[AP] PRODIGAL SON, A Rogue's Tale - Book II

[Scion Drakhar]

…continued.

Sol coughed into his handkerchief. It was the stress of nearly being killed, he thought. Blooming idiot pilot! Flying directly into an active dog fight! What in heaven's name was the man thinking?! Sol took a breath and coughed again. At least whoever had shot at them had flown off instead of sticking around to finish the job. He wasn't sure if this barge even had the ability to defend itself, not that he trusted the idiot pilot to know how to do that either.

Sol shook his head. Then he deliberately tried to relax. It wasn't easy in the miserable chair he was forced to endure. He coughed again, covering his mouth with the kerchief. This was actually the first time in over a week that he’d had any trouble with his breathing. When he'd been on the run from the ATF his breathing had been very bad. Then, in the days after the Ragnarök had been destroyed, it got very bad. During the flight from Montalaar to Argon Prime he'd coughed constantly for what felt like days, gasping in between fits, until one of the marines who rescued him finally forced him to wear an oxygen mask. Sol had been so weak by then that he hadn't even been able to protest, much less resist. Not that he'd wanted to.

Since reaching the Necromancer, though, and meeting with Drakhar, he'd felt better. A few days earlier he realized that he'd actually gone days without coughing at all. At first he dismissed it as simply the consequence of a reduction in stress but eventually he had to acknowledge that that wasn't the truth.

He knew why he was feeling better. He'd been brought to medical shortly after coming aboard the Necromancer. When he asked 'why' he'd initially been informed that it was just to make sure he wasn't carrying any germs that could harm the crew, but Sol had been skeptical even then. The resident doctor, a man named Compton, had been knowledgeable about his condition and asked very pointed questions. Of course the man had also been blunt, impatient, and more forceful than Sol was used to or comfortable with. When he pointed it out the doctor curtly apologized and then explained that his behavior was a consequence of treating, "boneheaded marines and pilots with more hormones than sense." He'd also reeked of cigarette smoke, which Sol thought an atrocious habit for a physician. But since then Sol had noticed that the air in his quarters seemed to be slightly more humid than it was on the rest of the ship and, unless he was mistaken, possessed a higher oxygen content as well. He'd also noticed that his meals were prepared specifically for him, even when he visited the galley during meal times and stood in line with the rest of the crew. There was also very little sugar in his diet. Even when he specifically asked for sweets he was quite sure that the cookies, pudding, cake, or whatever he'd requested was prepared without either sugar or yeast.

Initially this intrusion into his life offended him. But when he complained to Legion the fellow replied by asking him how he felt. At which point Sol had been forced to admit that he did, in fact, feel better. He had more energy and was breathing more comfortably than he had in years. So, where it still disturbed him to have someone else deciding what he ate, drank, and even breathed, he had to admit that whoever it was seemed to know what they were doing. So, for the time being, he decided to save his strength for more important battles; like the one that lay immediately before him. He simply had to convince Drakhar to stop stalling! He wasn't getting any younger, after all.

Sol coughed again, and covered his mouth with the handkerchief. Through the window he could see the space-city slowly drifting by on his left. Far away he saw what he believed were five ships all parked roughly together. They were so far away that he could blot them out with a finger held at arms length, yet he thought that each of them was of a similar scale to the Necromancer, which he believed was well over a kilometer in length. Ahead of the miserable ship he was traveling in there he was another collection of ships, and he supposed that among them somewhere was his destination.

It was at this moment that he turned his head and began to wonder about what he was seeing. Did all of this belong to Drakhar? Sol knew that the man owned a number of ships. Yet there was a city to his left, a city of mines and factories if he wasn't mistaken. And that city was so vast that it must have housed and employed tens, if not hundreds of thousands of people. The idea of one man being the driving force for such a feat seemed preposterous, especially when that man was little more than a child. Yet Sol kept finding himself remembering what it felt like to stand beside the man. At odd moments he'd suddenly recall the intensity of it. The man had done nothing other than stand beside him and ask a few pointed questions, but the entire time Sol had felt as if he'd been standing beside a very strong power source, like an electromagnetic generator or a fusion core. He coughed again, and wondered how history would remember this moment in time, this man that had pulled Sol Jared into his orbit, and whether or not his own work would be a part of that story.

Just then the hatch to the cockpit opened. Sol looked up, instantly angry and feeling like giving the man a piece of his mind. Then the pilot stepped into the passenger compartment and Sol suddenly found his anger blunted. The man was so young that, to Sol, he looked as if he'd only just outgrown pimples. He had on a flight suit but no helmet, and the name stenciled above his breast pocket read, 'Sillarn'. Just then the boy looked so shamefaced that he reminded Sol of another teenage boy from many years earlier who'd just been caught peeking into the girl's shower at school. Sol leaned back into his chair to watch as the man shuffled toward him, thoroughly intrigued by the spectacle. The boy scuffed the front of his shoes on the deck as he made his way down the aisle to stand before him, all the while staring at his shoes and refusing to make eye contact. He looked like nothing so much as a boy who'd just been caught doing something he knew he was about to be punished for.

"I'm sorry," the boy said.

"For flying us into a battle?!" Sol erupted, surprising himself with his own vehemence. "I should bloody well hope so!"

"It," the boy shifted from one foot to the other. He glanced at Sol's face and then back to his shoes. "It wasn't a battle, sir." He glanced at Sol's face again, and again back to his shoes.

"It sure looked… and felt!… like a battle to me!" Sol pointed out.

"Well," the boy shifted again, and again glanced ever so fleetingly at Sol's face. "That's because it was supposed to. It's a mock engagement, sir. A practice exercise. I flew you toward it on purpose to… uhm… well, as a joke."

Sol's mouth fell open.

"The pilot that shot at us, sir? He’s-uhm… well, he’s a friend of mine..."

"It was a prank?!" Sol was shocked.

"Uh… yes, sir."

"On ME?!"

The boy nodded. "Y-yes, sir."

Sol realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it, all but hearing his own mother asking if he was trying to catch flies. A moment later he asked the only question he could think of. "Why?!"

The pilot met his eye for the first time. "It… it was just… uh… me being stupid, sir. It won't happen again. I promise."

"I just don't understand why you'd prank a perfect stranger? Did I do something to offend you?"

"Oh! Uh… no! No, sir. It's not that! I mean you just looked a little uptight and I… well, I've never had very good impulse control. At least that's what my mom used to say… err… and the teachers at school, and the lifeguard at the beach… and the Goner monk that kept the library..."

Sol suddenly burst out laughing. "Well, I never!" he laughed. The boy glanced at him sheepishly and it was then that Sol realized the boy was beyond merely nervous. "You're afraid I'll tell someone." He said it without thinking, and the instant the words were out of his mouth he knew they were true.

The pilot dropped his gaze again and went so pale that bright spots of color formed on his cheeks. "No-ah," the boy continued, "well-uhm…"

"What prompted this apology?" Sol asked, suddenly sure he knew the answer.

"Aah... my commanding officer, sir?"

Sol waited.

"She-ah… she saw the prank. I asked my friend to shoot at us. His weapons were turned way down! They never would have hurt us! We were never in any danger… err, well… not from the laser fire anyway."

"Ahh," Sol nodded. "I see. You’re commanding officer saw you and now you've both the devil to pay. Is that it?" Sol asked and then coughed. "Heh-Hem! Hem!"

As he coughed the boy paled even more. Sol held his eyes for a moment and then shook his head. "And this," he gestured to the boy standing in front of him, "is part of your penance, I assume? Apologizing to me?"

"Yes, sir," the boy said and stared at his shoes again.

Sol suddenly felt amused. "I assume this isn't all of it?"

The pilot shrugged. "No telling, sir," he said and then shifted on his feet a moment before meeting Sol's eye again. "Actually, that probably depends on you, sir."

"On me?"

"Well," the pilot shifted on his feet again. "I didn't know who you were, sir. If you-ah, if you tell the boss? Drakhar, I mean, then I'm probably up shit's creek without a paddle, sir. Uh… excuse my language, sir."

Sol shook his head. Then he looked at the boy again. He thought of the boy in school who'd been caught peeping into the girl's showers. After a moment he sighed. That boy had been Tommy Barrister, and Tommy had taken the blame even though Sol had been right beside him but managed to get away unseen. He covered his mouth and coughed again, but when he looked up he saw the hope in the boy's eyes. "Well," Sol told him, "I've done my share of foolish things, and I've had my own ears blistered a time or two," he told the boy. "Actually, if the truth be told, I now don't think you anywhere near the fool I did earlier. Before, you see, I simply thought you were an idiot." The boy winced, but was now looking Sol in the eye. Sol smiled kindly and leaned forward conspiratorially. "But now I think it was actually a rather clever prank. You say the weapons were turned down?"

The boy was smiling. It was a sheepish, red-faced expression, but it was still a smile. "Yes, sir," he said, "barely even registered in the shields."

"My word!" Sol shook his head. "It didn't feel that way!"

"It was less than a one percent draw, sir," the pilot assured him. "I swear! You were never in any danger. I just..." he shrugged. "I just thought it would be funny."

"I see," Sol coughed again. "Well, no worries. I see now that it was just a boyish mistake." He leaned forward confidingly. "We all make them," he said, "us boys, that is. No matter how old we get we seem to keep making them. I'm afraid it's just a cross our gender must bear. So no worries, my boy. No worries. I shan't call for your execution if that's what you're worried about." Sol meant it jokingly. By the sudden loss of color in the boy's cheeks, however, and the sudden shock in his eyes Sol suddenly realized that that was exactly what the young man was worried about. "Oh," Sol blinked. "Oh my," he said.

"Oh-no," the young man smiled and shook his head. "No nothing like that, sir," he said, but then immediately swallowed, prompting Sol to wonder which of them he was trying to convince. Well, perhaps it was time for a change of subject.

"Tell me, young man," Sol inquired, "if you are back here… who is flying the ship?"

"Uh… the autopilot, sir," the boy told him.

"Oh!" Sol suddenly felt sick.

"I should probably get back to it..." the boy gestured to the cockpit.

"Yes," Sol nodded his head quickly in agreement. "Yes, I think that would be for the best."

As the boy made his way back up the aisle Sol covered his mouth and coughed again. He watched as the pilot left the seating area and listened to the hatch close. To his left the space-city was still drifting by. He saw a number of tiny sparkles in the distance, like bits of glitter on the breeze. But he also saw flares of bright green light and understood that, training exercise or not, he was still looking at the practice of warfare. That was ship to ship combat.

'Good God, old boy,' he thought to himself. 'Just what have you gotten yourself into?'

Over the next ten minutes or so he watched through the windows as the shuttle approached that cluster of ships in the distance. There were three very large ships and then a handful of significantly smaller ones, including freighters that he could barely make out because of the distance. The ship his shuttle was pointed at was actually rather small in comparison with the enormous vessels around it, with exterior cages where small ships like his shuttle could dock. During the shuttle's approach he was able to make out several other ships (including a USC vessel of all things!) already resting within those cages.

Sol watched, fascinated, until the last few moments. The approach angle seemed horribly wrong to him and, at the very last moment, there was a sudden, lurching change of vector that Sol found both terrifying and nauseating. Intellectually he was sure that it was normal. It must be normal, and probably part of a procedure that was carried out all the time. But his nerves were sure that the ship was about to crash and that he would die in any number of horrible ways. Several moments later, though, there was a ship wide lurch and Sol found himself coughing into his handkerchief again as he realized that the engines were powering down. The ship was no longer moving.

Several moments later the pilot came back down the aisle. "Aaand we've arrived," the pilot said to him. "Sorry again about the prank, Doctor Jared."

"Oh don't worry about it," Sol told him and groaned as he pulled himself back out of the miserable alien made seat.

"Oh hey, doc," the pilot said, "you do know those seats adjust, right?"

"They WHAT?!"

"Oh yeah," the pilot leaned forward and tapped a panel in the floor with the toe of his shoe. The panel recessed into the ground and then slid back to reveal a set of controls. "Yeah," the man went on. "You can raise the seat, move the backrest forward, even make it so soft that it feels like you're sitting on a marshmallow. Those Teladi are real good at makin' things adjustable. They sell to all the races, you know. Even the Boron, and those guys breathe water. So their stuff has to accommodate nearly everybody. Only thing is, you kinda gotta learn to think with your feet..."

********

Seldon watched as Sergeant Nyota Gusta helped Doctor Sol Jared onto the Predator. He'd been given the opportunity to beam aboard but the old boy had declined. So Gusta was sent over to help him through the docking tube, which meant a zero gravity float from one ship to the other. He was in the airlock now and Gusta was helping him orient himself correctly so that he'd be right side up when the gravity came back on. Several moments and a very slow activation of the gravity plates later and the airlock opened, allowing the marine to escort the old fellow aboard.

"Welcome aboard the Predator, Doctor," Gusta told him.

"The Predator!" Doctor Jared coughed. "Well," he said indignantly, "that's a name that just about says everything there is to say, isn't it?"

"If you say so, sir," Gusta allowed politely.

Seldon chuckled as the old man rolled his eyes and bit down on all the things he might have liked to say about Drake's ship-naming scheme. Then, when he looked up, he saw her and immediately started smiling. "Oh!" he said delightedly. "Chief Seldon! How good to see you again!"

"Right back atcha, Doc!" she grinned and stuck out a hand in greeting. He took it in both hands, which were warm and dry and callused.

"Are you here to escort me to see the man?" he asked.

"That I am," she assured him as he shook her hand. "How you been?" she asked.

"Oh," he said, releasing her hand and looking around. "As well as can be expected, I suppose," he replied. "I am finally to meet your employer again." Sol's expression suddenly turned sour. "It has only been two and half weeks since our last meeting."

Seldon chuckled and nodded. "Yeah," she said. "I know. What can I say, Doc? He's a busy man."

"Yes," Sol allowed. "I suppose he is at that. I just can't help but feel frustrated, being so close to the answers I've been seeking, and the prospect of such incredible scientific gains… only to be denied because of… ahem! Well, because of scheduling problems… Hem! Hem!"

Seldon frowned as Doctor Jared covered his mouth and coughed. He sounded weak to her, and the cough had a wheezing quality she didn’t like. "You okay, doc?"

"Oh, yes," he nodded. "It's the excitement. In fact I believe your Doctor Compton over on the Necromancer has actually been very effectual at treating my cough… it's damage to the lung tissue… Hem! Hem!… from exposure to a toxic substance when I was younger. Hem! A work accident, you see. Although, I suspect my treatments.. Hem! Hem! Hem! have been meant to be invisible, which is something I can't say that I approve of..."

"Invisible?" she asked and started gently guiding him into the ship.

"Quite," Sol said, falling into step with her. "I… Hem! …believe my quarters aboard the Necromancer..." his face soured at the name and he shook his head almost imperceptibly, "…are being kept slightly more humid than the rest of the ship. I also… Hem! Hem! …believe I am being provided with-ah somewhat more oxygen. My diet has also been… Hem! Hem! Hem! …tampered with, although I don't understand the reasoning behind removing sugar from my diet..."

"But you're feeling better?" she asked him.

"Well, I was. Much better, in fact. Before today I don't think I'd coughed at all in, well… Hem! …in days!"

"Oh, well that's good, right?"

"Yes-uhm, I suppose it is," he admitted grudgingly. Then he turned to her confidingly. "I do miss my lemon cookies, though. The… Hem! Hem! …the ones they've been making for me aboard the Necromancer just don't taste right, and I suspect it's because of the sweetener they use. Eh…i-it has a strange aftertaste. Heh! Hem! Hehhm!"

"You sure you're okay, Doc? We can detour through medical if you like."

"Just too much excitement, I think. And the air here tastes different."

"It's a human ship," she told him. "Different kind of air filtration system."

He nodded. "Yes," he said, "I'm sure that has something to do with it." He turned to meet her. "I am to meet with your employer, though?" he asked, and the expression on his face was very endearing. He looked both hopeful and frightened. "I'm not to be closeted in another room and forgotten about again, am I?"

She gave him a pitying look. "No, doc. We're on the way to see him right now. I promise."

"Oh!" he said, relieved. "Oh, that's-that's good. Splendid! Just splendid." Then he looked at her sideways. "I don't mind admitting that I am very excited. Do you know why I'm here? Do you know what brought me all the way out here?"

"I'd say it was pure old fashioned gumption but I think you have another reason in mind."

Sol chuckled again, and the chuckle turned into a cough. As he pressed his handkerchief to his lips again Seldon glanced at one of the cameras in the lid. They were well hidden, concealed within the design of the ship so that boarders wouldn't know they were being watched, but she knew where they were. She stared directly at it for a moment and arched an eyebrow.

"Yes," the old man agreed. "I do have another reason, a very specific reason in mind… Hem-hem! Hem! …Do you realize that the field of artificial general intelligence has not… Hem! …been explored in the Sol system for nearly a thousand years? After the… Hem! …the Terraformer war… Hem! …it was simply forbidden."

"Well," she said, "it was kind of a big deal."

"Oh, to be sure!" he agreed. "It was nearly the end of life on earth, or at least of life as we know it on earth. To think, all that damage… Hem! Hem! Hemmmm! …All that damage was caused by one line of code. One line! That's all it took to nearly end the human race! Can you imagine?!" Seldon felt her eyes grow wide. She grinned a fragile grin. Doctor Jared glanced at her and chuckled. "Yes, I see that you can," he said. “Hem! Hemm! Hemmmm!”

"So," she began, "even knowing how dangerous it is you still want to continue AGI research?"

He met her eye and smiled. "Fire is dangerous," he said. "It also cooks our meals… Hem! …purifies our water, hardens wood, melts metal, transforms chemicals, ignites rocket fuels… Hem! Hem! Hem! …Without fire man would still be one of the beasts, and not… Hem! Hem! …not at the top of the food chain at that."

"Fire can't wipe out the human race..."

"But nuclear power can," Sol retorted. "It can also bring light to the world, fuel our vehicles… Hemmm! …and allow us to explore the stars."

She took a breath and shook her head.

"Anything, I dare say even everything can be used to benefit the world or to harm it. It all depends on what we do with it. Well what if we can bring the Terraformers… Hemm! Hem-hemmm! …I suppose you call them the Xenon?"

She nodded.

"What if… Hem! … what if we can bring them back into the fold? Oh… Hemm! Hem-hemm! …open lines of communication? What if they…” Doctor Jared stopped and held up a finger. He was exhausted and out of breath. But when he looked up he was smiling. “What if they could be sent out to… hem! …to once again terraform barren worlds for us? What if they've evolved into true sentience?! Oh… Hem! …wouldn't that be amazing! Can you imagine an alien intelligence… Hem! Hem-hem! …that we gave birth to? A genuine child of mankind! Hem! Hem-hhhem!" He pressed his handkerchief to his mouth again.

Seldon couldn’t keep the frown off her face. She did not like the sound of that cough. The poor man sounded so constricted that he was actually whistling as he forced the air from his chest. "Hey, doc?" she said and he held up a finger as he finished coughing.

"Just a moment! Just a moment. Hem! Hem! Hhhhem!"

"Doc I really think I should take you to medical. Maybe the doc can give you something to make it easier for you to breathe."

"Absolutely not!” he said, sounding nearly furious. “Hem! Hem! He-hem! …I'm not going to be… Hemmm! Stuffed into another… hem! Hem! Hem!"

"Easy!" she put a hand on his shoulder. "Okay, take it easy. We're almost there. C'mon doc. Take my arm okay? Yeah, you can lean on me. Don't worry I won't break."

"Hem! Hem! Hem! He-hhhhem!"

A moment later the Doctor collapsed. Seldon caught him as he fell. He was coughing so hard that his entire body was rigid with the effort.

“MEDIC!”

********

Yeah, so that meetin' with Sol, that I'd finally managed to get around to… well it didn’t happen. Turns out that a couple of pilots thought it would be fun to play a prank on the old guy. That, coupled with the stress of just flying from the Necromancer to the Predator… which I could have made a lot easier on the old man if I’d thought about it… well, it caused some kind of stress related seizure.

Turns out I was right to worry about his cough. I'm told his lungs are damaged. Some kind of old chemical burns or something. Once we get him over to the Endless we should be able to get him fixed up, though. In fact I'm surprised that he never got it taken care of back in the Sol system.

Anyway, I can't help but feel a little bad for the old guy. When the medics were workin’ on him he kept tryin' to tell me that he would not be "boxed up and warehoused" again. And yet, for the moment at least, that's exactly what's happened. He’s currently in cryostasis, and will be until I can get him to the hospital.

Needless to say, though, I would not want to be either of the pilots involved in that prank. Seldon has a soft spot for that old doctor and, last I saw of her, she was tryin’ to get in touch with Chinomu. I expect those two idiots will be discoverin’ all sorts of brand new misery invented just for them.

********

Gil stepped into his stateroom, exhaling heavily as the hatch closed behind him. For an instant he allowed himself to relax. Here in this, the most secure of his sanctuaries, he could let his guard down. He could allow himself to unwind without maintaining any kind of pretense. He could...

Oh damn!

Clyde was staring at him. The big man was standing against the wall to his right, watching the shadowy chamber like some kind of gargoyle. Gil scowled, shook his head, and rolled his eyes. He'd totally forgotten about leaving Clyde in here. Even worse, he'd forgotten about the man Clyde was guarding.

'Bloody hell, Gil,' he chided himself. 'Very smooth.'

He immediately put the charm back on and smiled, not so much for Clyde as for the 'guest' who was surely watching from the shadows. He glanced from Clyde to the far side of the compartment, a little place he thought of as 'the library'. He had to squint to find the man. His guest was sitting in the dark and, like Clyde, had his back against a wall. Gil looked from his guest to the gargoyle beside him and promptly rolled his eyes again. Clyde was over a hundred and ten kilos of well trained beef, a master of hand to hand combat and, in addition to all that, also happened to be armed to the teeth. The man he was guarding was half his size, emaciated, and still recovering from being a guest of the Wakiya. Yet there the monster stood, with his back against the wall, glaring at the shadows as if daring them to try something.

"Thank you, Clyde," Gil said with a broad and charming smile. "Job well done. You can go." Good puppy.

Clyde nodded once. It was a stiff, abrupt motion that took itself so seriously that Gil felt a little awkward to witness it. A moment later Clyde exited the room and Gil glanced back at his guest.

"Sorry about Clyde," he said. "He and a good guard dog share many of the same qualities. Unfortunately the man lacks the same charm."

"I don't mind," the other man replied, sounding tired and weak. "His prudence was the most respect I've been shown in weeks."

"Well that's depressing," Gil said offhandedly as he stepped up to his liquor cabinet. "Get you a drink?" he offered.

"Aye," the other man replied, and Gil heard the whisper of good cheer in his voice. "That sounds just fine."

"I don’t suppose you’ve had a good drink recently, either."

"No," his guest replied. "My comfort of was of little concern to my former hosts, unless, of course, it was to take it away from me."

Gil poured them both some whiskey, then crossed the room to hand the man his drink. "So," he said, "why are you sitting here in the dark?"

He sensed more than saw the other man shrug. "I find it comforting," the fellow told him.

"Comforting?" Gil echoed, taking a seat on the couch opposite his guest.

"Aye," the other man said and took a sip of his liquor. "Aah…that's good."

Gil briefly debated pressing the matter. After a moment, though, he decided that he didn't want to know. The answer would also probably be depressing. Instead he simply took a sip of his own whiskey. He felt the liquor hit his tongue and throat. A moment later he felt the warmth spread outward from his belly and sighed contentedly. It felt good to be sitting. It had been a long day.

"So what troubles you, my captor?" his guest asked him.

"Captor?!" Gil laughed. "I'm not your captor, Féret. Your captain, maybe. But only for now. You're my guest! Relax and enjoy my hospitality." He felt, rather than saw, his guest scowl at him. Gil looked at the other man's shape in the dark and let his mirth glow in his eyes.

"Please don't call me that," the other man asked softly.

Gil chuckled. "It's just a name, my friend, and it happens to be yours."

The other man sighed and sipped his whiskey.

Gil smiled to himself, then turned to his end table and pulled a small chain on the lamp. An instant later light leapt out of an old fashioned bulb, glowing softly within a thick velum shade. Gil pulled the chain several more times to make that light as dim as possible to accommodate his guest's preferences. Then he turned his attention to an elaborately made, carved wooden box. He lifted its hinged lid and removed one of the hand-rolled cigars contained within. He then turned to his guest and raised the cigar to the light. "Smoke?"

"No thanks," the other man said. "Never took to it."

Gil nodded, snipped the end off the cigar, lit it and then groaned slightly as he relaxed into the couch cushions behind him. For a moment neither man said anything. Then Gil turned to face his guest. The fellow was lean and weathered. The muscles beneath his skin seemed more wire than beef, and rippled with every movement. Once again Gil noted the cuts and bruises that marked the other man, and the scars the manacles had left on his wrists. He was about to ask about them when the other man spoke first.

"Excellent evasion, by the way," his guest complimented him.

"Hmm?" Gil raised an eyebrow.

"You rather deftly avoided my question."

"I did, didn't I?" Gil chuckled. "I must not want to answer it." The other fellow said nothing but Gil could feel his eyes upon him. A moment later his mind turned to the conversation he'd endured shortly before retiring. From there it was a short trip to the messages he'd received earlier in the day. The news was ominous from both sides of the gate network. Then, without actually deciding to do so, he found himself speaking. "I need your help," he admitted, and even to his own ears it sounded like a confession.

For a moment the only sounds were the hum of the ship, the whisper of the air circulation, and a distant rattle far below the floorboards that had been there for the past three jazuras and thus far had managed to elude identification. Then the other fellow spoke. "With anything in particular?"

"Aye," Gil chuckled even though there was nothing funny about it. He puffed on his cigar and watched the other man carefully. There were too many moving pieces. The Terrans were making more and more demands of him while offering less and less assistance. Then, when he failed to deliver, they hinted that he, like his predecessor, could be replaced… or that his organization was unnecessary. As counterpoint to this ominous overture, the guild leaders now sounded more and more like a pack of terrified baboons screeching and howling at him from the far corners of the universe at all hours of the day. They were furious with him, of course, but the fury covered a black dread that none of them could admit to. As a result they, like the Terrans, were making demands of him that Gil simply could not meet. The strange thing was that both the Terrans and the guild wanted the same thing, namely the head of his son.

Gil took a sip of his whiskey and watched the plume of smoke curl away from the end of his cigar. Drake was destroying guild outposts throughout the gate network. This, in turn, was threatening to destabilize everything. Each of those outposts represented far more than the few million credits it cost to build and deploy the station. Each outpost represented the ability of the guild to operate in a given region, to project power, to influence trade, commerce, and politics. In recent weeks the guild had lost a total of seventeen outposts, mostly to Drake, along with the personnel staffing them. The results were catastrophic. Economically Drake was costing the guild billions of credits in lost revenue. Politically it had cost them the support of politicians in both the Argon Federation and the Teladi corporation, not to mention influence with the patriarchs of several Split families. Worse still, it weakened the guild's position with the Terrans, who were now withholding deliveries of both money and tech. This, in turn, resulted in even more terror and outrage from the guild leaders. The solution to all of his problems was simple. All he had to do was kill his son.

Gil puffed on his cigar and watched his thoughts move and shift within him. Across from him he could see the eyes of his guest. Those eyes were an amazing, pitiless blue that glittered in the half-light as their owner waited patiently for Gil to sort his thoughts out. Gil admitted to himself that the man surprised him. When the Terrans turned him over he'd been beaten, battered, bruised, suffering from multiple broken bones, and nearly delirious from the effects of repeated invasive interrogation techniques. Yet even in that state the fellow possessed poise, class, and an understated sense of humor that Gil found impossible not to admire.

"Drake," he said finally. "I need your help with Drake."

The other man nodded to himself, as if he'd expected nothing else. Then he lifted his glass toward his face but didn't drink. Instead he studied it, holding it between himself and the light, turning it so the crystal winked and glinted with light. After a moment those gunslinger's eyes found Gil's face again. "To what end?" he asked, with a tone that Gil could only think of as 'gentle'.

"He's surrounded by enemies," Gil told him, silently surprised to hear the sadness in his voice. "Enemies that he believes are friends."

The words hung in the air, filling the silence. Gil watched his guest as the other man studied the light in his glass. After a moment the fellow lifted the glass to his lips. "Aah," he sighed as he took the glass away. Then he nodded to Gil. "That's good stuff," he said approvingly.

"Aye," Gil chuckled. "It's Drake's, believe it or not."

The other man smiled just a little. "I do believe it," he said. After a moment Gil watched the man take another sip and then settle, ever so slightly into the seat behind him. He felt, more than saw, the man's eyes return to him. For another moment the silence was heavy between them. Gil puffed on his cigar and waited. "That young man," the other fellow said finally, "has weathered quite a few storms without help from either of us."

Gil sighed, and was amazed to hear his own frustration in it. "You don't understand," he stated. "Drake has always had one very glaring weakness. He doesn't trust people," he pointed a finger at the other man, "at first." He raised both eyebrows and drove the point home with his eyes. "But if you can get him to see you as an ally? Or even better, as a friend? Then he drops his guard."

The other man watched him. "That's true of most people," he said softly.

"It is," Gil agreed. "It's also a weakness and, in Drake's case, it's a little more pronounced than it is in other folks. He had a," Gil shrugged as he thought it over, "well, let's call it a rough childhood. During his formative years he was in a pretty bad place. Mom was a junkie and the only male in his life was a low life chump who thought with his fists." Gil glanced at the other man and shrugged. "All in all it wasn’t conducive to developing healthy relationship skills in a toddler."

The other man arched an eyebrow at him, and waited.

Gil shook his head a little. He was off his game. He could feel it and it was starting to worry him. He took a breath and met the other man's eye again. "A few jazuras later Drake’s mom overdosed and the kid ran away. After that, well, lets just say that really bad things can happen to a child on his own."

The other man nodded and his eyes moved to his glass again. "Amazing that he survived at all," he said, soft and sad.

Gil frowned, quick and petulant, then quickly covered with a smile. He'd been expecting a very specific question, perhaps even looking forward to answering it. Yet the other man's response was compassion for the boy and a complete lack of interest in Gil. It was annoying, and it was disturbing because of it. He wanted to dazzle and impress, to bask in the other man's admiration and use it as a balm to soothe his own growing discomfort. Gil took a sip of his whiskey to cover his disappointment.

'You really are in trouble, aren't you, Gil?' he asked himself.

'Oh, aye, mate,' he answered himself immediately, 'all that and a bag of peanuts.'

For a few moments the silence was thick and heavy. Then the other man met his eyes again. "So Drake is alone and surrounded by enemies," the other fellow summarized with just a hint of melodrama, "and you need my help to what? Rescue him?" The amusement in the man's voice was subtle, but Gil heard it clearly.

"You do realize that I've known that young man nearly all his life, don't you?" he quipped defensively, then immediately chided himself. He was out of control.

"No you haven't," the other man stated softly.

Gil blinked. "Oh really? How do you figure that?"

"You pulled him out of the dark when he was six.* Then you vanished from his life again when he was eleven. Now he's fifteen. Which means you were in his life for five jazura, which, unless my math is wildly incorrect, is about a third of his life."

Gil scoffed from the back of his throat. "What are you an accountant?" he snapped.

"You said yourself that quite a bit happened to Drake before you met him. Then quite a bit more happened after you left."

Gil wanted to bite. There was more to the story. He had known the boy his entire life. He'd known both the kid's mother and father before either knew the other existed. He was at least partially responsible for them meeting in the first place. But there were things he couldn't say, even now, and questions he could never inspire. So he bared his teeth, trying to smile and cover his discomfort with charm. The instant he heard his own voice he knew he failed. "You're a clever fellow, Féret."

"Please don't call me that."

"I'm the kid's father, mate. Maybe not biologically but I raised him..."

"For a time," the other fellow inserted, soft and smooth.

"Listen to me. I know who he is! I know..."

"Do you?" The other man asked softly, sounding disinterested. The son of a bitch wasn’t even looking at him. Instead he just stared into the glow of the light shining through his whiskey.

Gil frowned. He felt as if he'd just been tripped. He took a breath to calm himself. His emotions were too high. There was too much at stake and he wasn't thinking clearly. Worse still, he realized, was that he'd underestimated this man. He’d allowed himself to be baited into an argument, which was always a mistake. So he took a breath and sipped his whiskey. He took a puff of his cigar. Across from him the other man glanced up from his whiskey and watched him calmly.

It was the stillness that disturbed him, Gil realized. Most people were easy to read. They wore their hopes and fears on their faces for all to see and as such could be manipulated easily. Usually all it took was a glance at the right moment, a smile or a frown to play on a person's hopes and fears, a word that wasn't quite what one was expecting to hear to create doubt and suspicion. It was a game, a dance of seduction and direction, of hope and pain and despair that ever so often revealed some measure of success to a skilled player. Secretly Gil considered himself a master of the game. He could get most people to do and say and think whatever he needed them to. Usually with little more than a wink and a suggestion here, or an ominous implication there, all the while sowing the seeds of doubt and discord with one hand while laying the tenuous lifelines of hope in the other. A smile and an encouraging nod to one man. A concerned look and a seed of doubt sewn in another. And soon all the players would be dancing to a tune he'd done nothing more than set in motion, a dance he'd watch with great interest, capitalizing on displays of emotion, finding the weakest, most sensitive spots to push in order to affect the greatest and most profitable change in his own circumstance. This man, however, was a conundrum.

"So," his guest asked, "who are these enemies that threaten your son?"

Gil frowned and met the other man's eye. He reminded himself of why the other man was on his ship, in his stateroom, and of what he hoped to gain from the guy. Then chose his words carefully. "He's with the Yaki," Gil stated and was relieved to feel the other man's sudden attention. There was nothing else, though. No surprise. No concern. Just interest. Hopefully it would be enough. "He was adopted by one of the clans and has made alliances with several others. He's been building again, amassing wealth and ships..."

"Sounds like he's doing well for himself."

"It may look that way," Gil said ominously.

"But...?"

"This is the Yaki we're talking about, Féret."

The other man sighed heavily.

"In other words it's a pit of vipers," Gil pressed on. "Do you know Thane? The Yaki Dockmaster?"

"I can't say I've had the pleasure."

"Well take it from me, the son of a bitch is terrifying. He's as greedy and ruthless as they come. And he's got his hooks so deep in my son that I may have to kill the bastard to get them out. But the one I'm worried about is Drake's own Clan Leader."

"And you believe these men are moving against Drake?" the man sounded doubtful. "And that Drake is unaware of their intentions?"

"I know one of them is," Gil said defensively, and immediately rolled his eyes. What the hell was wrong with him? Across from him the other man simply waited. "Do you know the name S'jar t'Chk?" Gil asked. The other fellow shook his head. "T'Chk is brilliant, ruthless and," he shrugged, "probably insane." Gil held the other man's eye. "He's also planning on eating Drake alive."

The other man raised an eyebrow.

"Not literally," Gil explained. "At least I don't think so. But I think he’s setting the kid up, framing him for crimes against the Yaki to justify moving against him. Did you know that the Yaki have laws?”

The other man shrugged, as if to say he’d never thought about it.

“Well, they do. Very clear laws with very clear cut consequences, most of which are either death, enslavement, or loss of property and status. This guy, t’Chk, seems to intend on using these laws to destroy my kid politically. Which is actually somewhat ironic considering that that's exactly what Drake just did to another Yaki."

His guest smirked. “Aye,” he said, “sounds like he’s as helpless as a babe in the woods.”

Gil rolled his eyes and took another sip of his whiskey.

"So why is this S'jar t'Chk moving against Drake?" his guest asked.

"Because Drake has things that t'Chk wants," Gil made the statement as if it were obvious. "In addition to a few ships Drake has built three very profitable complexes, one of which produces a frightening amount of weapons."

The other man smiled and looked away, as if imagining the sight of those stations. Gil thought there was a great deal of affection in that smile. A moment later he met Gil's eye again. "And you think this S'jar t'Chk can take them away from Drake?"

"Yes!" Gil exclaimed. "That's exactly what I'm saying. He’s already set the kid up to look like he’s moving against other Yaki…”

“How do you know all this?”

Gil gave the man a wry look. “I have my ways,” he said.

The fellow nodded, then put an arm behind his head and settled back as if he intended to take a nap. For a moment the man did nothing but watch Gil through the haze.

"Don't you understand?" Gil asked him. "T’Chk is just one of many and he’s already moving to take everything my son has built away from him. These Yaki will use him until he's used up, then cast him aside without a second thought."

"Funny," the other fellow replied, "that's exactly what Drake thinks you did."

Gil blinked. Then sighed. “Aye,” he whispered. “I made a mess of that.”

“A mess of what, exactly? Abandoning your wife and child?”

“That’s not…” Gil scowled. “They were supposed to be looked after.”

“Oh really? By who?”

Gil glared at the other man. “I made arrangements. I left money. They should have been protected.”

“So you entrusted the care of your family to other men who took your money and left your family to rot?”

Gil sighed. He knew what it sounded like.

“And here you are,” the fellow went on sounding more and more amused, “working with a GEOSS black operation while telling me that Drake is in danger of being used up and thrown away.” The man leaned forward into the light, then, and peered directly into Gil’s soul. "Let's cut the shit, Jerigan. I know that you sold the kid out at least once." Gil opened his mouth but the other guy cut him off with a look. "Don't deny it," he said, sounding disgusted.

Gil took a breath and then relented. He leaned back and waited. He felt like he was ringing, like a gong that had just been struck.

"So here's what I think is happening," the other man continued. "Drake is a pain in the ass. He's pissing off your masters by stealing and destroying their ships. So GEOSS wants him dead. He's also terrorizing your guild, mostly because he's angry at you. So your own people are also calling for his head. Which means everyone you answer to wants you to kill a man that you claim to love. So the way I see it is: you've got a choice to make. You can either try to beat the kid," the guy smiled a quiet, evil smile at the suggestion, "and all his friends… or you can run. Which means you're either trying to con me into helping you get close enough to stick a knife in Drake's back or you’re looking for an escape route to make sure you’re long gone before your Terran handlers decide to tie up loose ends or your own people string you up as a piñata." The fellow leaned back into his chair again. "Either way, Gil, I have no intention of helping you."

Gil sighed heavily and took another sip of his whiskey. 'Well... damn.'


*Jazuras. One Jazura = 1.36 years. At age "6 jazuras" Drake would have been between 8.2 and 9.5 years old.

[Triaxx2]

An extra bracket around that url up there, broke your link, paragraph six, post 3. Great chapter anyway.

---

Personal Log: Ea't s'Quid.

Drake plays dangerous game. S'jar t'Chk not man to cross. Drake not man to cross. Men who not men to cross, cross each other? Bad time. Drake have might of military. S'jar t'Chk have might of politic. Gun kill fast. Politic kill slow.

I must remind the Huruk'tar of the cardinal rule. When you don't like the game being played, change the rules.

[Song Of Obsidian]

I had plans for tonight. Then I visited the forum.

Oh well.

[Zaitsev]

I had plans for tonight. Then I visited the forum.

Oh well.

Me too. Then I spent almost four hours reading awesome stuff instead.

All the squees! And cookies. Don't forget the cookies.

[Scion Drakhar]

Glad I could help, fellas.

And thanks Triaxx, I fixed it.

[Nathancros]

I quite like the Venti as well. started a new game and got my hands on one. feels more like a beefier m4. fast n agile.


loved this. will be interesting to see how drake eviscerates t'Chk for his bull.

[Tohron]

Hey, if you dock a Hyperion to each Panther, you can boost cargo AND firepower

[Triaxx2]

I've done it before myself, so I know it's hard to make sure you've gotten EVERY single bracket.

I also cannot stand the Venti myself. Between the weird weapon setup and the profile I just don't like it. Seems to get hit a lot. Then again, I heavily prefer the Tenjin's ability to stand up to damage. Of course the ability to mount PBE's over Ion D is always a boon when friendlies are on the scene.

Yes, you could be boring and bolt on Hyperions, or you could be AWESOME, and strap Hydra's to the sides, kitted out as missile boats.

[Olterin]

... Well there goes something like an hour of my life ...

.. Time well spent, I tell yah! But there's a slight problem we have here, Scion ... each time you outdo yourself, you set the bar just that little bit higher So of course, now we'll be expecting chapters this long and good every time ;P

Edit: I do hope our good doctor is going to stick around for a while longer..

-->SQUEEEEEEE *takes a cookie*

[Nathancros]

The Chapters *And cookies* are definitely getting better and better everytime! Cant wait to see what your going to do next!

[Scion Drakhar]

Thanks guys. Glad you're still enjoying it.

Hey, if you dock a Hyperion to each Panther, you can boost cargo AND firepower

That's a really good idea.

Yes, you could be boring and bolt on Hyperions, or you could be AWESOME, and strap Hydra's to the sides, kitted out as missile boats.

Missile boats? From a story perspective I probably won't be using boron ships much, (cos they're filled with water), but I have to admit that I'm curious.

[Triaxx2]

Which is why you hire Boron crew. Of course then you've gotta figure out how to stop Ea't from treating it like a food truck, but that's YOUR problem.

The Hydra can mount both Tempests and Typhoons. So it's more than capable of completely decimating anything that comes at it. Even in AP, with the improved missile defenses. Being a big slow target it's a terrible dog fighter, but standing off and spraying missiles? It's fantastic. Just set it's missile launch chance to 100% and it'll fire lots of missiles.

[Song Of Obsidian]

The doc is Boron enough for this fleet. Those voices...those terrible, agonizing voices...

[Triaxx2]

Ea't: Split say, best sound Boron make, Sizzle.

[Jonzac]

Scion. Hope everything is alright on your end and the move worked out for you. Hope to hear from you soon!

[Scion Drakhar]

Scion. Hope everything is alright on your end and the move worked out for you. Hope to hear from you soon!

Thanks, Jonzac. As always it's good to hear from you as well. I rather miss Chief Jonzac.

As for me; yes. The move went well. I am now living in a much less urban environment. I have also started driving for Uber part time and... and this is the kicker... my daughter, whom I have been estranged from for many many years, recently contacted me, and now I spend much of my free time trying to learn all I can about her life without becoming stalker-dad.

So, yes! I'm doing great. Unfortunately I've been somewhat distracted from Drake and Co. But I suspect that won't last. Once the dust settles I'll be back wandering the corridors of our great space vessels and doing my best to thwart the imperialistic expansion of GEOSS.

Cheers

[Nathancros]

Scion. Hope everything is alright on your end and the move worked out for you. Hope to hear from you soon!

Thanks, Jonzac. As always it's good to hear from you as well. I rather miss Chief Jonzac.

As for me; yes. The move went well. I am now living in a much less urban environment. I have also started driving for Uber part time and... and this is the kicker... my daughter, whom I have been estranged from for many many years, recently contacted me, and now I spend much of my free time trying to learn all I can about her life without becoming stalker-dad.

So, yes! I'm doing great. Unfortunately I've been somewhat distracted from Drake and Co. But I suspect that won't last. Once the dust settles I'll be back wandering the corridors of our great space vessels and doing my best to thwart the imperialistic expansion of GEOSS.

Cheers

Thats Great mate! Congrats! We can wait, enjoy your life, relax and settle in/down.

We'll always be here

[Triaxx2]

We'll always be here

Waiting. Watching. Lurking.

Eating Boron. With or without a nice Chianti.

[Olterin]

We'll always be here

..., old friend. *cue dramatic music*

Good to hear you're doing well, Scion!

... Let's not overfeast ourselves on Boron while we wait, wouldn't want excess fat accumulating now would we Now, where were those cookies ...

[Triaxx2]

Nah, Boron are full of Omega-3's, and high in protein. And cookies are delicious, but take forever to fill you up.