by

Yanick Champoux (38%)

Lee Watts (18%)

Josip Nað (17%)

Michel Lacombe (16%)

Dorian (4%)

goldkngt55 (3%)

Andrew Avila (2%)

Marten (1%)

Oliver (1%)

Part 39

Yanick Champoux (10/3/2002)

Winthrop's eyes snapped open at 0600 hours sharp.

Winthrop was a lifelong member of the Charioteer guild, and had served in the Hazat naval armada for more than forty years until, five years ago and to the surprise of everyone, he decided to retire.

In recognition of all his years of loyal services, the noble House had offered him the command of the Hazat Comet . Many Charioteers working for the military navy would have sneered at such an offer; the command of a civilian leisure ship was hardly perceived as a way to end one's career in glory. But Winthrop didn't mind. On the contrary, he had been delighted and had promptly accepted the position. The truth was that after more than four decades of ruthless campaigns, bloody conflicts and blazing Void battles, the old sea wolf was longing for calmer waters. The command of a civilian ship seemed a perfect way to get away of the tedious madness of war while staying within the arms of his one and only love: the Void.

Winthrop was preparing to shave when the door alarm chirped. 0630 hours. There was much good to be said about well-oiled routine.

"Enter," called Winthrop while raising the badger to his face.

The door hissed open and Martin Jackson limped in, a collection of folders neatly tucked under his arm. In his wake was a maid pushing a food cart. Both knew exactly what to do. The maid headed for the small round table in the middle of the main room. Jackson headed for the bathroom.

"Good day, captain," greeted the man, saluting.

"Good day. At ease, skipper," answered Winthrop. He picked up the Kurgan blade he always used to shave, a memento of an old campaign and a reminder that, no matter what the higher powers said, the heathen's blade was never far from the Known Worlds' throat. "How was the night?"

In the last fifteen years of Winthrop's military career, Jackson had been his second-in-command. Although not a single torture implement devised by bored engineers would have made Winthrop admit it, leaving Jackson behind was one of the very few things that had darkened his retirement. So when he had learned two years ago that Jackson had been decommissioned after an ill-fated Void battle had left him crippled, he had contacted him and presented him the position of second-in-command on the Comet. Jackson might have lost bits of anatomy here and there, and the burns covering his body might have made him somewhat unsightly, but Winthrop couldn't care less about the unknown whereabouts of Jackson's left foot or his esthetic potential. Jackson's brain was what he was interested in, and that part of the man was still as efficient as ever.

"The night," said Jackson, "has been remarquably busy. Should I enumerate you the various events COC-wise, as usual?"

"Please do," acquiesced the captain. COC-wise. An old military code that stood for Crescendo of Calamities.

Jackson coughed. "First, the premiere of the play given at the Golden Room was very well received by the public. The consensus of the critics, so far, is that it is innovative, thought-provoking, and rife with bosom jokes. It is expected to become a huge success."

Winthrop sighed and rinsed the lather off his blade. "Disquieting, but there's not much that we can do about that." He reached for the towel laying beside the sink and removed the last traces of foam clinging to his neck.

Jackson nodded. Now that the inconsequent artistic bulletin had been passed, he could pass to more relevant news. He picked a sheet out of one of the folders he was carrying and raised it to his eyes.

"We received the deposition of a passenger. A Hazat knight of the name of Don Pedro Diego Linares. He accuses a woman, a Reeve if the boarding log is to be trusted, to be a witch, a cyber-heretic, an abomination, a symbiot, a traitor to the empire, a freaky soliloquer and to harbor dirty thoughts about Urth donkeys. Upon being asked reasons for such grave accusations, the knight decided to remain silent. In a sulky, pouty way, the report specifies."

The captain picked his bathrobe from the its hook and wrapped himself in it before walking out of the bathroom, Jackson in tow. "Your opinion?"

"The usual, captain. Noble spots curvaceous commoner. Noble approaches said commoner and asks if she wants to see his bastard sword. Commoner answers she's not interested in men with small dirks. Noble takes it badly and, his ego bruised, does what any red-blooded male would do: he goes and whines to the authorities." He paused. "Of course, we can't dismiss the possibility that the Mother of All Evil booked room six-one-three on the Comet, but still I wouldn't bet any money on it."

The captain grunted in approval as he sat down at his table. He didn't invite Jackson to do likewise, such a breach of protocol was unthinkable to the old sea wolf. But just like every other morning there was a second glass of orange juice resting on the table for the skipper, a subtle testament to the considerations he had for his second-in-command.

"Yet if we don't do anything the knight might raise a fuss. Once we are done, send two security agents to fetch her. We will have a brief chat and I'll explain her that there are ways to say 'hope you go to hell and get skewered over rusty barbed spikes for all eternity, you creepy pansy-panted piece of societal ballast' to nobles in ways that will make then cluck with glee. Not that she shouldn't already know, being a Reeve."

Jackson acquiesced. "Noted. Next, our security cameras spotted a group of armed individuals consorting in cargo bay 21." His burned lips twisted into a thin smile, "I took the liberty of ordering the loading doors to be opened. Unfortunately, the roustabouts forgot to anchor some of the freight. The crates lost to the Void will be deducted from their salary."

"Also, navigation picked up a magnetic storm of class C seventy clicks away from us that is messing up with our long-range scan. Since this is a textbook pirate ploy, I've issued the helmsman with the order to keep well away of the disturbance's epicenter and asked navigation to probe the storm further. Deep analysis should be on your desk by 1200 hours."

Winthrop pensively chewed on a piece of ham. He washed it down with coffee. "Striding the interlopers was a tactical mistake. If there are pirates playing peekaboo with us, they might have been connected." Oh well, there was little gain in talking recycling when the garbage was already out. "Anything else?"

"A last thing," said Jackson, "It has been reported that six priests have been butchered during the night."

Winthrop allowed his eyebrow to raise of a few millimeters. Not because people had been murdered on his ship -- he was commanding a leisure ship, those things were bound to happen -- but because of Jackon's choice of words. The skipper was one of the most poised man he ever met. Compared to him, most Li Halan butlers looked like Tourette syndrome-afflicted hyperactive maniacs. If he had used a word such as 'butchered', it would be because the events warranted it.

"Show me the report," he asked Jackson. He didn't question the existence of such a report, and the skipper didn't disappoint him. The Manila folder was put on the table and opened with a flick of the thumb, revealing the few holopicts taken by the security agents.

Winthrop studied the holopicts. "Those men haven't been butchered, skipper" he said after a long time, "Butchered implies that at least slices of the victims remain. Those men have been smeared over their quarters." A thought crossed his mind. "How can we be sure that they have all been killed?"

"We can't," admitted Jackson. "However, the mass and volume of the biological remnants the cleaning crew scrapped off the suite match exactly those of the presumably ill-fated brothers. Nonetheless I already ordered a search for any potential survivors."

Winthrop finished skimming the report. "And one of them was a Vorox..." This could be considered a bad thing. From the pictures it was obvious that the massacre was the handiwork of a professional. There were no burn marks on the walls, a sign that the killer, or killers, hadn't used blasters or slugthrowers. So not only a professional, but a dangerous professional.

"I will read the details later," said Winthrop, closing the folder. "In the meantime, I want you to make sure the security staff keep their eyes open. I want a full investigation on those monks. This is not random killing; for some reason they have been targeted."

"I will be done," said the skipper. "I have nothing else to report."

"Good. This is already more than enough. I have the feeling this cruise will prove to be a lively one. I'll see you on the bridge at 0730 hours. I will be able to see the girl at 0815 hours."

Winthrop's eyes followed his second-in-command as he left the room. The skipper gone, he opened the folder once more and pensively stared at the holopicts within. Lively indeed.

Sergei Visarionovich Godunov lowered his binocular. Without them, Elena and the commandos were barely perceptible specks against the glittering backdrop of stars.

At least he was now fixed on the nature of Elena's cryptic transmission on their personal communication system. "This sucks. This sucks big time," had said the woman over a deafening slurping noise, before the connection had abruptly gone dead.

Oh well, rationalized the Decados, that's what plans B are for.