What Price the Stars? Part 7

The competitors stood in silence, amazed at Jørgen’s pronouncement. Li–who up until now had said little–spoke into the breathless pall.

“You claim to have provided this star system to the church. They vanished a millennium ago, at the end of the Little Dark Age. Were you there?”

“I was,” Jørgen replied.

Li continued. “Were the Neosoviets your doing?”

“Yes. The Dark Age had served its purpose. The automatons were destroyed, and only three tiny cohorts of men remained. I brook no competition, so the Monarchists were right out. The Democratic Revivalists showed promise, but they were hot to repeat the mistakes of their ancestors. Left with no alternative, I begrudgingly suffered the Neosoviets to rule for a time. But they were not the sort of people who should be allowed to colonize the galaxy. I was forced to wait them out.”

It was too much for Rosencrantz. “Need you hear another word? We have wasted our time. The man is insane!”

“Without doubt,” rumbled Li.

Jørgen shrugged. “You are free to think me mad,” he said. “But decide what to do, and do it quickly. The time has come for the foundry to be rendered up. If none of you will have it, I will find someone else. You may return to Earth, to your brief lives and small concerns. But you will go with no memory of me, or of this place.”

Alexi blanched and rounded on the men. “Fools!” she exclaimed. “Geldings, the lot of you, timid, dull and blinkered! Disqualify yourselves if you must, but leave me out of it! I will see all that Jørgen has to offer, and sniveling men–children cannot stop me.” She strode to Jørgen’s side and offered him her arm.

He took it readily, with a warm smile. “Great heart shall not be denied, Lapooshka.”

Rosencrantz twitched, and Li fumed, his hard eyes locked on Alexi. He was a proud man, and could not possibly enjoy being called timid, or blinkered, and especially not sniveling.

Casting about for something to break the tension, Michael found it in the form of a group figures coming toward them from the direction of the buildings. “I think we have company,” he said.

“Excellent!” said Jørgen. “This will be the Abbess. I caution you to show her only the greatest respect. She is a maestro with the neuron flail.”

“Is that the voice of experience?” Alexi teased.

“Aye, it is. She bored of me quickly. My groans and pleadings lack a certain authenticity that her satisfaction requires. But look sharp! Here she is.”

The Abbess had arrived, escorted by a squad of grim Pervincos. A hawk nosed woman in an iron gray habit, she was enormously pregnant.

“It is good to see you again, Reverend Mother Dumiel,” Jørgen said, scraping low.

“The pleasure is all mine, Dominie Pangloss. My staff is prepared to meet your every need,” she replied, her voice crisp and businesslike.

“I doubt that. You, on the other hand, always exceed my expectations.”

Mother Dumiel blushed, and quickly pivoted. “On behalf of the Ancient and Holy Order of Drivewrights, I welcome you and your guests to Wrightstown. Our home is your home, such as it is.”

“Superb!” Jørgen replied. “We must soon take advantage of your generous hospitality. We will require food and a place to spend the night.”

“Your guests may have the bunks in the safe room, and I will ensure that a late meal is served in the commons. It will be simple, out of necessity. All of our food must come up from Sacra Cor.”

Jørgen laid a cheeky hand on the curve of her stomach. “I am pleased that you have not wanted for sustenance. Your twin boys are healthy. Have you named them?”

“Andre and Bleriot. Our custom is to follow the alphabet. Perhaps next time I shall bear a girl. I dearly love the name Capucine.”

“A beautiful name, and a beautiful flower. Do you prefer the red or the gold?”

“The gold.”

“When beloved Capucine comes, she shall be fair, unlike her dusky brothers.” With a swift finger, Jørgen traced a strange sign on the Abbess’ bulging belly. She gasped, and joy softened her harsh features. Her faith in Jørgen was complete, it seemed.

Ever one to ignore the sublime, Alexi cleared her throat. “Ah, excuse me, Mother,” she said, awkwardly, “I’m no historian, but I didn’t think that the religious were permitted to, uh, make babies.”

“That was true, long ago. When the Neosoviets drove us into hiding our vows were relaxed, lest our orders die out. After Dominie Pangloss graciously provided us a world of our own, procreation become a meritorious work. We bear joyfully, so that Sacra Cor may be filled with life and worship.”

Alexi opened her mouth to reply, but she wasn’t given the chance.

There was a huge explosion from the direction they’d come. Gigantic fingers of orange fire clawed the dim air of the Hall of Receiving. Michael tackled Alexi and pulled her to the ground, but there was no shock wave, and no shrapnel fell.

“Stay here,” Jørgen commanded. The Pervinco nearest to him knelt, and Jørgen mounted his back. The armored squad lifted into the air and roared off toward the guttering fire, with Jørgen riding the leader like a mounted knight, his black jacket flapping in the slipstream.

“What just happened?” Michael wondered aloud.

“Bad business,” replied Li, who remained standing, and curiously unruffled.

Michael helped Alexi to her feet. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she said, dusting her knees and elbows. “Thank you, Mishka. I wasn’t fast enough.”

“Do you still think the game is worth it?”

“I do,” she said, squinting after Jørgen and the Pervincos. “I wish it weren’t so dark in here. I can’t tell what’s going on. Do you see that pedik Rosencrantz anywhere?”

“I didn’t know that it was my turn to watch him.”

The light in the hall changed suddenly. Behind them, the Abbess screamed.

Michael whirled to discover a huge monster. It was black as night. Tatters of smoky shadow hung from its hulking husk like the wrappings of a mummy. But its face was the queer fishy visage of a Grig, and it reached out for Mother Dumiel with immense, iron-clawed hands.

The Abbess stood her ground. She withdrew from her habit a device that looked like the hilt of a knife. A neuron flail, just as Jørgen had warned. The entity took a menacing step toward her, and she fired. It did nothing but goad the monster into a headlong charge. At the last second, Mother Dumiel gave back, but her foot slipped on the glassy pavement. She fell, landing hard at the feet of the onrushing apparition.

Help came from an unexpected quarter. Professor Rosencrantz dashed from out of nowhere and stood over her, arms outstretched. “Begone, you alien thing!” he screeched in his reedy voice.

The monster froze. Abruptly, it lumbered away, vanishing silently into the gloom. Michael blinked in shock. Only a few seconds had passed.

With a roar of jetpacks, the guards reappeared, bearing an angry Jørgen. He leapt to the ground and ran to the Abbess’ side.

“Mother, are you hurt?” he asked earnestly.

She shook her head. “I, I don’t think so. What was that creature?”

“It looked like a Grig,” Rosencrantz declared.

“That cannot be,” Mother Dumiel replied. “Thank you very much for rescuing me. You are very brave.”

“Our good Professor is full of surprises,” Jørgen said, but the look he gave Rosencrantz was peculiar, indeed.

While the others helped Mother Dumiel to her feet, Michael cautiously followed the monster. He walked no more than twenty meters before he realized it was a fruitless endeavor. There was nothing as far as the eye could see, except for a few lumps of glassy matrix that could not have hidden a man, let alone a giant. Either it could fly, or it had disappeared into thin air.

Dumbfounded and perplexed, Michael turned back. A shiny object on the ground caught his eye. He picked it up, but it was unfamiliar: a crystal disk about the size of a silver dollar, with a cluster of studs protruding from its narrow edge. That detail suggested a human origin, but there were no markings. On a whim, Michael dropped it into his pocket. I’ll look at this later, he thought, and hastened to rejoin the party.

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