Mind Games

Chapter 4 – Boarding

Chapter 4 – Boarding

Due to the diplomatic nature of the mission and the VIPs aboard, accommodations on the Sunfire had been shifted a bit. Jerry was one of those VIPs, and he was a little embarrassed about inconveniencing the vacs, but that was politics for you. In any event, it was only three days through cross-space, so he hoped there wouldn't be any problems. He found his assigned quarters, an officer's cabin, quickly stowed his gear, and hurried out.

He started down the corridor with light steps, eager to explore the Commonwealth's new battlecruiser. A.C.S. Sunfire was an amazing vessel, and he wanted to see as much of it as he could before they arrived at Cortex. It was the Navy's newest capital ship, and his heart swelled with pride at the thought that his people could construct something so magnificent.

His heart ached, too, at the memories of previous battlecruisers that hadn't fared so well. The image of A.C.S. Sandstorm plowing itself into the outer wall on Blackshoals was something he would never forget. Other ships had been destroyed that day, their crews either suffocating in space, burning to death, or drowning in the sea. Those memories brought with them hard feelings, and such feelings would interfere with the current diplomatic mission, so he tried to put them aside. The Claim War was over, as he constantly reminded himself, and other than the incident on Skytower, the Breeds were mostly at peace with one another. He was headed for peace talks, not into battle, and hitching a ride in a brand new magnificent vessel, and he was determined to enjoy it. Sunfire even still had that new warship smell. He snooped around, taking it all in like a wide-eyed little boy, and was in the magazine room for the top-side six-inch gun battery when a klaxon sounded.

“Sergeant Gerald Wayland Harper,” said a voice over the public address, “please report to the admiral's quarters.”

Jerry swallowed hard. What could the admiral possibly want with him? He hurried out of the room and down the corridor.

The ship was a bit of a maze, and he had to weave between people coming and going, but he eventually found himself outside Admiral Percy Stringer's quarters. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

Jerry entered and found himself in a sort of living room. The walls were wood-paneled, and the furniture was finely crafted. There was a painting on one wall of an officer from long ago, some captain or admiral forgotten by all but historians and vacs. The floor was carpeted and lush, not yet beaten flat by the passage of many footsteps. But it was the people in the room who impressed him the most.

Admiral Stringer sat in a leather-upholstered chair. He was an average-looking man in his fifties, and didn't look much different from any other Agrarian, except for his eyes, which hinted at a powerful intelligence and the wisdom of years. His black dress uniform was impeccably lint-free, and its buttons gleamed under the cabin lights.

Across from him, seated on a sofa, was Ealdorman Philip Brewer, the chief executive of Homestead and the planet's representative in the Agrarian Commonwealth. Beside him sat a woman, a Felid-Agrarian half-Breed. Tan of skin, she had the fangs and slitted pupils of the Felids, but her eyes and hair were Agrarian-colored, green and blonde respectively. She was Auxiliary-General Dr. Mary Coldstone, neurosurgeon and head of the Homestead Ladies' Auxiliary. She was also suspected of being a high-ranking member of Rifle Intelligence, though those rumors had never been officially confirmed.

Jerry gulped at being in such august company, came to attention, and saluted.

“As you were,” Stringer said. “Have a seat, Harper.” He gestured to an empty chair facing the sofa.

“Thank you, sir.” Jerry sat and tried not to fidget.

“Ealdorman Brewer, General Coldstone, I'd like you both to meet Sergeant Jerry Harper.”

“It's about time,” Brewer said with a friendly smile. He was a short man, about five-and-a-half feet, and rotund, with a weak chin. To casual onlookers, he seemed unimpressive, the sort of person one immediately discounted. But those who let their gazes linger often noticed a certain gravitas to the man, an aura of confidence and competence. There was a lot going on behind those piercing green eyes. He leaned forward and offered his hand to Jerry. “I've been meddling in your life so much, Sergeant, that I feel like we already know each other. It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person, and an honor to meet a recipient of the Rifleman's Star.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jerry said. “That's very generous of you to say.” He shook Brewer's hand.

“We met briefly,” Coldstone interjected, “in Paul Glover's office, but I was just there to observe. We weren't properly introduced.” She offered him her hand and a fanged, dangerous-looking smile. “Nice to officially meet you, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” He shook her hand and tried not to wince. Her grip was like iron.

“We're counting on you, Harper,” Stringer said. “I know the past several weeks haven't been easy for you, but we really need you to perform the best you can at these talks. I had you summoned here in the hopes of impressing upon you how serious this all is.”

“Yes, sir.” Jerry nodded rapidly, his eyes drifting from world leader to general to admiral. “Consider me suitably impressed, sir.”

“Your testimony,” Brewer said, “is the linchpin of our entire case against the Paragon Hierarchy. Corporal Woods will give his account of his kidnapping and torture, but his mind is... in a delicate condition. The Paragons will attempt to make him out as mentally impaired. The other Breeds might be swayed by that argument—”

Coldstone snickered. “'Swayed.' Philip, you're terrible.”

Brewer grimaced. “Sorry. Bad pun, and unintentional. As I was saying, the other Breeds might be sympathetic to that argument unless there's another witness to support Woods's testimony. That's where you come in. You're the only thing that can tip the scale in our favor.”

“I understand, sir.” Jerry's hands were suddenly cold and clammy. He was in the middle of some high-stakes stuff.

“It might help to remember,” Coldstone said, “that you're not alone. There's an entire battle group at your back, not to mention a whole company of infantry on board. The fleet will remain in orbit over Cortex for the duration of the talks. And if need be, the infantry can be sent down in a lander. So when you testify, try to do so with the confidence of one who isn't in any danger. Some of the people at the talks will be angry with you, and try to get a rise out of you, but it's just talk. They won't hurt you. They won't dare; not with all the firepower we're bringing. All right?”

He nodded. “Thank you, ma'am. That does help a little.”

“Good,” Stringer said. “General Coldstone will go over a few things with you on the way to Cortex. She'll make sure you've got all the events organized in your mind. She'll ask you questions she expects the Paragons to ask. And so on. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And we'll both be there on that stage with you and Corporal Woods,” Brewer said. “We're acting as your advisers in this. Sort of like lawyers at a trial.”

“The important thing,” Stringer said, “is that you keep your cool. Don't let anyone provoke you while you're in the city. Even out on the street. Maybe especially out on the street. Don't trust anyone who's not a member of our party. You never know if some bar floozy is actually a honeypot trying to get you somewhere private so she can stab you in the ribs without being seen. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I think that's all, Sergeant.” He rose to his feet.

Jerry leaped up.

“Just wanted to hammer home the importance of this mission. Try to relax, Harper. Everything'll be fine. We'll be taking off soon, so make sure your stuff is stowed. Dismissed.”

Jerry turned and exited the quarters. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, exhaling loudly. Having several Very Important People all focused on him like that was draining. The only spotlights he'd ever wanted in life were stage lights while playing with his band. But it was over now. He had survived the meeting with the big shots, and he still had three days to mentally prepare himself for the task ahead. He was cautiously optimistic.

He turned to walk down the corridor, but then he stopped, frozen like a statue. Another person was coming towards him. This man was orange-skinned, with close-cropped orange hair, had yellow eyes with slitted pupils, and he wore Agrarian civilian clothes. He was a Felid, obviously, but that wasn't what made Jerry freeze like a scared deer. The man's shirt was short-sleeved, and there was a distinctive brand on his left forearm. The design was of three crossed swords inside a nine-pointed star. It was the mark of the Harowaith, the fabled assassin-monks of Felid society. This particular Harowaith was familiar. He gave Jerry a grin, showing off his fangs.

“Oh, no.” Jerry's heart sank. “You've got to be kidding.”

“Hello again, Sergeant.” Calael Avisherin, last known survivor of Clan Harisatar, strolled up the corridor and stopped just in front of him. He glanced at the admiral's door. “The admiral wanted to speak with me. Since I'm a resident alien of the Commonwealth now, it seemed proper to accede to his wishes.” He c****d an eyebrow at Jerry. “That makes you and I countrymen, by the way. Perhaps you can teach me some Agrarian history and lore when you have the opportunity. I should become more aware of my adopted home's ways.”

“Shariel's on board,” Jerry blurted out. “If she sees you—”

“Don't worry.” Calael waved a hand dismissively. “All will work out according to the Breeder's will.”

“That's not very comforting.”

Calael grinned. “I know.”

“Why are you here? You just came to make trouble, didn't you? That's it, isn't it? You're here to paint the ship red with someone's blood and guts. Or maybe that someone is on Cortex. Another old blood feud. Is that it?”

He feigned a hurt look. “Sergeant, please! There's more to me than just killing.”

“No, there's really not. They call you the Gray Death for a reason, and it's not because of your fashion sense.”

Calael looked thoughtful for a moment, and then he shrugged. “I am what I am. In any event, I have no intention of killing anyone on the Sunfire. Or on Cortex. As far as I know, none of my old enemies live there, and none of them will be there for the talks. My purpose here is to testify at the talks, same as you. I'm scheduled to speak on Day 3. I was a victim of the Paragons, too, in case you've forgotten. They tried to kill me when we were all in the Jarvis Mercer's launch, remember? And they tried again when we were all aboard the Warhammer.”

“You killed a lot of Swayed Reliants on the Warhammer, though. Wasn't that enough to quench your bloodlust?”

He frowned. “It's not about 'enough,' Sergeant. It's not about arithmetic at all. It's the principle of the thing. You should know that. Your Agrarian sense of honor is different from mine, but the basics are similar enough. To put it plainly, the Paragons owe me justice, and simply killing their Reliant slaves doesn't satisfy that need. I asked Ealdorman Brewer if I could tag along, and he was kind enough to arrange for me to speak at the talks. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“I don't know yet. Ask me again when it's all over and we're all back on Homestead safe and sound.”

“Fair enough. Now, if you'll excuse me...”

Jerry stood aside.

Calael didn't even bother to knock. He simply opened the admiral's door and walked in. The door shut softly behind him.

Jerry shook his head and started down the corridor. The Gray Death himself was on board and on his way to peace talks. Of all the possible ironies... Things either just got a lot better or a lot worse, and he wasn't sure which.