Restoration Page 8

  “Really. That is an odd sentiment, coming from someone whose job it is to protect them.”

  This time it was the Majister who laughed, a deep and gravelly noise. “Well, that’s the key to it, Rheela. It is, in the final analysis, a job. Once hired to do this job, I will do it, and protect everyone in this town to the best of my ability.”

  “Because you feel you have a certain skill that will benefit them.” She nodded, seeming to understand. “Well, Majister … I feel the same way. The only difference is, I don’t get paid for it.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  For a moment she seemed to withdraw, as if she was suspicious of him suddenly. “Why do you ask that?”

  “It just seemed a reasonable question. If you find it offensive—”

  “No … no,” she said quickly, briskly recovering her good spirits. “I … suppose it is reasonable. Perhaps, Majister, it’s because this way … I know that I’m being sincere. I help because I want to, not because I’m obliged to. It helps me remain true to myself.” She seemed to consider her words, and did not appear pleased with them. “Does that make any sense?”

  “Yes. Yes, actually, it makes perfect sense.”

  “I think, Majister, you’re being kind.”

  “As it so happens,” he said nobly, “being kind is also in my job description.”

  She laughed at that, and they spoke no more of it. Ultimately, though, he felt closer to her as a result of the conversation. And, since that time, he had made it his particular province to keep a special eye out for her, since she struck him as a special kind of woman.

  So, when she had contacted Majister Fairax about the strange man whom Moke had taken it upon himself to bring home, naturally the Majister attended to it as quickly as possible. In no time at all, he had ridden out to Rheela’s homestead and gathered the mysterious stranger who was unconscious and tied up in her shed. Fairax needed to take no more than a single look at the man to know that he was not—to put it mildly—from around there. His skin, his hair—everything was simply wrong. He did not dwell on it, though, because that was not his job. Nor did he worry too much about the fact that the man—at least, that was what he appeared to be—was clearly ill, for that also was not his job. His job was to protect, and the best way to protect others from this newcomer was to make certain that he was put where he could do no harm to anyone.

  That, of course, meant gaol. Which was exactly where he put him.

  The newcomer made no protest, offered no resistance on the trip back into town. He simply lay slumped over the Majister’s own luukab (a larger, hardier version of the one that resided in Rheela’s shed) for the length of the journey, at most offering some muttered comments that resulted more from matters flittering through his dreams than anything having to do with the real world. Once he got the man back to the gaol house—which was also where the Majister had his office—he tossed him into a gaol cell and slammed the door securely shut. It clanged with that sort of definitive finality that the Majister always found most appealing.

  From that point on, the Majister simply waited for the newcomer to die. He wasn’t hoping for it, or encouraging it. But he was not a medman, and the medman was not due back in the area for some weeks yet. Nor were any of the ladies who customarily served as interim nurses and healers interested in turning out to try and attend to him, since his different hue and generally unYakaban appearance made him an instant source of suspicion and fear in the town. So the newcomer lay unattended and feverish, still tossing about on the narrow platform that served as a bed in the cell. After a short time, the Majister became accustomed to the moaning that arose from the cell and developed the ability to turn a deaf ear to it.

  Unfortunately, Kusack was having a bit more difficulty than the Majister when it came to ignoring the newcomer.

  Kusack was in a cell near to the newcomer, and he made it quite clear to the Majister that he was not appreciating the new setup one bit. Kusack was broadly built, with a wild mane of hair and irregular teeth that resulted from his odd habit of chewing on rock to sharpen them. The Majister had put Kusack in gaol when Kusack had been foolish enough to kill a man named Turkin over a game of cards, while in the Majister’s presence. Kusack had claimed that the killing was justified, since Turkin was alleged to have been caught cheating at cards. It wasn’t the killing of Turkin that annoyed Fairax so much. The truth was that Turkin had been caught cheating. Caught red-handed, in fact. And, considering that the Majister had lost a significant amount of money to Turkin just the previous week, the revelation was not a happy one as far as Fairax was concerned. Nevertheless, the law tended to frown on killing another person over a game, and considering that Kusack had displayed the monumentally poor taste to engage in the homicidal activity in the Majister’s presence, Fairax had simply had no choice but to arrest the stupid sod.

  As a result, whenever the newcomer would rant or shout, Kusack would complain loudly. “How am I supposed to sleep, Majister?” he demanded one time.

  “Deal with it as best you can,” the Majister advised.

  “Deal with it? I shouldn’t have to deal with it! I shouldn’t be here in the first place!” Kusack’s beefy hands were each wrapped around one of the bars on the cell door, and they twisted and flexed as if threatening to tear the bars from their mooring. “When my brothers catch wind of this—”

  “When they do, they’d be best advised to leave bad enough alone and not make it worse,” the Majister said. It was, as far as he was concerned, sound advice, and he could only hope that Kusack’s brothers actually followed it.

  Late one evening, not long after Fairax had incarcerated the newcomer, he was sitting in his office, minding his own business, when he heard a slamming against the cell door from inside. Pulling his plaser from its holster, he rose and stepped through the door to the adjacent area where the cells were. There he saw the newcomer, his eyes wide and wild, clutching the door bars and looking around as if he was some sort of caged animal.

  “May I help you?” asked the Majister patiently, with the forced air of someone who had absolutely no real interest in helping the party he was asking after.

  “The pods are all gone,” whispered the newcomer. The Majister glanced over to the corner of the cell and saw that, once again, the newcomer had eaten virtually nothing save for the water. And it was fairly obvious where the water had gone, for his entire body appeared matted with perspiration.

  “The pods are all gone?” the Majister repeated. He tried to sound sympathetic about it. “Where did they all go?”

  “Crew. Crew is in them. All of them.” He was talking so fast that it was difficult for the Majister to know what the hell he was talking about. Then again, even if he’d been speaking slowly, it was unlikely that Fairax would have been able to garner the slightest clue of what he was saying. “Had to send them on their way. Only way. All the automatic systems … off-line. Had to be done manually.”

  “That sounds like a shame,” said Fairax, trying to sound sympathetic.

  “Shuttlebay … only hope …” With astounding force, he threw himself against the gated door and bounced back off the bars. He hit the ground, rolled, and came up under the platform that was his bed. “Got to get to shuttlebay …”

  From the cell next door, Kusack moaned, “Dear Kolk’r, shut him up.”

  “You shut up, Kusack,” shot back the Majister. There was something about what the newcomer was saying, the certainty and conviction with which he was speaking—as if he knew something that the Majister couldn’t possibly know—that Fairax found extremely fascinating. “You’ve got to get to the shuttlebay …”

  “Got … to get …” His face was flushed, and he was squeezing his fists so tight his knuckles were turning white.

  And then, on a hunch, the Majister took a step forward and said, “You’re at the shuttlebay.”

  “Shuttlebay! Made it! Moved … so fast. Don’t know how I moved so fast … but I did,” said the sick man, with unmista
kable triumph.

  “What are you doing now?” prompted Fairax.

  From his cell, Kusack was watching the exchange with confusion and quite a bit of suspicion. “What sort of stupid game is th—”

  “I said, shut up!” he hissed at Kusack before turning back to the newcomer in the cell. “You’re in the shuttlebay,” he repeated.

  “Whole ship is trembling. Going to blow any minute. I’m in my shuttlecraft.” It was as if his gaze was turned inward, seeing a scenario that was clear in his mind and incomprehensible to anyone else.

  “Are you leaving the ship?” inquired the Majister. There was unfeigned interest in his voice. Most of his time was spent sitting around, so anything that served as a diversion was enough to catch his fancy.

  The newcomer shook his head so fiercely it threatened to topple off his neck. “Trapped … bay doors not responding …” His hands were moving in what looked like a vague pattern, as if they were operating invisible controls. “Make it … make it work … got to … onboard weaponry … blow it open …”

  “You have onboard weaponry?”

  “Blow it open …” He was shaking. “Ship … going up … did it … doors are gone … go! Go! Go!” And suddenly the scarfaced man threw himself against the gaol door with such force that, just for a moment, Fairax thought that he might actually smash the door down in his delusions. The door shook violently, but held firm. He banged into it again and again, and each time he did so he yelled, “Go!” as if trying to drive the imaginary shuttlecraft as far and as fast as he could.

  Suddenly he threw his arms around his head and cried out, “Look out!” He did it so convincingly that, in the next cell, Kusack automatically hit the dirt to get out of the way of whatever it was that was ostensibly going to provide a threat. If the Majister hadn’t been so caught up in the odd drama of the moment, he would have found the whole thing funny. “The ship’s going!” he continued. “Shockwave … taking a pounding … shielding holding up, but barely …” His words, which had slowed down before, were coming faster and faster again. His breath was ragged in his chest. “Shields gone … navigation out … comm out … barely holding it together … force of explosion … propelled … no idea where … no idea … lost … can’t get my bearings … planet ahead … don’t know it … trying to hold it together … fighting to get retros on-line … slow it down … I’ll burn up … burn up if I don’t … slow down … got it … like flying a brick … hit … hitting atmosphere … on fire …”

  And that was when something jogged in the Majister’s memory. A few days ago, he’d been sitting out at sunset, looking at the night sky … and seen something that bore a resemblance to a shooting star. It had streaked across the horizon, flared out, and then seemed to disappear. He’d thought of it as a simple astronomical phenomenon, pretty to look at, but of no deep or lasting consequence. Was it possible that he had been wrong? That, in fact, he had never been more wrong? That what this man was saying … rather than being the ravings of an ill and delusional genetic oddity … was the Kolk’r’s honest truth? Was he some … some sort of outer-space creature?

  As quickly as the thought crossed the Majister’s mind, he shook it off. He was a rational man, a down-to-Yakaba man. He dealt with, and excelled in, the real and the now. He was simply not given to flights of fancy. And he had no intention of starting to embark upon them now.

  “Keep her up … keep her up …” The newcomer’s voice was starting to trail off. He seemed to be running out of energy. “Keep … nose up … coming in fast … too fast … tearing up … grozit … hold on … hold on …”

  That was when he toppled over.

  The Majister was far too smart to enter a cell when a prisoner was putting forward a pretense of illness. Instead, he simply stood outside and watched as the newcomer lay on the floor, arms splayed.

  Kusack, who had been trying to peer through the bars at the next cell, looked to the Majister and asked, “Is he dead?”

  The Majister shook his head as he watched the unsteady rise and fall of the man’s chest. “Nope. Don’t appear to be.”

  “What if he dies?”

  “Then we bury him and move on.”

  He did not, however, die. The Majister went to bed in the small room that served as his home whenever there were prisoners in gaol, since there was no one except him to keep an eye on them, and he didn’t like to leave them unattended. What with the Majister’s knack for sleeping lightly, any attempt to escape from the jail would awaken him instantly. He had no idea whether the rather curious individual in the cell would be alive when he awoke the next morning. He hoped that he would, but wasn’t really holding out much hope.

  So, it was with some surprise that, when he walked into the gaol area the next morning, not only did he see his strange prisoner alive, but awake and sitting up and—other than his odd coloring—looking fairly normal.

  The first thing that struck the Majister was how the gaze of the purple eyes seemed to pierce him. He saw in the man an almost disquieting intelligence. In a way, it almost seemed to the Majister that he was the prisoner, and this strange man the gaoler.

  “Good morning,” said the Majister carefully.

  The purple-eyed man blinked very slowly, shutting his eyes and then opening them again over a period of several seconds. It seemed that there was even greater clarity in his eyes at that point than before. “Is it?” he said.

  “It seems so, yes. How are you feeling?”

  “Damp,” he said. He pulled at the tattered clothes that were stuck to his sodden body. “I appear to have sweated through everything I have on.”

  “I can get you something else to wear.”

  “That would be appreciated. As would some water. I’m feeling a bit … dehydrated.”

  Water, as always, was not in abundant supply, but the Majister didn’t see how he could reasonably turn down the request. Kusack was being obliging enough to remain asleep, so he didn’t have to worry about yowling from the other inmate, or complaints about preferential treatment. Within a few minutes he returned with both a small amount of water and some extra clothes from the back. He walked up to the gaol door and said, “Step back.”

  He waited for the prisoner to ask, “Why?” But the purple eyes flickered over the Majister, and then, without a word, the man stepped away from the bars. He leaned against the far wall, folding his arms and watching the Majister with what seemed a combination of assessment and amusement. Fairax pushed the cup of water and the clothes through the bars, placing them on the floor, never taking his eyes off the prisoner. The man didn’t make the slightest threatening move, or any move of any kind. Indeed, he was so motionless that he might well have been carved from rock. The Majister moved away, and only then did the prisoner pick up the glass and sip from its contents.

  “Figured you’d just drink it down. Afraid I put something in it?” inquired the Majister.

  “No. Just don’t know when the next will be coming.” He picked up the rough-hewn clothes, inspected them closely, and sniffed them. Then he looked up at the Majister and said, “Death.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I smell death. On these clothes. Someone died while wearing them.”

  The Majister blinked in surprise. “Yes. That’s right. A man was stabbed in them. But the hole from the knife was sewn up, the blood cleaned off.”

  The man said nothing, but instead simply started stripping off the tattered clothes he was wearing and proceeded to pull on the new ones.

  “It does not bother you,” the Majister said with interest, “to wear the clothes of a dead man?”

  “Only if he were wearing them at the same time I was.”

  The Majister laughed brusquely at that. “You’re a cold-blooded bastard, I’ll give you that. So you are fully recovered, I take it.”

  “I believe so. I still feel a bit weak in the legs. That should pass.” He glanced around. “Where am I?”

  The way he spoke, it sounded less like a question
than it did a command that he be informed of his whereabouts. Something about this man indicated to the Majister that he was not only accustomed to giving orders, but also to being obeyed. “You’re on the planet Yakaba. In the city of Narrin.” He paused, and then added, almost as an afterthought, “In my gaol.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” His fists gripped the bars, and although he did nothing overt, the Majister noted the flexing of the tendons beneath his skin. The man was testing the strength of the bars. Well, he would not be disappointed in that regard. “A customary habitat for criminals, I assume.”

  “Correct.”

  “Which would seem to indicate, in your eyes, that I am a criminal.”

  “Correct again.”

  “I see. And what might I have done to warrant such low status?”

  “You attacked a woman. Tried to kill her.”

  That seemed to startle him. It only did so for a moment, though, and then he drew an invisible mask over his face, to cloak whatever might be going through his mind. He did so with a most impressive ease.

  “That is … unfortunate,” he said finally. “I was … not myself.”

  “Really. And may I ask who you yourself are?”

  “Calhoun. Mackenzie Calhoun. And you?”

  “Majister Fairax.”

  “ ‘Majister’ being some sort of title, I imagine, from the way you said it. In charge of law enforcement, I surmise.”

  “You surmise correctly.”

  “Majister Fairax … I’m … not supposed to be here.”

  “Just passing through, are you?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “Well, Mackenzie Calhoun,” said the Majister, leaning back in his chair and tilting slightly on the legs. “It would seem that you’re not going to be passing through as quickly as you previously supposed.”

  “You do not need to keep me in here,” Calhoun told him. “I’m not a threat to anyone.”

  “And I know that … how? It’s not as if you’ve exactly had the chance to refrain from hurting anyone while you’ve been in there, right? For all I know, I let you out of that cell, and you’ll go on a rampage.”