“Prayer,” Nefoussi said, as he tested the tea again. “Hmm, about right. Would a lemon help?”
Archie looked at him and shook his head slowly. “No. I doubt a lemon will do much for me.” The thought of being a biographer was rolling through his head. He’d been many a thing in his life, a student, a robot tender, a wrestler, a vagabond, and finally a Marine. Biographer wasn’t even on the horizon.
“Things are already in motion that will change much. Of that much you know already. But there are more to come. Oh yes.” Nefoussi sipped and nodded at his tea. “Good tea.”
“What do you want from me, Commandant?”
“Nothing. You will watch, and someday return and tell my side of the story. History will not make a villain of the Sa’Ami.” Nefoussi cupped the tea and nodded to Archie. “Do try the tea.”
“You’re already a villain, Commandant. How far you take it is up to you.”
Nefoussi set the cup down with a clink. “Mr. Theodore, that was nothing.” The tone chilled Archie. “We will strike a blow unlike any ever seen, and in doing so, save billions.”
Archie shook his head and saw a man who had rationalized insanity. Like a bad wreck, Archie knew he’d watch, even if he tried to look away.
*
Abraham Yoder stood a least a head above everyone else. The first growth of a bushy beard sprouted on the bottom of his chin. His wide shoulders transitioned down to a slender waist giving him the form of a wedge. A very tall wedge.
“Heave!” the voice sounded.
Abraham squeezed the hemp tight in his hands. The rough edges dug into callouses. Feet shifted and he felt the ground bite.
On the other side of the rope three young men grinned back and bared teeth like animals. Each wore the bright colors of the Maronites.
Droplets of water exploded off the rope as the contest began. On one side the giant pulled against the strength of three men. Cheers erupted from both sides as the normally dour faced Anabaptists bellowed for their champion.
Abraham grinned across rope.
“Pull you ox! Pull!” Abdul hollered into his ear.
The three young men strained to gain a good grip. Feet slipped in the dry yellow dirt. Feet pumped and pounded.
A bright red rag marked the center above a wooden stake. It edged from one side to the next wavering and snapping.
“Double or nothing?” Abraham yelled across the rope.
The first man turned and spoke in Aramaic to his friends. “Deal!”
The rope cracked and pulsed as the three Maronites heaved. Abraham let it slack for just a moment. The three pulled back, sensing advantage.
Then he really pulled. One arm over the next he tightened his forearms ’til the muscles stood out like a knotted rope. The red rag drifted closer and closer. The three men stared back and cried out.
Triumph was his and he knew it. He cast his head to the side and gave a wink at the group standing behind. The cheers warmed his heart.
“Abraham!” a deep voice snapped.
Abraham knew the voice. Knew it since he was a child. Lately he grew angry every time he heard it, but he didn’t know why.
He pulled harder and snapped the rope back tumbling the three men forward. The contest was done. The Maronites cried foul while the Anabaptists were strangely silent.
Abraham turned and took two steps away from the rope. “Father.”
The crowds disbursed on both sides. The cask of hard cider was left undisturbed by either side. Abraham walked slowly away and rolled his white sleeves down.
The man waiting for him wore a heavy beard thick enough to nest birds. He was large, but not as large as his son.
Abraham looked at his father defiantly. He felt the urge to argue. He didn’t know why, he just did.
“That is not our way,” Thomas said sternly. His eyes were angry, but restrained.
Abraham looked away and eyed the cask of cider. His cider. “I earned it.”
“You took it.”
“Took nothing, it was three to one.”
“Have you been drinking?”
Abraham wanted to say “not yet,” but instead replied, “No.”
“Your mother would be ashamed of you,” Thomas said quietly.
Abraham turned and faced his father. His fists balled at his side. The urge to challenge burned in his chest. “She’d be alive if it weren’t for your ways.”
Thomas set his jaw tight and stared at his son.
“They had what was needed, you could have saved her,” Abraham cried.
“It’s not our way. It was in God’s hands,” Thomas said flatly.
“How can you say that? The Maronites had the medicine.” Thomas knew the words stung, he’d meant them to. But he felt hurt too.
He had reached the age where he began to question everything around him. The truths of the father had yet to be discovered by the son. He felt nothing but bitterness.
Thomas said nothing. He walked beside his son and looked to the ground before him.
Abraham glared at his father. He wanted him to shout, to yell, to be angry, to feel the same hurt he felt. His father gave him space when all he wanted was to see the emotion.
“The Ambassador came. There is a starship coming tonight.”
Abraham glanced up at the slender black needle rising into the sky.
“I want you to go and stay with Uncle Isaac. He’ll be needing your help.”
The elevator loomed in the sky as a reminder of the boundary of faith. He shook his head. “You’ll need help loading the ciders.”
“They’re not here to trade,” Thomas said softly.
Abraham looked over at his father.
“They are soldiers.”
“You’re going to Uncle Isaac’s.”
Abraham shook his head. “No.”
Thomas looked to his son with hurt eyes. “Don’t defy me Abraham, this is different.”
“Different? Why?”
Thomas looked around to the cedars and pines in the distance. His eyes drifted back to the elevator. “There is a war coming. The soldiers will be a garrison.”
“What are we doing to help?”
“Nothing. We are pacifists.”
“You’ll stand by when we are under attack and let others die for us? Like when you let Mother die?”
“Abraham!” Thomas snapped back.
The pair glared at each other. Thomas was on the edge. Abraham already beyond it. A breeze kicked up and both looked away.
“We’ll talk of this later,” Thomas said. He turned to walk away, but stopped and took a breath as if to speak. Instead he exhaled and walked out.
Abraham watched his father walk into the distance and turned to follow. Abdul would have the cask of cider. He was going to celebrate and see what these soldiers looked like.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Density
The Malta plied through routes that were mapped eighty years before. The trail to Canaan was well traveled. It was a government colony, not a cloistered corporate space or even a hidden gem of Redmond’s.
The blinks passed through space filled with nothing but passing souls in unarmed freighters. The bulk container ships were nothing more than a spine with cargo lashed to it. Strip away the corporate containers and they’d look like steel toothpicks.
They entered the Canaan system and were greeted by a vibrant command screen. Transponders winked alive as they scanned and verified each point. Dots turned into known names which slowly grew threads of light that overlaid orbital paths. Scans went active. Multiple spectrum's shot out and reflected what was large enough to be seen.
The system held a trio of inner planets too hot for molten lead to get comfortable on. This was followed by the planet Canaan, blue and green with dim white poles. Past this followed the rocky orbs that teased life but held nothing beyond minerals. At the edges were balls of gas, methanes, and ice.
All throughout were asteroids. The random orbits spoke to a large mass passing through and
stirring up orbits. Even after fifty years of coordinated mining, new patches were discovered.
Three Haydn routes passed out of the Canaan system. One, the way back. Another led to a dim blue star claimed by the K162. The last, a route to the Sa’Ami.
*
Yamaguchi left the bridge as unhappy as he had entered it. The Captain wanted them offloaded in under an hour. She wanted to slip into a orbital Haydn transfer that he didn’t understand and didn’t much care about. It wasn’t enough time.
He clicked through the comms. “Mcrager! Can you offload the additive cell in an hour?”
“LT, I’ll be lucky if I can get my boots on in an hour.”
“Get your boots on now then. We’ll arrive at the station in a few hours.” Yamaguchi watched the last blink. He wished they could have blinked right into the gravity well but it took far too much fuel. That maneuver was reserved for tactical dropships.
“All right, Platoon,” Yamaguchi keyed the whole platoon, “we’re coming in and have to unload in under an hour. Get prepped and to the cargo hold. If your shit isn’t packed, best do it now.”
The platoon met in the center of the hold and did everything they could while watching the clock count down.
The alarms sounded as the ship matched the velocity of the Canaan space elevator. Below them stretched a ribbon, diamond strong, that slid down through the clouds.
Yamaguchi shook his head and crossed his arms. They had, of course, discovered a few things they hadn’t expected. Bindings stuck, containers didn’t move as planned, and the zero-g had half his crew sick. Until the containers were loaded in the gantries, they’d have to deal with it.
“Mcrager, move that damnable cell. You’re holding us up!”
Sergeant Mcrager stood and shook his head. Sweat stained his brown shirt, turning it black. His face tightened with stress and tension as he pushed off a bulkhead. Next to him the rest of his squad strained with red faces.
A click echoed and it was done.
“All clear, Marine!” Yamaguchi called. Gravity slowly grew.
The ship’s comm opened in his ear. “Lieutenant, you’ve got five minutes. It was a pleasure, but get off my ship.”
“You heard the lady!” Yamaguchi yelled. “Out, out! They gotta pump this down.” Behind him the Marines swept through. The pumping alarms sounded.
The platoon felt large as they all stood on the edge of the transfer tunnel. An armored Marine cracked open the door.
“Move!” Sergeant Hoffman bellowed. The men streamed through and bounced haphazardly through the zero gravity of the tunnel.
Yamaguchi grew red in the face. Behind him alarms sounded. The atmosphere pumped out of the cargo hold. The floor shuddered. Cargo doors opened. Containers shuttled across in the vacuum.
“C’mon!” Hoffman snapped as he tossed the last man into the tube.
Yamaguchi saluted the Marine and followed behind Hoffman. The loss of gravity came on as expected but the weight of the pack threw him off. He tumbled and collided with a Private.
The platoon finally entered the ancient colony ship in a pile more befitting luggage. The ship had a well worn feel. The floors polished from cargo sliding and footsteps of long dead men.
“Sergeant,” Yamaguchi said to Hoffman. “Form them up, we’ll at least march in.”
“Platoon!” Hoffman yelled. The ritual was as old as any military. The group fell into a column four men wide and twelve long. The wide door opened and they marched through in much greater precision than they had left the Malta.
Yamaguchi tried not to gawk. Before him stood a large welcoming party split into two groups. One group of olive skinned men with bushy salt and pepper hair. They were draped in flamboyant clothing.
The other a total opposite. The men wore black flat rimmed hats with white shirts striped by black suspenders. The beards were thick, dark, and hid the scowls that came from beneath.
The Maronite Lebanese and the Western Anabaptists.
Yamaguchi marched past his troops and greeted those he was sent to protect. His head snapped to the side as he regarded his troops. Hoffman’s doll face, Bale’s drooping eyes, Paco’s smiling cheeks. Even as they blended into one caricature of “military” they were all unique. He wondered if the stern bearded faces and slick haircuts across saw them the same way.
He stopped two meters shy of the civilians. The smell of the place hit him at that moment, apples. Apples and something else, he couldn’t place it but it was vaguely familiar. The smell of apples grew stronger until he wondered if something was wrong. What could smell so fiercely?
His heels clicked as he spun and faced his troops. “Platoon, at ease.”
The sound of four dozen men simultaneously shifting boots echoed through the hall. Yamaguchi spun and clicked his boots together once more. Three steps brought him to the civilians. “Greetings. I am Lieutenant Yamaguchi of the United Colonies Third Armored Division, First Squadron, Third Platoon.”
Eyes looked past him. He knew they were curious. Canaan hadn’t had a garrison force of troops before.
The station creaked around them. Alarms blared. The gantry pulled back leaving the containers in the vacuum of the station.
“Welcome, welcome!” A man stepped forward in a shirt so red that it resembled a fire. A thick gold chain bounced as he walked.
The rest of the Lebanese followed suit with the man. The Anabaptists stood and watched.
Yamaguchi saw the dynamic, the shift. The dislike that the Anabaptists showed so clearly was mirrored and inverted by how friendly the Lebanese seemed. He smiled with a crisp professionalism at both groups. “Thank you, gentlemen. We look forward to building a strong relationship with the citizens of Canaan.”
“Of course! Please, you must be my guest, it would be an honor to have you.” The Lebanese spoke too loudly. “Forgive me! I am Faris.”
Yamaguchi extended a hand. He gripped and released after a single shake. “Thank you, Mr. Faris. I’ll stay with my men.”
Faris nodded and bowed slightly. “Of course, but dine with me.”
Yamaguchi smiled and nodded. He broke from the growing crowd of loud men and walked to the Anabaptists. These, he knew, would be the tough crowd. “Gentlemen.” He waited and watched the lead man of the group.
The man wasn’t the oldest, or the largest, but he had the presence of leadership. His eyes dark, his chin strong, a mound of beard jutting almost straight out. He extended a hand slowly.
Yamaguchi seized the moment and gripped it. He felt callouses and force. The strong smell of apples hit his nose. He expected no welcome from the Anabaptists—they were pacifists, isolationists, technological throwbacks—but they signed the Covenant and that was enough. They were also the majority on the colony, while the Maronite Lebanese made up the louder minority.
“I smell apples.”
The man nodded. His beard bounced on and off his white shirt. “Yes. We distill the essence of our apples into a concentrate and ship it back to Earth.”
Yamaguchi nodded. He could feel the Lebanese clamoring for attention behind him.
“Is this all?” the Anabaptist asked.
“No, sir. The remainder is following on another ship.” Yamaguchi saw disappointment in the man’s eyes.
“Very well. We shall see you below.” The group turned and walked towards the elevator.
Faris stepped towards Yamaguchi. “Thomas is a quiet man, but he is honest! Oh so honest.”
Yamaguchi had a sense that this bothered Faris.
Alarms sounded and wide cargo doors opened. He saw his opportunity. “Gentleman, we must get on the ground.”
Faris departed with a smile and a bow. He stood near the elevator with the rest of his entourage but away from the Anabaptists.
“Sergeant Hoffman, time to go downstairs.”
The platoon broke ranks and streamed into the cargo hold. The containers barely cooled in the vacuum. They were slick with a touch of condensation. A yellow cargo loader, chipped
by age, slowly plodded one container after the next into the wide elevator. The civilians watched.
The elevator ride down was uneventful. Yamaguchi spent his time staring at a tablet and looking like he was concentrating.
Below spread out a patchwork of green in various shades. Blocky squares of green checkered to the horizon.
“Why the pattern?” Hoffman asked.
Faris spoke as the soldiers looked out the slender viewport. “It is White Pine, and the elegant Cedar of Lebanon. Trees from each of our homelands.”
Yamaguchi placed the other smell. Cedar.
“We let them grow, and grow, and harvest when large enough. Our soils are particularly well suited to the growth of our beautiful cedars.” He waved an arm across the horizon. “Some we let grow to see how large they will get. Amazing groves that you will have to see.”
The deepest shades of green grew larger as the elevator descended. The trees were larger than anything Yamaguchi had ever seen. Even kilometers away the forests were breathtaking.
The elevator dropped low enough that the city spread out below him. Or at least half of it. One half of the city held the Lebanese section with another on the opposite side holding the Anabaptists.
The door opened a few short minutes later. The smells of apples, cedar, and manure assaulted his nostrils. The receiving station looked like so many others he had visited, styles that were reminiscent of a history book.
A bald headed man in modern garb stepped forward. “Lieutenant? I’m Ernest Gratham, UC Ambassador.”
“Ambassador Gratham.” Yamaguchi shook his hand.
“You have our billets arranged?” Yamaguchi needed a place to start sticking things.
“Hmm. Well, yes.” Gratham turned and waved at the Anabaptist Thomas. “Mr. Yoder, a word please.”
Yamaguchi sensed the Ambassador was not in a position of power here.
“Mr. Gratham.” Thomas Yoder stood with arms crossed.
“You and I spoke of a place for the soldiers to be housed.” Gratham looked nervous. “A barn, or an old warehouse?”
Thomas looked down on the bald man. “I think they can find billets elsewhere.”
Edge of Solace (A Star Too Far) Page 8
