The Sword In The Stone, page 31
part #5 of Space Lore Series
“If that was why you were here,” he mumbled, “I want you to know I’m not afraid to die.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Hector said. “No one is going to kill you, most certainly not me. I came to ask your forgiveness. I came to tell you I’ll submit myself to the court if that’s what you would like. What I did... it took the heart out of me. I...” he trailed off, unsure of what else to say.
Talbot’s face scrunched. “I guess the Round Table will need you more than ever.”
Hector shook his head and stared at Talbot, a younger version of the friend he had just helped to murder.
“I’m stepping down from the Round Table as soon as the population understands what happened and why we had to do it. I’m not meant for this. I’ll go off with Portia somewhere and we’ll never be seen again.”
A flood of thoughts began to wash over Talbot—the initial shock of what had happened beginning to wear off. He wondered where his father’s body was, who else knew about what had happened, who else had taken part. He wondered where his mother was, who would tell her the news, what both of them would do next. He thought about going all the way across the galaxy as part of some foolhardy mission just because his father had wanted it.
“He was a great man,” Talbot said. “Everyone else saw him as a general. I wish they’d gotten to see him as a father.” He looked at Hector and added, “I wish you’d gotten to see that side of him more often.”
Hector flinched and moved slightly away, then caught himself. “I don’t blame you for praising him. I would too. I still praise him for everything else he did, just not his ambitions.”
“I learned all the same lessons you learned in the academy,” Talbot said. “If what you say about my father is true, I understand why you did it. It doesn’t make it easier, but it’s better than...”
He would never be able to speak the words, but what Talbot was thinking was that it was better to have a father murdered while being considered a great general than one who lived longer and became thought of throughout the galaxy as the next galactic tyrant. He didn’t even want to think that idea, however, let alone speak it.
Instead, he said, “I should be the one to present his body—at the funeral, I mean.”
“I could never ask you to do that.”
“Father would have wanted it. He would have wanted me to say something nice about the side of him few others got to see. It’s what’s expected of me, and I can do what I’m supposed to one final time.”
102
The comm panel back on 16-Tuero automatically repeated Durect-Duher’s message across the galaxy. It went out to the entire sector. The problem, though, was that no one else was close enough to hear the message. The Hannibal had wiped out every other sign of advanced life in the 16-D-10 sector.
Luckily, a Bashtion, a highly intelligent though physically delicate alien with hollow bones, had been working at a station three planets from 16-Tuero. The Bashtion was dead, along with everyone else at his outpost, but the device he had been working with was still operational, still receiving messages and forwarding them out to other places in the galaxy.
One of those spots was another outpost, this one in the Thurndorian sector. Most colonies there were abandoned. However, one small outpost expected to be missed by the Hannibal’s projected course toward Edsall Dark. It was a floating town named Hobble.
Almost no one had heard of the floating town before, mainly because it consisted of three interconnected frigate-sized vessels floating in space, the total population of which was fewer than twenty people. Another reason almost no one was familiar with Hobble was because the tiny outpost was self-sustaining. There was nothing they needed in terms of resources from nearby planets or colonies. As a result, not even galactic traders ventured to their floating town amongst the stars unless it was by accident.
One of the few people on Hobble was a middle-aged Ghostwin, an alien with a body similar in size and ability to a human but with clear skin and wire-thin bones. The result was a figure that resembled a spirit more than an alien. The Ghostwin had been a teacher of technology and communications at the most prestigious school in the Thurndorian sector before she grew tired of unappreciative students and an unhelpful bureaucracy. It took a while for her to stumble upon Hobble, but as soon as she did she knew it was where she truly belonged. The few people she saw also wanted something other than the mind-numbing existence she had been surrounded by previously. She could spend her days experimenting with radical new designs for communications devices and no one would tell her what she could or couldn’t do. There was no need to earn or spend money. For her, it was a galactic utopia.
As soon as word spread to Hobble that a massive ship known as the Juggernaut was passing through the sector, the Ghostwin became the most popular person in the floating town. She and she alone had the devices needed to gather updates from around the sector and could tell the others if the Hannibal were altering their projected course.
Day after day she intercepted and collected hundreds of communications as they were transmitted across space, and each day she reported with a haunted smile that the twenty people in her town were safe.
The Ghostwin collected so many communications that she had a difficult time sorting through all of them. Some were trivial—a love note between star-crossed lovers. Others were professional—organizations and traders sending specifications related to their businesses. Most, though, concerned the Hannibal. Even amongst these, there was much variety. Family members looking for their missing loved ones. Fundamentalists saying the Hannibal were some sort of divine punishment. Pirates coordinating which destroyed colonies they should travel to for plunder.
“To anyone out there, my name is Durect-Duher. I’m a farmer on 16-Tuero-6. Our colony was spared. I repeat: our colony was spared. If anyone is out there, please relay this message to the Round Table and every planet and colony along the Hannibal’s path. Destroy any symbol of the Round Table. Do that and the Hannibal will let you live.”
As soon as the message finished, it automatically repeated itself. The Ghostwin was going to dismiss it as another lunatic sharing their fear, but a tiny voice in the back of her head wouldn’t let her. The man, whoever he was, sounded convincing. There was urgency in his voice, a pleading desperation to save others.
She listened to the message three more times. As she did, the notion that simply removing signs of the Round Table might be the difference between living and dying seemed more plausible. She had no doubt what her human friend on the other side of Hobble would say in response to Durect-Duher’s message: “See? We have no Round Table banners here and they left us alone. That’s good enough for me.”
Competing voices in the back of her head alternated between trying to convince her it was a hoax and telling her it was the only hope people had.
“What’s it going to hurt?” she said to herself as she pressed a button and had the message forwarded to three other sectors, including the space that had been ruled by the Vonnegans and also the sector formerly controlled by the CasterLans.
“What can it hurt?” she said again, then went back to listening to other messages.
103
Brigadier Desttro watched as formations of Helljets, Thunderbolts, and Llyushin fighters raced after the four Hannibal mechs, only to have the enemy continually disappear into the vast field of portals surrounding the Juggernaut. Each time, the mechs would instantly reappear somewhere else, unleash a single blast, then go back into the portal again. With hundreds of places each mech could go, the fighter pilots were at a loss for how best to coordinate their attack.
The black mech emerged from a portal near one of the gravity mines. Its black frame was distinct against the bright energy behind it. From the side, however, the mech was nearly invisible against the backdrop of space. The pilots wouldn’t see it with their naked eye, would need their craft’s battle sensors to tell them where it was.
The mech vanished into the portal as a series of Llyushin fighters raced toward it, then reappeared after the fighters were passing. It held out the scale in its hand, the black gas seeping from one side and the black liquid bubbling from the other. A volcano of dark energy continued to expand as the two materials formed a cosmic reaction. By the time the next wave of fighters came by, a group of four Helljets, the pool of deadly energy was the size of a small frigate.
The mech moved back into the circle of light and was gone. However, the trap it had set remained. When the Helljets soared past, the black energy didn’t register on their sensors. One of the fighters flew directly into it. The ship dissolved into nothing, the pilot barely having enough time to let out a cry.
“Sir, we’re receiving a communication.”
Desttro turned and looked to the ensign who was sitting in front of an array of holograms.
“From?”
“From Wing Commander Redbeard, sir. He wants permission to fly into the Hannibal portals in order to have a better chance of chasing down the mechs.”
“And?”
“Without his tinder walls down, sir. He says it’s the only way they’ll have a chance of catching those mechs.”
Desttro understood the mindset that the wing commander must have. He saw with his own eyes how the mechs were able to pass through the portals without lowering or raising any visible tinder walls and suspected the Round Table pilots could do the same thing. This was especially true after reports from the previous battle indicated that the deaths aboard the flagships had been the result of catastrophic damage and exposure rather than from passing through the portals with their tinder walls still up.
Dessttro also understood that Redbeard wanted victory rather than personal glory. The pilots would never be able to keep up with the mechs if they had to slow down to wait for their tinder walls to lower on one side of the portal and then raise back up again on the other side. Darting through the portals with a full view of the space around them was the only way they would have a chance to race down the four armored machines.
Redbeard was smart. Better to test the life of one pilot now and possibly end the battle quickly than to let the fighting continue indefinitely and suffer a thousand small cuts.
“Tell Wing Commander Redbeard that he has permission to send one of the Helljets in his squad through the portal without the tinder walls down. Then report back to us.”
“Yes, sir.”
The ensign’s hands darted around from one holographic display to another as he sent a message back to Redbeard’s Helljet.
A moment later the ensign said, “He would like to try it himself, sir. Said he doesn’t want to jeopardize one of his pilot’s lives on a guess.”
Now that is a true officer, Desttro thought, shaking his head with admiration. “Tell him to do as he sees fit.”
“Yes, sir.”
The ensign swiped fingers up and down through the holographic display in front of him, then left and right, sending the update back to Redbeard’s fighter. Desttro let his attention return to the battle outside the viewport. His eyes scanned each group of Helljets. As one group came closer, he tried to identify the wing commander’s insignia on the side of any of the ships. He couldn’t see it because they were too far away and moving too fast, but he did see one Helljet separate from the other three in its group and set a course directly at a mech that was hovering in front of a portal. A moment later, the mech moved backward, into the circle of bright energy. It was followed a second later by a Helljet racing at full speed without the protection of its tinder walls.
Wing Commander Redbeard was either dead or had done something no other human or Round Table alien had ever done before.
104
After Hector was gone, Talbot sat down. It would have been natural for him to think about all the times he and his father had spent together or about what Julian’s final moments might have been like, but he didn’t think about stuff like that. He didn’t think about anything, really. He simply stared out the window at the tiny animals flying from one tree branch to another, offering sweet chirps as they moved.
As he sat there, any concept of time or of the future seemed to vanish. Minutes could have passed or hours. It was then, in a moment of utter and complete calm, of not thinking about anyone or anything, that he heard the voice.
“You are capable of great things.”
Talbot blinked. His head snapped to the side to see who had snuck into his home. The voice sounded as if it belonged to an old man but not to anyone he knew. One glance around the room revealed no one was there.
“I’m going crazy,” he said out loud to himself.
Without time to wonder if maybe he had been asleep, another knock sounded at his door. When he tried to stand it felt as if he were pulling himself out of the ground, dirt and mud weighing him down. Every muscle was exhausted and complained as he pushed himself to his feet.
“Yeah?” he said, walking to the front door, expecting to see Hector’s powerful frame on the other side again.
Instead, upon opening the door, he saw Octo.
“Hello, Talbot.”
In the representative’s left hand was the handle of a sword with no blade. His right palm was also out but was empty. Then Octo stepped forward and the angle changed, and the Meursault’s blade became visible.
“What is this?” Talbot asked even though he knew it was the Sword in the Stone and that his father had been carrying it earlier the same day.
“I’m sure you’ve heard by now,” the representative said. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He looked over his shoulder as if not sure who might be nearby and eavesdropping. “Do you mind if I come in? We have a lot to talk about.”
Talbot didn’t answer, only moved to the side and held out a hand to indicate that Octo could sit wherever he wanted.
“It was still in the alley where they killed your father,” the man said, holding the sword away from his body with extreme reverence so Talbot would take hold of it.
Instead of accepting it, Talbot frowned, his hands hanging by his sides. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
Octo’s mouth curled at the sides and one bushy eyebrow rose. “Do with it? Take it. It’s yours. Your father would have wanted you to have it when he died. But just as important, the people need to see you as an extension of your father. They need to know where you stand.”
Finally, Octo got tired of holding the Meursault out and laid it gently on the ground.
“Where I stand?”
“The men who killed your father are butchers. Julian was a noble man, nothing more. Certainly nothing nefarious like others might have you think. Civil strife is coming. The people won’t stand for a great general being cut down in the street like a criminal. It was a cruel thing they did. Not just because they took a man away from his wife and son, but because the people of Edsall Dark finally had a symbol of hope and the murderers took that as well. That’s why the assassins killed your father, not because he was a danger, but because he gave the people the hope they had been looking for. They resented him for it.” He paused until he was sure Talbot was looking at him, every bit of attention on Octo’s next words. “Julian would have wanted revenge, that much I know. And revenge is what we’ll have.”
“Would he?” Talbot almost asked. The first thought that crossed his mind was that his father didn’t seem like the revenge-seeking type at all.
A memory kept him silent, though. It was of he and his father standing on the ledge of the Carthagen asteroid, both of them thinking they were going to die. In that moment, Julian had looked across the cave opening to his son and asked if Talbot would avenge his death. At the time, the comment had seemed completely out of place. Now, though, Talbot wondered if his father had somehow known his time was coming to an end.
Talbot asked what he could do.
Octo smiled, his cheeks obscuring his eyes. “You’re going to speak at your father’s funeral?”
“Yes.”
“Then all you have to do is tell everyone that what those men did was a foul deed, that fury will be unleashed until the people’s pain subsides.”
The representative’s words forced Talbot to think of his father’s body laying dead in the streets. He shuttered at the thought of Julian being killed not by aliens on a foreign asteroid but at home by people he trusted.
He asked when the funeral would be and Octo said it should be as soon as possible.
Talbot thought of his mother. He hadn’t spoken to Margaret yet, didn’t know where she was or if she was aware of what had happened.
“Tomorrow, then. It will be tomorrow.”
“And you’re sure you’ll speak?”
Talbot bent down and picked up the Meursault. A slight glimmer of vapor appeared as the sword passed through the air. He moved his wrist back and forth, watching the blade appear and disappear as the angle changed.
“I’ll do much more than that.”
105
Wing Commander Redbeard saw the dull grey mech vanish into the portal and angled his Helljet toward the same ring of energy. He had flown through portals in his craft before, but obviously never with the tinder walls still up. As such, he had never had as close a view of one of the massive fields of light as he had a moment before he passed through it. All he could see in front of him was swirling energy. His single-man fighter seemed insignificant whenever it approached the Hellship’s hangars. In front of the portal, many times larger than a Round Table flagship, his fighter resembled a tiny insect approaching an ancient god.
Flying as fast as he could to try and catch the mech, he didn’t have much time to worry about what might happen when he passed through the energy. Instead, he had a split second to consider if this was really what he wanted to do, decided it was, and then plunged into the swirls of light. He felt the familiar push and pull.
