The Zygan Emprise: Renegade Paladins and Abyssal Redemption (16 page)

“I never saw Benedict again. Thinking about
it over the years, I’ve come to think maybe our brief companion on
the other side had been Benedict’s mother. Since I didn’t hear from
him, I figured he’d found a way to really get to Level Three to be
close to her and then decided to stay.

“Then, four years ago, the guerilla attacks
began from galaxies M81 and M82. We didn’t know it was Benedict at
first, not until the Battle of the Cepheids in Orion. Then it
became clear that he had returned to our universe and was leading a
revolt against the Omega Archon.”

“And the rest is history,” Spud finished
without a trace of irony.

I shivered. “Level Three sounds just
god-awful.”

Gary nodded. “I certainly wasn’t prepared for
the transition.”

“That is the point, indeed,” said Spud
mysteriously, sucking on one of Gary’s pens. He sat up and faced
his boss. “Clearly, you are implying that, for some reason,
Benedict was cast out from the Garden of Eden, perhaps by the Omega
Archon, and now is fighting so he can get back in.”

“Yes, that’s my theory,” Gary agreed. “But as
long as His Highness rules the roost, the door to heaven is
apparently locked. So…”

Spud shook his head. “I don’t buy it.”

We both stared at him.

“He wouldn’t have said p-brane if he’d been
in Level Three,” Spud attempted to explain. He pulled out his Ergal
cell phone and opened it. “I shall have to ponder this one for a
while.”

Nodding at me, he said, “Come on, Rush. We
had best be going.”

I didn’t hide my sarcasm. “The game is
afoot?”

“No,” Spud said absently, as he guided me to
the door. “A neutrino.” He looked at both of us with a sharp gaze,
adding, “The game is a neutrino. And time is running out.”

Chapter 9

It’s about Time

Spud was due back on the set as soon as we
returned to Burbank and I didn’t have time to ask him what he’d
meant by his curious remark. I had an appointment with Chell’s
make-up chair in ten minutes, so I quickly made a pit stop in my
trailer and then slipped on my Tara Guard vinyl spacesuit. I took a
moment to pull up information on neutrinos on my Ergal, and
refreshed my memory from our Mingferplatoi Physics uploads.

Neutrinos are tiny subatomic particles, like
protons and electrons, that can pass through matter without being
detected or causing visible harm. They are apparently created by
certain types of nuclear reactions, like those in the sun. The fact
is, millions of neutrinos from our sun apparently safely pass
through our bodies every day. How neutrinos related to Gary’s story
about Benedict, however, I couldn’t for the life of me imagine. I
would have to wait until I could pick Spud’s brain and find out
what he’d been theorizing.

Chell was in a chatty mood as he worked his
make-up brushes and regaled me with tales of his weekend in Palm
Springs. Offering up a polite “really?” at appropriate intervals, I
closed my eyes and tried to puzzle out how Benedict’s concern for
his mother had led him to humiliation, exile, and murder.

“You’re wasting your energy.”

Kris. My eyes popped open to see my
“adorable” fifteen-year-old sister, her long blonde curls framing
her delicate features, standing next to us wearing, as always, the
latest fashions. I raised my hand in a brief wave and, choosing not
to play, returned an unenthusiastic, “Hey.”

“Hello, Miss Kris,” Chell said, sounding
delighted. “When are you going to grace my chair again?”

Kris giggled and gave Chell a quick hug.
“I’ve got one more week on the Disney, and then we start shooting
Mid Kids
again next month.”

The series about a group of “adorable” middle
schoolers had been renewed for a third season this fall on the Toon
Town channel. We still hadn’t heard if
Bulwark
was going to
be on the fall schedule for a second year…

Judging from his smile, Chell apparently
would be moving his make-up case to Toon Town for the summer. I
turned to Kris and ventured, “What animal are you on this
movie?”

“A kitty, how did you guess?”

Naturally. I shrugged. “So, what’s up?”

“Elijah and I are going to Vegas with the
band next week for the Vox Pop Awards,” Kris bubbled. Elijah
DiFiero, lead singer for Mettle, was Kris’s latest boyfriend—and,
to Connie’s alarm, was almost eighteen. He’d produced Kris’s latest
pop single, “Kiss Me,” that, incomprehensibly, had made it to
number six on the Billboard Top 40 last month.

Kris’s voice dropped to a whisper, as she
handed me a brightly-wrapped package. “I promised Andi I’d get her
something. Seeing as you, uh, can get to Maryland much easier than
me …”

I sighed and took the package. “Sure. I’ll
give it to her. Um, good luck in Vegas.”

“Of course!” Kris bounced over to give Chell
another quick hug, and gushed at the world, “See you soon!” as she
pranced away.

Not my favorite sister? No, duh.

Besides, the music Spud and I make is
light-years better. He plays a mean guitar, and I’m no slouch on
keyboards, and our songs really have a message. We’re almost ready
to release our own CD. We just have to find a name for our band.
I’ve suggested “The Musgrave Ritual”, but Spud is really hot for
“Saxon Violins”. Frankly, I’ll go along with any name that doesn’t
have the stench of Eurotechno.

“Beautiful.”

I jumped. Chell’s hands were on my shoulders
and his face above mine, grinning from ear to ear. Admiring his
handiwork in the mirror in front of us, he repeated,
“Beautiful.”

Had to admit, I did look a lot more
presentable. If I didn’t despise wearing make-up then maybe my
social life would turn much more exciting. Assuming I ever actually
had the time to hook up. I eased out of the chair and turned to
thank Chell once again. “You’re a pro.”

Chell’s smile was genuine as he responded,
“And you are beautiful. Someday you’ll believe it.”

I patted his arm and returned a rueful smile,
“Someday, Chell, it won’t matter any more.”

* * *

We wrapped the last scene for the season by
8:30 that night—still not knowing if we’d have a Season 2. Our
ratings had been inching up in the last few weeks. And Spud’s Q
scores, audience appeal measures, are through the roof. I’m not as
into the show biz scene as my sister Kris, but it does annoy me a
little that Spud’s starting to get more fan mail than me.

Our wrap party was set for the Vista Rock on
Sunset. Simon Carter, the sumptuous Captain Warner on
Bulwark
, was co-hosting the fete to celebrate his latest
divorce, and much of LA’s TV royalty was expected to attend.
“Wouldn’t hurt either of us to meet some new people,” I said to
Spud as we climbed into my trailer.

He plopped down on the divan, rolling his
eyes.

“Oh, come on. Brand’ll be there,” I
teased.

“Ha.” Sneering, he pulled out and lit a
cigarette and offered me one from the pack. “Besides, I have quite
a bit of thinking to do.”

I declined, my irritation showing. “Why don’t
you just directly inject the nicotine? Save yourself the trouble of
smoking.”

Spud blew a few rings and smiled. “’Tisn’t
trouble. It gives me something to do with my mouth.” He grinned.
“You should try it.”

“Ick. Bad breath and yellow teeth?” I made a
face.

“In any case, I only smoke when I’m grappling
with a problem.”

“Yeah, right,” I snorted. “Speaking of
problems, you ready to talk about our little conversation with
Gary?”

He shook his head. “But there
is
light
…” He stood up, heading for the trailer door, and smiled at me. “I
shall pay you a visit in Malibu tomorrow morning so that we may
talk.”

“Not too early,” I threw back with a
wink.

* * *

It was sunrise by the time I Ergaled us home
to my oceanside bungalow from the wrap party. Me and my Zoom
cruiser, that is. I wasn’t going to drive from Hollywood to Malibu
being so … tired. I collapsed on the futon in my living room and
fell asleep to the sounds of the crashing surf outside my patio
doors.

Being so ‘tired’, I foolishly didn’t bother
to set the alarm code, nor did I wake up when the Andarts entered
my house. I did finally wake up when the stun ray immobilized me,
but, after that, of course, no matter how hard I struggled, I
couldn’t open my eyelids to see the intruders. I had to use my
other senses, one of which was alerting me that, boy, did I need to
pee.

I was able to figure out that the Andarts
were speaking an Ursan dialect of some sort, perhaps from the
planets around the stars Merak or Dubhe in the “Big Dipper”. I
couldn’t get to my Ergal, abandoned oh-so-close to me on the coffee
table, so I only recognized a few words. Most of them profane. The
Andarts seemed intent on searching through every nook and cranny of
my bungalow, but, to my relief, didn’t seem too interested in me.
For now. What were they going to do with me after they finished
their scavenger hunt, however? In this stunned condition, I
couldn’t grab my Ergal—or any other weapon. I had no way to protect
myself, to fight back.

I tried desperately to battle the stun and
move an external nerve or muscle, to no avail. My breaths were
already shallow, driven only by my diaphragm, and now became even
more rapid due to my growing anxiety. Desperate to burst free so I
could breathe, I struggled even harder to break out of the stun,
but my efforts were in vain. I felt my throat closing up, crushed
by an increasing pressure on my chest. I had to escape or I was
certain I would die.

And then I remembered John’s words, calming
me that day years ago in the emergency room. “I am by your side, do
not be afraid. Patience is the champion’s best tool.” Soothing
myself with the memory of his voice, I was able to regain control
of my heart and my mind once again. Thank you, John, I heard myself
thinking. I miss you so…

Not finding what they were seeking, the
Andarts finally returned to the living room and, I’m assuming from
the few words of Ursan I could understand, tried to decide what to
do with me. One Andart was apparently ready to throw me into the
wild, wild surf, but, fortunately, the second was able to convince
him to pocket my Ergal and tractor me to their ship.

On board their vessel, I soon found myself a
prisoner in a small chamber, which blessedly had a small
chamber-pot. Just before locking me in alone, a furry paw reached
around the door and unstunned me, to my, and my bladder’s, great
relief. Tara Guard and her television ilk never had to worry about
bodily functions. I wish I could be so lucky.

After, uh, finishing, I looked around the
makeshift cell. The writing on the wall panels was definitely
Ursan. I recognized words in several Ursan languages and dialects
that I had uploaded at Mingferplatoi. I tapped my pockets, and
scanned the room—nope, my Ergal was still MIA. At least I could get
my bearings with my training uploads, as minimal as they had
been.

Okay, my first order of business, Catascope
101, was the 5 W’s: where (am I), who (kidnapped me), which (planet
or species), when (Era or eon), and what (the heck will get me out
of here!).

‘Where’ was obviously an Ursan ship. ‘Who’
and ‘Which’ were Ursan Andarts (note for later: Benedict Andarts?).
‘When’? I looked out the porthole. We seemed to be in deep space,
but I could identify no familiar landmarks. Place and time unknown.
And ‘what’? “What indeed,” as Spud would say.

“Why not ask ‘why’?” those of you with
diligent English teachers could reasonably question. Our pedagogue
mentors always taught us that ‘why’ was irrelevant. Don’t waste
your time with motivations in the field. Focus on the controllable
reality. I remember getting that advice when I was with Spud and
Sarion on a training mission near Centauri Gamma in 1832, fleeing
five Centaurians who resembled charging bulls and were moo-vingly
irate that my accidentally misfired laser blast had burned their
barn. The words “controllable reality” then seemed like an
oxymoron. Or, as Sarion teased me during our debrief, an
oxen-moron. Yes, everybody groaned.

Restless, I checked the porthole again. I
still couldn’t tell much from the star patterns except that we had
now gone into hyperdrive, and were someplace I’d never been before.
Which accounted for 99.99999 percent of the Universe,
unfortunately.

I was concentrating so hard on the stars
outside the ship that I almost didn’t hear the door behind me whisk
open. I did catch the Ursan entering my room when his tall, furry
figure was reflected in the porthole glass. As he neared, I spun
around and aimed directly for what I thought might be a tender area
in a giant bear. He was ready for me, though, and sidestepped
smoothly, letting me land face first on the not-very-soft titanium
floor.

“You okay?” he said with a note of concern
after I didn’t get up immediately. In English. English? Did he have
an Ergal to translate?

The voice sounded vaguely familiar. Nose
aching, I turned on my back and looked up at my captor, wondering
why I hadn’t yet been overpowered and placed in cherukles or
stunned. My jailer was a classic arctic Ursan, a typical native of
southern Caniformia, with long white fur and a moist brown snout.
Not someone I’d typically run into in my neck of the woods. And not
someone I’d expect to be particularly compassionate either.

I nodded. “Embarrassed, but, yeah, I’m okay.
Any, uh chance you could give me a clue where we’re headed?” I
added with a tentative smile.

“HD5924, Octant 7, M82,” the Ursan responded.
What was it about his voice …?

The sector of our neighboring M82 galaxy was,
I remembered from my cosmography uploads, sparsely occupied, and
not by Ursans. I’d never been outside of Zygan Federation territory
before, much less to M82 in any case. Newer catascopes were usually
encouraged to stay ‘close to home’, especially until their relative
age of majority, which for Terrans was eighteen. Normally, I
wouldn’t mind a chance to explore new expanses, but wasn’t M82
where Gary had said Benedict had begun his Andart assaults on
Zygfed? Was the Ursan Andarts’ mission to deliver me into
Benedict’s clutches?!