by Chris Walley
When Merral awoke, night had gone and cool, early morning light was flooding into the hangar. The piles of equipment were higher, and the once-empty space seemed more crowded.
He grabbed some breakfast and then spent several hours on a tour of inspection and consultation. Good progress was being made. Volunteers were arriving and being checked, supplies were being assembled, and even the lengthier lists had long columns of check marks on them.
By eleven Merral recalled that he had to see Jorgio and collect some belongings from the apartment at the Kolbjorn Suite. This seemed as good a time as any to do both. He found Lloyd, notified Vero he was leaving, and then set off in the two-seater.
Lloyd, who seemed preoccupied, drove him down unfamiliar, sunlit country roads without saying anything.
Merral broke the silence. “Jorgio is important, Sergeant.” As he spoke, he realized that he needed to justify a visit to an old, disfigured gardener.
Lloyd nodded. “I know, sir. I’ve picked that up. I reckon he knows more than we do.”
“You may be right. And he has prayed. Since the very start of this whole thing.” Where would I be without his praying for me?
A few minutes later they came to a large redbrick farmhouse, which a handpainted sign proclaimed to be Ragili’s Homestead. There, some way from the main buildings, at the far end of a gentle rise overlooking rolling yellow fields of late wheat, stood a small, square, whitewashed house amid a cluster of large trees.
In the garden in front of the house, a big man with an oddly tilted frame and wearing a battered straw hat was carefully watering flowers. He looked up, put the hose down, and walked over slowly, his left foot dragging behind.
“Why, Mister Merral!” Jorgio called out, flinging bronzed arms around Merral in a warm and rough embrace that sent the hat flying. They stepped back to look at each other. Merral saw that the old gardener’s twisted face was sunburned and that his battered brown jacket bore an azure blue cornflower in his buttonhole. Merral was suddenly reminded of soil and fruit, vegetables and fields. There is something organic about this man, as if he has himself grown from the soil.
A smile appeared on the irregular face. “Now, Mister Merral, you look like a man who wouldn’t be hurt by a cup of tea and a biscuit or two. You too, Sergeant Lloyd.”
As he left for the kitchen, Lloyd caught Merral’s eye. “I reckon I’ll stay at the vehicle, sir. I have a list I have to check. Weaponry.”
Of course. But it is also a tactful excuse to give me privacy with my old friend. “As you wish, Sergeant. And do me a favor: handle any routine communications for me. I need to give Jorgio my full attention.”
After Lloyd had taken his tea and left, Merral and Jorgio walked out onto an unevenly tiled patio at the back of the house. It was almost completely covered by a broad and ancient vine, heavy with purple grapes, supported by wires and gnarled wooden poles. They sat down under the vine.
Merral gazed around him, taking in the broad undulations of the wheat fields, the lines of poplars that marked field boundaries, and beyond, the distant sea glinting silver in the late summer sun. He saw a tall cedar with drooping branches at the end of the house. Breathing deeply, he caught its faint spicy tang.
“A pleasant place, Jorgio.”
“Indeed it is, Mister Merral. I was sorry to leave Brenito’s old house, but I understood the reasoning. And I didn’t want that basement everyone else was in. A hole in the ground? Tut. Not for me! Here, no one bothers me. I’ve started work on a little patch of soil.”
A thin black cat came out of the house and rubbed itself against Jorgio’s leg, and the old man stroked it as it purred.
“Do you like it here?”
“This time of day is fine, Mister Merral, but it does get awfully hot ’round midday. And we don’t get apples. A pity that; I like apples.”
“And no horses?”
There was an uneven smile. “Tut. No horses. I reckon it’s too easy for machines here.” Then Jorgio’s tawny eyes seemed to focus on Merral. “But how are you? I heard as you were in the wars.”
High above them Merral heard a lark sing. “Yes.” He sipped on his tea. “It was nearly a disaster.”
“You know as I was praying for you then. And a hard battle I had of it too. I felt something powerful there.”
Merral nodded. “I value those prayers. And that baziliarch was powerful. I nearly lost my battle. But, Jorgio, there was a lot of suffering at Ynysmant.”
“I heard a bit from my brother. He and his wife are all right, but the houses were damaged. They think over a thousand people were killed. Folks as I knew. And a lot of trees and gardens wrecked. But he said how they were delivered by you and this envoy.”
Merral shook his head. “Not by me, my old friend; in spite of me. We were all saved by the grace of the Most High alone, and there is the end of it. I’m a weak man.”
“Tut. To recognize you are weak is the start of strength, Mister Merral. When you recognize your weakness, you can turn to the Lord for strength.”
“You’re right,” Merral acknowledged. “My failings have come when I felt strong. But it was a hard battle. And it’s not the end of the war yet.”
“No. Folks like this Nezhuala aren’t easily stopped.”
They said nothing for some minutes. Merral drank his tea and ate another biscuit while he stared out over the golden grainfields and watched the swifts arcing across the sky, pursuing insects with shrill squeals. He tried to let the fragrance and sounds of the countryside heal the memories of that terrible night, but the horror remained. It’s too soon for healing.
Finally, Merral spoke. “Jorgio, I have a journey to make that I wish I could be spared from.”
“So I gather. To rescue people.”
“We must go to the heart of this Dominion and bring our men and women back. And frankly, the more I think about it, the more it scares me.”
The strange eyes watched him. “A long and hard road indeed. But the Lord likes delivering people, and if you stay in his will, I’m sure he’ll be with you. All the way there and back.”
“I’m sure you are right. But I was rather hoping—like in a Team-Ball game—that the King might send me off and bring on a substitute.”
“Tut. I don’t think as he does that, Mister Merral.” He gave a firmly negative shake of the head. “No, ’tain’t in his nature. He didn’t spare himself.”
“No. He didn’t.”
Far away across the sea, great clouds were ballooning up, dark gray at their bases but paling to a delicate, translucent white at their tops. Merral was struck by a slight pang of guilt that in this time of haste he should be indulging himself in sitting and enjoying creation with Jorgio. Yet this is why we fight—for friends, fellowship, and the beauty of worlds made by the grace of God. And being with Jorgio is no indulgence; he is important, in a way beyond my understanding.
“You wish you were going to Ancient Earth, now, don’t you?” The rough voice broke into his thoughts.
“Yes. Clemant and Delastro are on their way there. I’m afraid I don’t trust them. Evil is spreading very deeply, my old friend.”
“It is indeed. The weeds are deep in the wheat.”
“Just so. But tell me, what’s happening? What do you sense?”
“I don’t reckon as I know much more than you.” The eyes turned to the fields. “But it will soon be harvesttime. Very soon, Mister Merral. For weeds and wheat. The King alone can sort this out.”
“He can?” Merral realized that what he had intended as a statement had become a question.
A look of reproof appeared in the odd eyes. “Of course the King can. He’s in charge, isn’t he? Mister Merral, nothing happens without him saying so. He could destroy this Dominion in a moment. Just like that.” He snapped big, coarse fingers. “But he doesn’t. He uses it for his own purposes.”
“Of course,” Merral replied slowly, staring at the fields. He is right. It’s just that when things ran smoothly, it was easy to
believe that the King was in charge. Now when every manner of evil is set loose—and on such a scale—it seems harder to believe.
Then Merral realized that time was passing.
“Jorgio, all being well, we should be back, oh, late November. I need you to have your bags ready then. It’ll be time to take you to Ancient Earth.”
Jorgio seemed to chew on something. “Ancient Earth . . . Yes, I know. You have your journey you don’t want, and I have mine. Well, as I said to the King, ‘If you want me to go, then go I must.’” He looked sorrowful. “But I can’t say as I care for that journey. Or what the Lord has said about its ending.” He closed his eyes for a moment and shuddered.
“Do you still have your dreams, Jorgio?”
The eyes opened, and a troubled expression slid over the twisted face. “Yes.”
“And what do you see?”
The rough voice was slow. “Shadows and pain; letters and numbers.”
“The algebra.”
“That was the word.”
Merral remembered he had a copy of a sheet of formulae that Jorgio had written. I must let someone look at it.
“Do you think it is important?”
“Why, yes. Somehow.” Here the eyes shifted in focus to stare into the distance. “Mister Merral, I believe that the Lord has put this al—algebra at the center of it all. And this Nezhuala hates the figures.”
Why? What does this mean?
Merral finished his tea. “Well, I must go. Pray for me, Jorgio. Over the next weeks. It’s a long, dark journey.”
“Mister Merral, I will indeed pray.” He seemed to consider something. “What would you want me to pray for?”
“Many things. Many things that are high and holy, like grace and wisdom and courage. For protection from the world, the flesh, and the devil.” He paused. “And some lesser things. We must travel for five weeks, at least, through Below-Space. I am told it will be like going through a perpetual gray desert.” Merral reached down and gestured at a tiny scarlet-flowered plant that peeped out of a crack between the tiles. “You could pray that I would not forget things like that. And fields and butterflies. And trees, of course.”
Jorgio furrowed his brow as if pondering something. “I will indeed pray that you will be reminded of what you have left.”
“And for the others, too. What I have said sounds very selfish.”
“Perhaps. But I reckon as you are the leader, you will face the worst attacks.”
Merral said nothing but stared up at the cedar. “I don’t want to forget trees,” he said quietly to himself. “My old life.”
He looked more carefully at the tree, his old training coming back. “A Made Worlds strain of mountain cedar. Thirty meters high; perhaps forty or fifty years old. In good shape, but there’s a limb that needs watching. Up there.” He pointed up, smiling ruefully. Nearby he saw a large, brown cedar cone on the ground and got to his feet, reached down, and picked it up. It felt dense and fitted snugly in his hand. Merral sniffed it; the scent was sharp, resinous, and clean. He examined it; the cone was freshly fallen and the seeds were safe behind the tight scales. It has enough seeds to make a small wood.
He started to put it down, but Jorgio reached out a rough hand and stopped him. “Take it, Mister Merral. Take it with you.”
“Doesn’t it belong here?”
“I feel as it belongs with you.”
“Then, my old friend, I will take it with me. As a reminder of my old world . . . and of my old life.”
“It may point to the future as much as the past.” The balding head tilted in a nod. “Take it with my blessing.”
“I must go,” Merral said, pocketing the cone, and then they embraced. “You stay here. I’ll see you in late November, the Lord willing.”
“If he wills, you will be here.” There was a regretful sigh. “And I will have my bags packed.”
On the path to the vehicle, Merral met Lloyd coming toward him at a rapid pace.
“What’s up, Sergeant?”
“Sir, a message from Chairman Bortellat.”
Merral walked over to the two-seater and switched his diary back on. “So, Ludovica, what’s the verdict?”
He saw on the screen that the chairman was standing at the end of a long table; in the background people milled around. “Merral, you have conditional approval based on the following plan.”
He saw that she was consulting notes.
“We insist that this ship be taken in two phases. We will first launch an inter-system freight shuttle with a small team that will include some of those who seized the Dove of Dawn. We will probably add a few engineers as well and perhaps some of your intended crew. The task of this first squad will be to ensure that the Rahllman’s Star is safe and suitable to fly. You understand?”
And minimize losses if it’s a trap. “Yes. I’d like to be on that shuttle.”
“I want you there, and I intend going with the first team myself. Now, preparing the Rahllman’s Star is going to take at least twenty-four hours. At best. The technical team here thinks it will need refueling, but it should not be too difficult. So in the meantime, a second inter-system freight shuttle will be sent up with the rest of the rescue team and the remainder of the supplies.”
She looked sternly at him. “Now, listen. Only when I am satisfied that the ship is safe will I authorize the remaining rescue team and crew to board.”
As Merral was considering the plan, she added, “Incidentally, Commander, using two shuttles makes the logistics easier. Your team selection isn’t going to be complete for another twenty-four hours.”
How could I have ever dreamed it could have been faster? “I see. The first team would leave when?”
“Tonight seems feasible. We are working on a 7 p.m. launch window.”
“Okay! Ludovica, I can live with that. Thanks for all your work.”
He received a stern look. “Remember, it’s only conditional approval. There are some other concerns I need to talk to you about, but they can wait.”
“Good. I’m coming back via Isterrane. I need to pick up some things for the trip. Be with you in around forty minutes.”
“I’ll see you when you arrive.”
“So you’re happy to come with me, Lloyd?” Merral asked as his aide drove him back to Isterrane between the sunlit open fields.
“Don’t know about ‘happy,’ sir. I fancy the space travel bit, but there are other things I’d be happy doing. But this is my job. And I will do it. It’s the right thing to do.”
“Spoken like the very best of bodyguards, Sergeant.”
Lloyd checked his rearview mirror. “Thank you, sir, but . . .”
Merral was conscious of unease on his aide’s face. “But what?”
“Sir, the handbook says that a bodyguard should never be reluctant to raise issues of security. Apparently, it was often a major failing. So . . . permission to speak, sir?”
“Lloyd, I owe you my life. Speak your mind.”
“Well, it’s Azeras. I spent some time with him last week.” Lloyd screwed his big face up as if considering something hard. “I think I am concerned that we are—how shall I say it?—integrating him too closely with us.”
“You mean he isn’t one of us?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He has made an alliance to work with us. But you’re right; he’s not become part of the Assembly. He’s made no oaths of loyalty to the Lamb.”
Lloyd checked his rearview mirror again. “And, sir, he still has this loyalty to these True Freeborn. If they exist anymore.”
“I can’t argue. But do you have any specific cause for concern?”
“Frankly, no. And I spent a lot of time with him down in the foundations. But he doesn’t share everything. Well, only last night we realized exactly how little he has told us about what he got up to in his war. And, well, sir . . . the thing is, we are going back to his worlds. Here, he’s played by Farholme rules.”
“And what you are saying is t
hat out there, he may not.”
“Exactly, sir.”
Merral drummed his fingers on the window frame. I don’t need this—another concern.
“Okay, Lloyd, you have my approval to keep an eye on him. And warn me and Vero of any concerns. Immediately.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Merral saw that they were at the outskirts of the city now. “And would I be correct in assuming that you also retain your major suspicions about Betafor?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t think I need to say anything more about that thing. I’ve never trusted it, and it’s given me no indication that I should start now. And when we get within hailing distance of the Dominion, I think we need to be very careful. It looks after itself, it does. I reckon there’s a fair chance we will have to eject it out of an air lock.”
Oh, wonderful; an impossible mission with crew members I can’t trust!
His aide continued. “In fact, sir . . . I think you should stay armed on the ship. In case—”
“Sergeant, are you serious?”
“We have a handful of small pistols built to an old template. Each has a ten-shot magazine with low-penetration bullets so you can fire in a spacecraft. Fits in a waistband, or even straps against the ankle. I’ll get you one.”
“No, I refuse—”
“Sir, be better if you wore it. But it’s your decision.”
“It is.” Then Merral paused. “And, Sergeant, when you do decide to eject Betafor out of an air lock, can you ask me first?”
Vero met with Ludovica shortly after her return to the airport, in a room that she had taken as her office.
“M-madam Chairman,” he began as he closed the door behind him.
“Ludovica will do,” she interrupted, extending a hand as she rose from a chair to greet him.
Taking it, Vero thought she looked strained.
As he took the only other chair, she stared at him. “So, Sentinel, what can I do for you?”
“F-first, I want to thank you for helping the committee come to its decision.”
“It’s only conditional approval. And you didn’t come here for that. I know enough of you to know that.” The tone was terse. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time; I have to meet this Betafor and Azeras.”
