What Price the Stars? Part 5

The stars outside the hull changed. Michael’s stomach flipped. The scones he’d eaten at tea leapt to the back of his mouth. He gulped them back down, with effort. Alexi was less lucky. The contents of her stomach stippled the deck of the Inscrutable. Jørgen rushed to her side, and draped his jacket over her shoulders.

“I am sorry. The discomfort that accompanies a ghostride is unavoidable. Some people are more sensitive than others,” he said.

“What causes it?” asked Michael.

“The pneuma of human beings is sensitive to spooky instantiation. When your legacy instance is voided, you experience a whiplash of the soul.”

Rosencrantz rolled his eyes. “Pneuma? Whiplash of the soul? Tosh.”

“Professor, I invite you to come up with a better explanation.”

“Thank you. I shall, as could any child of ten.”

“I will await it, then. Here is our destination.” Jørgen yawed Inscrutable to port. A steely gas giant world hove into view, banded and bruised with indigo storms. So swift was the planets rotation that it was visibly flattened. A flotilla of moons compassed around it, from this distance little more than a stately escort of colorful dots.

“A super Jupiter,” Li marveled. “What is this system?”

“It has no name on the charts you are familiar with, but it is called Sanctum Dominio, for reasons that will soon be made clear.”

Jørgen put Inscrutable on an approach path, while Rosencrantz and Li peppered him with questions. Alexi retired to the lavatory, and Michael slipped away in search of a different kind of comfort. Fortified with a libation from the bar, he settled onto a couch calm his nerves. He had little success. The four of them utterly at the mercy of Jørgen Pangloss. Alexi might trust him, but Michael did not. Ever since she’d slipped away from him in the treetop, he could think of nothing but protecting her. But what could he do against Jørgen the miracle worker?

Someone gently touched his shoulder. He looked up, expecting Alexi, but found Jørgen instead. “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

“No,” Michael replied, his actual feelings notwithstanding. “I’m surprised that Tuan and Chandra let you go.”

Jørgen chuckled as he settled onto the arm of the sofa. “My tormenters are fighting amongst themselves, so I excused myself. I’ve wanted a word with you. You pay attention, but speak little. I would hear your thoughts.”

“You may be disappointed. I was thinking of Alexi.”

“That disappoints me not at all. Alexandra Alexovna is an exquisite creature. I could dedicate much thought to her. If I may be so bold, what part of her occupies your thoughts?”

Emboldened by the last of his drink, Michael replied. “Her hands.”

“Aye, they are matchless works of the Creator’s art, delicate yet strong, and quick, I think, to ball into fists. I would treasure a sweet caress or a blow from them, it matters not which. That is why I restored them when they were sadly battered.”

His candor cut right through Michael’s buzz. “You admit it. Do you mind explaining how you did it?”

Jørgen shook his head. “A man must keep a few secrets, should he not?”

“I suppose you are right. Thank you, by the way. Alexi is a dear friend of mine.”

“More than that, I think.”

Michael refused to take the bait. “What else would you like to know?” he asked.

“Do I guess rightly that you are not interested in the game?”

“You do,” Michael replied. “My chief concern is...” he stopped when Alexi appeared at Jørgen’s side, looking refreshed. She turned mischievous eyes on Michael.

“What are you so concerned about, Mishka?”

“Our welfare.” Your welfare, he thought to himself.

“Such an old man you are, Michael Borisovich!” She peeled languorously out of Jørgen’s jacket. It smelled of her favorite perfume. He received it from, her and took a long, deep breath.

“Thank you, Lapooshka. It has returned to me better than ever, and warm!” he said.

“Where there is warmth, there is fire,” she purred.

Michael’s glass shot to his lips. It was empty.

“Perhaps I could get you something?” Jørgen offered.

“No, allow me,” Alexi purred. “I know what Mishka drinks. What would you like, Jørgen?”

“As my lady chooses.”

“One Venus’s Endless Climax coming right up,” Alexi announced. She strutted to the bar with a fantastic roll of hips.

Michael could stand no more. “You must know that it's all an act,” he whispered to Jørgen.

“Beyond a doubt. But a shrewd woman races her fastest horse first. Cunning Alexi's mare is passing swift.”

“Do you think so? I’m ashamed for her. Alexi is much more than a mere temptress.”

“There is no such thing as a mere temptress. A sword may slay a thousand men, but the loins of a woman can consume worlds and disgorge new ones in their place. The womb is preeminent among the temporal powers. Only the divine is greater.”

“If that were true, women would have ruled over men from the beginning.”

His host smiled slyly. “So you have been taught to say. But the wise once held that the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world. They were right. Now hush! The huntress returns.”

Alexi arrived with a beverage tray. She offered it to Michael, who fetched his mundane vodka with polite thanks. She then handed Jørgen a blazing pink concoction, taking a second for herself. When she took her first sip, her smoldering eyes never wavered from her prey.

Jørgen followed suit. “A peerless choice.”

“It’s a pity that endless climaxes are reserved for stodgy old Venus,” Alexi said, licking sugary froth from her lips.

“Are you quite sure of that?” Jørgen replied softly.

Hot blood rose in Alexi’s cheeks.

A chime sounded. Rosencrantz and Li appeared, as if by magic. “What is that?” Rosencrantz said.

“We are being hailed,” Jørgen replied. He waved a hand, invoking his corona of holographic controls. One was blinking. He thrust a finger into it. A life-sized holo of a man appeared before him, wearing the robes of an ancient monk, complete with tonsure and oversized Latin cross.

“Dominie Pangloss, it is good to see you,” said the monk, in the accent of a bygone era.

“Thank you, Fra Grimaldi. Is the foundry prepared for our visit?”

“Yes. But will not join us on Sacra Cor first? His Holiness has been asking after you. His shield girdle has stopped working, and as you know he is a cautious man.”

“Please tell him that I will fix his girdle when I am finished with my business. Until then, he may shelter inside his armored Popecarrier, unless that is defective, too.”

“It’s in good working order, but the fabric palette is that of Boniface the Ninety–Fifth. I hesitate to report that it clashes badly with His Holiness’ favorite shoes.”

“He must make do for now. Please inform the Abbess of Wrightstown that I will be arriving soon.”

“I shall, Dominie Pangloss. I daresay she will be glad to hear it. Good day to you.”

The hologram vanished. Rosencrantz spoke first. “Please tell me that was some sort of charade for our amusement.”

“It was quite real,” Jørgen said. “I have known Fra Grimaldi since he was a neophyte. He is tirelessly industrious. If I had my way, he would be a Cardinal. But I have promised not to meddle in church business.”

Rosencrantz flew into a frenzy. “I’m not talking about the man! What is the filthy church doing here?”

Jørgen cast a hard look his way. “They shelter in the safe harbor I provided. Without me, they would have died out long ago.”

“And a fine thing it would be! If what you say is true, you’ve nurtured a hive of superstitious Luddites! How can you make the engines here?”

Michael cleared his throat. “It’s obvious, Chandra. The church is running the foundry. They are the laborers we must agree to accept.”

Jørgen nodded. “Very astute, Michael Borisovich. The Diaspora Catholic Church will render superb service. The winner will learn that they are indispensable partners. Quite literally indispensable, for the foundry will function for no one else.”

“Partners?!” raged Rosencrantz. “They are nothing but a liability! If the government learns of their survival, they will send an armada to collect reparations.”

Jørgen’s eyes flashed. “They would find this place very well defended, indeed. I promised the church safe dwellings. I do not break my word.”

Rosencrantz bit his lip, and said no more.

“Jørgen, the foundry cannot be on that gas giant, can it?” asked Alexi.

“It is not,” Jørgen replied, working the controls. Inscrutable banked, and a huge moon appeared to starboard. This moon was no frozen rock, but instead an inviting blue marble brushed with swirls of white cloud. It had its own satellite, a metallic copper orb the size of a large asteroid. Jørgen headed straight towards it.

“Lady, gentlemen, we have arrived,” Jørgen said. “Here are Sacra Cor, the permanent home in exile of the Diaspora Catholic Church, and our final port of call, the foundry moon.”

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8