The Zygan Emprise: Renegade Paladins and Abyssal Redemption (14 page)

Finally, after a few minutes, I added,
disappointed, “So now we just wait?”

Spud didn’t open his eyes. “‘They also serve
who only stand and wait.’ Longfellow.”

“May be,” I returned, “but, you know, a good
offense beats a royal flush. Rush.”

Spud opened one eye and said wryly, “Don’t
offend or you’ll be beaten by a royal. Escott.”

I looked at him with a sour expression and
responded, “Bollocks.”

Chapter 7

On the Edge

Hollywood—present day

My arms were killing me, my muscles
trembling, as my frozen fingers clawed at the rim of the precipice.
I looked down and tightened my grip. The drop was over thirty feet
below—to certain death. The end was near! How much longer would I
be able to hold on?!

“Cut!” Jerry’s voice boomed through the
soundstage.

Not again! We’d been at it, shooting the
season finale of
Bulwark
--for four hours! This scene was
supposed to be the season’s climax—our white-knuckle face-off with
the evil villain Mordmort, who’d chased us to the brink of this
crumbling, craggy bluff. Unfortunately, our not-very-sharp guest
star, Brandon Washburn, costumed as the
ü
ber-bad-guy in ostentatious red, gold, and
black armor, was too coked up to get his lines right. Take after
take after take. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at an
equally unhappy Spud suspended next to me, clinging to the scarp.
White knuckles was right. How much longer did Jerry expect us to
hang from this papier maché cliff anyway?

Apparently, at least one more go-round.
Jerry, perspiration stains seeping through the sleeves of his
one-size-too-small black shirt, waited impatiently for the FX guys
to re-set the equipment making the smoke and flames that followed
our villain as he staggered across the floor of the set. As soon as
Mark gave the ‘ready’ cue, Jerry jumped.

“Speed! Action!”

“I am master of the universe!” Mordmort
cried, as sparks flew from the ends of his raised arms. “Give me
the Maltese Hamster or you will both, uh—” Brandon froze, and
looked offside, furrowing his brow.

Die. Die, Brandon, die!

“Cut!” Unbelievable! Brandon went up on his
lines again!

Spud muttered an unintelligible curse.

“That’s it,” I whispered to him angrily. “I’m
levving, and I don’t care if they see us.” I tapped my Ergal to
give me a little antigrav boost, and lessen the strain on my
arms.

“How you holdin’ up there, Tara?” Jerry
shouted from the floor below.

“Don’t ask,” I shot back, to Spud’s
amusement.

“One more time, kids. I think Brand’s got it
this time.”

The handsome heavy nodded with far too much
energy.

I smiled and gave Jerry the thumbs up sign,
mumbling to Spud, a veteran of the often competitive Hollywood gay
dating scene, “Can’t Jerry score a more talented boyfriend?”

Spud scanned Jerry and his guest star with a
critical eye, before answering, “No.” To
my
amusement.

* * *

Shooting the cliffhanger had taken us all of
Monday morning. I thought we’d never be done. I’d spent an extra
ten minutes in the shower before lunch, letting the warm water
massage my aching arms and hands. Refreshed, I wrapped my towel
around my bikini parts and stepped out of the bathroom into my
trailer’s sitting room.

“Spud!” My partner was lounging in one of my
beanbag chairs, blowing smoke rings with a unfiltered cigarette.
“And stinking the place up with those filthy—”

“And I shan’t report you to the water
conservation board …,” he responded with a grin. “Are you
hungry?”

I sighed. “Always. But …” I pointed to my
shiny skin-tight spandex suit laid out on the adjacent sofa for
this afternoon’s scenes. “When are you due back on set? I could do
a salad at the commissary.” The craft services food table on our
set was unfortunately known for its high fat, high carb, high sugar
fare.

“Not until three.”

“It’s a date. Now out!” Spud’s affection for
me had never been physical, but I still wasn’t about to change into
my jeans and T-shirt under his critical gaze.

Ten minutes later, we set off for the
cafeteria together. “I just cannot wait for this season to end,” I
moaned as we walked through a wing of studio offices to get to the
commissary. “My agent sent me a good script for an upcoming
film.”

“A Disney? What type of animal do they want
you to morph into this time?” Spud teased as he led us down his
shortcut, a long, deserted hallway between two soundstages.

“I turned that script down, thank you. And
the other one, too.
This
film is about a teenage girl with
disabilities who has learned how to communicate with sign language
for the first time.”

“Hunh.” Spud looked away.

I was peeved. “Okay, it probably won’t be box
office gold, but there are some scenes that could get me a shot at,
dare I say it, Oscar-man, so I really want the part—what?”

Like a bloodhound finding a scent, Spud had
abandoned his typical slouch and straightened tall, his eyes roving
and his nostrils flaring. On alert, my own hand crept down towards
my Ergal, and I scanned the hallway as well. Neither of us saw
anything, but I quickly shared Spud’s perception that something
wasn’t quite right. I took out my Ergal cell phone and cradled it
in my palm, ready to M-fan a stun gun in a millisecond if needed.
Spud, his stun gun already in his hand, leaned flat against the
wall, sliding forward, checking perimeters, turning the corner,
and—

Screamed! A ghostly figure floated before us,
his two-foot reptilian body riddled with stab wounds from which
seeped greenish-tinged blood.

“Ulenem!” I gasped, frozen in my tracks.

Spud was even paler than his normal ashen
shade, but had the presence of mind to aim his stun gun at the
specter.

Ulenem laughed. “What’re you going to do,
Escott, kill me?”

“Ulenem,” I said, my voice quavering. “What,
how—?”

“I haven’t transitioned yet. I may never.
Look, I don’t have much time. You’ve got to stop Benedict. He’s in
over his head.”

I was totally confused. “I thought you were
on Benedict’s side.”

“Save Orion,” Ulenem shouted, as he started
to fade. “Save the Universe!”

In a second, the Assassin had disappeared. My
hands were still shaking, clinging to my cell phone Ergal. My
partner, fortunately, had X-fanned his stun gun and was waving
casually at a gaffer and sound man from our crew who had just
rounded the corner on their way to get food. Spud does “cool” so
well.

“Let us go out to dine instead,” he
suggested, after the crew guys had passed us. He put an arm around
my tensed shoulders and whispered, “I fancy a little private
conversation.”

I nodded, shivering. “Some fresh air will do
us a lot of good.”

* * *

Paris, France—present day

Not eager to fight the paparazzi again, we
didn’t bother taking my Zoom cruiser, leaving it parked in my space
so inquiring minds would think we were still on the Burbank lot. We
decided, or rather Spud decided for us, to Ergal to a picturesque
little out-of-the-way club for lunch instead. Vernet’s was nestled
on the outskirts of the Left Bank—of Paris, France—where Ignace,
Spud’s first cousin twice-removed, was the Head Chef, and the
lighting was, to Spud’s delight, blindingly dim.

Because
Bulwark
has recently been
syndicated in Europe, Ignace arranged for us to have a private
table for two, in a cubby next to a multicolored wall fountain, far
from prying eyes and Euro-pap lenses. After all, it wouldn’t do to
find our photo on the cover of the tabloids next week with a
headline wondering how Shiloh Rush and William Escott (or, in their
parlance ‘Willoh’), could possibly be in LA and Paris at the same
time.

I was happy to be farther away from the
Eurotechno drumming on the dance floor in the main room, and I
found the gently rushing water near us calming. After his cousin
had returned to the kitchen, however, Spud eyed the fountain warily
and complained that he felt like he was back with the
Kharybdians.

I chuckled and returned to deciphering the
menu by Ergal flashlight. Lunchtime in LA was late evening in
Paris, and the sun had long set by the time we’d arrived.
Guillaume, the Head Waiter, approached our table with a gift from
Ignace that looked red. For a second I was tempted to order a
cheeseburger just to annoy Spud, but, I frankly wasn’t in the mood,
and instead played it safe with some sashimi.

Guillaume opened the dusty bottle of wine and
poured the thick red liquid in Spud’s glass. (BTW, unless it’s
Chidurian ale, we always drink responsibly. Except that weekend on
Aldebaran 7, but I don’t think I’ll tell you—or anyone—about that,
‘cause it never happened.)

I’ve always found the stuffed-shirt ritual of
shaking and smelling the wine a little pretentious, and, seeing as
this was Spud’s family, worked hard to keep from making a face.
Really, if wines were meant to breathe they would’ve had lungs,
like the wines of Phrastis 4.

“
Bouquet excellente
,” Spud nodded at
the sommelier. “
Merci bien
.”

Guillaume poured some wine into my glass and
filled Spud’s. He disappeared to the kitchen and returned in just a
few minutes to serve us our perfectly prepared fish morsels on a
bed of steamed brown rice.

The food looked wonderful, but I realized I
really didn’t have much of an appetite after all. Ulenem’s
appearance had been terrifying. We had faced death before, but it
had never before talked back to us.

“No,” Spud interrupted my thoughts once
again, “he’s not in Level Three.”

How did Spud always know what I was
thinking? Did the man have Ifestian genes?
I forced myself to
swallow. “Purgatory? Limbo?”

Spud shook his head. “Izmalis don’t believe
in—”

“It’s not what you believe, it’s what
is
,” I countered. I had no memories of my parents, having
lived with Grandpa Alexander from the time I was very little. But
the knowledge that they would be alive in heaven—or, Level Three,
if you will--had always been a comfort to us all.

“Sometimes ‘what is’ is what you believe …,”
Spud responded cryptically. He gulped a few bites of ahi and
continued. “I don’t know if that was really Ulenem, or an
aggellaphor messenger of some sort. But, someone was definitely
trying to tell us something … something I didn’t expect.”

I shrugged. “Benedict wants to take over
Zygfed. That ambition alone puts him in over his head. Add having
to coordinate time-traveling guerilla attacks over thousands of
planets, hundreds of millennia. Could be too much even for a sharp
dude like him.”

Spud shook his head. “No, that’s not news.
There is something else. Something Ulenem, or whoever sent him, has
just uncovered. And we must find out what it is.”

“Oh, goody,” I said, soaking a mouthful of
rice with a sip of tasty liquor. “We’ve got ourselves a
MacGuffin.”

Spud looked puzzled. “A what?”

“Alfred Hitchcock. The famous movie director.
He had his characters chasing a MacGuffin in his film
thrillers.”

“Yes, but what is it?”

“Nothing. Anything. It doesn’t matter. A
Maltese Falcon. Or,” I snickered, “a Maltese Hamster. It just gets
the plot moving. In fact, once the film gets going, the audience
often forgets about what a lousy actor Brandon—”

“You are brilliant!” Spud shot out of his
seat, bursting with excitement.

I gagged on a piece of octopus. “Whu—?”

“Let’s go!” Spud waved at his cousin, threw a
fifty euro bill on the table, and grabbed me by one of my
still-sore arms.

I swallowed my last bite, and looked at him
with disgust. “So help me, if you say ‘the game is afoot,’ I’ll
kill you.”

Chapter 8

The Game is Afoot

Earth Core—present day

Dragging me with him from our table into the
men’s water closet, Spud Ergaled us into a rubbish bin next to an
imposing brick museum off the Rue de Rivoli near the Tuileries
Gardens. His patience waning, he incessantly grumbled as we
suffered through the obstacle course of rat greeting and scans
required to enter Earth Core from one of the numerous secret
portals scattered around the globe.

Stepping into Reception, I was pleased to see
that Fydra was not at her usual post. She still hadn’t forgiven us
for what she perceived as our costumed deception last week. Another
Scyllian, Fyodor, sat at the desk and, to our relief, efficiently
waved us into the Core command center.

Our first sight was Ev downing a box of
chicken nuggets as he leaned back in his chair and watched the
flurry of Sol System activity on a score of screens. Thankfully,
this time, most of the colors displayed were green instead of
red.

“Gary in?” I asked casually.

“Should be,” Ev mumbled as he chewed. “Took
Fydra out to dinner for her birthday. Said he’d be back by six.
Three, GMT minus 8.”

I patted him on the back with a ‘thanks’. I
was glad he didn’t turn to face us. Ev always chewed with his mouth
open, and you could usually see spittle spots on the front of his
shirt. Ick. As far as I know, Ev hasn’t had a date in years.

We decided to wait outside Gary’s office. If
Spud was right, we had a lot to talk about with our boss.

Gary arrived at ten after six, New York time,
and invited us into the distinguished suite. As soon as we sat
down, we immediately hit him with our big question.

“What’s Benedict’s game?”

Gary frowned at us. “I don’t get what you’re
asking. You know he’s trying to—”

“Take over Zygfed, yeah, yeah,” I
interrupted. “No, I mean his real game. What’s he after?”