The Zygan Emprise: Renegade Paladins and Abyssal Redemption (63 page)

“Well,
you
certainly remember her.
Didn’t a very astute young man say not so long ago, ‘A story told
is not forgotten’? Could apply to Aliyah, too.”

“But her body vanished. I dug up her grave
myself. And John’s didn’t. My sister had to arrange for him to be,
uh…,” I took a deep breath, “cremated.”

Moore nodded. “Then neither of the bodies
exist any longer, right? If there is a Level 3, then apparently
bodies aren’t needed for admission.” Noting my frown, he patted me
on the shoulder. “I’m an atheist, Shiloh, so Level 3’s a little
beyond my pay grade. But maybe bodies are a, how can we say this,
Level 2 thing, you know?

“Or,” he leaned closer and whispered into my
ear, “it may just be that another stream has washed Aliyah
away.”

I stepped back. “Huh?”

“A few of my colleagues have speculated that
the merry-go-rounds I spoke of exist in streams. Each time, say, a
butterfly in Judea, or even in L.A., flaps its wings, a new stream
is created with new merry go rounds and new promise. An infinite
number of streams, an infinite number of possibilities. Aliyah and
her Earthmates may not only have existed, they may be continuing to
exist after all—just in another parallel stream.

I shook my head. “Souls and spirits. Merry go
rounds and streams. All sounds like fantasy to me. Like the mythic
gods of Mt. Olympus.”

Moore acknowledged my point. “There is
science behind these theories. But some may say the science is both
imaginative and incomprehensible; ergo, an intellectual
religion.”

“Clear as glass.” I snorted. “You know, at
our farmhouse in Maryland, off the side of the porch, our family
room has a giant single-pane picture window. When I was in middle
school, I used to do my homework in the rocking chair facing our
garden. Every so often I’d hear a boom--a robin or sparrow would
come flying right straight into the glass. Fortunately, the glass
didn’t break and the poor birds would only be stunned for a few
moments. The window looked clear as air to the birds, and they just
weren’t able to understand what the glass was and why it kept them
from going where they wanted or needed to go. So they kept slamming
into it.

“At least,” I shrugged, “until I convinced
Grandpa Alexander to put in wooden glazing bars.”

Moore chuckled. “Are you asking for some gods
to appear and explain something you can’t understand—or just to put
up window frames around our universe to keep you from injuring
yourself?”

“Someone’s already done that. John was
desperate to fly through those frames. I’m just happy to settle for
a few answers.” A puzzled frown. “For example, you’re an atheist.
The Keeper at the Temple of Eshmoun told me there were no gods.
Question is then, who’s that someone who put up those bars?”

“Now that’s a question,” Moore laughed, “for
which I bet your brother gets an answer before we do.”

“Before he, uh,” I hesitated, “John told me
something about our family.” Dammit, I didn’t want the fog rolling
into my eyes any more.

I took a deep breath, willing the mist to
dissipate, and forced myself to meet Moore’s eyes. “Is it
true?”

Moore looked away this time. “Does it
matter?” He shook his head and grunted. “I used to think it did,
you know. That one’s creation and hard-wiring forever determined
one’s world and its laws.”

“And now?”

Moore patted my arm. “Shiloh, I’m an old
man.” He smiled at something I wasn’t privy to, before he
continued. “I’ve learned something in my many, many years
navigating these universal merry-go-rounds and streams. We may
never discover who or what is on the other side of that glass, but
in the end, it doesn’t matter. What matters is what you do with the
life you have on this side. Obsession about the past--who created
you, why you were brought here, who or what you are--keeps you from
moving forward. You become just as much of a prisoner as your
brother was—only you’re the one imprisoning yourself.”

“But what if John is wrong? What if there’s
nothing on the other side of the pane?” I shivered at the
thought.

Moore smiled at me, “You can build a
beautiful universe with your imagination if it comforts you to know
that there is a world beyond. But don’t let your fantasy—or your
reality—confine you as you graze from life’s infinite buffet.”

He reached over and took my hand in his.
“Ride the rapids, Shiloh. Soar through the skies. Relish the mist
on your face, the wind in your hair, the kiss on your lips, the
mustard on your tongue, the laughter in your gut. That’s all the
answers we really need. Don’t put yourself in a 3-D version of the
Omega Archon’s Hell.”

He reached into his right pocket and pulled
out something that glistened. Jewelry--a sunflower? No—oh, my!

“Connie’s earrings!” I cried. “The ones she
gave me for my birthday.” I’d sacrificed their gold for the
drachmas we needed in Nea Athina, and never thought I would see
them again.

Moore placed the shining jewelry gently into
my hands with a warm smile. “Something you deserve. The heaven of
family love.”

I blinked back tears. “I don’t know how to
thank you.”

“You just did,” Moore replied, patting me on
the shoulder as we reached the head of the line. “I’ve got to eat
fast. I’m on a panel in ten minutes with two other fallen angels—I
mean, science fiction writers.” He took a quick look at the
crumpled menu he pulled out of his pocket. To the barista: “I’ll
have the number 42, ham on rye.” A wink in my direction. “And don’t
hold the mayo.”

* * *

I wish I hadn’t forgotten to ask him about
Stacy. By the time I finished paying for my veggie wrap and tall
decaf latte, Moore had disappeared into the crowd. I searched all
around, over and under the heads and costumes of the Con attendees,
but had no success in locating our mentor. I only spied one set of
muttonchops, on a tipsy guest sporting a souvenir Captain Jack
Sparrow pirate hat, who—I kid you not—managed to run right into a
glass display case right before my eyes and knock the knock-off off
his noggin.

The tongue-twister swept the analogy from my
mind for at least ten minutes, but, as my fingers stroked Connie’s
gift now dangling once again from my ears, my thoughts drifted back
to the questions about our family that John had planted in my
brain. Were he and I—and the rest of our family clones? If so, who
cloned us—and from whom? Was Grandpa Alexander involved—on behalf
of the Zygan Federation, or the Omega Archon? For Benedict? For the
Helianthi? I hoped my brother was getting the answers he sought in
Level 3, but I wasn’t convinced
my
answers weren’t right
here in my brane, my universe, Level 2. And that Lester Samuel
Moore held the key.

I enlisted Spud to help me find Moore later
in the afternoon, after we’d wrapped up the day’s shilling shift at
the
Bulwark
booth. Unfortunately, no one admitted to having
seen a plump man with scraggly gray hair and bushy sideburns. I
even checked the SingularityCon program brochure, all forty pages,
including ads, to see if Moore might be giving another talk today
or tomorrow. No luck there either. In fact, as I leafed through the
book from beginning to end, there was no listing of a Lester Samuel
Moore as participating in any of the SingularityCon activities at
all.

Spud raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He
sat back in a folding chair resting his fingertips together and
looking off in the distance with a curious smile.

“Penny,” I prodded. “For your wise
thoughts.”

“It is written—“ he began.

Our Ergals vibrated at the same time. Loudly.
We each whipped out our pseudo-mobiles and put them to our ears to
hear the message from Zygan Intelligence.

Ev’s voice sounded higher-pitched than usual
and even bore a hint of hysteria. “Glieser posts at Andromeda
borders report an invasion from Triangulum Galaxy. The Omega Archon
has declared a Stage 1 Alert. All catascopes are to report to their
home stations for immediate assignment. Repeat: Stage 1 Alert.” The
recording began rerunning as I hung up.

Our expressions mirrored our high-level
concern. Stage 1 Alerts were damn serious. The Zygan Federation
hadn’t had an extra-galactic enemy invasion since Benedict and his
Andarts had returned from exile and waged guerilla war against the
Omega Archon.

I checked the time.
Bulwark
staffers
were closing up the booth for the day, and chatting with loud
enthusiasm about the costume parties they’d be attending tonight
once off-duty. Simon had already left for the Vegas strip with
several nubile women in revealing alien costumes. Nobody was going
to miss us for the next few hours or even notice we were gone.

Spud nodded, and we ran for the closest
custodian’s closet we could spot. We needed a quiet place out of
the eyes of awestruck fans so we could X-fan to Earth Core.

We’d barely closed the door and squeezed in
between the mops and carts when our Ergals beeped again. Ev was on
live this time, and the hysteria had been replaced by fury. “A
fusion bomb took out the whole reception fleet, including the
diplomatic contingent from Zygint Central,” Ev’s voice cracked.
“Juan de la Cruz and his outreach team are dead.”

We froze for a minute, shocked. A Zygint
field agent for centuries, Juan had survived so many harrowing
Zygint missions. Administration at Central was supposed to be a
safe, cushy billet. Could Theodore Benedict and his Andarts—maybe
with the backing of King Odius and the Valkyries--have had
something to do with this abominable attack? And was Nephil Stratum
a part of this murderous scheme? Pierced by dread, I pushed away
that devastating thought.

As catascopes, we had to do everything we
could to help our Zygfed brothers and sisters. My brooding
ruminations and my unanswered questions about my family and friends
would have to wait. We Ergaled ourselves stun guns, and, ready for
action, M-fanned into the entrance for Earth Core.

The emprise continues…

Excerpt from “Renaissance”, Book 3 of
The Zygan Emprise:

“Three hundred light years and closing.” The
aerolimo pilot turned from his nav holo and grinned at his guest.
“Better hurry up with that monkey suit.”

Juan de la Cruz forced himself to smile as he
buckled the last epaulet on his shoulder. “Never hurts to dress up
for a first date.” Brushing a few flecks of dust off of his sleeve,
the Zygan Intelligence Chief explained, “This is the first
delegation from Triangulum Galaxy to the Zygan Federation in our
lifetime. The Omega Archon wants to be sure we give them a warm
welcome.”

A hint of a nod. “Ever been outside Zygfed?”
the pilot asked as he ran his fingers across the holo to begin the
contact approach.

“Not on the record,” Juan winked back. “But
I’ve never been to Triangulum. Kind of curious to see what we see.
Do we have a comm link yet?” The comm holo only displayed the
V-shaped flight formation of eight Zygan Sentinel Corps cruisers
escorted by a Glieser Border Patrol Unit, trailing Juan’s ship.

“Working,” muttered the aerolimo co-pilot,
struggling with his holo. “They’re not responding yet.”

“One hundred light years, disengaging
hyperdrive in five,” droned the pilot.

“I’ve got ‘em,” the co-pilot cried, as his
comm holo switched to a view of a cluster of shimmering lights
hovering before the whizzing starfield.

“Disengaged,” the pilot announced as the
starfield froze.

Juan ungripped the railing, still marveling
at the latest Zygan grav technology that could slow a ship from
hyperdrive to sub-light speed without jarring its riders. When he’d
started at Zygint centuries ago, they’d had to back up the
primitive grav system with actual seat belts to keep pilots and
passengers in their seats when shifting in and out of hyperdrive.
Almost as rough as his cruise on the Ni
ñ
a with Cristoforo.
Almost.

The comm holo now showed six disc shaped
vessels surrounding—and seemingly attached to--a central disk, a
flower with spaceship petals. As the Zygan team drew closer, the
M81 guests began rolling their “flower” of vessels; each disc was
lit along its circumference, giving the cluster the appearance of a
delicate water lily at twilight, floating through space.

“It’s beautiful,” the pilot remarked, his
eyes glued to the screen.

“Asombroso,” Juan agreed, not bothering to
hide his awe. How he missed being out in the field, exploring new
worlds, uncovering the majesty of this resplendent universe. And
now, he’d be among the first Zygans to greet visitors from this
neighboring galaxy that had remained a mystery throughout the Zygan
Federation’s millennia.

“Visual coming in from the core disc,” the
co-pilot reported. “On screen.”

The impact knocked Juan off his feet,
cracking his head against the railing. A rivulet of blood trickled
down Juan’s temple and splashed onto his starched white uniform.
Ignoring the pain, Juan sat up and shook his head to clear his
vision, laboring to peer through the smoke that was quickly filling
the aerolimo’s command center. Both pilots had been thrown from
their seats and lay on the floor unconscious—or worse. Above their
bodies, a field of static filled the comm display that revealed the
faintest outline of a giant crustacean head.

A second explosion rocked the aerolimo,
showering sparks across the thickening black smoke. Coughing and
gasping, Juan tried to sit up once again, his throat gagging,
scorched by the heat massaging his burning skin. His eyes could
barely focus on the comm screen and the gravel voice that spoke out
from the looming crab-like head. Confused, Juan struggled to
understand--was this visitor from Triangulum in reality a Zygan
Federation species? A Chidurian?