In Episodes 1 through 10, Alexi Jackov returned after being absent for over 200 years. He first reveals himself to Luke Warm, long-time custodian of an ancient Memorial Obelisk on the planet Belli, then calls for his fellow Demon Prince, H. T. Murgatroid, to join him from the planet Id. Jackov then reveals to both an odd device he calls a minic; a brilliant crystal, one of five unique ones he seeks to find; and an enigmatic message that supposedly explains how it all ties together. He also says he has returned because of the Griffons, a radical Shrike-like tribe with a continuing mission to destroy the Human Expanse.
The Griffons have discovered that their cloid capabilities can be used to control creatures of feeble thought, specifically the Illians on Trilar. And, as the Illians spread through the Expanse, they become unwitting confederates in the Griffon plan of aggression. The Griffons also know of and seek the same five unique crystals, because they can be used in combination to amplify their control. But the strike team sent to retrieve the crystal on Belli is surprisingly destroyed to the last Griffon. The Griffon leader, Domina Alia Lahidan, is outraged by the failure and lashes out at her staff, killing one of her most promising lieutenants. She then orders her officers to destroy Belli, destroy all of the Demon Princes, and find the crystals!
Meanwhile, Jackov knew the Griffons would come to Belli and had his personal army of Djin clones prepare their devastating welcome. At the same time, Jackov and H. T., working together, have reached out to the other Demon Princes in hopes of creating a common response to the threat. While Jackov with Luke keeps the crystal, H. T. heads back to Id with the minic and the task to analyze it.
We join H. T. on the I. S. S. Universe, just entering Far Orbit around Id ...
Episode 11. Day 45-On the Idian Space Ship Universe, Commander's Quarters
H. T. woke up thinking of Sirius Max. The bastard was not his favorite topic.
As his eyes opened gradually, he caught a glimpse of a better distraction: Lucretia's naked form just slipping quietly out of the room. She was a beautiful woman, and very good at her assigned tasks. She had relaxed H. T. superbly well, and he did not want to get up. But he did anyway, idly scratching the parts of his body that were, though healing, a perpetual reminder of Max's perfidy.
Still naked himself, he walked over to his B/CC, or back-channel communicator. The B/CC was unique, offering a special line only among the Demon Princes. It had been developed during the First Barbarian Wars to provide an immediate means of communication to coordinate their military and other operations against the heinous invaders. Although improved over the centuries and a truly useful technology, the B/CC actually was seldom used. The reason was simple: the Princes detested one another. H. T. mused that Jackov's recent cryptic message had been the first he had received since ... he couldn't remember. The second had also been from him, arriving just as the I.S.S. Universe approached Id. It had been an even shorter message: "Belli fight. We won." That was good news, and not unexpected.
Now there was a third message blinking at him, this time from Argyle. Thinking it was an acceptance finally to actually talk, H. T. pulled it up, started reading, then cursed aloud. Argyle had been the target of an assassin. He was still alive, but evidently not for lack of someone trying. And using Argyle's cat as the means of delivery, no less. This was not good.
Thinking of cats brought H. T. to scratch himself again, which in turn brought Sirius Max once more to mind. Max was an asshole, and had hurt him. But Max just had been playful, a prank born of the boredom of the age. But Magnus' death, the Griffon attack on Belli, now this attempt on Argyle by - someone - all meant something bigger was afoot. With this apparent ongoing attrition of Princes he might need Max, meaning he would have to call off his blood vendetta against him. That thought truly grated, but this was not a time for such petty amusements.
He finished reading Argyle's message. At the end it said they had found the remains of two Illians among those dead from the attack. Illians. Hmmm. An Illian also was implicated in Magnus' killing.
"Clegg!" he shouted, activating his room's voice communicator with more force than he needed. He knew his Chief of the Command was most probably still at the command center four decks below, but would get the message instantly.
"Yes, sir," came the quick reply.
"Time to get back to work. Is he here?"
"Yes, sir."
"Send him up."
Dressed now, H. T. stood before the room's large port window, thinking and watching the stars. It was always his favorite view, and it relaxed him. He heard the soft opening whir of the sliding door to his apartment and felt a single presence enter.
"So. Starling," he said without turning to face him.
"Sir." Starling's response was typically curt and respectful, but he was no slobbering sycophant. He and H. T. had had a long, mutually profitable association together. Starling was a thorough brigand and an outlaw. Mercenary and ruthless, he was damned as a pirate on a hundred planets-probabl
"Are you alone?"
"Yes. Just Jorgo outside, as usual."
H.T. turned at that. His apartments were sound proof, but he remained careful. "That's why we need to talk. Alone. Do you trust him?"
Starling was startled by the question. "I have no reason not to," he reflected. But the thought had given him pause. Jorgo had been an outcast from Trilar, a mulatto, half Illian and half Drago, or at least so Starling thought. It was hard to tell just looking at his ugly face. Originally captured as a hostage, Jorgo had quickly adapted to the life of a pirate and proven himself to be a very effective warrior-which admittedly was rather uncharacteristi
H. T. studied Starling for a moment, then, satisfied, he continued: "You are probably surprised I am back here so quickly, and that I called for you."
"Yes."
"We received a communication that suggested to me the possibility of another Trilarian strike at Id."
"What?" Starling scoffed. "Once wasn't enough for them?"
"Can't say for sure with those bastards. They have rebuilt their fleets, as you know; so, their capability has returned. And we have some odd message traffic. You've probably seen this strange offer to ..." he looked at a note on his desk "... to what? Rescue stranded crews from the latest Black Forest war? What the hell is that about? And, even before that, I have another message from the Archillian himself, calling for the pursuit and capture of somebody named Hammer. Imagine: the Archillian. Something's not right. These are all tricks, excuses for launching their fleets again into deep space-and toward us. I ..."
"No. I have him."
"What?"
"Hammer. I have him. Can't speak to their rescue ideas, or to their attack plans, but Hammer is real. He is a Golan and something of a mechanical wizard. He helped repair my ships with a speed that would astound you. He also invented a different kind of machine, some kind of multi-phasic transceiver. Not sure what it does, and I definitely don't know how it works. But if the Trilarians want him, I can see why."
"Or, more precisely, the Illians want him. At least the Archillian does."
"Why this focus on Illians?"
"There were Illians with Magnus. At the end." H. T. chose not to share the news of Argyle. Yet.
"Ah," said Starling slowly, looking away, and thinking again of Jorgo. "Are there connections here," he half-asked as much to himself as to H.T.
"I am not sure. There's a lot more to this Trilar thing than meets the eye. And I believe the Griffons are behind it all-all of it; but I don't know how yet." He looked straight at Starling. "That's why I need you. Find those connections."
Starling just looked back at H. T. for a moment. "Griffons," he repeated. Then he nodded. "Understood," he said simply. "Anything else?"
H. T. frowned and shook his head. Starling smiled, his mind already relishing the challenge. "Sir," he said with another quick nod of closure, then turned and left.
H.T. liked Starling. He was courageous and quick. No need to mince words. That was not true of all people he needed to use. At that thought, he glanced at his chronometer and sighed.
"Clegg," he called, activating his voice communicator again, but with less enthusiasm than before. "Time for Mwercom."
Within 20 minutes, H. T. was meeting with an ad hoc research team in his command conference room, adjacent to his private apartments. He had been as honest as he could with the team, telling them they were looking for five particular crystals, and explaining that they were part of some unique new power source, which was true as far as he knew. He then showed them the minic and Jackov's first B/CC message that had taken him to Belli. He did not tell them both had come from Jackov. However, he did direct them to analyze and interpret the minic and the message and figure out how they could be used to find the crystals. H. T. at first had tried to figure this out himself, but couldn't. He then had brought in Clegg, who in turn handpicked three other reliable experts to help work the problem. For a long time the results were frustrating; they all remained stymied as to the codes and symbols on the device and in the message. Finally, H. T. had reluctantly accepted Clegg's advice to include Mwercom, a savant on the crew. Mwercom was a native Idian and a categorical genius, but ... very strange. H. T. knew he was a valuable asset, but had little patience for his eccentricities.
H. T. entered the conference room and sat in his accustomed large command chair at one end of the long table. The team was already there in their places. The minic was within his reach on the table, near the control console before him. Displayed on the left main screen at the front of the room, he read again all of Jackov's original message:
Fear of the gods is the beginning of wisdom.
All actors, called to the scene,
don their masks
and hide their flaming cheeks.
It is time.
4 6 8 12 20
4 8 6 20 12
"So, what do we have?" H. T. began.
"Looks like at least a partial solution," Clegg answered, sitting next to H. T. He looked toward the front of the room. "Mwercom?"
Mwercom sat at the far end of the table, in the last chair before the screens. No one sat anywhere near him. He was a short man, rumpled in dress, unshaven, and otherwise casual about his personal hygiene. Most people responded to him by staying well upwind. He was buried in his notes and his computer on the table, his nose running slightly with a sticky drool moistening his upper lip. He did not hear his name.
H. T. rolled his eyes and sighed.
"Mwercom!" Clegg commanded.
"Yes, sir!" Mwercom bolted upright, knocking his laptop onto the floor.
"Report!"
"Yes!" Mwercom visibly brightened as he put his things back on the table, then wiped his upper lip with his left sleeve and grinned. He was now in his element.
Mwercom stood quickly and, without using notes, began to rattle off his findings. He spoke rapidly with a high-pitched, squeaky voice, almost spitting out key words. "As you know, both the minic and its message are related to our crystals. Our initial approach had focused only on the minic and the message. This was wrong." he paused here, rolling his eyes meaningfully and gauging the effect.
"Huh?" said Carlo, one of the team members.
Mwercom ignored him and continued, "I took it from the point of view of the crystals. These are, as you know everywhere. And some, like our five, are very unique."
He stopped, building a tension with his audience for the coup in analysis he knew he would show. He then proceeded, disregarding the fact that his listeners were not as conversant with physics as he: "For irregular, non-spherical mass distributions in ten dimensions, standard formulation is inefficient. We must allow for practical as well as theoretical calculations of the gravitational variations of crystals in space, plus anomalies due to the irregularities and shape deformations in the space-time continuum itself."
His audience responded with a mix of admiration and bewilderment.
"I tried standard tensile physics theories first, but they have proved inadequate."
He paused, breathing heavily from the pace of his speech. Mwercom then leaned forward to emphasize his next words. "However ... a study of equivalence principles has led me to a rather elegant formulation ... if I do say so myself." He grinned again.
"Fine," said H. T., getting impatient.
Mwercom blinked at him, sniffled back a little nose drool, then continued rapidly: "We find the crystals can be observed manifesting through an eleventh dimension, which can be considered to be in the realm of thought itself, like adept or cloid capabilities. To find them, we postulate that gravitational acceleration will affect each crystal in finite predictable ways and can analyze crystal capabilities as a function of position." Mwercom looked around to make sure everyone was listening. "This can be proved mathematically.
He turned to a nearby control panel to begin projecting a formula on the right main screen, next to the message. Then he continued in his rapid, staccato fashion. His voice squeaked in excited, noisy breaths as he drew the formula on the screen, emphasizing each variable: "Assigning gravitational position, g, as a function of position, R, actual crystal position may be expressed as a definite integral function among gravitational potential, phi, mass density, rho ... which is of course non-zero."
Mwercom turned briefly from his drawing to look at his audience, making sure they were grasping this particularly vital point. Continuing, his neck disappeared as his head slumped with excitement into his shoulders: "Trigonometric cosine function, theta, unit basis vectors, I ... J ..." His rate of breathing increased as the formula appeared on the screen. "K ... L ..."
"Stop!" demanded H. T. "Just translate this goddamn bullshit."
Mwercom stopped. He stood up from the control panel and hung his head. He knew the formulation was truly revolutionary, and this had been his proudest moment. His lower lip quivered as he looked at the floor. After a moment, he answered simply, "Three things. Sir."
"Which are ...?" said H. T., motioning with his hands after a long expectant pause. He was not always sure why he kept this guy around.
Mwercom looked up, but remained cowed. His long tongue unconsciously licked his still-sticky upper lip. "First," he said. "The crystals you are looking for must be perfect polyhedrons."
The obvious thought actually was a revelation: "Of course," said H. T., almost to himself. He turned away, thinking out loud. "That's why only a few have these affects. Most crystals are irregular."
"Yes. Second, finding them is not difficult. They actually may be located in four dimensional space, and, allowing for some basic positional variations, will tend to settle in a static fashion at specific gravitational nodes."
"Excellent," said H. T. He looked at the minic and picked it up.
"And third, your solutions are in your message."
This startled H. T. He turned back to Mwercom, "Meaning?"
"The numbers! They are paired vertically, giving you two of the metrics for each of your five polyhedrons. All you need is to determine the third metric." Mwercom's last sentence was uttered slowly and precisely. H. T.'s eyes widened.
"One more thing," Mwercom continued. "The minic is part of it. It works like an interferometer. If you can enter the right numbers in the right sequence, it will seek the closest crystal matching those parameters and automatically determine for you the fourth dimensional position."
H. T. nodded and studied the minic in his hands. The dials and markings still made no sense to him, but he knew they had made a breakthrough. They were one step closer.
The team stayed quiet, watching. H. T. appreciated what Mwercom had done. His analysis was truly useful, but the man was a strain. He really hoped he wouldn't have to use him again anytime soon.
"What of the text in the message?" Carlo finally asked.
"They are instructions," said Mwercom, turning to face him. "The text will instruct you how to arrangefiveread it accurately." the crystals for maximum effect. Its meaning won't be fully revealed, however, until you have all crystals together. We need their actual presence to
H. T. glanced at the message, then looked at Clegg. Clegg nodded.
"OK. We're done here," H. T. said. "Thank you, gentlemen," The staff proceeded to collect their notes and head for the door. Mwercom did the same and shuffled, still dejected, from the room.
"Clegg, stay," H. T. ordered as the others left. The seemingly peremptory command was not unusual. H. T. frequently had one-on-one conversations with his Chief of the Command. To others, in fact, the two almost seemed friends. Almost. H. T. did not let anyone get too close. Even so, H. T. felt he could relax with Clegg, and occasionally would seem to ignore their difference in rank. For his part, Clegg was professional enough never to forget it.
After the others had left and the room was sealed again for private conversation, H. T. settled back into his large chair and pressed a button on the console before him. A dull whir produced a 6-oz. glass of scotch neat with a twist of lemon at the rim. "Drink?" he asked of Clegg.
"No, sir. Thank you."
"What do you think of Mwercom's pitch?
"I'm not an astrophysicist ..." he began.
"No. Think operationally."
"Yes," he paused. "The analysis is good. We can break the codes in the message fairly quickly, now that we know what we are looking for. The trick will be actually finding the crystals. There are a million gravitational nodes out there to search. Mwercom says the minic can help us find them. We'll see. We don't really know how to read it yet, let alone enter numbers in a planned sequence. That still may take some time."
"I agree," said H. T. "But we may not have a lot of time." He took a sip of his drink, savoring it for a long moment with his eyes closed. Now was the time, he decided, to let Clegg know a little more about what was at stake. So, he added, "You've heard about Maximus?"
A bit surprised at the change of subject, Clegg answered, "Yes, sir. The crew still talks of it. It was a most unfortu..."
"It was not an accident."
Clegg just stared, mouth still half-forming his last word.
"Maximus was assassinated. By an Illian. In the pay of the Griffons." Clegg's mouth closed, but his eyes only widened.
"And now this." H. T. continued. He motioned Clegg over toward his console and showed him the B/CC message from Argyle. Clegg read it, scowling when he got to the part about Argyle's cat.
"His cat!" Clegg said through his teeth. "The bastards. Argyle won't like that."
"No," H. T. agreed. "It does guarantee he'll be on our side, though."
Then Clegg read the part about the dead Illians. "Tri-Lar," he acknowledged.
"And the Griffons behind them," H. T. repeated. He rubbed his hands together and looked at the palms. "Maximus dead, and now this attempt on Argyle. And possibly Gregory." He looked at Clegg. "You heard of him, too?"
"Yes," Clegg said. "In his parking garage. He got away OK; but it killed his bodyguards. Nothing about any Illians, though."
"We need to know more. Contact Gregory. Find out if any Illians were involved. I am ..." he paused, finding it difficult to say. "I have to ... to contact Sirius Max." Clegg winced at that, knowing the history. H. T. continued by way of explanation: "Unfortunately,
Clegg tried to be hopeful: "Maybe not. Nothing on this from Short, or even Sirius Max for that matter. None of these guys is universally adored, and this could just be circumstantial.
"Yet," H. T. turned away, thinking.
Clegg looked at his commander, recognizing the growing tension. He realized H. T. felt the situation they confronted was becoming truly serious, and that he was legitimately worried. "Sir, is there anything else I ..."
H. T. cut him off with a sharp look, unsmiling.
"Yes, sir," said Clegg, drawing back. He knew his commander would tell him more in his own time. The look, though, meant the end of the meeting. So, he turned to leave.
"Wait. Take this, too." H. T. stood up and handed him the minic. He forced a smile, knowing he had been suddenly too curt with Clegg. Clegg was an exceptional officer, who did not deserve such rude exclusion. "I'll give you more shortly," he said, half by way of apology. "In the meantime, let's solve those metrics."
"Yes, sir." Clegg strode toward the door and started to step into the hall as it opened.
"Oh, and Clegg," H. T. added loud enough for the sentry to hear. "Send Lucretia to my quarters." Clegg turned briefly back toward his commander and smiled as he nodded. He knew H. T. well enough to realize the targeting of the Demon Princes was a major concern for him. But even under pressure-especi
As Clegg left, H. T. thought of Jackov: he had not heard anything from him since his cryptic battle report, now almost a week past. He could not even be certain if the Griffons knew he was back or not, although he was certain they would be furious-and curious-about their disaster at Belli. Thus, it was just a matter of time. However, H. T. had decided he could not yet reveal what he knew of Jackov's return to anyone, even to Clegg. As good and loyal as Clegg was, the fewer who knew, the better. To Clegg, he had just gone to Belli to collect the minic. Nothing more. Nothing else was needed. For the moment.
H. T. picked up his drink and passed back into his private apartments. He went to his B/CC and stood to compose a short, painful message. He paused as he reread it, then closed his eyes and grimaced to jab at a button, sending it to Sirius Max.
H. T. had barely sat down when the door opened; and she was there again, framed by a subtle lighting, wearing only a diaphanous gown and a smile. In her coy, teasing manner Lucretia fixed her seductive gaze on H. T. and entered slowly, purposefully, cat-like. She was truly lovely, and very skilled. God (if there is one), I love that skill, he thought.
The explosion rocked the whole ship, but did not destroy it. Lucretia was thrust rapidly forward, wide-eyed and flailing spread-eagled into the room. Dead before she could think, her body seemed to come apart in a slow motion movement of total disintegration.
To be continued ...
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