Immortal Fear 7.1

Image: Archer TV FX

Les and I had been in Honduras for six months. The pay was good and the duty was light.

He found this commission for us and negotiated everything down to the letter. I never really understood why he brought me along on the job but he said, “We were tadpoles together. We were frogmen together. What’s a few more months watching businessmen make sure they don’t get themselves killed?”

He had a point. By SEAL standards, this was a walk in the park. U.S.-Honduran relations had never really recovered after the Iran-Contra scandal in the late 1980s but that didn’t really effect America’s lust for global economic domination, but the current political climate in Honduras shaky to put it mildly. So we followed around business diplomats to make sure that everyone took them seriously.

“Isn’t that the President?” Les asked over the com.

I was standing at the door inside of La Infuega, an upscale restaurant inside of the capital city Tegucigalpa. Today I was basically a glorified bodyguard.

“You think I know what he looks like?” I replied.

“Castonette doesn’t brief us on anything,” he said. “It’s starting to piss me off.”

I made my way around the perimeter of the restaurant. Its large dining room overlooked the entire city from the eleven-foot tall windows covering the southern wall. It was a ritzy place. The table linins were expensive looking and I absently wondered what this place would look like during the lunch rush. At present it was vacant except for the wait staff, the cook, excuse me ‘chief,’ my client and his guest. I stopped before the windows, taking in the view.

“Jumpy Les?”

“It’s a high value target, Bishop. I’d rather not sit out here scratching my balls when political dissidence could be around any corner.”

“- it’s a simple exchange, Mr. President,” Roger Castonette was saying. He had the kind of charisma that took people far in business; an honest face and the gumption to follow through on the plans he made. The gray hair that streaked his temples seemed to lend the man more credibility as though pointing out a flaw to highlight his honesty. “You look the other way and my associates can assist you with your little media fiasco.”

“I am already a very rich man, Siñor Castonette. What makes you think I can’t buy my way out of this,” the President said in a thick South American accent.

“It’s him alright,” I said over the com.

Manuel Zelaya was shorter than I thought he would be. He wasn’t the worst guy as far as politicians were concerned but the political winds were blowing and he didn’t look like he had much of a chance.

“Let me be blunt, Mr. President,” Castonette began, “I have a lot at stake here. My clients are not exactly forgiving men and there are potential competitors everywhere.”

“I am a man of my people, Siñor Castonette. This is exactly the kind of operation that I want to keep out of my country.”

I walked to the kitchen as the server came out with their food and stopped him.

“Déjame hacer—”

“Silencio,” I interrupted, checking his badge. Guns let you do the talking. Everything checked out so I waved him on.

I wasn’t in charge of food tasting or anything. This was just a personnel issue. He gave them their entrées then glared at me on his way back to the kitchen.

“You ever get the feeling Castonette isn’t exactly running a moral organization?” I asked, continuing my patrol of the room.

“You think he would need to hire ex-Navy SEALs if what he was doing was moral?” Les said. “Ever hear of a guy making millions hob-nobbing outside the country just having lunches and meeting dignitaries?”

He was right. I didn’t really like the guy, but his checks always cleared. Six months out here in a third world country was rough. It wasn’t anything like Iraq or Afghanistan though. There you’re in a tent, you’re in a temporary barracks; here though, we lived in the lap of luxury while people lived in wooden shacks and dumped their sewage in their drinking water. On deployment you make accommodations: you see people living like that and you can relate, you’ve got the budget of the U.S. Military behind you so you also have indoor plumbing but here I slept on a pillow-top mattress and stood at the bow of yachts watching for pirates.

“Well there’s illegal then there’s immoral,” I said.

I walked back out to the windows, watching the landscape. It was a beautiful city, if you’re into that rustic, old world kind of thing. We were sitting high atop the metaphorical Mount Olympus, gods looking down upon mere mortals. I saw motion from down one of the side streets.

“We’ve got movement in the eastern sector.”

“I’m on it.”

I quickly walked back toward the table where the two men sat making small talk over their lunch. “Sir, we’ve got movement. I’d like to get you and the –”

Windows shattered as bullets crashed through them. I pushed both men down under the table before propping it up as a shield. “Shots fired, Les.” As soon as the gunfire stopped, I peered over the top with my rifle primed, ready to light someone up. There was no motion in the streets. The shock of sudden violence quieted the room. After a few agonizing, seconds three shots rang out from below.

“Tango down,” Les said.

I breathed a sigh of relief and helped Castonette up who then reached out a hand to help up President Zelaya. I went back over to check the windows. Les waved to me from an ally behind an abandoned commercial block.

“He gonna get his virgins, you think?” I asked.

Les scoffed. “This isn’t Iraq, Bishop.”

“You think Muslims are the only ones who like virgins?”

“What are they talking about up there?”

“They don’t pay me enough to listen.”

“You’re not even curious?”

“You know what they say about the cat.”

“So we have a deal then, Mr. President?” Castonette asked from behind me. I turned to watch the two check themselves over. The glass shattered two of the eastern facing windows; the manager pushed his way through the restaurant staff that huddled in the kitchen doorway in shock of the damage done to the dining room. He ran his fingers through his hair, his wide eyes staring down at the glass covering floor and tables, cursing under his breath.

“You haven’t given me much choice, Roger.” Zelaya replied.

Castonette’s wolfish smile was ear to ear. He reached out and shook Zelaya’s hand. “Excellent. I’ll make sure my associates are in place by this evening.” He removed a pen from his breast pocket and handed it to Zelaya to sign a document he placed at the end of the table.

Castonette waved me over after dismissing the President of Honduras. “You two do excellent work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“The President will be staying with us outside the city for the remainder of our stay.”

“Yes sir.”

He smiled and walked toward the kitchen, speaking with the staff. He’d obviously made progress in his business dealings because the weight of the world seemed to have slipped from his shoulders.

“Whatever it is,” I said to Les, “I don’t like it.”

Immortal Fear - 4.2

Image: http://xxx-versii.blogspot.com/2013/06/ad-and-hell-hounds.html

< < Back to Immortal Fear - 4.1

The mist dissipated from around my body into an unfamiliar enclosure. The woman was nowhere to be found.  Instead, in front of me slept an enormous beast, two heads full of teeth and claws.  Its body was the size of a bear with jaws like a wolf.  With a silent breath, I took a step back. Usually I got the better end of an exchange with women.  We’d have sex; I’d give cab fare.  I guess I appreciated the challenge.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” I mouthed looking for an exit.  She’d sent me here; I could only hope she would take me back.  I continued back peddling away from the two-headed beast, heart pounding in my chest. It was another circular room but darkened by mist more than the previous. The hound snored softly.Hurray for small miracles, I thought.

My heel thumped against something and my heart stopped. I turned. Beneath me, the skin of a two-headed dog began to smolder like the embers of a dying fire. The all too aware glow of its yellow eyes found me and bared two sets of vicious fangs.

Predator instincts or not, I ran for the only exit that I could see which is to say, into the blackened abyss beyond.  With each step, the glow of the hound’s skin told me that the pack had awakened. Their burning skin illuminated the hall; the black stone walls reflected the horrible scene in front of my eyes: a nearly naked man running for his life from a pack of wild, two-headed hounds. There was only one explanation.

I was in Hell.

The hounds nipped at my heels. I turned back to gage the distance when one leapt towards me.  I twisted, falling onto my back and extending my foot out, throwing the hound over me.  Its jaws snapped wildly as it sailed through the corridor. 

I just started to regain my footing when the second of the pack plowed into me with a double head-butt.  I groaned feeling the force crack ribs beneath my burlap coat-of-arms. Its right head snapped at my face. I threw my arm between its jaws forcing it away.  Razor sharp teeth sliced through my skin and I let out a bellow of rage, punching the beast between its heads.  It shuttered, releasing me, my left hand hung limp and blood dripped down my arm.  Five more hounds charged me, skin ablaze and eyes burning.

Maybe I was dead.  Maybe this was the manifestation of my eternal suffering, but I wasn’t going to go down without a fight.  I got up to my feet just as the first of the pack arrived, welcoming it with a kick to the chest.  It stumbled slightly as agony exploded from my foot, its chest was hard as steel. The first attacker leapt onto my back, pinning me to the ground.  The hound’s ember skin hissed as it began to burn into my flesh.  I cried out as the jaws closed around my shoulder, cracking my collarbone. I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes, sure the rest of the pack would descend upon me any time to finish the job.

I opened my eyes back in the woman’s room still laying on my stomach.  My broken collar made it impossible for me to look for the dogs, but the missing weight from my back made me hopeful.

“Respect is something you would be wise to learn, lest you find yourself in a similar situation.”  The woman hadn’t moved from her bench facing the brazier. 

I lay my head down on the cool stone with a sigh of relief.  “Thank God,” I whispered.  My body must be in a state of shock because I was only vaguely aware of a growing sense of exhaustion.

“Rise, Youngling.  Let me look upon what the tide has wash upon the shore.”

I lay there breathing, trying to get my head wrapped around her request.  “Look lady, I was just mauled by a pack of burning demon dogs,” I croaked, “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t just jump up and—”

A piercing crack emanated from the stone beneath me; I pushed myself up to my knees by reflex then examined myself in stunned silence.  My wounds were closed, all signs of scare tissue fading with them.  I looked up at her reverently.

The woman was standing now, a dark wooden walking staff held in her hand, as tall as her eye.  She was much taller than I’d first guessed but her hair still flowed down to her waist.  I tried my best not to look at her tits – I knew where that had gotten me last time.

“I think you and I got off on the wrong foot miss…”

“You may call me Sigyn.”

“Miss Sigyn—”

“Just Sigyn,” her accent was sexy and soothing all at once.

I took in a deep breath and asked the question I’d been wondering all day. “What’s happening to me?”

She walked towards me. Her eyes locked on mine, until she stood a foot away searching my features.  She gently cupped my hand then with blinding speed she pulled a knife from her loincloth, slicing across my palm.  I gasped in pain, a cross of anger and confusion in my eyes as I looked back up at her. She nodded back to my palm.

The wound had begun to seal itself.  I looked back at her; she must have seen the questions in my face.

“I may have a use for you yet, Youngling.”

I poked, testing the new flesh at my hand. “So what does this mean?”

“You are a man of little faith, Silas Bishop—”

“How does everyone I meet know that name?” I began, frustrated; though the emotion never reached its full potential as she spun, staff leveled at my head, cracking my skull at the ear.  I fell to the side in a heap.

“You burst into my realm and expect me to reveal to you truth such that the gods themselves seek? All things come at a price, Youngling, a truth I can see written in your own mind.  Listen well, for Odin himself in all his wisdom sought prophecy among the seers and desperation is all that could drive him to pay the toll.” Her voice burned with scorn in my eardrums even over the ringing.

I gasped in a stuttering breath as I returned to my senses, eyes opening wide.  I’ve killed a lot of people; I’ve taken a lot of beatings.  All that fighting had left me blunt – tact wasn’t my strong suite. I pulled myself up to my knees and sat back with my eyes cast down. My head throbbed. The last thing I needed to do was antagonize the woman anymore. I’m accustomed to deadly games, but I clearly didn’t know the rules to this one. 

My skull throbbed along with my collar and back.  Whatever was holding me together certainly wasn’t keeping me from feeling the pain.  I was accustomed to that, though. Mind over matter; pain is my body’s, my mind is my own.  “What’s the price?” I asked, not looking up.

I could hear the smirk in her voice, “Already you kneel before me and that is a start.”  It was a tenant of information brokering: always set your terms, they’re non-negotiable.  All I had to give now was my obedience; I had to hope it would be enough.

“You imagine yourself a broker of men’s lives not of information, Bishop.  I have long known mortality the blessing that it is – a lesson you are certain to learn yourself.  Now, cursed with the frailty of your body and the endless suffering of the Gods, living in the shadows of those they have created.” Her words dripped with bitterness, I dared not look at her even as my heart began to race with excitement.

“I find myself… inconvenienced,” she said. I looked up when she paused, her hair tossed over her shoulder, her hand reaching to her neck.  On it, I saw the strange rune that was burned onto the headless corpses. “You,” she said, her gaze bearing down on me, she knelt down cupping my chin in her hand “are free of the restrictions placed upon me in this realm.”

“What do you mean?”

She smiled. It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen in my life. “So long as your body lives, you remain tethered to the realm of Midgard. Yet, in your pain, you drift between worlds; down to Niflheim itself.”

I wetted my lips. I felt flush. Why was it so hot all of a sudden? “You mean I can get back?” I asked. My mouth must have been dry too because it came out in a croak.

The sudden lust in my body was overwhelming as she spoke. “Yes. I have what you want,” she said reaching between my legs and grabbing my hard shaft, “Mortality ever plays to my advantage.” She shoved me to my back, legs parting over me and mounting without a flinch, still holding the massive walking staff vertical.  It happened so suddenly I couldn’t control myself as I began thrusting wildly. She slammed the stick down with an ear-shattering crack, pressing her body onto mine, a bestial smile gripping her face.

“The nine realms hold perils for gods as well as men. The mists of prophecy are clouded by immortal threads of will but I care little for that. My son walks free while my daughter keeps me in this cage.” Her words nearly lost to me in my uncontrollable lust. My eyes locked on her hips as we writhed together on the glossy black stone. “Find the portal to this realm, there the Wolf shall greet you; answer to me until I’m free, a slave to all who bind you.”

What had she just said? I think it was important, but I was close now, deep insider her ethereal hips. She slammed her hand around my neck stopping me cold. Her eyes deep black and her mouth twisted in fanged smile, she looked down on me as a harpy to her prey. “You would know your way through the Underworld? Then you will satiate my desire.” With that, her fangs dug deep into my neck and my scream finally echoed through the cavern.

I wasn’t sure if from pleasure or pain.
To Immortal Fear - 5.1 > >

Immortal Fear - 2

Image: https://eatsleepride.com/

< < Back to Immortal Fear -1

I’m dead.

It’s weird how logical you can be, flipping eighty miles per hour end over end through the air.  I wasn’t scared. My life didn’t pass before my eyes. It’s kind of like a video game – some stupid kid tosses a grenade into your path and you amble right over it. I’m dead.  It’s a pretty normal reaction, right?

Life isn’t like a video game, though.  It’s weird, I must have been flipping pretty quickly, I eventually lost track of which were oncoming headlights and which were stars – it was disorienting enough to make a guy nauseous.

No, that isn’t right. Really? What was making me nauseous? The view, or the spinning?

A traumatic event doesn’t make time slow down, it’s more like your ability to perceive increases.  As I tumbled through the air I saw everything.  My motorcycle, like some ballet dancer, pirouetted in the air before slamming into the guard rail.  Fuck, I thought with an odd calmness, there goes my Ducati.

God, it died almost as sexy as I would. 

That’s not morbid, it’s a fact – Ducati’s are the sexiest motorcycles on the market.

Cars swerved and slowed in the mayhem.  I couldn’t hear anything though, which I thought was odd since the buzz of the engine was ever present on the open road.  Kelly always told me that bike would be the death of me.  Or was it Marissa? Jillian? It wasn’t important. Women were always telling me how to live my life, starting with my mother. 

The ground was closer with every rotation. How do you brace yourself for a fall like this? The DMV makes you take a motorcycle safety course before they’ll issue you a license.  It’s a big song and dance about knowing your vehicle, how to control a slide, and what type of clothing will best protect you from road rash. I guess it doesn’t really matter – there’s no way I would be getting up from this.  My leathers sure as hell weren’t going to protect me.

I tensed my body hoping my left arm would hit before my hip, breaking a portion of my fall. As I struck the asphalt my arm hit with a guttural pop and grind.  I’d broken my arm before as a kid, but not above the elbow.  I remember it  hurting like hell and I felt like this time it should hurt a lot worse, but… nothing: just like popping a knuckle.  Maybe there wasn’t enough time, almost immediately afterwards my hip slammed into the pavement – suddenly I knew what it felt like to be a snail; that soft crunching sound when you step on them?  The sound must have been really satisfying.  The pressure on my body was overwhelming but I wouldn’t describe it as painful.

A near death experiences was supposed to be a blur of raw emotion and fear.  Mine was crystal clear.  Ever see on the Discovery Channel when a gazelle stops to take a drink and an alligator pops out.  Surprise!  The gazelle struggles to escape but it’s got a calm, almost logical, accepting demeanor.  I couldn’t forget this moment with all the whiskey in Ireland but if I walked away from this, I intended to try.  I rolled sixteen and a half times: nine in the air and seven and a half after hitting the street.  My ribs snapped like a dry wishbone.  If there had been two people pulling on my ribs, they’d both likely get their wish. One of them punctured my lung around roll twelve.  As I stopped I realized I couldn’t catch my breath.  Maybe this is what it felt like when I stole that kid’s inhaler back in the fourth grade. 

I hadn’t realized what a sadistic guy I was.

Then again, I kill people for a living.

I laid in the middle of the road face down.  Every breath I took a gasp.  I still wasn’t in any pain.  Maybe it was shock.  I must have closed my eyes when I hit the ground.  Every muscle in my body was taunt.  My eyes finally opened to see blood oozing to the ground beneath me.  Most of my nose and chin would be smeared on the road behind me.  My visor must have splintered and broken away. That what I get for buying a helmet based on looks, not on safety features. 

Wear a better helmet nah-nah-nah, I heard her say, as if mocking myself.  She’d said it a hundred times with her incessant nagging. God, how is she nagging me on my death… road?

Turning over would probably be a good idea.  I mean, I doubt breathing in asphalt was good for your health – although neither was a pack a day habit or wrecking your bike on the interstate for that matter. I tried to move my legs.

Nothing.

Not a good sign.

How had this happened anyway?  I was tailing my mark in the Maserati, then…

White cars. Right.

Did I still have my gun? If someone had it out for me but didn’t have the common courtesy to just put a bullet in me, they probably wouldn’t break their stride to put me out of my misery after so blatantly sending my bike and I tumbling across the interstate but just in case, I wanted to be able to show them my ‘gratitude.’

I heard a car door slam, and footsteps running towards me.  If they had come back to finish the job, I didn’t have a whole lot of time.

It takes a handsome, brute of a man to conceal a Desert Eagle .50.  Luckily, a more sexy or brutal man than I, you could not find.  I felt the muscles tense in my arm, then the rough blacktop beneath my hand as it tried to reach under my body into my shoulder holster.  That arm was definitely broken.  It had the same feeling as though it were asleep; you know, pins and needles? Almost like it tickled – no, not in a good way.  There was no way I’d reach my shoulder holster in this condition and the footsteps were growing closer.  Like it mattered. Vengeance was a dish best served when you’re not dead.

“Easy, lad. Don’t move. Help is on the way,” a thick Irish voice said from above me.

“Gurnnnngggg…”

That wasn’t right.  I’d meant to say, let me die in peace you… you…

I guess if he wasn’t going to put a bullet in me, he didn’t deserve my wrath but god, good Samaritans were annoying.

I realized then the street sounds were back.  That’s a good sign, I guess. I tried to get my hands underneath me – I was tired of sharing fluids with the street. That didn’t work out too well. The minute I tried pushing myself up I began to cough violently. Blood splattered on the ground in front of me.

Oh right.  Punctured lung.

“Stay still, lad,” a hand pressed on my shoulder. I’m sure it was meant to be a comforting gesture but it was forceful enough to keep me in my place. “Exacerbatin’ a spinal injury is a good way to wind up in a wheelchair.”  I couldn’t even see this prick and all I could think of was punching him in his fat potato face.

Suddenly all I could think of was a giant Mr. Potato Head doll restraining me in the middle of a southern California interstate. I must have lost a lot of blood; I mean, I’m not usually a racist, but potato face?

That’s hilarious.

With that level of lunacy I should have been knock, knock, knockin’ on Heaven’s door already. I wasn’t complaining, mind you;  It wasn’t all that bad. I could barely breath, moving was out of the question and I had the cheery company of strangers I already knew I didn’t like.

Just like my birthday.

“Oh god!” That was a new voice. “Is he okay?”

I can’t even see me and I know the answer to that one, lady.

“Give him space, I think he has a broken neck,” Potato Face said.

Broken neck, that would make sense.  I loved in those Hollywood espionage movies; they’d sneak up behind someone, snap their neck and down they’d go.

“Stay with me lad, and you’ll make it through this,” he lied.

I envied those spy bastards. 

“Everyone just stand back, please. The paramedics are on their way.”

Everyone? I didn’t expect my fifteen minutes of fame would come on the interstate.  Freak show always draws a crowd I guess, no matter where it is. I must have been a hell of a sight, too.  Broken ribs, arm – my lower half couldn’t be in much better shape.  My face! How could I have stolen that light from the world? Hell, it was that trustworthy face of mine that made me so successful.  No one noticed a handsome man as long as you didn’t do things to draw attention to yourself. Like the opposite of a homeless man; everyone ignores you until you start begging, then they just pretend to ignore you.

I felt someone kneel down beside me. “Our Lord, God, has sent me to your side”

What was this guy, some kind of priest?  If there was a God, he had a sick sense of humor.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven. Hallowed be Thy Name,” he continued but I stopped listening.  If there really was an afterlife I hoped it was the seventy-two virgins kind.  I’m not a womanizer, I just really like banging chicks. Didn’t the Vikings have some kind of hall where you could get shit-faced and kill each other until the end of time?  That was probably more my style, I didn’t want to be nagged for all eternity.

It was getting really hard to breath.  I forced out a cough and blood gurgled in the back of my throat.  I started to feel very cold.  Why did blood have that weird metallic taste?  I could hear the faint sound of sirens approaching.  Small miracles I guess, they would arrive just in time to pronounce me dead.

“May the Lord protect you and lead you to eternal life.  In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

The commotion from the crowd rose as the sirens came to a stop. Doors slammed and footsteps silently approached me. My last thought was, How can I get to the afterlife without my bike?
To Immortal Fear - 3 > >

Deep-Time: Burdens of the Patriarch

Deep-Time is a world created by myself and David Stewart. A Science fiction in which the people are harshly governed by the laws of relativity. The galaxy is split up between two groups of people the Clans and the Planetsiders. 

The Clans travel deep into unexplored portions of the galaxy at near light speed slowing time aboard the ships relative to the people planet side. They set quantum entangled particles (QEPs) to create gateways, allowing planet side ships to travel instantaneously from gate to gate.

While the clans travel at near light speed, the planet side folk live their lives as normally as we might today. The planet may go through generations, hundreds of years, between the time they're seeded from a clan ship and the next time they see the same ship; for the clan ship, however, only a few weeks have passed.

In this story Moses, an Earthling Clan Macbeth rescued from the shattered remnants of Earth, tries to decipher Malcolm Macbeth's motivations as he and his son, Anders, argue over which planet will be the recipient of newest QEP gate. 

You can read the introduction to Deep-Time on David's blog, here. I hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. As always, thank you so much for reading.

“Everett-VI is the best candidate for the newest jump seed, Malcolm.” Anders was saying but Malcolm Macbeth paid him no mind as he continued to watch over the engineers hard at work keeping the Icarus’s engines at optimal performance. As always, since his rescue from Earth – the Human race’s ancestral home, Moses remained at Macbeth’s side as the silver-haired man always had something up his sleeve. Yes, it was always a lesson and though it irked him, Moses knew that if it hadn’t been for Macbeth’s clan rescuing him from orbit around the planet he would not only be dead, but oblivious to what that fate entailed.

“We’ve been at sixty-eight percent light speed for nearly a month, Malcolm. Any feud between you and Conner is well past turned to ash. It’s been generations.” Anders went on.

It was an ever mind bending shock to Moses to think that though he was just shy of middle aged in his thirty-eighth year, this entire crew had lived for hundreds of years. Well, hundreds of planet-side years. As they traveled closer to the speed of light, time slowed for them. It was seen to some as a curse; traveling into deep space to plant the quantum entangled particle that would allow human civilization to expand - to travel without the boundaries of relativity – to the outer reaches of the galaxy, only to return months later to find everyone you knew dead, but the great, great grandchildren dead as well.

“Conner had a small mind,” Macbeth said after a time.

“Yes, and you’ve won,” Anders said mockingly, “Can’t you at least give his kin, our kin, a chance at something greater? A chance to expand Clan Macbeth into the furthest depths of deep space?”

Macbeth snorted. He was the image of composed confidence but not so long ago, he would smolder at the mere mention of Conner’s name. Moses had been around the man long enough to see the iron grip Macbeth had over his composure, it showed no sign of slipping now.

“We’ll be in the Everett system in less than forty-five minutes,” Anders said. “I would stop so that we at least consider the option, given what cultural advances they’re sure to have developed.”

“There’ll be none, boy.” Macbeth said. His tone wasn’t mocking, it had a hint of… pity.

Anders only heard it through the bitterness in his voice, matched by what he imagined was there in the older man. “He was the greatest engineer that had ever been aboard the Icarus, aboard the entire fleet maybe! Maybe he doesn’t have thousands of lifetimes to complete his work, but surely he bore a strong seed in Everett-VI. The planet is sure to be ripe with innovation. You’ll see. I’ll hail you when we arrive.” He turned then on the iron catwalk above the mass of engineers working on the engine below, boots clapping on the metallic surface as he made for the central lift to take him back to the bridge.

“Anders,” Macbeth called.

The younger man stopped, turning his head over his shoulder. The barest recognition that the older man, the Patriarch of Clan Macbeth had addressed him.

“Stop at the outer ring. We’ll see what they’ve done, lad, but I don’t want to trigger a religious event if we decide to move on.” Macbeth said.

Anders took a deep breath, nodded, then continued on toward the lift. He was gone a moment later. The two men were left alone on the catwalk with the thrum of the engine room.

“That seemed… cruel,” Moses said.

Macbeth let out a deep sigh, still watching the men work below. “Cruel. Yes, I suppose it could be seen that way.”

“You know that Conner was his best friend, right?”

Macbeth turned to him; his eyes were a deep emerald green. His severe gaze finally forced Moses to look away. It had been close to a year now – ship time – that Moses had been on board but still he was as a child to the rest of the crew. “What do you remember of your life before we found you, Moses?” he asked.

He paused at the odd change in topic, considering. “Images. Places mostly. The Omni-Core sent instructions directly into our implants,” he said. He moved his hand instinctively to a round scar just behind his right eye. “I didn’t really have much I needed to remember. I did what I had to do, and was told how to do it.”

“So you’ve said before,” Macbeth replied. “Did you ever have children?”

Children were always fuzzy to Moses. There were imprints of sharp images torn from his mind. “I believe so. I lived with a pair of children. We were attached in some way. I recall panic at the thought of harm coming to them. Could they have been mine?”

Macbeth let out a soft chuckle, “I suppose they could have been, at that. What would have hurt them back on Earth?”

The image tugged in Moses’s mind. A white sheet with blue, yellow and brown on it. A drawing. A… bird. “Creativity,” he said finally. “The Omni-Core strove for conformity.” He had taken the drawing and hidden it away. Afraid someone would find it and take the little one away from him.

“And what would you say is the opposite of conformity, Moses?” Macbeth said.

After a moment of thought he replied, “Autonomy. How you and your clan are showing me to live, Malcolm.”

He turned on his boot heels and strode toward the central lift then. Moses follow behind.

“An excellent answer, Moses. But are we showing you to be autonomous?”

“Well yes. If you recall, my first night aboard the Icarus I couldn’t handle a broom,” Moses said.

Macbeth stopped then, in front of the lift. “Yet you follow in my footsteps.”

“Well, you instructed me to when we first—”

Macbeth faced him then, “Am I your new Omni-Core, Moses?”

“I should hope not, Malcolm.”

“Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“Not at all.”

Macbeth turned and entered the lift as it opened before them. Moses hurried along after him. The two faced the doorway, Macbeth’s steely composure quieting the small room as he stood at parade rest. Moses twitched nervously as the lift shifted into motion.

“We’ll be approaching the Everett system in twenty ship minutes,” a voice over the com announced.

“What does it mean to be human?” he asked.

Moses thought for a moment before answering, “To struggle.”

A smile cracked Macbeth’s lips. “And why is it we struggle?”

“To understand. To know. To… be.”

“All of these things, Moses, cannot exist if we were fully autonomous. Humanity needs itself to survive. It’s why the clans came into existence in the first place,” Macbeth said. “To be in deep space, we need family. With family, we struggle to find our place. Our usefulness.”

“That often troubles me, Malcolm. If that’s true, why have you kept me aboard?”

“That’s a question for another time, Moses. Suffice it to say, your usefulness is constantly appealing to me.” The doors opened and the two men continued down a long corridor. The rough metal paneling on the walls of the upper decks of the ship hadn’t changed since the ship was originally constructed – according to some of the older crew members, Macbeth had a nostalgic streak and the aesthetics of the upper decks were a way of keeping him focused on his goal.

“To work together, to have community, we cannot be completely autonomous. There is a level of conformity among us. An agreement, shall we say, to work together toward the achievement of a greater goal.” Macbeth said.

“So it is, in fact, conformity that you’re showing me?” Moses asked.

“Don’t be absurd,” Macbeth replied. “If everyone knew how to manage the helm, and no one knew how to maintain the engines, how would we achieve anything? Our dream of deep-space travel would never have begun. No, Anders is a great helmsman and Timothy’s ability to adapt our engines to the newest advances from our planet-side colonies is unmatched. In these things, our autonomy is priceless.”

Moses considered this as the entered the bridge. The room spilled out from the door in a deep, downward sloping room. Descending the ramp, they passed console stations; navigation, communications, weapons. Their occupants busy at work.  Anders was below at the helm.

“Status?” Macbeth asked.

“We’ve slowed to main thrusters. The anti-matter engines have disengaged,”  Anders said. “We’ll be within scanner range shortly.”

Moses followed Anders’ intense focus. He was obviously a skilled pilot. He’d taken the Icarus out of plenty of dangerous situations with little damage done to the ship. It was plain to see what Macbeth was talking about in Anders’ ability. His skill was second to none in the Macbeth Clan.

“We should be within scanner range,” Anders said.

“I’m picking up some serious tech readings, Macbeth,” the woman behind them said. Moses still had problems with his short-term memory, so he hadn’t gotten a grasp on everyone’s name. He had begun to get the sense he should feel embarrassed, after all he had spent a year with these people.

Anders flashed a satisfied grin at Macbeth. “Whatever Conner’s done, His people will be out colonizing half the quadrant for Clan Macbeth.”

“Can you give us a visual, Vanessa?” Macbeth asked.

The woman nodded, dragging the image from her small monitor up to the grand viewing screen at the front of the room. The image of a gas giant sprung into view, blocking the light of a small yellow star. The Icarus slowly passed its horizon to reveal the small, terrestrial planet in the inner reaches of the solar system.

Anders gasped at the sight.

“All stop.” Macbeth said.

Anders stared at the planet, not reacting to Macbeth’s command.

“It’s reached singularity, Anders. Stop the ship. Now.”

Anders shook himself from the shock, first stopping their forward momentum then engaging the grav-anchor. He stood up, tears heavy in his eyes as he approached Macbeth. “You did this!” he shouted. “How bad was he that you could go so far as to annihilate an entire faction of our clan to settle your petty grudge?”

Macbeth stood still, his eyes never left the view screen.

Moses looked up at the planet. A swirl of satellites obscured the surface. He was grateful; somehow, he had avoided remembering the beauty of this planet. Somehow, he would be able to sleep tonight not knowing the full reason behind Anders’ anger.  

Anders brushed past Macbeth then, ignoring the cries of the rest of the crew. He needed time to grieve. In light of what was their most promising achievement this year, he needed his time to grieve.

“Jon,” Macbeth said. “Can you take us out of the system on your own?”

“Sure thing, Macbeth.” He said.

“Set a course for the Monarch system. They’ll be receiving the QEP seed to our newest gateway.” Macbeth said. With that, he strode out of the room, back toward the upper deck corridor. Moses watched in silence. Jon took the helm and guided them out of the solar system.

“Moses?”

He shook his head waking from his stupor. Jon was looking at him expectantly.

“He’s not answering the com. Could you go find him?”

He looked around, seeing it was just the three of them on the bridge.

“Sure,” he said and walked toward the  corridor. He passed the woman again. Vanessa . I’ll remember this time.

When he exited the bridge, Macbeth was nowhere in sight. Moses knew where he was, however.

Short term memory was a tricky thing. If he didn’t repeat an action, a name, a place over and over again, he couldn’t remember it. He knew Macbeth and his immediate family because of his consistent proximity to them. He knew Conner because frankly, he had been one of the few friends Moses had made outside of Macbeth’s immediate family. He had been so wrapped up in the confusion of the planet, with the anger evident in Anders’ face, he hadn’t noticed the slow swelling of anger in his own chest. He knew where Macbeth was because that’s where he always went to cool his head.

He ran then, down the corridor, heedless of the protocols he was breaking. He veered right, past the observation crews pouring over scanning data. He turned again, and again heedless of the personnel he pushed out of the way. Finally he stopped a lone door at the end of the maze.

The door to the nose of the ship opened and Macbeth stood at the tip of a catwalk surrounded by wide open space all around, the stars alight on all sides. Moses took a hesitant step out. The vastness of space always made him motion sick so he stopped only a few paces in. “Why?” he asked.

“Are we automatons, Moses?” he asked, his back turned facing the depths of space.

“He was Anders’ best friend! Your son’s best friend, Macbeth! Why is Anders so upset? What happened to that planet?” Moses cried.

Macbeth turned then, his shoulders slumped. “The planet achieved singularity,” he said. “Do you remember Earth when we found you?”

“You know I don’t.”

“But you remember the scars that occurred afterwards.”

Moses turned away at that. He always felt a shiver of shame at his scars. None of the other clan-men had them, he wasn’t even certain why he did.

“When a planet achieves singularity we must abandon it and all the people on it. An AI has taken a leadership role: delegating tasks, placing people best suited for each other together. Sound familiar?”

Moses nodded, “The Omni-Core.”

“What happened to Earth happened to Everett-VI,” Macbeth went on. “The ‘Omni-Core’ drafts any network capable device into its community and begins delegating tasks to it. The cybernetic implants you had when we found you gave the Omni-Core complete control over you. If we got any closer, we would be put our entire fleet at risk.” Macbeth turned back to the vast space before the nose of the ship.

Moses overcame the motion sickness and approached Macbeth on the catwalk. “Why did you leave Conner planet-side?”

“Hubris,” he replied.

Moses stood shoulder to shoulder with him now, confusion writ in his eyes, “Hubris?”

“I am a prideful man, Moses. Anyone in this fleet can attest to that. When two prideful men stand toe-to-toe, people are liable to get hurt.” Macbeth explained.

Moses was thoughtful for a moment. He realized, like Macbeth, he too was granted a sort of calm from gazing out into the vastness of the stars.

“So, Conner was too autonomous?” he asked. “And you needed him to conform, so that he could be part of the community.”

Macbeth grunted. “You’re learning.” He said. “Life is ever a struggle for balance. We cannot be too dependent or too autonomous. In the end, we rely on each other to strike a balance and find our place.”

“But Conner didn’t find his place,” Moses countered. “You gave him an ultimatum.”

“A choice, Moses. I gave him a choice. To follow the lead of his Patriarch, or see how he did on his own.”

“So you knew if he was in charge, our best computer engineer, the entire civilization he built would fall into singularity?” Moses asked, aghast.

“There is always free will, Moses. It is the board on which we strive for balance.”

“That doesn’t seem like much of an answer for a man of such self-acclaimed hubris.”

“Of course I knew, Moses!” He shouted. “He was my clan mate since he was born. Everyone in my crew has ties to me, and I them. If it hadn’t been Everett-VI it would have been this entire damn fleet. Now you tell me, does arrogance negate self-preservation?”

Moses watched Macbeth as the fire twinkled in his eyes from burning rage down to glowing embers of regret. Macbeth turned back to the stars, hiding the weight on his heart.

“Was there no other option?” Moses asked.

“There was always another option. Conner had but choose to make those decisions.” With that, Macbeth fell silent.

The two stood out at the tip of the cat walk, watching the stars and the swirl of solar systems for a time.

“Free will is like a board,” Moses said. “But you have to balance with everyone else around you.”

“Aye,” Macbeth said.

“And if you’re not careful your weight can topple the board over, along with everyone on it.”

Macbeth nodded and turned from the beauty of the cosmos to Moses, “Aye, lad. And in your innocence you find understanding; in your understanding I hope you can understand your worth to me.”

With that Macbeth turned from the stars and strode back onto into the bowels of the ship, leaving Moses to ponder the weight of that responsibility.