by E. R. Torre
“At this point, what does it matter?” Saint Vulcan said. “It happened and I… I have to clean this mess up. In the end, people will think that I was responsible. In a way I was. But only because I was the target.”
The grainy image of Saint Vulcan looked away.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Her image faded to black. “Goodbye.”
Captain Desjardins remained in his room for the next two hours while every missile in every ship in orbit around Pomos rained down on the planet. Even Solyanna, the planet’s sole Moon, was not immune. A base on her surface was hit by a secondary barrage of missiles. The damage to the moon was extensive. The blast cracked her surface and sent chunks of rocks the size of cities in decaying orbit around the ruins of Pomos.
When the firing stopped what was left of Pomos and Solyanna was complete and utter destruction.
7
ONIA, YEAR 5058 A.E.
“The years pass faster than you know,” the old man thought. “And old age is its own particular hell.”
He shuffled past the souvenir shops, his limp more pronounced with each step. His weathered hands trembled and his white hair stirred in the soft breeze. It was cold that morning and the dark clouds above the Onia Starport hinted at the first signs of winter.
At the height of the season, the elderly man dodged the masses of tourists but today, close to the end of the year and deep into the off season, there were very few people to avoid. Many of the shop owners waved when they saw him. They didn’t bother pushing their wares, for they knew he was a local and had no interest in them.
The souls of his heavy shoes clicked against the azure cobblestones, the sound echoing through the narrow passageway he passed. A young couple several steps in front of him pointed at the surrounding architecture, marveling at the long abandoned but now restored Blue Church. It was no longer a house of worship. Like all the other buildings in this block, it housed shops selling Onian trinkets. The couple were amazed that a church –even one that no longer offered services– still existed in the Epsillon Empire. It was then they noticed the elderly man.
“Could you take a picture of us?” the young woman asked.
The elderly man smiled and nodded. This simple act of kindness, no more than a polite favor, was far beyond the routine of his daily life. The old man waited patiently as the young couple explained how the camera worked and were satisfied he wouldn’t somehow screw up their picture. Of course he knew which button to press. There were few pieces of electronic equipment, even those still deemed top secret by Epsillon Military or the ruling Corporations, he couldn’t figure out given a bit of time.
The couple posed at the steps leading up to the entry of the Blue Church and smiled for the old man and their camera. He pointed the device and took the picture.
“Much obliged, citizen,” the couple said.
The elderly man handed the camera back to them and they moved on, now walking in the opposite direction and toward Onia’s Old Town. The elderly man made his way to the food courts.
It was called Cheri's Cafe and it was a local fixture. Her original owners were displaced Sumerians who died over a hundred years before but what they started and left behind, a coffee house specializing in Onian sweet pastries, still drew strong business even in the off season.
The elderly man paused for a second at the Cafe's entrance. He always did that, for it allowed him time to peer through the Café’s windows and make sure she was there.
She was.
Every time he saw her he felt a swell of mixed emotions. How could he not? She bore an uncanny resemblance to his late wife. Perhaps it was the way she walked or the way she attended to her clients. Most certainly it had to do with those very blue eyes and that achingly bright smile.
The elderly man composed himself before walking into the Café. He found a table at the corner of the room and approached it. The early crowds were sparse, although by dinner the place would fill. As the elderly man sat down, he found her already standing before him.
“The usual, Mister Desjardins?” she asked.
Seeing her so close gave him pause. Old emotions roared back, despite his attempts to control them.
“Please, Julie, call me David,” he said.
“The usual?” she repeated.
“Yes please.”
When she walked away, he couldn't help but stare. Her name was Julie Bishop. She couldn’t be much more than twenty five years old, the same age his late wife was when they first met all those many years before.
Of course, the waitress didn’t look or act exactly like his wife. Her hair was darker, her laugh more boisterous. In this line of work, she had to be patient and displayed far more of that than his wife ever could. At times, Desjardins wondered if the differences were more pronounced than he thought. Maybe his mind was tricking him into thinking she was more like his late wife than she actually was.
Inevitably, David Desjardins let those thoughts go for they mattered very little. He was a very old man and harbored absolutely no delusions that this very young woman would have any feelings for him at all.
In fact, it would worry me if she did!
Desjardins chuckled. No, it was enough to be close to her and allow himself the indulgence of re-living memories of his late wife. These days, it was the best he could hope for.
He leaned back in his chair while Julie worked on his coffee and, eventually, delivered it to him.
Just as Holly had done innumerable times before.
When he finished his coffee and sweet pastry, Desjardins offered Julie several credit chips. As always, he gave a generous tip. When he first met her nearly a year before, she engaged in small talk with him. Over time, their talks grew shorter and shorter, to the point where outside of greeting him and asking what he wanted, there was nothing else she said. Perhaps she had grown tired of this old man’s attentions. Julie might have sensed his nostalgia and mistook it for something else.
David Desjardins felt a twinge of sadness at this realization. Maybe it was best he leave her alone and never return. He grabbed a napkin and pocketed it. Julie hardly seemed to notice as he rose from the table and shuffled off to the door.
He saw her reflection on the glass door’s surface. Julie eyed him for a second before shaking her head.
Desjardins walked through the streets toward his apartment, ignoring the people that passed him by. A taxi slowed, hoping to snag a new client, but he waved the driver off.
It took him nearly a half hour to reach his apartment building. It was a modest ten story complex inhabited by a mix of local families, out-of-towners, and retirees. Desjardins didn’t interact with many of them beyond exchanging daily pleasantries.
When he arrived at the building’s outer gate, he displayed his identification badge to a security camera and pressed his hand against a scanner. After verifying his identity, the metallic outer gate clicked opened and allowed Desjardins entry. He walked past a small garden and to the building’s lobby. No one was there. It was very quiet, almost eerily so, and Desjardins felt an inexplicable nervousness. He paused for a few seconds to look around.
Nothing was amiss, but the silence was awfully loud.
He walked past the lobby and to the elevator. Once inside, he pressed the tenth floor button. With the money he made during his services and insurance from his loss, he could have lived anywhere. Luxury, however, held little meaning after Holly was gone.
When he arrived on his floor, Desjardins stepped out of the elevator and walked down a narrow corridor and to the door at the far end. His was the only apartment on this floor and he neared the door leading into it. He stopped.
The door to his home was ajar.
Behind him, the elevator closed and her engine hummed as the device returned to the lobby. Desjardins stayed in place, unsure of whether to move forward.
“Who’s there?” Desjardin called out.
He received no answer.
It can’t be an intruder, he thought.
&nb
sp; The building’s security was very good. Apart from the entry system, monitors checked every floor and exit twenty four hours a day. Anyone unfamiliar to the automated facial recognition security system would be stopped at the lobby. The elevators and doors leading into the building would be locked down. Once inside the lobby, there would be no way to flee or advance.
Yet the door to Desjardin’s apartment was ajar. Someone had managed to do the impossible.
Perhaps I left it open when I went out?
That too didn’t seem likely.
You’re old, but you’re not that old. If it is an intruder, he’s a very clever one.
After the Pomos disaster, there was a trial. The starship video logs from all twenty nine vessels involved in the destruction of the planet were poured over by an Epsillon tribunal. In the end, the Captains and crews were cleared. All blame for this massacre fell –rightly– on Saint Vulcan.
It didn’t stop there.
Though the personnel were exonerated, there were many who could not –would not– accept the evidence. They blamed Desjardins and the other Captains of, at the very least, neglect.
Desjardins recalled the chants and taunts.
You should have done something. You let her kill an entire planet and its people.
The first few years after the destruction of Pomos were a horror. Several starship Captains and many more crewmembers were killed or died under suspicious circumstances. Some found they had bounties on their heads. Many changed their names and identities and settled in far off planets where those who sought justice –revenge– couldn’t find them.
Because David Desjardins was the only man who agreed with Saint Vulcan’s actions, he was in the crosshairs more than almost everyone else. Many attempts were made on his life but Desjardins evaded them all. With each passing year and the growing threat of intergalactic war, Desjardins found fewer and fewer of the fanatics tailing him. Eventually the citizens of the Epsillon Empire forgot about Captain David Desjardins even as they could never forget the crimes of Saint Vulcan. Time cures all.
Or does it?
Desjardins cautiously approached his door while old, almost forgotten instincts kicked in.
From the slight opening, Desjardins noted the entry area of his apartment. It was a small square space with a couple of seats lining the walls and a mat in which to clean your shoes. All appeared as he left it. Everything was untouched.
Someone’s there.
Of this he was certain. He could smell the intruder’s perfume. It was delicate, an odor that brought back memories from long ago. A chill passed through Desjardins’ body. He felt a sudden, blinding rage.
Desjardins pushed the door open and stepped into his apartment. He walked past the entry, looking around for something to defend himself against –or attack– the intruder he knew was waiting for him. He reached over the kitchen counter and grabbed at a set of knives. He took one and hid it behind his back. He walked into the living room.
The intruder sat in the sofa, staring out his front window.
When he saw her, Desjardins feared he had finally lost his mind.
She was in her mid-forties to early fifties and had short brown hair. The expression on her face was serious. It always was. She wore a white outfit and sat very straight in his sofa seat.
After the initial shock wore off, Desjardins approached the woman. He was unsure if what he was seeing was a hallucination. She turned her head ever so slightly, the way she always did when receiving guests. Big blue eyes focused on him.
“How can this be?” Desjardins said.
She hadn’t changed. The last time he saw her, he was a young man in the prime of his life and she was at least twenty years older than he. Today, he was an old man and, other than her shorter hair, she hadn’t aged a day.
“How can this be?” he repeated.
The woman pointed to the chair opposite the one she sat in. Her attention returned to the window and the city below.
“S… Saint Vulcan?”
“Take a seat, David,” she said. “We have much to talk about.”
Desjardins stood still. The shock receded, replaced by rage. Despite his age, despite his frailty, he struggled with the urge to grab the woman by her throat and squeeze until…
“You can’t be here,” he said. “You’re dead.”
“Do I look dead to you, David?”
Desjardins said nothing. His skin grew pale and he had trouble breathing.
“Please, David, sit down before you collapse.”
Desjardins reached for the chair before her. His eyes didn’t leave Saint Vulcan while he sat down. He remembered the knife in his hand. He was so very close to her…
“You can’t be here. You can’t…”
“Yet I am.”
“If they find out…”
“I’ve followed the news,” she said. “My actions at Pomos made me the Empire’s greatest villain.”
“You murdered an entire world,” Desjardins spat. “You… you killed Holly…”
Saint Vulcan’s face betrayed no emotions. There was neither regret nor sadness nor pride.
“You, more than anyone else, know that what I did was not just proper, but necessary.”
“Proper?” Desjardins shouted. “Necessary?”
Desjardins’ head slumped down. Tears fell from his eyes.
“By the Gods,” he said. For what seemed like the first time since that dreadful day so many years before, he cried. He cried for his wife and the billions who perished. And he cried because he knew, more than ever, that Saint Vulcan was right. The horrible images of violence and carnage within the planet’s largest cities seared his mind. She could not allow the continued slaughter of all those countless people and the risk this disease would spread to the Empire itself.
She did what had to be done.
“I don’t know why you came or how the fuck you managed to survive, but you have to leave. Please… Don’t torture me anymore. Let me live out what little time I have left in peace.”
“You were one of the brightest minds in my corporation, David,” Saint Vulcan said. “I need you.”
Despite everything, Desjardins laughed.
“I’m long past piloting ships,” Desjardins said. “Even if I wanted to.”
“I know you well, Captain Desjardins. Maybe better than you know yourself. That’s why I came.”
Desjardins wiped tears from his eyes.
“You belong out there, Captain, among the stars. Not here, at the dead end of the Empires.”
Desjardins shook his head.
“After Pomos was destroyed we were… we were sent to holding cells. Arrested, though no one formally admitted it. Even with your last testament and the recordings of our final meetings, the people of the Empire found it difficult to take your word and let us go. It took a very long time before we were freed. By then our names and reputations were destroyed. There wasn’t a single company willing to hire any of us to do any job, however menial. We were blacklisted. We were not allowed to fly.”
Desjardins sighed.
“You’re right,” he continued. “There was a time I couldn’t imagine not being out there, exploring new frontiers. After Pomos, they tied me down and made it impossible to fly. As the years passed I realized the… the worthlessness of my past endeavors. My entire life was one long trip to nowhere, doing nothing, accomplishing little. Everyone was doing just that, even you Saint Vulcan, and you’ve accomplished so much more than almost anyone else in recorded history. The day you die, it ends.”
“You still have your faith?”
“I lost that along with everything else.”
Saint Vulcan sat back in her chair.
“Pathetic,” she said.
David Desjardins frowned.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Saint Vulcan brushed the folds of her dress and rose.
“I came here looking for the bravest Captain in my fleet and instead find a broken dow
n old man. Would you like an apology, Captain Desjardins? Would that make you feel better?”
The knife hidden behind Desjardins’ back felt very warm. Saint Vulcan stood over him, within reach.
“You’re alive when you shouldn’t be and after nearly fifty years you haven’t aged,” Desjardins said. “How did you do it? Did you have some impenetrable bunker built for yourself? A stasis chamber? Did you climb into that chamber and freeze yourself while everyone around you died? Did you wait until all the bad feelings blew over before sticking your head out of that rat’s nest? If you think after all this time people have forgotten, you’re wrong.”
Saint Vulcan folded her hands across her chest.
“Are you done?”
The knife in David Desjardins’ hand was red hot. He leaned forward. She was very close. Certainly close enough. The grip around the knife’s handle tightened. It was now or never. In spite of his age, in spite of his frailty, she couldn’t stop him. There was no way she could.
Without uttering another word, David Desjardins thrust the knife with all his might at Saint Vulcan’s chest. His ancient muscles were pushed to their limits and screamed from the effort. He knew this would be his only chance to take out this devil. The knife moved forward, as if in slow motion. He could see it just inches away from her. Just as it was about to penetrate her black heart, he yelled:
“I’m done with you, Saint Vulcan.”
Then, he witnessed the impossible.
The knife sank deep into Saint Vulcan’s chest. For a fraction of a second David Desjardins felt triumph. It was short lived.
Saint Vulcan didn’t react.
She didn’t react at all.
Four inches of blade penetrated her chest and sliced her heart. Yet Saint Vulcan remained before him, the expression on her face unchanged. No sign at all of pain, or fear. Or…
David Desjardins released the knife. Its hilt stuck out of her chest. Around the wound was no blood.
A small smile appeared on Saint Vulcan’s face. She calmly grabbed the knife’s handle and pulled it out. The blade was clean.
