0036393001337282886 wind demon 01 Page 12

  “They sleep very little,” Dr. Dean had told her. “When they do, it is a sleep like that of the dead. I think part of their legend has to do with that deep sleep.”

  Long into the night, Bridget sat in the living area of the Captain's quarters and stared fearfully at his door. Now and again, she could hear him moaning then listened as he paced about the room like a caged animal. For a half hour or so, all sound would cease then the moaning would start again, then the pacing. She fell asleep curled up in a chair, her hands tucked beneath her cheek. She never felt him cover her with a blanket nor did she feel the gentle touch on her hair before he left.

  ****

  CREE ROLLED up his the sleeve of his jumpsuit and allowed the Ministry of Medicine physician to inject the hypersleep drug into his vein. The drug was thick and it stung as it traveled up his arm.

  “That burned worse that usual,” he complained as he reached over to massage his arm.

  “You need to be out at least twenty minutes for the programming to be downloaded, Captain, ” the medical officer reminded him.

  Cree's lips tightened. He was still smarting over the extra assignment he had been given earlier that morning when he had reported to Operations.

  “I am not a gods-be-damned Shepherd!” he had snarled as he was being briefed.

  “This is a target Admiral Kahn wishes to be retrieved by our best team,” the briefing officer had explained nervously. It didn't do to have a Reaper glaring at you as Captain Cree was glaring at him. “The female is to be treated with the utmost respect.”

  “Female!” Cree had grunted. “I don't need another gods-be-damned female on board my ship, either! One is enough with that prissy-assed Med Off you foisted on me!”

  The briefing officer had backed away. “Well, Sir, there will be more than just the one female you will have to r-retrieve.”

  “What?” Cree had thundered. He'd grabbed the poor man by the lapels of his uniform. “How many more?”

  “F-five.”

  “Gods-be-damned Kahn and his sniveling female targets, ” Cree mumbled under his breath as he settled himself more comfortably in his E.S.U.

  The Medical Officer knew Cree was already feeling the effects of the sleeping drug careening through his system. Within a matter of moments, the Reaper would be fast asleep, the information needed for him to perform his mission beginning to be downloaded to the terminals implanted in his brain. “How close to Transition are you, Sir?”

  “Not close enough for you to have to concern yourself about it,” he responded. Already his eyes were closing and a soft black mist was shutting down his world. He forced his eyelids open again and glanced over at the cybot that would monitor the ship while he and the crew were in Extended Sleep.

  “Make sure Dr. Yul's compression tank is activated,” Cree instructed the ‘bot.

  “'For some must watch, while some must sleep; so runs the world away,'” the cybot agreed. It waved a gallant arm toward Dr.

  Yul's sleeping compartment for she was the last one to enter the E.S.U. “'Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night ‘till it be morrow.'”

  Dr. Yul pursed her lips and climbed into her E.S.U. Whoever had programmed the cybot's responses and personality had a wicked sense of humor. She liked to read Terran literature, herself, and the quotations from the playwright, Shakespeare, never failed to amuse her since they were always right on target with whatever the duty the ‘bot needed to perform.

  “'To sleep perchance to dream: aye, there's the rub',” the ‘bot sighed as he ran a swab over the Med Off's arm in preparation to injecting her hyper-sleep.

  “I don't dream,” said Dr. Yul.

  “'True, I talk of dreams which are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy',” agreed the cybot.

  As the Siliplex hatch of her sleep unit clicked into place, Dr. Yul wondered again who had programmed the AIU. She would have been astounded to learn that it had been Kamerone Cree who had given the ‘bot its distinctive personality.

  Troilus, as the ‘bot had been named, ambled over to the ship's computer, checked the readouts, punched in a few commands, sighed as heavily as any human ever had, then hunched its shoulders as it strolled to the Captain's E.S.U. It stared down through the Siliplex for a moment or two, sighed again as though the weight of a world was on its shoulders, then released the lock on the sleep unit. As soon as the rush of the vacuum seal broke, the Reaper came fully awake.

  “'So every bondman in his own hand bears the power to cancel his captivity',” the cybot said sagely, holding out its hand. “'This is the short and long of it.'”

  Cree grasped the steel-like hand and climbed out of the unit. He stretched then glanced around. “Everything working properly?

  Everyone sleeping?”

  “'As quiet as a lamb',” the ‘bot pronounced. It ambled off, taking its place at the console.

  “You found nothing wrong, did you, Troi?” Cree asked.

  “'But yet I'll make assurance double sure, and take a bond of fate.'”

  “Someone sabotaged the guidance system the last time out,” Cree muttered as he sat down in his command module.

  “'Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,'” Troilus agreed, nodding. “'Thou can'st not say I did it: never shake thy gory locks at me.'”

  Cree snorted. “I know the Resistance was responsible, Troi.”

  “'Things without all remedy should be without regard: what's done is done,'” the ‘bot advised.

  “I intend to make gods-be-damned sure it doesn't happen again.”

  “'Lay on, MacDuff, and damn'd be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!",'” the cybot declared dramatically.

  “Aye,” Cree snarled. “And the gods help her when I find out who she is!”

  ****

  THE TERMINATION of the four rogue Gatherers he had been assigned to find and eliminate went as it was meant to: with precision and with as little trouble as possible. The retrieval of the targets that were his secondary assignment, however, did not go quite as well as planned. The five women had simply stared with horror at the tall man in the black jumpsuit when he had appeared out of thin air. When he advanced toward their leader, all but the oldest of the five had scattered like chickens before a hawk. She held her ground, looking at him with something more like amazement than horror.

  “Who the divil are you?” she'd demanded.

  “Don't give me any trouble and I won't harm you,” Cree had responded.

  He had lifted his hand and a high -pitched buzzing sound erupted uncomfortably in the women's ears. A light so bright it momentarily blinded them, so piercing, they had to squeeze their eyes shut against the pain. When next the women opened their eyelids, they had been greeted with a sight that had rendered even the youngest one speechless.

  “You are under my authority now, and you will do as you are told or I promise you, you will regret it,” said Cree.

  “I knew good and damn well you were a divil, young man!” the youngest one piped up. She looked around them. “Where the hell have you brought me and me chums?”

  “Leave off, Mary Francis,” the oldest of the group said with exasperation. She took in the huge circular room, the banks of twinkling lights on the computer consoles, the uniformed crew watching her, and grinned. “It's a bloody UFO!” she said in awe.

  “Like hell it is!” Mary Francis pronounced. She walked up to Cree and punched him in the chest with a stiff finger. “What kind of harebrained piece of shit is this?”

  “I've read about these kinds of abductions,” the oldest said, gazing about her with obvious excitement. “Where are we going, then, lad?”

  “Right back where we were!” Mary Francis declared. She jabbed Cree again. “And right this minute, too!” Cree reached up, took the finger poking him and pulled the woman against him. “Do that again and I will take it as an invitation to what you'd like me to do to you except I won't use my finger!”

 
Mary Francis gasped, her mouth sagging open. She jerked her hand back and scuttled away from him, joining the other four women who were huddled together near the E.S.U.'s.

  “Where did you say you was taking us, boy?” the oldest asked.

  Cree flung her a glance. “I didn't, but you are going to my home world. Rysalia Prime.” The old woman nodded knowingly as though she had heard of it. “And how far from our home is this Rysalia place and how come I can understand you?”

  Cree scowled. “Because I am speaking to you in Terran English,” he grated. “While you are asleep, you will assimilate Rysalian High Speech so you will be able to communicate with us in our language.”

  “I will not be doing any sleeping!” Mary Francis hissed. She folded her arms over her skinny chest. “I can assure you of that, young man! I will stay awake until we get there!”

  The Reaper's face split into a nasty grin. “I'd like to see that,” he threw at her. “It will take us a little less than two and a half months to reach FSK-14.”

  The oldest woman's eyes leapt with speculation. “That's a few million miles away, ain't it, lad?”

  “Over three billion miles,” he corrected.

  “I think I'm going to enjoy this,” the oldest woman said.

  “I'll do my best to see that you do,” Cree was shocked to hear himself say.

  “What's your name, lad?” she asked, smiling at him.

  “Cree,” he replied. He surprised himself again when he realized he was smiling back at her.

  “Cree what?”

  “Kamerone Cree,” he replied.

  “That sounds like a good Celtic name,” she concluded. “I like it.

  Cree laughed. “I'll tell my father you approve,” he responded and ignored the stunned looks of his crew. He held out his hand.

  “Now, let's get you settled in the sleep unit.”

  The old woman put her hand in his. “I guess it would be too much trouble to let me sit by the window and watch the stars go by,” she lamented.

  Cree shook his head. “We'll be going into warp drive and your body wouldn't be able to handle it.”

  “I'm not going anywhere!” Mary Francis barked.

  “Oh, shut the hell up, Mary Francis McGivern!” the older woman spat. “I'm so bloody tired of your bellyachin'!” Cree chuckled, further shocking his crew, then swept the little old lady up into his arms and laid her gently in the E.S.U. The genuine laughter, if shocking to his crew, confused him even more. He moved out of the Med Off's way as she leaned over the old woman to inject the hypersleep drug.

  “This will sting a little, but not for long,” Dr. Yul told her.

  “Oh, my!” the old woman exclaimed as the drug started racing through her frail body. “That's a bit like good Irish whiskey, huh, lad?”

  “I wouldn't know,” he answered, bringing down the lid on her sleep unit. He smiled at her through the Siliplex, then placed his fingertips on the surface in what he hoped would be conveyed as a gesture of comfort. It pleased him as she lifted her hand and placed it beneath his before letting it drop heavily to her side

  Sister Mary Joseph Kelly looked up into the handsome, Gaelic-looking face hovering above her own and winked. The lad had the look of a black Irish rogue if she'd ever seen one! she thought as she drifted away. “A bonny Irish outlaw, is that one,” she whispered as she succumbed to the Extended Sleep.

  ****

  CREE LAY awake in his sleep unit, his hands behind his head. He was unaware that he was smiling softly or that his thoughts had been consistently on Bridget Dunne since leaving Docking Bay 9 two and a half months earlier. Idly, he wondered what she was doing; how she was spending her confinement in his quarters. He knew there was plenty to do, a myriad of entertainment in his Vid-Com unit to keep her occupied. And with one exception, he had not denied entrance to any visitors who wished to see her, although he had made sure the Vid-Com would not allow Bridget, herself, to leave his quarters.

  There had been plenty of Terran food programmed into the replicator. She would not lack for nourishment. Even staple goods, vegetables, meats or the like which she wished to cook for herself could be brought in from the Ministry's warehouses.

  He turned his head and looked at the old woman lying across from him. She, like Bridget, was from a Terran race called the Irish. As best he could ascertain, the Irish were a race not unlike his own dam's: Chalean. Some of the words, and their meanings, in the Irish Gaelic language were identical to Chalean High Speech. No one had been able to explain to him how that could have happened, but he suspected that many generations before the catastrophe that killed Rysalia's female population, the Chaleans had found a way to Terra and had left behind a part of their culture.

  Lying there, watching the old nun sleep, he wondered why-after the targets’ safe retrieval-he had risked capture one more time to return to the convent from which he had extracted Sister Mary Joseph and her little staff. His reason bothered him and he sat up in his unit. “I can't sleep,” he told the ‘bot as the Artificial Intelligence Unit shot him a curious glance.

  “'There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things.'” Troilus told Cree.

  “Aye.” Cree sighed. “'A poor lone woman,'” he quoted.

  Chapter 10

  “YOU WOKE me earlier than usual,” Dr. Yul complained.

  “'Better three hours too soon than a minute too late,'” the cybot giggled.

  Dr. Yul waved the ‘bot away and climbed out of her unit on her own. She went immediately to the Terrans’ units and checked the readouts.

  “I've already checked,” Cree told her.

  Dr. Yul nodded. “The AIU woke me too soon.”

  “'I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, when you are waspish.'” Troilus pouted.

  “Stupid ‘bot,” Dr. Yul accused him.

  “'Your wit's too hot, it speeds too fast, ‘twill tire,'” the cybot insulted her.

  “That's enough, Troi,” warned Cree. “Leave her alone.”

  Troilus sniffed and began to amble away from the Med Off, moving its mouth as though it were a cow chewing a cud.

  “What are you doing, Troi?” Drewe called out.

  “'Eating the bitter bread of banishment,'” it replied sorrowfully.

  Dr. Yul checked on Sister Mary Joseph last. She looked down at the old woman for a long moment then turned to look at Cree. “I'm afraid I don't understand altruism in the Terran race, but you do have to respect those who are willing to give their lives for others, don't you?”

  “Aye,” Cree replied. Thinking that was the main reason the Empire had sent for this particular target, he wondered if they had not done wrong in taking the old woman from where she was needed most.

  “We will be able to prolong her life another fifty to sixty years on Rysalia Prime,” Dr. Yul stated. “Think of all the good she will do for the Terrans of her faith who are despondent.”

  Think of all the good she could have done on her own world, Cree found himself thinking. He mentally shook himself, astounded at his line of thought. Such rationalizing was becoming worrisome for he had never before allowed himself to consider the feelings of the Terran females on FSK-14 or anywhere else for that matter. Women were to be used and discarded, certainly not worried over. That he did so now, concerned him greatly. A Reaper could not afford to think of things like that. A Reaper had to detach himself from his mission, from his surroundings, and never, never form attachments of any kind.

  “Captain?” Drewe called out. “I'm getting fluctuation readings on the LRP. Have you changed the modulations on the navigational system?”

  “'Zounds! I was never so bethump'd with words since I first call'd my brother's father dad,'” snapped the cybot.

  Cree looked around at the AIU. The ‘bot was limping along, dragging its left leg and hiccuping. The program was malfunctioning again. There had only been a few minor glitches in Troilus ’ programming since the cybot had been put on-line ten years earlier, but when one occurred, it
was usually complicated to repair.

  “That moronic ‘bot is dancing,” Dr. Yul remarked, staring at the AIU as it headed for one the Keeper's sleep unit.

  “I can see what he is doing. There is no need to tell me.”

  “'I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking,'” Troilus commented. “'Potations pottle deep.'” Drewe snorted. “I wish you hadn't programmed him from that gods-awful Terran writer, Cree. I don't understand half of what he says.”

  “You programmed the ‘bot?” Dr. Yul asked, turning a surprised face to Cree.

  “I can deprogram him, too.”

  “'The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.'” The cybot chuckled as he threw the pressure lid up on the Keeper's unit.

  The Keeper opened his eyes and looked up into the smirking face of the AIU. “Get stuffed, you hunk of molded plastic,” he groused.

  “'Sell what you can, you are not for all markets,'” Troilus swapped insults with him. It reached into the sleep unit and tickled Lt.

  Alexi Noll, the ranking Keeper, who let out a string of obscenities that made the Med Off blush.

  “Has he been infected with a virus?” the Keeper inquired. “Maybe you should run a diagnostic, Lona.”

  “I don't have time to worry about that right now,” Drewe ground out. “I've lost the navigational beacon!”

  “Repeat?” Cree asked.

  “I've lost-” The ‘bot started giggling madly then shouted at the top of it's voice: “Kam and Bridie, Sitting in a tree! K…I…S…

  S…”

  Cree's brows shot up into his hair.

  “I…N…G", the cybot yelled. “First comes love, then come marriage, then comes Bridie…”

  “That is enough!” Cree thundered, pushing away from the command module. He reached for the plastiform, but the ‘bot skipped away.

  “Pushing a baby carriage!” it finished. It hopped across the floor, twirled twice, burped, then collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  “What the hell is wrong with our ‘bot?” Ensign Shepherd Paegan Thorne, the Communicators Officer, asked as he climbed out of his sleep unit.