Ephraim contained his rage and rose from the table. “Don’t you already have enough of my credits, Ivanovic? Creating fantasies will not fill your coffers any more. Yes?”
“Suit yourself.” He motioned for the waiter. “Ah, women. Always an agenda. We shall be in touch again soon, Sir Ephraim. Oh, and do try the lobster next time you pass through.”
Were this not a public place, Ephraim would have gladly crushed the man’s neck and taken his chances with the consequences. This final jab involving Genevieve was too much. He knew Ivanovic would not pass along the story unless he believed it was solid. Yet it also made no sense. Genevieve had no reason to hide her return; the details of the mission, perhaps, but not her presence. Suddenly, the floor beneath his feet felt unsteady.
He reserved a private lounge and retreated there to think. Ephraim looked out upon the space port, the giant concourse of which stretched five kilometers; more than sixty vessels of all classes docked on either side, and others could be seen on approach. He fell into a comfortable leather swivel and removed the blue glasses. He fumbled them in his hands for several minutes and wondered what he could hope to gain. The last time he visited – more than a year ago – proved fruitless. Frederic still refused to take him to Henrik and said he had seen nothing of Ilya. In truth, Ephraim did not want to link with his ancestors, did not want them to know how badly the past year had gone. He had been in control for so, so long. He was embarrassed to admit that all his plans for the final act of the mission had begun to crumble.
Now, he saw no other option. He had to make a decision. He drew on the glasses.
Ephraim found his ancestors behaving as tourists at the base of a Sphinx. He rarely saw them choose an antiquity for a gathering. He wasted no time in searching the crowd, most of who paid scant attention to him. He found Frederic Ericsson in a folding chair beneath an umbrella drinking a green cocktail.
“About bloody good time,” Frederic said, throwing his cocktail aside and jumping from his chair. “And where you have been, my friend?”
Ephraim saw the others turning their attention his direction. He dragged Frederic away and kept his voice low.
“I can’t explain, and do not link with me. Yes?”
Frederic backed away. “But of course. I rather think you’ve been in a pinch of late, Ephraim. Tell me about Ilya. How is he?”
“I was hoping to find …” Ephraim paused. He recognized the concern in Frederic’s eyes. “He’s been here, hasn’t he? When?”
“Hard to say without linking. A few months, perhaps. He wasn’t here long, Ephraim. And he wasn’t the only one.”
“What happened?”
Frederic explained how Ilya barged in and threw a fit, threatening to end their great mission. Then he hesitated, unwilling to finish the story.
“I don’t think we could have gotten through to him, Ephraim. Then … he came. First time I’ve seen him in …”
“Who?”
“My father, Ephraim. The father of us all. Henrik Ericsson.”
Ephraim was exasperated. “Excuse me? The man you said hadn’t come around in twenty-six hundred years? Yes? And he shows up with my son?”
“Yes. Although not precisely. He came shortly after Ilya. Fitting, I suppose. The beginning and the end. I suppose they would have much to discuss.”
“And then?”
“We don’t know. They left together. Ephraim, my father was not wearing glasses.”
Ephraim threw up his hands. “And when were you going to tell me this?”
“Now, actually. I would not exactly have any other way to contact you.”
“Frederic, my son has been missing for almost two years. He did not respond to the glasses as I had hoped.”
Frederic nodded. “I would say that’s a given. But Ephraim, we know he’s alive and he is likely following whatever directive my father gave him. I rather doubt you should worry.”
“And why not?”
Frederic paused and turned to his descendants, all of who had stopped what they were doing. “Ephraim, I believe something has changed. My father should not have appeared in that form. He did not have glasses. No one – not even him – has ever managed such a feat. And the way he departed …”
“Yes?”
“He disappeared over the horizon with Ilya. They vanished into the setting sun almost as if they were leaving together.”
“What? As if both were alive?”
Frederic turned his glare toward the giant Sphinx and motioned for Ephraim to do the same. “Ephraim, our bloodline has survived for three millennia, but even that is at least two thousand years fewer than this great creature. The best archeologists have never been able to say, with any certainty, who constructed her or why. Theories. Only theories.”
“Your point, Frederic?”
“We like to believe we have all the answers, my friend. Yet in truth, there are countless mysteries that will survive us all.” Frederic placed a hand upon Ephraim’s shoulder. “I have revisited the ‘Final Accord.’ The Ninth Stanza. ‘And from the three-winged beast is delivered the gifts of expeditious annihilation and the undiscovered path toward renewal.’ Undiscovered path, Ephraim. Perhaps Ilya has always been meant to take a different road, not the one you prepared for him. Have you ever considered that possibility?”
Ephraim fumed. None of this made sense, and all of it seemingly beyond his control. Ilya, Genevieve, Hadeed, Ivanovic, and now Henrik. He had put too many hard years of intricate strategy into this endgame.
He turned to Frederic and all the others who were so intent to hear their conversation.
“No, Frederic. I never considered that possibility.”
“Then perhaps, in the spirit of fruitful dialogue …”
“You will give me answers, Frederic. Now. If Henrik has come and gone, then you have no reason to hold back from me. I have been patient for eight years. And now my work is in danger. Yes? I want to know the true nature of the Jewels and why they set us on this course. You owe me this, Frederic. Me and my son.”
Frederic stepped away, and the others of the bloodline bowed their heads before returning to their business. “I am sorry, my dearest friend. Some truths are reserved only for those who have passed on from life. I had hoped Henrik would make an exception for you. Perhaps Ilya …”
Ephraim could stand no more. He threw off his glasses and returned to the private lounge over the space port. He ordered a decanter of liquor.
* * *
New Bangkok, Indonesia Prime
Standard Day 84, SY 5311
He could have killed them both with a thought and a flick of his wrist, even though each of his captors stuck a gun in his back. Yet Ilya had no intention of doing so; the anger that so compelled him for the past two years was stored away in a place where he hoped never to return. Instead, he followed their instructions and allowed them to lead him through tunnels beneath a thriving flesh palace. He thought to tell them how their uniquely crafted weapons – inexpensive, of ancient design, capable of firing only bullets, and easy to manufacture on the black market – would be wholly ineffective against peacekeepers. Yet he suspected they knew this already. These weapons were designed to serve another purpose. Perhaps one day, once they accepted him and ignored his past, he could show them a better way.
The captors, who each wore a head bandana with unrecognizable symbols, pointed him to a tiny room at the end of a long, poorly lighted corridor. Just before he entered, Ilya could smell a mélange of spices. Dried lemon grass hung over the door.
“Come,” a feminine voice said from within.
Ilya entered alone. His captors remained outside the door. This was not what he expected. The room was lit by candles on one side but was a technological surprise on the other, with the latest CV consoles featuring stream vids from not just Indonesia Prime but other colonies as well. His host was an Asiatic sitting on a mat in repose, her short black hair matched by a tight-fitting ebony bodysuit. The thin fabric accentuated powerful,
muscular features and finely-honed curves. Even though she was sitting, Ilya could tell she was easily seven feet tall – hardly the standard for most Asiatic ethnics.
“We have been tracking you for days,” she said with a lilting tone. “Were concerned you never find us.”
“I was directed, but my path was not certain.”
“And you are large. Definitely a challenge if looking to be inconspicuous. Please, sit.”
He sat beside her as instructed. She reminded him of May-Lin only in that she had something he needed. “You can help me?” He asked.
“Depends. I sell many commodities very well. Others, not so much. You seek …?”
“Truth. I was told this was where I could find truth.”
She purred. “Very difficult sell, that one. Good thing it’s not my day job. Eventually, perhaps. To be honest, Ignatius Horne, had you asked for anything else, my friends would have come into this room and shot you.”
He didn’t ask how she knew his name; it all seemed perfectly natural. Her eyes were alive with a fire quite different than the genetically-enhanced, manic drive of his fellow peacekeepers. She was opening a door and inviting him to pass through. She didn’t have to say another word to convince him.
“This is where the end of my path begins, doesn’t it?” He asked.
“Possibly. How did you know I could be trusted?”
Ilya felt a calm overcome his heart. “I have had someone in my life … he has been teaching me. My rage, it was consuming me. He said I was ready for the next step, that I would need to understand a new way to view human life. He said I would have a partner.”
Her shoulders sagged as she exhaled slowly and deeply. “My name is Cho. My father was a Chancellor who went native. He loved my mother, and she loved him. When they died …” She grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Ignatius, you and I have been creatures rummaging in the shadows for too long. We’ve sought a purpose that goes beyond the pre-designed path. We have blood on our hands, and we’ll have more yet. But for now, truth is our focus. He told me this every time he came to me … in my dreams.”
“He says something is going to happen. It will change everything.”
She waved her hand, and the CV consoles went dark except for one. She waved her hand again, and a holographic wall of water appeared before them, and then there was text. The opening page of a manuscript.
Testament to Truth
By
The Father of the Revolution
She kissed him on the cheek.
“Let’s begin. Page one.”
* * *
Vasily Station
Standard Day 88, SY 5311
The liquor-induced sleep was a long one but hardly fruitful. Sir Ephraim woke up in a fit and quickly discovered he was right back where he was the night before. Control was still beyond his grasp. Perhaps he had been too hasty in pulling out of the glasses, but even a full decanter of liquor could not soothe his disgust. And so Ephraim did what came naturally each morning – after reserving a full room, he bathed and groomed with fastidiousness until he had not a single strand of hair ungroomed or skin that did not feel soft, refreshed, and much younger than its fifty-one years.
Only then did he remember the data chip given to him by Ivanovic at the start of their meeting. He was not expecting to hear news from Nexus Five-Three so soon given that the previous communiqué from his operative came only three months earlier. He inserted the chip into his portable CV. He discovered that what was usually equipped with detailed reports of Hadeed’s resistance movement, including logistical, financial, and personal specifics, this time was empty but for a short, single message.
“The decision has been made. The time is here. If you are going to come and do anything, you need to hurry. Once it begins, you will not hear from me again.”
Ephraim deliberated. He thought of Ilya, wondered whether his son would elude Ivanovic forever, and continued to dismiss Frederic’s new theory. He refused to think about Genevieve. If she was alive and back in the Collectorate, he would have time enough to deal with her. In the meantime, he could maintain control over the one thing that had continued to proceed as he hoped. He tapped the hotel’s customer service CV and stared into the face of a holographic concierge who politely offered to be of assistance to all Ephraim’s desires.
“I need immediate passage to Nexus Five-Three. Cruiser, preferably. Private suite.”
“Very good, Sir Ephraim. You should see schedules and accommodation logistics on your CV now. I am highlighting the best available passage. We have the Cruiser Longshore departing at Fourteen-Seventy tomorrow. Her final destination is Nexus Seven-Two with stops at Two-Eight and Five-Three. The layover at Two-Eight will be aboard the Carrier TransGeminus but only for twelve standard hours. We should have you in the Hiebimini system in Nine-Point-Three days. Unfortunately, we have nothing better than first class rooms available. No suites, I fear. Will that be to your satisfaction?”
The notion of first class was appalling, but nothing departed sooner. The message from his operative was at least fourteen standard days old. He could not waste time.
“I’m sure you’ll find a way to demote another passenger. Yes? Make it happen.”
“Very good, sir.”
Too much had been taken out of his hands, so Ephraim made a vow. He was going to turn around this debacle. He had no choice.
TWENTY FOUR
DECLARATION DAY
Hiebimini
Standard Day 100, SY 5311
THE CIVILIANS WHO LIVED IN ORBIT and never ventured to the planet had a motto: Each day on a Carrier is the same as the last but better. They awoke with smiles on their faces, and they sent their children off to school with a snap in their step, a lift in their shoulders, and an upward tilt to their jaws. They worked – sometimes hard – but found an inordinate amount of time for recreation, shopping, and fine dining. They played the most beautiful music ever created for human ears and designed gardens that brought a flourish of color and aroma to their tiny cities. While they did pay close attention to profit shares from the mines and sometimes shipped diodes of brontinium back to Earth as gifts, the civilians did not concern themselves with the planet below. Therefore, they could not have known about a peculiar signal transmitted across the global stream from a point somewhere in the Schrindorian Mountains. Nor would they have paid attention to the array of various Scrams and transports en route across the planet and into orbit.
They did not foresee the end of history or know anything about the man who would change it. That man sat comfortably aboard a Scram between his two sons. Behind them sat his top general and a young man who once would have fought to defend those citizens aboard the Carriers. The man’s longtime personal aide, Polemicus Damon, operated the controls and asked his liege for their destination. Trayem Hadeed rested his arms behind Abraham and Omar.
“To the place where I found the truth,” he told Damon. “And where the truth found me.”
Damon hesitated but showed with a nod that he understood. They headed north. After the Scram took flight, Hadeed glanced over his shoulder to First Gen. Fergus Willem.
“Has it begun?”
“It has,” Willem said, his voice soft and his tone somber.
Hadeed twisted about and acknowledged Andrew McClatchen, who was allowed to wear a white shomba for the first time. The former peacekeeper wet his lips.
“Honor, the privilege of being with you today is more than I could have asked.”
Hadeed forced a half-smile, but he could not answer. He turned instead to Abraham, whose head was shaved that morning and washed in venix oil. He rubbed the boy’s head.
“Are you ready, Son?”
“I am.”
Abraham’s eyes did not blink, nor did he offer the slightest semblance of a smile. Hadeed saw the focused, uncompromising passion he trained his boy to possess. He was very proud. He opened his portable CV and called upon a history lesson he had been saving for this day.
“Long before they came to Hiebimini, the Arabis tribes were great warriors,” he told his sons. “They fought for many reasons, but chief among them was home and honor. We have a long flight ahead of us, so I am going to introduce you to my Arabis heroes of the past. Perhaps one of them is your direct ancestor. Should we begin?”
Hadeed did just that, and his sons paid close attention. However, as he taught them about the names they never would have heard from the mouths of an elder, Hadeed was also listening. He could hear the great roar of his world as it awakened. He could hear the voices of his disciples as they revealed themselves for the first time. He could feel their excitement, their adrenalin, their fear, and their love. Some knew this was their final day, while others were just beginning the long crusade.
One such disciple was Assad Tariq, who was once a well-jock at the Leviticus Uplift Station and much later became versed in basic flight mechanics. Eventually, he rose through the back list and became a grounds crewman at the Mariel Uplift Port, located less than a kilometer from the Northwest Ashkinar Sanctum. He became an expert on the small fleet of transports that made regular daily runs to the Carriers Mariana and Nephesian. He kept the transports in outstanding shape, never overlooking the slightest deficiency and always making sure the central cabin was spotless. His fastidious care earned him raves from his Chancellor supervisors, who allowed him on runs, sometimes seated in the cabin with dignitaries or tourists.
On this, the hundredth day of the year, Tariq was especially proud. He sat in the co-pilot’s chair as Uplift Transport 453 arrived in the central hanger of the Nephesian. Next to him, Capt. David Nashua, a former peacekeeper, completed final landing procedures then advised his passengers to proceed immediately to customs bypass.
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