by Chris Walley
“Ah yes, codes,” Delastro said. “Such things were vital in the days of peace. But sadly, evil has come upon us. Now new allegiances must prevail. Old wineskins must be replaced by new.”
“There is that.” The expression was now one of uncertainty.
“Now suppose I told you that this was a matter of necessity. That this was a matter to do with the very survival of the Lord’s Assembly. That this was, perhaps, the test of both your purity and your dedication.”
“Well . . .”
“I need a single record for five minutes. You will have it back. You don’t even need to know whose it is. You just turn your back, as it were.”
“Well, as I trust you, Prebendant . . . We all do.”
Five minutes later, Delastro had a full medical record of Eliza Majweske on the screen in front of him. He scanned it. She was in depressingly good shape: her recent checkup had given her a clean bill of health. Nevertheless, her father had died of a heart attack at 102, her mother of an arterial failure at 105. Quickly, he changed the dates, knocking twenty years off each.
He then added a little to the notes from her visit.
Possible sporadic heart irregularity. Suggest more exercise, less stress. Needs to have full cardioscan next visit.
It is a mistake to try to cover your tracks after an event. Far wiser to do the covering beforehand.
A phrase of an ancient hymn came to mind.
God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.
Delastro smiled and tapped the Send button. Then he summoned Zak and began to make his preparations to head out to Jigralt.
On the Sacrifice, Merral continued to perform his duty as mission commander. He issued orders, supervised the repairs, and was present at the funeral of Luke. But he did no more than his duty, and the funeral service was led by Vero. When Luke’s death came up in conversation, he confined himself to polite, sensitive comments that revealed nothing of his innermost turmoil.
Luke’s continued presence had been a given, and his death seemed the bitterest of blows, a chilling culmination of so many deaths and losses. All that he had worked for now seemed as ashes. Merral found himself looking around, hoping to see the envoy so he could vent his bitterness.
But he never came.
Abilana tried to get Merral to talk through things with her, but he rejected her offers of help. Only two people heard anything of his real thoughts. One was Vero, and that was only in the privacy of Merral’s cabin. They had been trying to analyze what had happened. Vero, sitting on the edge of the desk, sighed. “We should have expected it. The Dominion were cautious. They didn’t put all their eggs in one basket. I mean, they didn’t show all their ships at once. So they had four ships waiting in utter silence.”
Merral leaned back in his chair and stared at his friend. “Do you think they expected us?”
Vero sat long in silence. “No. I think they were surprised. I wonder if the lord-emperor has revealed the loss of one of his vessels. He is a man of pride.”
“So you don’t think Betafor knew?”
“I think not.”
“Lloyd suspects treachery. Of course.” Merral stared at the far wall. “And in the melee, we completely overlooked the possibility that our own side could attack us before we could reveal who we were. How stupid of me.”
“I don’t think anyone is to blame.”
“Blame would make it easier, you know.”
“My friend, I’m sure it would. But would it be wise?”
Merral shook his head. He could feel the anger and frustration welling up inside him. “Wise? Vero, I don’t care!”
The anger burst out and he slammed a fist onto his knee.
“It makes no sense!” The anger in his voice was strong and bitter. “In Perena’s death, I can see glory—victory bought at a cost. In Isabella’s death . . . ?” He gave a shrug. “I suppose, you could see . . . a judgment. But this? It was an utterly pointless and stupid death. Luke was killed by a weapon fired by our own side. It achieved nothing. It was a total waste of a good and wise life.”
In part of his mind Merral recognized that he no longer cared about any intellectual arguments regarding evil and pain. I am just angry.
Vero merely shook his head.
Merral got to his feet and began to pace around the tiny cabin. “Luke hadn’t even completed what he had to do.”
There was a look of disagreement. “Sorry, we don’t know that.”
“Well, I needed him. The Assembly needed him. It was a pointless death!” The anger clung to his words.
Vero looked up at him. “All I can say, my friend, is that faith sometimes involves walking in the dark. That’s what I was taught, and I’m clinging to it. Luke’s was a tragic death. But God’s time is the best time.”
The silence was heavy. “I’ll be honest, Vero. I read a lot of that ancient atheist stuff in theology classes at college. Frankly, I laughed at it. We all did. But now . . .”
An eyebrow lifted. “So you are becoming an atheist?” There was concern but also, strangely enough, a gentle amusement. “Luke wouldn’t appreciate that as a memorial.”
“Well, he shouldn’t have got killed, then. No, that’s a silly statement. It’s just I see the force of their arguments. Events occur that seem so meaningless and harmful that doubt can be cast on either the goodness or power of God.”
“The only way for all events to be meaningful would be if we ourselves were God.”
“So I am to just struggle along?”
Vero shrugged his shoulders in a miserable fashion. “I can’t give you an answer, my friend. I won’t and I can’t. There are times you have to walk in darkness. But it’s no good being angry.”
“I am.”
“What did you have in mind? A trial where we could accuse God?”
Merral gave an impotent shrug.
“My friend, that’s been done. We found him guilty. We crucified him.”
The other person to whom Merral revealed his inner turmoil was Anya. She had volunteered to help him tidy up Luke’s effects, but for Merral the very act of packing away things seemed to deepen his pain.
“You know what the worst thing is, Anya?” Merral said as he put away an image of a congregation meeting.
There was a grunt.
“When I consider my grief, I keep wanting to go to Luke to talk about it.”
Anya, peering inside a drawer, didn’t look up. “Welcome to the club of grievers. But—and I would only say it to you—I’ve come to a point where I suppose . . . I sometimes begrudge the dead their deaths.” She held up a cluster of paper letters. “They leave things behind them for us to deal with. Death kills the dead and poisons the living.” Her tone was heartfelt and sour.
“Harsh. But there is a truth there.”
She tossed her hair back. “It’s probably part of the ‘being tested’ thing.”
“I daresay.”
She gave him a defiant, angry look. “Merral, I don’t want to be tested.”
“Do we have any option?”
She stood up and gave him a cold, hard gaze. “We did a limited number of animal tests at college: mazes, puzzles, rewards—that sort of thing. All harmless stuff, but I never cared for them.” She gave a bleak gesture with her hands. “Are you, me—we—experimental animals? Do you like it?”
He considered her question. Is God the great experimenter? How can he claim to care for his people yet at the same time test them?
He was aware of her searching, impatient look. “No,” he said softly, “I don’t. Is that your issue: that you don’t care for God as experimenter?”
“No. In a strange way I can live with that.” A look of pain racked her face. “If I felt I was passing the test, I’d be okay. But I don’t. I feel I’m failing.”
She looked away, and her shoulders gave a stiff shudder; then she flung the letters down and
left.
Merral stared after her. With Anya, the impact of her sister’s death has come to focus on whether she can handle events adequately. Then an odd realization came to him. For me, things are different: the challenge that Luke’s death has raised is not whether I am adequate; it is whether God is.
In the end, it took eight days for the Sacrifice to reach Jigralt because they had to surface twice. At one of the surfacing events they had a very muted celebration of Nativity a day early, but Merral found it of little comfort, and the following days brought him no ease. He forced himself to go through his many tasks out of a sense of duty. The fact that much of what he now did was an act troubled him. All the crew see is the exterior of what I am, and there I function well enough. What they don’t see is what goes on inside; that is my own business.
And in every area of that interior world, Merral continued to find himself troubled by Luke’s death. Grief, anguish, confusion, skepticism, and anger were intertwined and conflicted with each other. In this mood, Merral found that their final destination became attractive. I need to get to Earth. I am clinging to life, to faith, to hope by my fingertips. Once I get there, I can let go.
Finally, though, it was time for the Sacrifice to emerge from the dead lands of Below-Space. This time, they were extraordinarily careful. The ship was put into low-noise mode and gently maneuvered upward until the surveillance probe was released. Then, as the Jigralt system was thoroughly scanned, Betafor was encouraged to listen on every waveband for any hint of a lurking Dominion presence. Yet after several hours, they had heard and seen nothing to alarm them. Three Assembly military ships were orbiting near the Gate, all on high alert, and all the signals from the green-blue disk of Jigralt itself indicated a world with a normal, if tense, Assembly society. Finally, after consultation with almost everybody, Merral sent a message to what appeared to be the coordinating and command vessel.
“This is the Assembly vessel Sacrifice, under the command of Merral D’Avanos of Farholme. Our ship is a liberated Dominion vessel. We now need urgent passage for people and a data package to Earth through the Gate.”
The answer came back as quickly as the distance between the vessels would allow.
“This is Captain Khiroz from Assembly vessel Hope of Glory.” The image on screen was that of a stern woman with tied-back blonde hair. “Reports of the battle at Bannermene have reached us. Were you there?”
“Yes, we were present at Bannermene, where we destroyed four enemy vessels.”
The captain replied, “We need to establish your credentials. Please surface without any of your weaponry armed and approach to the following coordinates.”
“Thank you, Captain Khiroz. We will do as you say.”
The transmission ended, but Merral froze the screen image and stared at it. Something about the captain was cold and severe. She was meticulously dressed, and the sharp creases in her uniform seemed freshly pressed. Something—a badge of some sort—glinted in her left lapel. But there had been no hostility, and Merral’s hopes of seeing Earth within hours rose. He gave orders for the Sacrifice to surface.
Ten minutes later he was tapped on the shoulder. It was one of the crew, who gestured him to the rear of the bridge, murmuring, “Jorgio would like to have a word with you.” There, in the doorway, stood the tilted figure of the gardener.
“Mister Merral,” Jorgio said in a rough whisper. “I’ve come to say as I really don’t like that ship you were talking to.”
Merral felt exasperation. That’s all I need, just when an open Gate is in sight and when Earth is barely a day away.
“Can you be specific?”
The strange face twisted in thought. “No, I don’t reckon as I can. I just think as there’s something there as shouldn’t be there.”
Merral felt himself struggling with Jorgio’s hunch. In one part of his mind he wanted simply to proceed, while in another, he realized that too much was at stake. I learned a hard lesson at Bannermene.
“Thank you, Jorgio. Let me know if you have anything more precise. I’ll run some checks.”
As the old man lurched away, Merral walked over to Betafor. “That old and very reliable friend of ours doesn’t like that ship. Scan everything you can, please. I want to know of anything—absolutely anything—that doesn’t add up.”
Then he went over to Vero. “Jorgio has a bad feeling about that ship. But he can’t be more specific. What do you think?”
Vero looked troubled. “Ah. Well, there’s something rather cold about the captain. She gave no first name, for a start. But I just talked with Helga. They are tracking us with weapons—as you would—but there’s no sign of anything more aggressive. Look, why don’t you try to engage her in conversation? I’ll listen in.”
“Good idea.”
Merral went back to his chair and called up the Hope of Glory again. “Captain Khiroz, can you tell us how things are on Earth? We have had no news since the Farholme Gate was destroyed. For instance, can you tell us whether a ship made it from Farholme?”
“Yes, two months ago, bearing the lord-prebendant.”
“The who?”
The mouth flickered. “I meant to say the Lord’s prebendant.”
On the edge of his line of sight, Merral saw Betafor wagging a finger in a most negative manner. The captain said—and meant—“the lord-prebendant.”
They continued talking, and Merral outlined a little about what had happened on the journey to and from Sarata. As he did, he saw how the captain listened and nodded. Yet he felt she showed a strange absence of empathy with a tale that must surely have been remarkable. Is she really listening?
After he had ended his account, Merral asked the captain, “Have you been here a long time?”
“Yes,” she said, her eyes tracking something offscreen. “The ship’s been here three weeks.” A moment later, she said, “My apologies, Commander D’Avanos, I have some work to do. However, you are cleared for docking with us.”
The screen went blank.
Betafor spoke. “Commander, there are inconsistencies in her statement. Remember that I used to be responsible for stopping and searching vessels? There is residual Cherenkov radiation on the hull. This suggests they have been through the Gate within the last five days.”
“Thank you, Betafor. Thank you very much. You have confirmed a suspicion. How long to docking, Laura?”
“Twenty minutes.”
Merral beckoned Vero away, then went and stood in the corridor outside the bridge.
“Vero, I’m persuaded that something is wrong. I am haunted, too, by the envoy’s comment that evil was spreading in the Assembly.”
“Hmm. ‘Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.’ It’s an old rhyme. I heard the ‘lord-prebendant’ slip too. I don’t like it. Is he running the show?”
“I hope not. But we have to make a decision. Now. The Dominion may be close behind. And we need to get to Earth.”
Vero made no answer.
He wouldn’t; it’s my decision. And it’s a decision that I feel I am in no state to make. Even so, Merral sensed he had made a choice. “I suggest that I go on my own with a copy of the data package.” Am I being brave, or have I simply become fatalistic?
“Suppose it is a trap. We’ll lose you.”
“Vero, I think I am now more a liability than an asset.” The way his words were hued with despair caught him by surprise.
Vero gave him a gaze in which sympathy and reproof were mixed. “That is untrue. You’re in a hole, and you need to get out.”
“Easier said than done. It all feels very dark with me.”
“Your friends are praying that dawn will break.”
“Good. But do you disagree with my choice?”
“Perhaps. But we may be in even more trouble if it is a trap and we have the Sacrifice locked onto their ship.”
“True. I think I will call Captain Khiroz and say that we are reluctant to dock the whole ship. It’s too big, Laura’s inexperienced
in docking, we are unsure about the docking mechanism . . . some sort of excuse. I’ll go over in one of our ferry craft. I’ll take a short-range alarm of some sort. Then if it is a trap, Laura can pull away, and you can all dive into Below-Space.”
“Are you sure you should go on your own?”
“Yes.” He heard the desolation in his voice. “We won’t tell them who is on the shuttle. Lloyd will want to come with me, but I think I’ll leave him behind. No sense in risking a good fighting man.”
“Then, my friend, I will come with you. Two sets of eyes are better than one.”
“No.”
Vero raised his hand in protest. “Try to stop me. Our fates have been bound together for a year. They can be linked a little longer.” The determination in Vero’s tone was so strong that Merral yielded. “Very well. I would value your company.”
Merral called Captain Khiroz and rearranged the docking arrangements. Any lingering doubts that there might not be anything wrong were removed by her disapproval over the change in plans and her insistence that he bring over everything—and everyone—that he wanted to take to Earth.
Feeling resigned to what was about to happen, Merral then sought out Jorgio. The man was in his room sitting on his bed.
“Old friend,” Merral began, “there may be a hitch. Vero and I are going over first.”
The thick lips pouted. “But you’re not in the right mood. You are like a lump of wood.”
That’s a good description. “I can do what I have to do. But I would value your prayers.”
“Tut, best thing as I can pray is that you’ll pray.”
“I am finding that very hard. But look, if it doesn’t work out, make sure you get to Earth.”
“I think as I will. In the end.” And he gave Merral a clumsy hug.
Merral found Anya in her room as well. The conversation between them did not go well. Her eyes told him that she feared for his safety, but neither he nor she seemed able to say anything meaningful. A dialogue between a piece of wood and a rock.
“It’s all wrong,” he said. “But I need to take the risk.”
