Authors: Ty Beltramo
I thought it over while Death again checked the time. Death had never led me astray. He generally spoke straight, and he could be a handy ally.
“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll sink your boat if you find and eliminate Aeson’s key operatives in North America.”
Death covered his mouth, failing to hide a smile. Whatever amused him escaped me.
“Still messing with Aeson? Doesn’t that get old?”
“Nope.”
“I get it. Okay. I’ll find ‘em and reap ‘em.”
“And make it messy, if you please.”
“Messy? You mean like lots of blood messy or head exploding on the street corner messy?”
“The latter. Please.”
He got up. “No problem. I’ll have to get a new robe, I guess. That kind of stuff never comes out. You better get moving. My boat sinks in ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes? That’s a bit tight, isn’t it?”
He was already gone. A yellow sticky was on the table, with a ship’s name and location.
Oh, well. Time to go.
Movement is all about relocating the soul. This is more complicated than one might think. The soul isn’t matter, so you can’t push it. It isn’t energy, so you can’t direct it. It’s more of an imprint, a watermark on the energy and matter in a particular location; as a circuit board isn’t energy, but gives energy meaning. The imprint itself has no mass, but it can surf waves of energy very effectively.
This is how all Engineers move from place to place. We find some energy traveling in the desired direction and hitch a ride. This has important implications on how our movements are restricted, fundamentally, to a relatively small region of space--but that’s another story.
So, learning to move is like learning to surf. It takes a while to get the hang of it, but most Engineers can move about quickly and accurately enough to go about a day’s business without accidentally landing in the Galapagos Islands.
Fortunately, my character and methods dictated long ago that I master the quick getaway. So I am better than most when it comes to locomotion. I easily covered the six hundred miles to New York Harbor in a few minutes.
Finding the boat was more challenging, but after a quick sweep of the waters, I spotted it entering the mouth of the harbor.
It was a yacht, its large white hull glowing golden as the New York sun cleared the waters. Running low and slow, it was either armored or had a heavy cargo.
I had about four minutes before the appointed time of the ship’s demise, and was curious to know why Death needed to have an alibi for this job.
I moved to the ship’s deck and found the bridge, where a lone officer piloted the vessel. He was older, in his fifties maybe, and had six sets of stripes on his uniform. He looked like a sailor in an old sea picture, with a short, carefully trimmed white beard and perfect posture.
I shifted my senses to the ethereal plane to inspect his inner man, his soul, which emerged quickly as a vibrant, crystalline-like shape similar to a tie-dyed snowflake. The symmetry, order, and general tidiness of the lattice indicated that this man was a longtime servant of the forces of Law. He had integrity, character, and a level of nobility. He wouldn’t be susceptible to the influences a less developed soul would be. Manipulating him would take time, more than I had. Instead, I chose the direct approach, and re-formed my body directly in front of him.
As I materialized, his eyes widened, and I could see his biometrics go a little crazy. He stood his ground and looked me in the eye, as soon as I had one. I was getting less happy about this job.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
“Normally, I’m nobody,” I said. “But today, let’s say I’m Death’s . . . proxy, sort of.” I could see the man crunch that piece of data, trying to wrap his head around the implications. Strangely, his demeanor began to change. He relaxed.
Finally, he said, “I suppose asking you what you want would be pointless.”
“I don’t want anything. I’m just here to do my friend a favor.” I walked up close to the man, and looked him over, trying to gauge his mental state. He was solid. So much for the scare tactics.
“I am curious, however, what type of vessel this is. What is your purpose?”
I could sense large amounts of electronic equipment below. But that could be anything.
“I don’t understand . . .” he said. Apparently, this conversation wasn’t making much sense to him.
I put my hand on his shoulder and tried to sound comforting. “There’s not much to understand. I’ve been sent by Death to this vessel, and I’d like to know something about you. So tell me, what is your purpose?”
It wasn’t working. He stared at my hand as if it were a fresh glob of bird poop left by a sick pelican.
“We’re a data collection repository. We receive data feeds and store the information. That’s all.”
“You sail around and soak up information? That’s it?”
“Yes . . .” He reversed the engines and brought the ship to a quick stop. With a few flicks of a finger, he lowered the anchor and powered down the vessel. The ship was dead in the water. He then straightened his uniform, turned to me, and stood in silence.
“Where do you go?” I asked.
“Everywhere. She can cross the Atlantic without refueling. She can get right up to the great ice in the North without flinching. We go everywhere.”
“And always soaking up information?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds easy enough. Who is your owner?”
Creases of confusion crossed his brow.
“I would expect Death to know more about those whom he visits,” he said.
“I’m sure he does. But I don’t, and he rarely tells me anything. He’s a cagey sort of fellow, you know?” I said.
“I don’t. That would be between him and you, as the details of this ship are between my superior and me, and between my crew and me.”
This guy was either crazy or very well adjusted. I suppose there is little difference when all is said and done. Still, I was impressed by his courage.
“You’re pretty spunky for a man who just met someone like me,” I said.
“I am a man. I am not a fool. I’ve been prepared for this day.”
“Huh. And your crew?”
His eyes narrowed.
“I choose them personally. They have to be men I can trust and count on. They have to be men of faith.”
“And why is that?” I asked.
“Information is valuable, and we ride rough waters.” He mustered a glare. “And you never know when pirates, or worse, might board you.”
“Sounds like they need guns, not faith,” I said.
“The seas are strange. We wander into waters most men couldn’t fathom. We have to believe in our mission, or we end up in the wrong port.”
That didn’t make any sense. “The sea is the sea. Men have been on it from the beginning,” I said.
“You obviously have not. Permit me a moment to explain.” He walked to a small desk in the center of the bridge, opened a drawer and pulled out a roll of paper. He flipped it from one end with an easy snap of his wrist, and a chart of the Caribbean Sea draped over the desk like a tablecloth. He pointed to a red circle near Bermuda.
“Once, we tailed a freighter in the Caribbean making for the West Indies. The ship ran less than a mile ahead. Without any warning, the seas turned white and heaved as if God himself had pulled the plug. The freighter vanished to the bottom, but left us untouched.”
“What was it?” I asked.
“A methane bubble. Millions of cubic feet of gas released from ice down deep. The ship rides the sea one minute and finds herself with nothing but foul smelling gas below her hull the next. It can happen anywhere, any time.
“My men saw it. They crossed that very same stretch of sea that day, and have crossed it many times since. They are good men. They believe in our mission. They know it’s important.” A look of defiance sparked within his soul. “You’re not going to harm them, are you?”
I extended my senses to encompass the rest of the vessel. Eleven more souls were there. All of them had the same solid inner fiber as this man. He chose his men well.
“Captain,” I said, for now I could see that he was, “that’s a hard question and is really determined by forces far greater than I, whom they shall meet in about one minute.”
He breathed a few deep breaths and straightened his uniform.
“What is your name, agent of Death?” he asked.
“It’s Elson. Why?”
The captain thought it over for a moment, then grinned.
“Then I’m certainly not afraid of you,” he said, “no matter what your intent.”
I thought about what he could mean, and came up empty.
“I don’t get the name magic. What’s your name?”
“Richard.”
I considered that, looking for some meaning.
“Nope. I get nothing. Your name doesn’t mean anything to me.”
He laughed. “That’s because those who gave it to
me
didn’t know any better.”
I had no idea what this guy was talking about, but time was up. I reached into the fuel tanks and, like the elemental had done, blew a little ether to release all their stored energy in one instant, incinerating the ship and all aboard.
CHAPTER FOUR
I had met few men who could stare down death. Killing them was no fun. The Captain Richard affair--as I would come to call it--made me think of an old friend I owed a visit.
Three groups had taught me most of what I know. Elementals taught me about energy and matter. Engineers that I spied on taught me tactics. And through humans I came to understand the world. Their short lifespan creates an intensity of insight that glows brightly, illuminating the darkest corners of the earth. And their lack of a celestial context makes them natural skeptics. Having a human as a partner has proven invaluable over the years. You just had to find the right one.
The nursing home was plush. I had seen to that. At night, the lights of the Windsor casinos turned the Detroit River into a rippling rainbow. My friend liked to sit on the front lawn of the home and look out across the river toward Canada. That side of the river was green and spacious. This side was grey and hard. I had offered to set him up over there, but he would have none of it. He always said he’d get there, sooner or later--whatever that meant.
I found him on the lawn, watching the freighters creep by. His ancient frame, late in its nineties, was still sturdy and straight despite the heavy duty he had put it through. His hands were strong, his head silver, and steel was still in his gaze.
I had been there when he was born—his father and grandfather had been my partners before him—and I had a deal with Death that I’d be there when he died. I had seen many come and go. This one I’d miss.
As I approached his chair from behind, he reached for a pack of unfiltered cigarettes and lit one up.
“Hello, Elson,” he said without turning his head.
“Still on your toes, I see. Why don’t you relax. Those days are over—for you,” I said.
“I can feel you. Always could. Don’t need to be on any toes.” He turned and smiled. “Sit down. You look like my dead dog.”
“Look who’s talking. And you never owned a dog.” I said.
He blew smoke into my face and grinned a content, peaceful smile. I sat down and looked up and down the river. There was a new boardwalk in front of the Renaissance Center. People sat eating their lunch, dangling their feet over the side of the riverbank.
“When did they put that in?” I asked.
“About three years ago.”
“Has it been that long?”
“More like five.”
“I’m sorry. Time flies for me,” I said.
He turned to face the river. The water was silent as it passed.
After a while he said, “I read the papers and wonder what part you’ve been playing. It’s not hard to spot your work. Though I have to say things have been quiet lately. Sort of like the calm before the storm.”
“Do you miss the good old days?” I asked.
“Are you kidding? These are the good old days, my friend. No responsibility and no one is shooting at me or twisting my thumbs.”
“You don’t miss the action?”
He put down his cigarette and took a drink of something that I suspected was a powerful disinfectant.
“I think about the future more than the past. Always have.” He finished his drink, then called for another. The place was more like a resort than a nursing home. “Did you find an answer to my question?”
We had worked together for decades. In all that time, he had asked very little of me. He understood what I was trying to do, what I was fighting. At the end, he only had one question. For some reason he thought I could find his answer.