Teramar: The Gathering Night

by Thomas Michael Murray

  “Talking to myself,” she muttered.

  As the fleet’s coordinates dutifully ticked across the bottom of the halo-screen, the queen realized this was her last chance at a live interview. Admiral Metak would soon be traveling at the speed of light when communication was difficult. Livia spoke aloud to her greatest ally and source of power. “Cataline dear, I forget - how long does it take to get to this earth? I heard three to four months on ship.”

  The queen’s workroom was a comforting array of subtle shades of soft gold, white and pink. The high ceilinged space was equipped with all the latest technologies. With a wave of her hand, the grand windows to the garden turned into an extension of the papered wall. At times, the natural world could become too much of a distraction, especially with the shirtless workmen erecting a great canopy over her terrace. The queen had ordered that they raise an old fashioned tent as the sun was blinding hot as of late. Of course, she could have employed an opaque force field for cover, but there was something delightfully airy about a piece of cloth - akin to lighting a fire for warmth.

  The computer dutifully answered her summons, “Yes majesty, we think the journey will take three months, assuming slight course adjustments to avoid planetary objects. Admiral Metak has secured our fastest ships and he might be able to improve upon that estimate.” Cataline’s voice was both commanding and calm.

  “Do we have an adequate assessment for that thing on my son’s ship. There must be clues after Alian’s reckless slog through the prison?” The queen already knew all the answers here.

  “The prince’s computer calls herself Jessica. It is a newer model than myself. I have made a catalog of the potential weaknesses and will implement tactics to dismantle this machine. Rest assured, majesty. We will prevail.”

  “For some reason, I am not comforted by your promises. The fact of the matter is that you were completely overrun by this Jessica.” Tired of a computer’s platitudes, her face turned sour. There was so much riding on the mission. “Put Admiral Metak on my com now. I insist upon a final interview with the man before the fleet departs.”

  Simultaneously, the admiral’s command deck brightened with the image of the royal seal. Cataline’s voice broke though all the protocols on his consol. “The queen,” he whispered. Livia’s three-dimensional image appeared on the Admiral’s deck. Metak could not ignore her. She wore a translucent top where her breasts pushed into the admiral’s face. The woman always worked to unnerve the men who served her.

  “Admiral.”

  “Majesty.”

  Metak bowed humbly, kowtowing obsequiously to the queen. “The woman and her brother were monsters.” Recently, one of his colleagues had failed to properly execute an important assignment, and the poor man subsequently found himself unwittingly eating his eldest child at one of Lord North’s banquets. People disappeared all the time now.

  “How can I serve, your majesty?”

  The admiral tried to avoid her generous breasts. There was also an awful story circulating that the queen monitored the lavatories in the boys’ barrack. Metak wished he could shit on that lovely face himself. “I would then….” Suddenly, the admiral realized he was actually speaking aloud with the queen quizzically looking at him through the halo.

  “Hello? Is anybody home, Metak?”

  “Apologies, majesty. We’ve been very busy.” Appalled by this lack of discipline, the admiral immediately wiped his face clean and assumed the usual stoic mask. “I am losing control. I need to gather myself. If I fail here, they will come for my family,” he worried.

  Livia knew all about the pressures on Metak. One had to chose sides and he chose. “I see that you are near clear of our system. What are your thoughts, sir?” She often preferred these open-ended questions that encouraged the subject to reveal more than they intended. Everyone feared her.

  The admiral wore a hard, weary expression. “By nature, we were so close to completing the preparations for the jump to light speed.” Once in route, the queen would not be able to speak to him in real time.

  Even through a halo-screen, Livia presented a striking appearance. Her piercing green eyes seemed to perceive all of his thoughts. Metak assumed she was calling from the palace. Slowly, the queen turned to recline on a powder blue chaise in a highly evocative manner. She was radiant. The golden hair, that same hair she gave to her son, was perfectly arranged, twisted into one large braid. He could only think what it would be like to grab the braid and asphyxiated the beast for the good of all of them. But Metak had to remain rational. The admiral prayed this mission would be his last service to the family.

  With the authority that befitted his rank, Metak’s voice exuded a practiced confidence, “Yes majesty, we’ve cleared our system and are heading into deep space. We calculate three months at maximum speed. That will be five to six month’s your time. Please, ma’am, you will have to be patient.”

  The admiral’s console chirped their readiness. A countdown could begin. “Majesty, the calculations are complete. By your leave, do we have permission to depart?”

  “Of course, Metak. Always know I want to be kept informed and expect detailed briefings, even in a text format. Do not fail me.”

  The image went dark.

  Talk

  After the disastrous party in Chicago and the disappearance of Hadrian Capet, Shayne Wright ardently sulked his way through the passing weeks. The persistent melancholy and mood was obvious to everyone. No longer did Shayne lean forward. He merely shambled along. The star athlete was touchy and morose when the team required his best. The national press had also started to comment on the sullen behavior thanks to acerbic interviews and an overall prickly temperament. Worried their odds were getting longer by the day; Ben Smith felt the need to personally intervene with his young friend, away from the bluster of the basketball court.

  Ben arrived by taxi at the U.N. Plaza building. After a quick elevator ride, the big center lumbered through Shayne’s front door, towing a cloud of cologne with him. A roll of sickly sweetness crashed into the foyer. Shayne made a face that clearly expressed displeasure. “Why do you wear that shit?” He waved his large hand to clear the air. Ben ignored the comment. They hadn’t seen each other socially since Minty’s party. Shayne looked tired. Ben served a scruffy smile. “Are you alright?”

  “Yeah, I’m alright. You ask me that every time you see me.”

  The bigger man ignored the hasty comment. He pushed his way to the couch and took a seat before the television. In truth, Ben didn’t know where to start. With a smile and a frown, he mumbled, “There are a lot of stories swirling around Minty’s party.”

  “Who cares? I don’t.”

  “One, I heard Hadrian willingly went with Minty and then panicked at the last minute.”

  “I’m sure that did not happen,” said the other man wearing a skeleton’s grin. Shayne was obviously agitated by the talk. He sensed the backdrop of these whispers.

  “What,” Ben asked?

  “Hadrian going with Minty, you moron. You can’t even keep track of your own story.”

  Ben raced to the punch line, “Well, I guess we can all agree that night your boy took out three large black men. Maybe I’m missing something but this Hadrian Capet has shown a pattern here? He’s always losing his cool when he attacks someone of color. You got yourself a racist black belt.”

  Irritated by the nonsense, Shayne said in a tired voice, “You’re insane. And please. I don’t need you crapping on me right now. The coach is up my ass. I’m getting calls from reporters. The whole city is giving me a hard time. I can’t even go to the corner to order my fucking bagels.”

  “Good! You deserve all of it.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. Why aren’t you checking in to make sure he’s ok?”

  “What…? Hadrian? Why do you care? You just called him a racist! And you’re the one who told me to stay away from him.”

  Ben was irritated by this hallow front. “Yeah, I
might have said all that in the beginning. The truth is Hadrian’s grown on me. He’s a tough kid although someone spoiled the shit out of him somewhere. Seriously, we should have been looking out for him at that party. He’s younger than us, Shayne. I don’t know if he’s even old enough to legally drink.”

  “Please. Hadrian should be looking out for us. You heard what he did to Derek. On hindsight, you were one hundred percent correct. The kid’s a menace.”

  “There were reasons for each of those altercations. I’m sure he’s wondering why you haven’t called.”

  Looking very nonchalant, Shayne shrugged his shoulders and said, “When you really think about it, we barely even know the guy. Why are you so concerned?”

  The big man sighed in exasperation, tired of the silly game. “Do I have to say it, Shayne? I’m not really worried about Hadrian.”

  Upset by where the conversation was going, Shayne covered with a greasy laugh. “You’re watching too many talk shows.”

  This Derek Mint affair turned out to be a terrible business for Shayne, resurrecting the past scandal. The headlines were unapologetic: ‘Lil’ buddy clobbers second all-star’ or ‘Minty minted!’ The worst was from a Long Island tabloid, ‘A gay old time?’… The relentless drum beat of the New York media now followed him everywhere and shouted blatantly embarrassing questions, “Is Hadrian Capet your lover?” or “Are you gay, Shayne?” He thought he heard the f-word jumping out at him from every corner. Whether imagined or real, Shayne believed he was losing his mind.

  After a peevish Ben Smith finally left his apartment, Shayne absently flipped through the cable channels, tossing and turning on the couch. Ben successfully stirred the bottom of a bubbling kettle. The memory of Hadrian’s handsome face wouldn’t stop floating around the room. In a final grunt of frustration, Shayne grabbed the phone and dialed the number. The call went into voice mail. He hung up. Nerves fluttered as he pressed the button again with the same result. Typically, Hadrian returned his call within minutes. “Ben’s right. I should have reached out as soon as we got back from Chicago. Before Hadrian disappeared…”

  The following day, Shayne drove to the hotel and rapped on the door to Hadrian’s suite. At first, this was a tentative knock. He felt desperate standing there. When no one answered, Shayne progressively pounded louder. He put his ear against the wood and listened for noises. “Maybe he checked out?”

  The roll of the elevator door woke him. A housekeeper pushed her cart onto the floor. Startled, he turned. He was constantly paranoid that someone from the press was following. The maid gave him an odd side-ways smile that said, “I know about you.” Towering over the tiny creature, Shayne gently touched her shoulder and said, “Miss. Miss. Hi. Miss, you know me?” He pointed to himself. The housekeeper nodded and stopped what she was doing. Shayne felt claustrophobic in the narrow hall. He pressed on.

  “Did Mr. Capet check-out?”

  She raised guilty shoulders and shook her head feigning ignorance. The space was quiet but for the buzz of the lights. The woman started to push the cart. Shayne blocked her path. She looked annoyed and made a motion for him to step aside. Laying out all of his charm, he said, “Awwww, come on. You know where he is?” The star placed a hundred dollar bill in her hand. The maid pushed the money back. Other guests arrived, a wealthy South American family with children. The maid used witnesses to nervously put her head down and push. Shayne had to move.

  Dejected, the young athlete headed to the front desk. Of course, the smart looking woman behind the grand counter-top recognized him. Everyone knew him. Again, he summoned all of his charm although he didn’t feel particularly charming. Resting large hands on the cool marble, Shayne heard the concierge explain how she could not provide any information. “Maybe Hadrian is really gone,” he gloomily thought?

  After receiving the uncooperative reply, the basketball star visibly wilted. His disappointment was obvious. A stab of empathy rolled through the woman behind the counter. Everyone knew the two young men were friends – maybe lovers. As he was about to turn and leave, she said in a hushed tone, “Ok, Mr. Wright. I could lose my job for this. All I can say is he hasn’t checked out of the hotel.”

  Shayne’s car was parked right in front where the fancy automobiles always rest. To the valet, “Thanks for watching my ride. Any reporters come by?”

  “Not this time, Mista Wright.”

  “That’s good. Those people never let up.”

  “They’d botha me too, Mista Wright.”

  “Can I ask you a favor and please call me, Shayne?”

  “Anything for you, Mista Wright.” The attendant’s eye twinkled in a friendly way.

  Shayne tried to return the smile. “If you see my friend Hadrian, the long haired, young guy, who is a guest at the hotel, then please call the number on this card. You know him?”

  “I sure do, Mista Wright.” Shayne pressed a large bill into grateful hands.

  Driving back to the apartment, Shayne’s mind spilled across a bumpy carousel. He was impossibly split. While he easily recognized the risks an affair like this could bring to his career, Shayne’s memory remained resolutely vivid for Hadrian Capet. The same scenes played again and again. Despite his best efforts to brush it all aside, an unconscious mind perpetually hunted for his friend.

  As Shayne searched for a way forward, the prince waged a similar war up on ship. Memories could be so stubborn. That first, famous evening was both a terrible augur and an answer to a prayer. Confirming all hopes and fears, the truth then shouted out again with a second night. Inexplicable intemperance pulled them together with nature’s astonishing force. Unfortunately, the happy troika hurriedly left the barn in the form of the following day, when another bitter regret descended upon each customer. And then the incident in Chicago occurred.

  Hopelessly confused, Shayne carelessly swung into the garage nearly clipping the guardrail. Across the street, the vague silhouette of men in suits, sitting in an unmarked dark sedan, observed the return home. “We’ve had two nights together. Another would make us lovers?”

  Agent Kurt Huber had been with the bureau for over twenty years and had never received an assignment from the director himself. Year’s back, the two met in law school and remained friends well after their Ivy League educations. Since those heady days of youth when anything and everything seemed possible, both men eagerly joined the FBI with the intent of completing heroic tours of duty and thereafter writing Hollywood screenplays about the experience. Looking back upon the much-handled memory, Agent Huber smiled at what they had become today. Certainly, neither would ever be able to pass the bureau’s physical fitness test. Jolly had gotten fat eating at Washington’s well-laid tables, and Huber turned brittle as bone living exclusively on nicotine and caffeine.

  Director Jolly Perkins - called ‘the bull’ by many - put immeasurable value in the steady judgment of his old friend. Agent Huber had a knack for solving the truly unusual, those cases that predictably capture the attention of the tabloid press. It was always Huber who was the first to notice the sweet smell of decay round any crime. Jolly smiled when he recalled the notorious headlines: ‘Feds Nab Park Avenue Shrink In Hypno Holdup’ or ‘Senator Pyro Pays Dentist To Radiate Wife!’ Huber’s crowning achievement was apprehending the infamous Cannibal of Queens, almost losing his own life in the process. There was even some discussion of a reality TV project. Unfortunately, the deal did not evolve to a signed contract, although Huber pined for real TV money. Anyone would find it difficult to survive on a G-man’s salary in one of the most expensive cities in the world. Huber’s ascetic life had worn painfully thin with a frugal retirement looming ahead and the cost of cigarettes forever going through the roof.

  As the years ran by, the director and Agent Huber gradually lost touch with each other. A faded camaraderie, however, hardly lessened the director’s awareness of Huber and his investigatory acumen. In fact, Jolly Perkens had a pressing and powerful need for a savant detective when the oddest of the
odd barged onto his enormous case docket. The leader of thirteen thousand men and women knew without a doubt that this set of curious facts called for the critical eye of an old friend.

  Unquestionably the bureau’s most experienced operative in New York, Huber had seen it all in this city of millions. New York was the gateway to the world and Huber frequently traveled the world enforcing American justice. Although the job sparkled with some prestige, Huber’s crew cut approach cemented a reputation as an agent’s agent. He naturally played the humble, know-nothing cop on the beat. In fact, Jolly once offered Huber command of the entire New York City operation. Without even a thank you, his old friend derisively declined the offer.

  After being summoned to headquarters, the director sent an unmarked FBI aircraft to ferry Huber to the nation’s capital. The veteran agent knew the assignment had to be seriously important, as he wasn’t flying commercial. When the black sedan dropped him off at Nine Thirty Five Pennsylvania Avenue, Huber endured a casual security check and made his way to the director’s office where Jolly welcomed his friend into a large, comfortable sitting room. The director’s teak furniture, woven rugs and old photos stood in stark contrast to the linoleum, white walls and florescent lights found throughout the rest of the building. The bull ushered him to a leather couch and pulled a bottle of bourbon from an old armoire. He poured two generous drinks without ice. Although smoking was officially forbidden, the director pushed an ashtray in front of his old friend. The current time was ten o’clock in the morning.

  Slowly sipping the rich liquid, they reminisced about the old days until Huber got a sense his friend avoided any discussion of the assignment. When Huber had to ask about the case, the inscrutable director pretended that he forgot their business. “Oh right. The reason you’re here.”

  When the bourbon sufficiently loosened the purse strings, Jolly Perkens slowly put his toe in the water and began to review some of the case’s highlights. But the ribbons of talk continued to lead nowhere. From a man whose job was the empirical observation of others, the director at least recognized Huber’s confusion and stopped talking. Jolly took a deep breath, put his stubby legs up on the marble coffee table and said, “I’m being a fool, Kurt. I am acting like a first year out of Quantico.” Taking a quick breath for balance, the great man slowly rewound to the “beginning” and methodically reviewed the entire case. When the bull stopped snorting out his story, there was a brief lull. Huber wasn’t sure he understood all of it.