Timeless (The Cartographer Book 3) (13 page)

“I think we lost them,” Vigil said breathlessly before dropping me to the ground like a sack of potatoes. “The effects of the stun should be wearing off.”

“What the hell did you do to me?” I gasped as I struggled to my feet.

He turned to me angrily. “I did what I had to do to stop you from getting yourself killed! Do you think this is some kind of game?”

In a blind rage, I drew back my fist and punched him in the face. He fell to the ground where he remained flat on his rear in stunned silence.

“Was
that
a game?” I roared. “Did you enjoy it, you son of a bitch, because I can play this game all day!”

Using the back of his hand, Vigil wiped away the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. A smile replaced the stunned look on his face. “The mouse has become a lion.”

The rage bubbled inside me like a cauldron. I clenched my fists and prepared another strike, but he stopped me with an outstretched hand. “That was not meant as a jest. Perhaps I have been too harsh. Save some of that anger for our enemies.” He stood and brushed himself off. When he looked up, his smile faded and a concerned look replaced it.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“That,” he muttered and gestured behind me.

Janero's forces were coming around the corner, one hundred yards behind us, but they weren't alone. Three objects floated about fifty feet above them. They looked like flying speedboats, with long hulls shaped like a V and two large enclosed propulsion units underneath. Aboard each of these skiffs were several Order of the Sun soldiers, heavily armed.

“That's not good,” I grumbled.

We turned and ran. The wall continued toward the north, but we continued east, toward a building nestled alongside a dirt and gravel parking lot situated off of a single lane dirt road. The parking lot was empty with the exception of a rusted pickup truck in the corner that was missing its wheels and apparently, arrived at this location to die a lonely motor vehicle death. A bicycle had been tied to a wooden pole like a horse in the Old West. A wooden sign hung at an angle out front which read, “The Bottle and Glass Pub”. The building looked a hundred years old and was probably last maintained around that time. The roof lost about half of its shingles and was desperately in need of repairs. The paint peeled from the walls in thin ribbons. In contrast to the rest of the building, the front door looked as if it had been recently replaced and painted. The door handle was constructed of polished bronze, free from blemishes.

“Do you think we should go in?” I asked.

“As much as I don't like finding myself trapped inside, we cannot keep running forever. We are unarmed and greatly outnumbered.” Vigil stepped up to the door and tried the handle. It turned freely in his hand.

When the door opened, a musty smell slammed me in the face. It was like walking into a four hundred year old root cellar. We stepped inside and the door slammed shut behind us, cutting off light from outside. The remaining sunlight drifted in through a single grime-covered window in the corner of the room. As my eyes adjusted to the gloominess, I investigated our surroundings. Several heavy wooden tables and chairs were scattered around the room. Despite the musty smell, they were in rather good condition, as if they had recently been resurfaced. A polished wood bar stood in the opposite corner of the window. On one end of the bar, a lone candle burned next to a man hunched over a tall glass full of murky liquid.

“We're closed,” he growled without looking up from his drink.

“We are not here for a drink,” Vigil replied as he made his way cautiously toward the bar. I grabbed a seat at one of the tables. My eyes never left the man. We had no idea who to trust or if there was anyone left to trust on this planet anymore.

The man looked up slowly. The candle cast eerie shadows over his face, giving him a macabre clown-like appearance. Although he was bald in the center, his hair protruded wildly from each side. His Fu Manchu mustache curled down into a pointed goatee. His scowl carved deep lines into his chin. “Then why are you here?”

“We are being hunted.” I stood up and carefully approached the man. He hovered closer to his drink, as if I were going to snatch it from him. “We were diplomatic representatives sent by the Insurgents. Maybe you have heard of us, maybe you haven't. That's not important. What is important is that we are fighting against the Consortium. We had hoped the Order of the Sun would join our cause, yet they were just another group to be added to an ever growing list of betrayers.” My cheeks flushed scarlet with anger. My anger wasn't directed toward the man, he was just an unlucky recipient of my ire.

I could almost feel Vigil stiffen in the gloom, perhaps bracing himself for some sort of retaliatory strike from the stranger. Instead of the stranger leaping from his chair in a fit of fury, his eyes sparkled. It could have been a trick of light played by the candle, but he softened his expression a bit.

“Hunted?” He stroked his mustache methodically. “I hope you don't take me for being rude, but who'd be hunting you?”

Vigil and I exchanged a concerned glance. He was thinking the same thing I was: Could this guy be trusted or would he turn us in at the first chance he got?

“The Order is hunting us,” I replied. I lowered myself into the seat next to him.

He stared at me for a long time. Eventually, he lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip. He put it down and smiled. “I shouldn't be harboring no fugitives.” He took another swig of his drink before slamming the glass on the bar. “But then again, I was never one to conform to society's standards.” He pushed the seat away from the bar and stood up. When he came around to stand next to me, I realized how tall he was. Despite the fact I was seated on one of the elevated bar stools, he still towered over me. “Bofor is the name. This is my establishment.” He swept his arm toward the main floor. “Normally this place is filled to the ceiling, but the Ministry increased working hours at the plants, so I only open this place at the end of the work cycle.” He turned to me and narrowed his eyes. “Loss of income, you see, but do they care?” he snorted.

Vigil interrupted his rant. “We would hate to be an additional burden, but they are coming and will most likely stop here to search. Is there a place we can hide?” I admired how diplomatic he could be when called upon, despite our differences.

“Perhaps there is, perhaps there ain't.” His facial expression tightened into a scowl. “I'm sure I could curry favor with the Ministry by turning in some wanted fugitives. They might even throw business my way in appreciation.”

I slid off the bar stool angrily. “We need to get back to our people. Jori and Yori sacrificed themselves to give us a chance to make it out of here. My friend Kedge sacrificed himself. I'll be damned if I will let some backwoods tavern owner stand in our way.”

I felt Vigil brace for impact next to me. Bofor's eyes widened and he slowly climbed up on his bar stool. He drained the glass, slammed it down and stared at the bottom of it. “So Jori is dead?”

“Yes,” I replied as I tried to figure out what his motives were.

He looked up from his glass and locked on us with a cold stare. He squeezed the glass so hard I was amazed it didn't shatter. Vigil took a step back and placed his hand over his bracelet, prepared to blast the tavern owner at the first sign of aggression. Bofor saw Vigil taking a defensive posture and he smiled broadly. He must have eaten some sort of meat last night because pieces of it were still wedged in between his teeth. They were perfectly rounded and yellow, like kernels on an ear of corn. He lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Well, in that case, I have a secret to tell you.”

The Timeless

Celestial Monarch, Ibune's ship
.

The Timeless gathered again inside the great hall aboard Ibune's ship. Vigil, Scribe, and Moro were not present for obvious reasons. News of what had happened on Gliese had reached them and their grim expressions revealed their thoughts on the subject. Moro was now a hostage of the Consortium and Vigil may soon join him. Updates from Scribe had been few and far between, which created an enormous amount of concern.

“This mission was folly from the start,” Arcturus growled. “Discreet diplomacy will not win this war. We should have attacked the Consortium directly before they gathered more worlds to their side!”

“Relax yourself, Arcturus. There is no way we can fight a full-scale battle directly against the Consortium,” replied Horus.

“That plan was considered and rejected,” added Ibune.

“It would have been like engaging an intergalactic armada with nothing more than a bucket of fluffy bunnies and a smile,” laughed Vayne.

Arcturus slammed his fists on the table and glowered at Vayne. “I'll give you fluffy bunnies!”

A hand fell on the big bear's shoulders. “Calm down Arcturus, he is only trying to get a rise out of you,” Vanth consoled.

“It's working,” he growled. He lowered himself into his seat and fixed Vayne with an icy stare.

“Do we have news from Scribe?” asked Grillick.

All eyes turned to Menjaro the Messenger. He had been tasked with carrying the messages from Scribe to the Timeless. Menjaro shook his head slowly. “Unfortunately, security activity has amped up since they grabbed Moro. It is too risky to reestablish communications at the moment.”

A smug, raspy chuckle rose from the far end of the table. All heads turned toward the source. Mortem sat with his feet propped up on the table. His hooded cowl concealed most of his face in shadow, save for the bright yellow orbs of his eyes, which flickered like candles in the shadows. “I warned every one of you. You wanted to try the scalpel, but this job needs a sledgehammer.”

“So what do you propose?” Grillick asked.

Mortem turned his head slowly and locked eyes with Grillick. “You know what I propose,” he purred.

Grillick's face darkened. “Absolutely not!” He turned to Ibune. “I hope you aren't even considering this!”

“The cycle of life has only one ending…death.” Mortem laughed. “This is fate.”

Grillick turned to him angrily. “Then how do you explain us?” He swept his arm across the table. “Death has yet to come for me.”

Mortem went silent. He pushed himself away from the table and stood. He moved toward one of the empty chairs in the room, momentarily hovering over it. The nameplate on the chair read:
Baltazar the Astronomer
. “I'm afraid Baltazar would think otherwise.” Grillick's protests died on his lips. Mortem surveyed the room and when he was sure no one else would offer an objection, he continued. “Death comes for us all. You know as well as I do that it is the most powerful force in the universe. People die, plants die, and even almighty suns die. I offered my assistance to you in this war, but I was spurned.”

“What you offer us is a mockery!” Horus scoffed.

“Now wait a minute, let's hear him out,” Lapiz interrupted.

Horus turned to him with a shocked look. “Surely you can't be serious! What he proposes is a slap to your face. You are the protector, Lapiz. What he proposes is an affront to the laws of nature!”

“You are so dramatic, Horus,” Mortem countered. “What I propose is an affront to nothing, except your sensitivity. I will win this war, if you choose to accept my help. I believe everyone in this room agrees the new Consortium is not what had been envisioned upon its inception. Calypso is a power hungry tyrant wielding the Consortium like a broad sword. He has his own twisted vision for the Consortium and he is making them come true, either by charm or by force.”

The room quieted in silent agreement. Despite the misgivings toward Mortem's “proposal,” Ibune understood that defeating the new Consortium was top priority. Even Grillick and Horus, Mortem's most passionate dissenters, stifled their protests.

She turned to Grillick. “Has there been any word from Sam?”

Grillick shoved his hand in his beard and scratched his chin roughly. “Intergalactic wormholes remain at sixty-six percent stability. He is working as fast as he can, but for every wormhole he stabilizes, three more become volatile.”

Ibune turned to Menjaro. “I need you to relay a message to Bree of the Erudites. We need men to assist Sam. See if he is willing to provide them.” Menjaro nodded his acknowledgement and she turned toward the remainder of the group. “I'm afraid we have no choice. We can ill afford any other setbacks. I recommend we put Mortem's proposal to a vote. I vote aye.”

“Aye!” Mortem cried gleefully.

“Nay,” Horus grumbled.

Grillick shook his head. “Nay.”

“Aye,” Menjaro said reluctantly.

Arcturus sat at the table with his head in his hands and hesitated. “Aye,” he spat.

Vanth did not hesitate. “Nay.”

Vayne drummed his fingers on the table methodically. He was deep in thought and surprisingly, seemed to be taking his decision very seriously. “Nay,” he muttered.

All heads turned to Lapiz, who was the deciding vote. The big stone giant had his head down and his eyes closed. He knew the severity of the decision at hand. Mortem's proposal went against the very moral code they abode by, but it was perhaps the only option remaining. The whereabouts of the diplomatic party sent to Gliese was in question. Moro had been captured. Embeth made no gains in any of the skirmishes along the outlying star systems. For every planet they won to their side, they lost two. The deep breath he took sounded like the dull rumbling of distant thunder in the hall before he gave his answer.