but with the
ear of his soul. A voice! A well-remembered voice ... a voice that
had not spoken in seventeen years.
Sagan closed his eyes,
shutting out his surroundings, with drawing deep into himself as he
had been taught as a child until he was aware of nothing around him
or even within him. His soul left his body, floating into the night,
and there it listened, free from the noise of heartbeat and rushing
blood.
And he heard the sound,
falling upon his burning spirit like cool mist. A cry of grief and
sorrow—the cry of a sister mourning the death of a brother.
The answer to Sagan's
prayer. God's plan became clear to him. "Forgive me for my
doubts, Creator. I understand!"
"My lord."
This voice was coporeal
and it grabbed hold of Sagan and snatched him back to the world,
forcing him to meld the two separate halves of his being together
again. Opening his eyes, the Warlord stared without recognition at
the centurion standing before him.
"My lord, forgive
me for disturbing you, but the men have been deployed and I'm
reporting to you as ordered—"
"Yes, Captain. You
have done well." Sagan glanced around the house, remembering. "I
heard a sound outside the window. Have your men investigate."
"Yes, my lord."
The captain made a motion and two centurions standing inside the door
departed with alacrity, two others moving to take their places.
"Further orders, my lord?"
"Secure the town
immediately. Ground all spacecraft of every type. No one is to leave
the planet. Any spacecraft that attempt to flee are to be captured,
not shot down. Send interrogators into the city. Begin a systematic
roundup of the town's population. I want to know everything, no
matter how insignificant, about this man"—the Warlord
shoved the body with the toe of his boot—"and a boy who
lived here with him. The dead man's name was Platus Morianna, though
according to our reports he used the alias Platus Moran. Search the
house. Bring me anything that looks like it might belong to a
teenager—anything! A picture of a girl, a model spacecraft, his
computer files. When you've finished, burn the house."
"Yes, my lord. And
the body?"
"He was an atheist
and he died by his own hand. May God have mercy on his soul."
Sagan bent down on one knee. " Requiem aeternam dona eis,
Domine. [Rest eternal grant them, O Lord.—Requiem Mass]
Closing the staring eyes, he lifted the limp hand and placed it over
the starjewel, whose bright light was fading into darkness. "Leave
the body in the house. Burn it over him."
"Very good, my
lord." The captain gestured again, and the two centurions,
followed by two more, entered the house and began to literally take
it apart. Speaking into his helmet's commlink, the captain relayed
his orders, and soon hoverjeeps loaded with men could be seen leaving
the shuttlecraft, sweeping over the plains, heading for the small
port city.
A centurion poked his
head through the open window.
"Captain, the
grass is so trampled out here, we can't make out any definite tracks.
Footprints all over—here and in the garden. There're animal
tracks, too. Wolves, looks like."
The captain glanced
inquiringly at the Warlord, who shrugged, no longer interested. "The
tracks could have been made days ago. This late at night, most likely
it was the animal I heard."
Stepping over the body,
he walked across the living room and out the door. Behind him, he
heard the thud of books hitting the floor, wood splintering, the
jangling twang of a broken harp string. The Warlord's gaze went to
the stars burning in the heavens, stars that to poets might be
sparkling gems but to him were pins upon a huge galactic map.
Mentally taking up one
of those pins, he twirled it in the fingers of his mind.
"At long last, my
lady. At long last!"
Chapter Five
Freedom's just another
word for nothin' left to lose.
Kris Kristofferson, "Me
and Bobbie McGee"
"Hey, kid, damn
it! Can you hear me?"
A hand was over his
mouth. A heavy weight
ear of his soul. A voice! A well-remembered voice ... a voice that
had not spoken in seventeen years.
Sagan closed his eyes,
shutting out his surroundings, with drawing deep into himself as he
had been taught as a child until he was aware of nothing around him
or even within him. His soul left his body, floating into the night,
and there it listened, free from the noise of heartbeat and rushing
blood.
And he heard the sound,
falling upon his burning spirit like cool mist. A cry of grief and
sorrow—the cry of a sister mourning the death of a brother.
The answer to Sagan's
prayer. God's plan became clear to him. "Forgive me for my
doubts, Creator. I understand!"
"My lord."
This voice was coporeal
and it grabbed hold of Sagan and snatched him back to the world,
forcing him to meld the two separate halves of his being together
again. Opening his eyes, the Warlord stared without recognition at
the centurion standing before him.
"My lord, forgive
me for disturbing you, but the men have been deployed and I'm
reporting to you as ordered—"
"Yes, Captain. You
have done well." Sagan glanced around the house, remembering. "I
heard a sound outside the window. Have your men investigate."
"Yes, my lord."
The captain made a motion and two centurions standing inside the door
departed with alacrity, two others moving to take their places.
"Further orders, my lord?"
"Secure the town
immediately. Ground all spacecraft of every type. No one is to leave
the planet. Any spacecraft that attempt to flee are to be captured,
not shot down. Send interrogators into the city. Begin a systematic
roundup of the town's population. I want to know everything, no
matter how insignificant, about this man"—the Warlord
shoved the body with the toe of his boot—"and a boy who
lived here with him. The dead man's name was Platus Morianna, though
according to our reports he used the alias Platus Moran. Search the
house. Bring me anything that looks like it might belong to a
teenager—anything! A picture of a girl, a model spacecraft, his
computer files. When you've finished, burn the house."
"Yes, my lord. And
the body?"
"He was an atheist
and he died by his own hand. May God have mercy on his soul."
Sagan bent down on one knee. " Requiem aeternam dona eis,
Domine. [Rest eternal grant them, O Lord.—Requiem Mass]
Closing the staring eyes, he lifted the limp hand and placed it over
the starjewel, whose bright light was fading into darkness. "Leave
the body in the house. Burn it over him."
"Very good, my
lord." The captain gestured again, and the two centurions,
followed by two more, entered the house and began to literally take
it apart. Speaking into his helmet's commlink, the captain relayed
his orders, and soon hoverjeeps loaded with men could be seen leaving
the shuttlecraft, sweeping over the plains, heading for the small
port city.
A centurion poked his
head through the open window.
"Captain, the
grass is so trampled out here, we can't make out any definite tracks.
Footprints all over—here and in the garden. There're animal
tracks, too. Wolves, looks like."
The captain glanced
inquiringly at the Warlord, who shrugged, no longer interested. "The
tracks could have been made days ago. This late at night, most likely
it was the animal I heard."
Stepping over the body,
he walked across the living room and out the door. Behind him, he
heard the thud of books hitting the floor, wood splintering, the
jangling twang of a broken harp string. The Warlord's gaze went to
the stars burning in the heavens, stars that to poets might be
sparkling gems but to him were pins upon a huge galactic map.
Mentally taking up one
of those pins, he twirled it in the fingers of his mind.
"At long last, my
lady. At long last!"
Chapter Five
Freedom's just another
word for nothin' left to lose.
Kris Kristofferson, "Me
and Bobbie McGee"
"Hey, kid, damn
it! Can you hear me?"
A hand was over his
mouth. A heavy weight
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