why so cheerful at this hour? It must be the end of your shift, and we’re hardly important guests.”

  “They pay me remarkably well to be cheerful. It’s as simple as that.” Her laugh has a hollow quality to it as if it is an echo bouncing out of a marble hall. “If you gentlemen need anything else, I’ll be over here. Otherwise the steward from the jet should be in momentarily to escort you out.”

  They both murmur thanks as they nurse their steaming cups and watch the approaching silver flying machine. With both of them distracted, the receptionist turns smartly in her heels and walks briskly back behind her desk.

  The skyline and the receptionist’s response still have General Long’s attention when the plane’s steward comes through the sliding glass doors. Silhouetted by the rising sun, his features don’t resolve out of shadow until he is a few paces away. Equally as fit and well dressed as the receptionist, they vary on a few key points; the steward stands slightly taller, and his hair is almost completely gray along the temples. He too wears what appears to be the company smile and suit, dark charcoal with a tasteful hint of character but mostly nondescript. He nods briskly at the receptionist behind the desk before turning to the two men seated between the potted tropical ferns. His eyes, mostly lost in the shadow of his brow, are dark and empty. Too long shuttling the rich and powerful across the skies has left them devoid of any warmth they might have once lent the upturned lips below.

  “Gentlemen, if you would follow me we will have you airborne momentarily.” His voice is as crisp and businesslike as his suit. “If I may presume to ask how you prefer your whiskey, I will have it ready as we take off.”

  The general and his aide exchange glances. Neither of them is particularly poor, both having achieved significantly high pay grades within the military. Both have families, houses, and go on the occasional vacation, but the level of casual opulence that surrounds them now is astounding. Normally they would count themselves above average in terms of wealth, but any data set that included the normal patrons of this service would be drastically skewed.

  “Normally I take mine straight,” General Long responds to the steward’s question when his polite and mildly expectant look does not fade. Long glances at his aide, who shrugs as if to say “me too” and then takes a step towards the doors. Beyond the waiting room doors, the jet stands glistening in the early morning light reflecting off the building.

  The carpet that leads them out of the richly dressed waiting room and towards the glistening silver flying machine is thick and voluptuous. The general’s feet, exhausted after two days in the same shoes, instantly feel relaxed and refreshed.

  When they reach the side of the aircraft, the steward steps to the side and activates a small recessed control panel. In contrast to the military jets on which they have both ridden, which typically have a rather rickety fold-out ladder for access from the ground, their current vehicle has a miniature escalator, which starts up with a quiet whirr.

  “If you gentlemen wouldn’t mind making yourselves comfortable inside, we’ll be cleared for takeoff in a few short minutes.”

  So, lulled by their comfortable surroundings, with only slight trepidation, they board the jet. The luxury inside the curved hull is no less than they expected, but it is still enough to elicit a small gasp from the general’s aide when he first steps off the escalator. The carpet that had led them across the landing area had seemed sublime compared to the coarse bristles they were used to in the rest of the building. The carpet inside the jet makes that feel like the cheap indoor/outdoor carpet that some swear resembles grass.

  The rest of the plane does not fall short. Large paintings adorn the two flat walls. The others are covered in deep redwood paneling, its glistening and dynamic texture making it appear that the walls are running with blood. Outside there had been the constant hum of traffic; inside the buzz is gone, replaced with a complete silence. They advance cautiously across the carpet, suddenly aware of the possibility of tracking dirt onto its ivory surface. The sounds of each step and the rustle of their clothes are absorbed into the walls and floor.

  The general is about halfway down the length of the main compartment, having passed between a mahogany conference table and a sideboard sporting several crystal glasses and a small statue cast from some dark metal. Before him, four massive armchairs stand facing each other. The black leather surfaces of the chairs appear as silky as the velvet drapes covering the windows, each one not much more than a vague shadow in the dim light of the fuselage. The general is busy peering into the shadows beyond the chairs, trying to make out the shapes hidden in the darkness, when a soft voice behind him startles him, causing him to whirl towards the sound.

  “Make yourself comfortable in one of the chairs,” the steward says, politely ignoring the startled general. “I have notified the pilot and we’ll be taking off momentarily. The whiskey we have on board this morning is a very nice fifty-year-old vintage. It has a slight smokiness in the nose that leads to a large floral palette. I’ll pour you both a dram and then leave you in private.”

  The general and his aide sit down across from each other in the downy chairs, their bodies sinking deeply into plush cushions. The two men lock eyes, and a brief moment of understanding flashes between them. They’ve worked together for the last fifteen years and know each other well enough that at a time like this, there is no need to talk. As close as they have become, their roads will be diverging in several hours. Officially the general is planned to return triumphantly at the end of the next week after the mission is successfully completed, but the truth is a different song entirely.

  The aide’s career has a hopeful bend, however. If he manages the “retirement” of General Long effectively, he can possibly garner a promotion out of his reassignment. On the other hand, if he doesn’t manage the proper amount of decorum and panache, he could be following his heroic boss’s footsteps in a matter of weeks. Telling of his internal tension, the aide’s face is drawn and slightly paler than usual. The general’s in contrast is a study in calmness. His path is set and there is no turning back or chance to change the outcome. He lets out a sigh and smiles at the younger man as their glasses arrive brimming with pungent brown liquid.

  “To our future endeavors. May they be fruitful and see our families prosper.” The general raises his glass and salutes his longtime friend. The whiskey is better than either of them had expected. Its delicate texture coats their tongues with a thin layer of fire, and an explosion of fruit and roasted pine attacks their noses, releasing the promised subtle smoke flavor behind their eyes. It is a truly blissful experience. Both men close their eyes and allow the sensation to wash over them, for a moment forgetting the reason they are on this plane being served such a high-end whiskey to begin with. A slow warmth spreads out from the base of the general’s tongue, seeming to infuse his blood with a hint of flame, not the brash blaze of some whiskies, but the gentle lick of flame that flicks off the edge of a glowing coal.

  The general opens his eyes that he doesn’t remember closing and is suddenly overcome with a strange sense of vertigo. He didn’t feel the plane lift off, distracted by the contents of his glass, but when he looks out the gilt-framed window he can see the office complex slowly receding below them. His aide is turned slightly and
staring out the window on the opposite side. His face, warmed by the risen sun, bears a look of concentration.

  Not interested in troubling him, General Long returns his gaze to his own window and takes another sip of the whiskey.

  * * *

  The steward gently taps the general’s shoulder, bringing him out of a deep sleep with a start. It would seem the nonstop pace of the past few days finally caught up with him. The half-drunk whiskey glass he remembers contemplating so thoroughly what seems like only a few seconds ago is sitting next to his hand on a highly polished end table. The drink’s surface is marred by rings induced by the vibration of the jet’s engine as they slow and prepare for landing.

  “Sir, we will be landing in twenty minutes,” the steward says. “If you’d like to freshen up there are facilities located behind you. You will find a fresh uniform and all the amenities you might need.”

  Rubbing the sleep from his eyes and stretching his stiff legs, General Long feels almost rested. The chair molding itself around him and the strong alcohol have given him the best two hours of sleep he has ever had. His aide is still staring out the window, brow knotted, contemplating the mountains rolling by underneath them and doesn’t look up until the general lays a hand on his shoulder. He nods and turns back to the window without a word.

  As the general approaches the back of the plane, a door’s outline slowly reveals itself in the shadows beside an accent-lit painting of a nude women on horseback apparently fighting some battle. The door’s handle is gold and inlaid with precious stones in some intricate pattern. It feels warm to the touch despite cool air being gently circulated by the jet’s climate control system. Pushing through the door, he finds himself in a room that seems out of place in an airplane flying high above the planet. The vaguely nautical, gentleman’s club atmosphere of the main cabin makes some sense, or at least to General Long’s admittedly very untrained eye doesn’t seem completely out of place. The bathroom on the other hand is a completely different matter.

  The room looks as if it was pulled straight from a Baroque palace. The floor and walls are clad in pink marble shimmering under the influence of hidden lights. Filigree trim covered with gold leaf adorns everything, even the fixtures; each is sculpted in the lines of frolicking nubile wood nymphs. The workmanship is exquisite and the impact of the room is breathtaking, but at the same time it is hideous. There is something particularly obscene about the opulence of the room and the fact that it is currently moving through the air at very near the speed of sound.

  Despite how revolting he finds the room, General Long recognizes the olive jacket, which is hanging from a peg that looks like a dolphin leaping from a crashing wave, and knows just how important it is that he play the role scripted for him to the best of his ability. He can certainly think of worse places he has had to change in. At least this one has running water.

  With regulation-length hair and an underdeveloped sense of vanity, the general does not take long to wash away the grime of the last few days. He returns to the main cabin just in time to feel the jet begin a gentle turn. The mountains that had been visible through the windows when he left have receded into the distance to be replaced with a brown rolling plain. In places, outcroppings of rocks or patches of scrub break the monotony. He is about to turn away, bored by the parched wasteland, when the plane’s continuing turn reveals the reason for their arrival in this desolated place.

  Standing in loose formation, dwarfing the few structures nestled at their bases, are seven of the largest rockets the general has ever seen. They seem to claw at the sky, reaching up to scratch out the belly of the little jet as it soars over them. They circle once more while the pilot communicates with the ground before making their approach to one of the small strips of concrete presumably reserved for aircraft. As they descend closer to the ground, they pass between two of the monstrosities. From above they looked massive, appearing, with the assistance of perspective, to tower over the mountains that ring the valley. Yet as they fly amongst them, it is clear their colossal size is not so much an optical illusion as a reality. These are not the slender, romanticized rockets that usually adorn the propaganda posters. These monstrosities seem, despite their height, to squat upon the plain. Each one is adorned with countless protrusions and bulbous additions, there are no smooth and graceful outlines, and they appear as if they were constructed by welding a random assortment of industrial components onto a vertical scaffold.

  Not having experience around spacecraft, the general doubts his own judgment regarding their readiness, but certainly to even his untrained eye the number of crews swarming over each one and the long line of loaded trucks stretching away into a small range of hills bespeaks of a noticeable lack of preparation and coordination. A small smile steals across his face despite the ill omen the frantic activity below represents. Even here on the highest priority mission he has ever been a part of, the military is plagued with logistics problems. Logistics problems are just what he made a name for himself fixing.

  The plane’s landing is anticlimactic with only a slight bump and tug towards the front of the cabin as they slow. Once the jet is moving slowly enough, they circle before coming to a stop facing the other direction. The hatch is opened, letting in a burst of cold, crisp, dry air that causes their nostrils to tingle as they are accustomed to the warm and properly humidified air of the cabin. The fresh air brings with it the smells of the airport: jet fuel, burnt rubber, and exhaust. Cutting through the more abrasive smells the harsh smell of freshly welded steel and the loamy scent of freshly dug dirt cling to the corners of Long’s nasal passages like the fine whiskey had earlier. Despite the pungent quality of the air, General Long breathes deeply. This far from the nearest city, the air is fresher than anything he has tasted in a while.

  The escalator is extended and a small plush carpet is set out for them to alight upon. Beyond the soft carpet, the luxury ends. Waiting for them on the dusty tarmac are a small man and two burly guards. All three of them are covered in dust as well. Their dusty uniforms and the morning light combine to give them a vaguely pink appearance despite the olive of their uniforms. The thick coat of dust and the drab coloring of their clothes make for a completely dull appearance; the only things that glint in the ascending sun are the rifles slung across the guards’ backs and the small man’s golden round-framed glasses.

  When General Long reaches the ground and looks up, making eye contact for the first time with each man in the welcoming party, the two guards snap smartly to attention, their eyes locked forward and their backs straight. The man in between them and slightly in front straightens somewhat but does not uncross his arms; his stance challenges the general. As General Long approaches, he steps away from his guards to meet him, extending his hand to shake.

  “Hello General, I am Overseer Lewis.” His voice is soft, seeming to crumble as it reaches the general and his aide’s ears. The smile he presents to them is even more lacking in conviction. “I trust your journey was pleasant gentlemen. My volunteers will have the rockets ready shortly. May I suggest you relax in the lounge? It is such a pleasure and privilege to have guests from the Capital. Sadly it is such an infrequent occasion that our cellars are only modestly provisioned.”

  Playing their expected parts, General Long and his aide graciously accept the guide, whose duty it is to keep them safely out of the way and who had unassumingly appeared from behind the two guards as the overseer gestured towards the lounge. If he can get them drunk enough, there is probably a reward in it for him, though what it is General Long does not want to speculate on given the overseer’s apparent command style. The guide, who comes trotting up when the overseer makes a small gesture with his hand, is easily twice as big as the overseer and is of the age at which he should be so assured of his immortality that the confidence drips off of him. Instead he approaches head down, shoulders slumped; he should be proud and assertive, instead he is cowed and afraid of the overseer.

  “Show these gentlemen to the
lounge and make sure they have everything they need,” the overseer says, then turns back to General Long, his sycophantic half-smile once more glued in place. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I really must be going.”

  Without saying anything further he turns and walks away, his bodyguards like twin shadows a half step behind and to either side.

  “Show us to our playpen, then,” General Long says with a smile, sensing the trepidation in their guide. “We should all follow orders and show the proper courtesies.”

  The guide smiles hesitantly. Having worked with the overseer as long as he has, he is more cautious than he once was when it comes to trusting people, especially those who receive such special treatment from the overseer. In the end, whether or not he believes the general’s good nature does not matter, so he beckons for them to follow.

  The dusty tarmac sends heat radiating upwards in shimmering waves despite the morning chill. It may be the middle of winter, but if the intensity of the sun slowly rising in the east is any indication it is going to be a hot day. As they near the edge of the runway, the sounds of a work crew become audible. The pavement slips away into a progressively steeper slope at the bottom of which about twenty figures are working to clear the face of a culvert that appears to have been buried in a small landside. The trench itself curves gently away from them but clearly runs directly to the base of the nearest rocket. From the air the rockets had seemed large, each one towering over small earthworks at their base. From the ground the earthworks dwarf the people and equipment scurrying around them; the rockets now look monstrous. The trench before them is easily large enough for their plane to have landed on the bottom of, yet it appears like little more than a scratch in the dirt compared to the structure rising from its other end.