This is the opening chapter of a sci-fi story about a team of UN weapons inspectors sent to investigate a corporate facility on faraway world Athena Parthenos. After an accident at a Keres Corporation facility in Mongolia involving a deadly bio-weapon not engineered on Earth the United Nations has dispatched inspectors to all Keres extraterrestrial facilities. What they find on Athena Parthenos is something else entirely, and what the Keres Virus has done may prove more devastating for humanity than anyone yet realizes.
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Part 1: Arrival at Athena Parthenos
Space.
No matter how busy science fiction tries to make it, no matter how colourful or how full of asteroids, comets or shooting stars, no matter how much beauty is painted across the heavens space is still largely just that: space.
Once in a while you might come across some interesting stellar gas, but overall it is just lots and lots of nothingness punctuated by the occasional lonely rock.
In this void the sound of Bach echoed as if playing through a tin can, which maybe wasn’t far from the truth. The timbre of the lonely cello humming the notes of the Prelude reverberated off the exposed metal walls of the lounge as a solitary man drifted in the zero gravity with his eyes closed.
He wore a loose fitting jumpsuit in sky blue, the back of which bore the legend UNITED NATIONS EXPLORATORY FORCE, it wasn’t a uniform so much as it was something comfortable to wear when floating in the zero g sections of the needle-like ship.
He twitched his fingers along to the rise and falls of the piece as it built toward its crescendo, savouring the moment, the rising wave-
The music vanished to be replaced by an intermittent beep and then a man’s voice.
“Agent Westwood, Athena Parthenos is directly ahead, we’ll have locked orbit in thirty minutes. ExFor station Magellan anticipating dock in forty minutes.”
“Thank you, Captain Nicolette,” he replied.
It was time to go to work.
***
An icy blue orb hung before the needlepoint nose of the United Nations starship ExFor Holst, and looming in the distance beyond the icy moon was the massive gas giant Cicerone, the gases of the world swirling purple and green as the vortex of a storm several magnitudes of Earth rolled by.
Between the moon and that raging storm hung a small silvery shard, the Exploratory Force station Magellan with its huge solar panels reflecting the cold blue of the moon far below, the station seemingly insignificant against the celestial canvas.
Drawing closer the scale of Magellan became more apparent, the wheel-like central hub rotating around the stanchions supporting the solar array came to dominate the forward display on the Holst. Beyond the solar arrays on either side were modules with a distinctive disc shape similar to a 1950’s idea of a flying saucer, these were the zero gravity lab areas, cargo holds, and docking bays.
In an observation dome overlooking the moonside docking disc station commander Mila Qwan steadied herself against a brace next to the viewport, her magnetic boots holding her to the deck but her body moving as though submerged.
She watched as a blocky cargo shuttle dropped from beneath the long hull of the ExFor craft with the slightest hint of apprehension. These were armed troops, military men, coming to an enclosed space were the only thing between them and oblivion was a few inches of alloy. She suddenly felt very far from Earth.
Behind her stood Dr Meyers, the Magellan’s chief medical officer and he was equally concerned.
“Why do you suppose they’re sending weapons inspectors?”
“I have no idea,” Qwan replied without taking her eyes off the shuttle, “there must be some mix up at Vandenberg.”
Meyers stared over her shoulder as the Magellan docking arm reached out for the shuttle as it turned broadside to the station, the dark purple X-4 like a silhouette against the white sides of the craft.
For its massive size the Magellan had a crew compliment of less than 50 and being so far isolated from Earth they lived as a tight knit community. News that the UN was sending inspectors had spread like wildfire through the crew, and Meyers like the rest of them had the same question in mind: what if one of these jarheads puts a hole in the side of the station?
Why they were sending inspectors at all was another matter entirely. Magellan’s primary function was an observation post to survey potential colony worlds within the sector, but since they were in deep space they carried out all kinds of experiments from bacteriology to physiology. What they did not do was anything remotely related to weapons research, and even if they did this was a UN station, the computer sent updates back to Vandenberg regular as clockwork.
“Better go greet them,” Qwan said with a resigned sigh, disengaging the maglocks in her boots and pushing off toward the ladder to the docking level.
***
Weirzbowski was already at the docking console when Qwan and Meyers drifted down, a synthetic cigar smouldering in his lips as he cycled through the last of the docking procedure.
“That’s our guests tucked up nice and tight,” he rumbled, “cargo transfer guides moving into place.”
Two large rails rose from the floor of the docking bay to lock against the wall on either side of the larger of the two access ports.
On the smaller port a console beeped and the display changed from red to green, the atmosphere had equalized.
“Here we go.”
A hiss came from the port and the heavy doors slid open to reveal a Middle Eastern man, a square jawed blond man and a raven haired woman, all in ExFor purple.
“Agent Westwood, I’m Mila Qwan, commander of ExFor Magellan,” she addressed the blond man, “welcome aboard.”
“Thank you,” the Middle Eastern man replied, “can I introduce Chuck Brewster, biocoms, and Mary Dowd, EWD.”
Qwan blushed at her mistake and began to stumble an apology.
“Don’t worry about it, everybody makes that mistake.”
Recovering from her error of judgement the commander introduced chief medical officer Meyers and chief engineer Weirzbowski. They shook hands and spoke in a cordial manner which threw the station crew off kilter given their earlier apprehension, it had been expected that the inspectors would be barking orders from the moment of their arrival, now they didn’t know what to think.
“Commander,” Westwood brought her to one side as the first of the cargo pods began to drift between the magnetic guide rails from the shuttle’s hold, “can I have a word while the crew unloads?”
Weirzbowski and Meyers watched as Qwan and the ExFor agent pulled themselves into the lateral tunnel that led back to the station core.
***
When the last of the inspection team and their gear had been brought over and the station’s outgoing waste had been loaded the shuttle returned to the patiently waiting ExFor Holst.
A second, smaller craft dropped from the shuttle bay, a delta winged ship with a wide body and two large scramjet engines, gun turrets on either side and below the tail fin hung menacingly. A Gal-X1 combat utility dropship, the latest rapid deployment vehicle currently in use by the UN on Earth, it rotated on it’s axis and set course for the Magellan docking disc.
“ExFor team, Holst preparing to disembark for Raleigh Outpost. See you in four weeks.”
“Roger that, Captain Nicolette,” Brewster ansered the hail, “see you on your return.”
In the distance over the icy form of Athena Parthenos the two enormous rail guns mounted on the top and underside of the Holst retracted until they sat snug against the needle hull. The rearmost section of the stardrive behind the stubby wings broke apart and began to fan out, rotating around a central core glowing blue white.
“They aren’t hanging about?”
Meyers was surprised to see the starship preparing to leave the system, he had figured that the inspection team would have the run of the ship.
“It costs a lot of money to send those things extra-solar,” Brewster replied, “once they’re out here it’s best to make use of them.”
Modern starships utilised a system that created a wormhole around the hull of the ship, the long term effects of which on the fabric of the universe had not been fully tested, the fear was that it could one day create a rift that wouldn’t close. To that end the UN did not allow rift drives to be fired whilst within the Neptune Orbital Boundary, which meant that ships had to burn a lot of fuel through their sublight drives in order to leave the solar system.
“I’d rather see them hanging about,” Dowd said as a flash of light washed over the Holst in a wave, and then it was gone, “this job is always easier when you have a battleship parked behind your back.”
***
“Have you had much contact with the Eris complex on Athena Parthenos?”
Qwan paused on her drift through the long tunnel, Eris was a corporate facility on the moon surface owned by the Earth multi-national Keres. It had been part of the Magellan Project during construction but was sold off when the station was brought up to full capacity, the sale of obsolete facilities on the open market was one of the ways the UN encouraged expansion and exploration.
“We occasionally swap parts or use each other’s supply craft for urgent runs,” she replied, “is that why you’re out here?”
“Any unusual activity?”
“None,” she didn’t appreciate that Westwood had flat out ignored her question, “would you mind telling me why exactly you are here?”
“In due course.”
“No, Agent Westwood, now,” Qwan’s nostrils and blue eyes flared, “this crew has been on edge since we heard an investigation team was being sent, and unless you are carrying signed orders stating otherwise then I am still the commanding officer of this station. And I want answers.”
Westwood said nothing for a few moments, gripping the bulkhead his dark eyes moved as if trying to decide whether the best course of action was to pull rank or acquiesce.
“I am sorry,” he said at last, “the orders sent ahead of us were deliberately vague. I’ll brief the crew at 1100 hours and clarify everything, for now you can assure them that Magellan’s only involvement is to play host to my team for the duration.”
Qwan didn’t think that he was trying to be deliberately confrontational, watching him hover in the zero gravity, his dark hair rippling in the air current that flowed through the tunnel, she suspected that he was doing his best to be open whilst still telling her nothing.
“There hasn’t been any unusual activity from Eris,” she relented, “we haven’t had reason to communicate with them for over a month now.”
***
A brutal ice storm swept across the surface of Athena Parthenos, battering the frigid black mountain Thantatos Mons and the lonely little complex nestled up against it.
Snow drifts piled high along the walls and stalactites so windswept that they were almost horizontal had formed on windows that had their blast shutters sealed. The three garage facilities all linked to the two storey central complex by an underground basement system were locked up tight and caked with layers of ice, a lonely survey truck sat outside piled high with snow.
A solitary red light blinked on a beacon mounted high up the mountain above the silent facility, the only sign of life from a base that was in lockdown against the storm.
Between the beacon and the complex in a high up sheltered crevice was a man in only a lightweight grey jumpsuit, frozen to death as his fingers had desperately sought grip.
Saturday 25 June 2011
Saturday 18 June 2011
The Devil's Boots
Also known as 'When The Man Comes Around, part 2'. This is the prologue and opening chapter to the sequel novella to When The Man Comes Around, set ten years after the events of the first story it begins in San Francisco with Patrick McElhone now a man reunited with one of the other survivors of the first story, the Mescalero Nautzili, who has came to warn him of a threat in the form of a mad monk/witch hunter Xavier. Meanwhile an agent of the newly formed Secret Service, Aiden Muir, has arrived in the town of Armageddon to investigate the events reported by Captain Mitchell and why a representative from the Vatican, Xavier, has been sent to investigate the perpetrator of the events.
And binding these people together is the enigmatic force, The Man.
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Prologue
August, 1872
There was still gold in those hills, not much but there certainly was some. Not that miners ever really such much benefit from it, the only people to see profit were the merchants, innkeepers tradesmen, craftsmen and basically anyone else doing business during the waning years of the Gold Rush other than mining gold.
The town of Shasta was doing exceptionally well out of the boom, mule trains and stagecoaches rolled in to this hub of trade before heading further north along the Siskiyou Trail toward Oregon or back south toward Sacramento.
With all the comings and goings and the legends of rivers of gold there was inevitably going to be another type of person also attracted to the town, the grittier sort, men of spit and blood.
Two large gangs had established themselves in the surrounding countryside, engaged in a bitter rivalry with one another that more often then not came to bullets and death. Shasta was spared much of the violence as out of necessity it became something of a neutral territory, a place were either side could trade or otherwise entertain themselves without having to watch their backs.
Not that this did anything for the local population. The Oregon Regulars, a legion of deserters formerly a regiment in the Union’s Continental Army took the view that the locals were a nuisance, whilst the California Defenders simply took what they wanted.
You could not have referred to one side or the other as good, the Oregon Regulars had deserted the army for the sole purpose of making it rich off the sweat of the miners’ backs. The California Defenders on the other hand were simply carrying on the tradition of making life as difficult as possible for the Union that had annexed the territory over twenty years ago.
Where the two met, north against south, was as violent and cataclysmic as that fault through San Andreas, and embattled Shasta was the buffer zone.
For the past two months the Regulars had held the Hotel Royale as their base in the town whilst across that very same street the Defenders had claimed the saloon, marking out the borders of one another’s territory.
Carriages rolled down the street as a fine breeze lifted a layer of dust from the gutters of the busy street, a man stood in the centre as stage coaches and wagons berthed around him casting glares in his direction but remaining silent.
Wind caught his long, navy blue coat revealing a pair of pistols at his side that gleamed as if lit by the fire of angels, the navy blue garments underneath could easily be mistaken for the uniform of a Union officer. His white hair was blown about a face that gave no clue to his age save that he was no coddled child.
Looking first to his left and then to his right he seemed at last to come to a decision.
Walking down the street ignoring the vehicles rumbling to his left and right, the brim of his had casting a shadow over his eyes shielding him from the sun as it set fire to Heaven as it drifted toward the distant horizon. He turned north to the Hotel Royale, its red and white painted sand blasted and sun baked, stepping onto the porch he reached out a gloved hand and gently rapped the door.
This was as good a place to start as any.
He waited patiently as a barrage of cursing came from the other side before a few moments later the door was flung open by a young man in a Union uniform, clearly drunk.
“Yeah? What do you want?”
Without a word and fast as daylight the white haired man reached out and strangled the drunk silently on the doorstep.
Drawing his guns the man stepped inside and closed the door.
***
Chapter 1
San Francisco
That same day.
The wharf of San Francisco was a forest of masts swaying with the gentle rise and fall of the sea, schooners and merchantmen that had been abandoned as their crews sought their fortune inland.
The city itself was booming, what had once been a small coastal settlement serving as a stopover for ships heading to better places was now the hub of California’s growth.
In the hustle and bustle of the area now known as Fisherman’s Wharf a young man sat on a jetty sketching the Italian immigrants toiling on their fishing boats. He ignored the crowds about him and the stares of the curious young women as he carefully etched the crooked lines of a gnarled old fisherman unloading nearby.
There was something about the old man, an adventure or strife, some hardship hidden beneath the lines on his face that gave him energy and determination. He was an excellent subject that the young man loved to try and capture, if even only the slightest glimpse he wanted to find a way to express the vibrancy under the sea-worn skin. If only he could speak Italian, the conversations they could have.
The artist, Patrick, was no more a native of San Francisco than his subject, his family were not part of the Gold Rush mania that had spread across the eastern US. Ten years ago they had been ranchers in New Mexico, but those days were long gone and would burn forever, the memory of a father and brother.
Things had been hard at first, adjusting to a new life and finding employment, but they persisted with the determination of people who refused to be defeated or browbeaten by their past.
His mother found work in an assessor’s office and Patrick when he turned fourteen found work on the docks, and in his spare time he liked to draw. And draw he did, every free moment for the past five years. He found serenity in art, being able to detach oneself from the world and observe dispassionately the ebb and flow of human emotion, to try and capture some of that energy in a single moment.
A young woman sat next to him but he paid her little heed, people always gravitated to him when he drew, he supposed that in some subconscious way they wanted to become subjects themselves.
She smiled at Patrick when he gave her a glance, he briefly returned it before lowering his eyes back to has etching. In truth he was a handsome young man, curly brown hair and green eyes that burned with intensity when he was bent over his sketch book, but he was also shy and distant in the way only a murdered family can make you.
“You’re very good,” she said, looking over his shoulder.
“Thank you,” he smiled but didn’t look up, “it’s just a hobby really, and I doubt my work will ever see the light of a gallery.”
She continued to watch him for a few minutes, sitting in silence as he smudged shadows across the fisherman’s face, his fingers making delicate strokes across the yellowed page.
“What’s your name?”
He paused in his drawing to look directly at her, curly blonde hair and blue green eyes like the ocean, she was dressed as a lady of some culture, not the sort that would normally associate with a dock hand or artist.
“Patrick,” he replied, “Patrick McElhone.”
“Patrick,” she smiled as she said his name, “that’s a nice name. My name is Patricia, Patricia Telford.”
He knew the Telford name, the family were big cotton traders from Louisiana originally but had come west when the Civil War became bad for business. They owned property all over the city and land as far out as Sonoma, including it was said a vineyard in Napa.
“Can I see your sketchbook please, Patrick?”
He handed it over without a word, struck dumb being spoken to by a woman whose family wealth was positively terrifying.
She flicked through images of the docks, the fisherman, the bay, even a sketch of Alcatraz Island before pausing at a drawing of a captivatingly beautiful woman, she looked to be in her early forties with flowing dark hair and slightly sad eyes.
“She’s beautiful,” Patricia whispered, “she looks so haunted. This is amazing work, who is she?”
“My mother,” he replied, “I drew that about a year ago, when she got engaged.”
“Why does she look so sad?”
“She has looked like that for a long time, it’s only since meeting my step-father that she has started to soften.”
“I take it this isn’t something that you want to talk about, not with a stranger certainly.”
“Not really.”
She scanned through the remaining images, pausing to study the lines on each before moving on to the next, until at last she came to a blank page.
“May I borrow your pencil?”
Turning to the back side of the page she wrote a few brief words before closing the book and handing it back to Patrick.
“I have reserved a page in your book,” she stood and gave him a slight nod, “I would like to commission a picture when you have the time. You can find me at the address provided.”
He nodded, unsure and dumbfounded.
“Good day, Mr McElhone,” she offered her hand.
“Uh, good day,” Patrick found his feet, and taking her hand he gave it a gentle kiss, “Miss Telford.”
***
The exchange on the docks, between the McElhone boy and the Telford girl was watched by a figure standing in the shadows. He watched not only Patrick but everyone around, scanning from person to person, eyeing everyone, looking for something.
He had journeyed far to be here now, and it had been a journey in haste but now above all times was when he must be at his most cautious. There was far too much at stake to be reckless and impulsive now.
The Telford girl curtsied and left Patrick standing on the dock looking like a lost idiot, smiling to himself and gripping the sketch book, blissfully unaware of the imminent danger.
The man stepped out of the shadows and pushed through the crowds on the wharf keeping his hand on the knife hidden underneath his jacket.
Young McElhone was staring out to the bay, his back to the advancing figure, his mind full of wonder and new curious feelings.
The man stood directly behind him, hand still on the knife handle.
“She likes you.”
Patrick spun in shock and found himself staring at a tall Native American man with deep eyes like the heart of the earth and a tight lipped smile that only slightly curled at the edges.
“Nautzili!”
And binding these people together is the enigmatic force, The Man.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Prologue
August, 1872
There was still gold in those hills, not much but there certainly was some. Not that miners ever really such much benefit from it, the only people to see profit were the merchants, innkeepers tradesmen, craftsmen and basically anyone else doing business during the waning years of the Gold Rush other than mining gold.
The town of Shasta was doing exceptionally well out of the boom, mule trains and stagecoaches rolled in to this hub of trade before heading further north along the Siskiyou Trail toward Oregon or back south toward Sacramento.
With all the comings and goings and the legends of rivers of gold there was inevitably going to be another type of person also attracted to the town, the grittier sort, men of spit and blood.
Two large gangs had established themselves in the surrounding countryside, engaged in a bitter rivalry with one another that more often then not came to bullets and death. Shasta was spared much of the violence as out of necessity it became something of a neutral territory, a place were either side could trade or otherwise entertain themselves without having to watch their backs.
Not that this did anything for the local population. The Oregon Regulars, a legion of deserters formerly a regiment in the Union’s Continental Army took the view that the locals were a nuisance, whilst the California Defenders simply took what they wanted.
You could not have referred to one side or the other as good, the Oregon Regulars had deserted the army for the sole purpose of making it rich off the sweat of the miners’ backs. The California Defenders on the other hand were simply carrying on the tradition of making life as difficult as possible for the Union that had annexed the territory over twenty years ago.
Where the two met, north against south, was as violent and cataclysmic as that fault through San Andreas, and embattled Shasta was the buffer zone.
For the past two months the Regulars had held the Hotel Royale as their base in the town whilst across that very same street the Defenders had claimed the saloon, marking out the borders of one another’s territory.
Carriages rolled down the street as a fine breeze lifted a layer of dust from the gutters of the busy street, a man stood in the centre as stage coaches and wagons berthed around him casting glares in his direction but remaining silent.
Wind caught his long, navy blue coat revealing a pair of pistols at his side that gleamed as if lit by the fire of angels, the navy blue garments underneath could easily be mistaken for the uniform of a Union officer. His white hair was blown about a face that gave no clue to his age save that he was no coddled child.
Looking first to his left and then to his right he seemed at last to come to a decision.
Walking down the street ignoring the vehicles rumbling to his left and right, the brim of his had casting a shadow over his eyes shielding him from the sun as it set fire to Heaven as it drifted toward the distant horizon. He turned north to the Hotel Royale, its red and white painted sand blasted and sun baked, stepping onto the porch he reached out a gloved hand and gently rapped the door.
This was as good a place to start as any.
He waited patiently as a barrage of cursing came from the other side before a few moments later the door was flung open by a young man in a Union uniform, clearly drunk.
“Yeah? What do you want?”
Without a word and fast as daylight the white haired man reached out and strangled the drunk silently on the doorstep.
Drawing his guns the man stepped inside and closed the door.
***
Chapter 1
San Francisco
That same day.
The wharf of San Francisco was a forest of masts swaying with the gentle rise and fall of the sea, schooners and merchantmen that had been abandoned as their crews sought their fortune inland.
The city itself was booming, what had once been a small coastal settlement serving as a stopover for ships heading to better places was now the hub of California’s growth.
In the hustle and bustle of the area now known as Fisherman’s Wharf a young man sat on a jetty sketching the Italian immigrants toiling on their fishing boats. He ignored the crowds about him and the stares of the curious young women as he carefully etched the crooked lines of a gnarled old fisherman unloading nearby.
There was something about the old man, an adventure or strife, some hardship hidden beneath the lines on his face that gave him energy and determination. He was an excellent subject that the young man loved to try and capture, if even only the slightest glimpse he wanted to find a way to express the vibrancy under the sea-worn skin. If only he could speak Italian, the conversations they could have.
The artist, Patrick, was no more a native of San Francisco than his subject, his family were not part of the Gold Rush mania that had spread across the eastern US. Ten years ago they had been ranchers in New Mexico, but those days were long gone and would burn forever, the memory of a father and brother.
Things had been hard at first, adjusting to a new life and finding employment, but they persisted with the determination of people who refused to be defeated or browbeaten by their past.
His mother found work in an assessor’s office and Patrick when he turned fourteen found work on the docks, and in his spare time he liked to draw. And draw he did, every free moment for the past five years. He found serenity in art, being able to detach oneself from the world and observe dispassionately the ebb and flow of human emotion, to try and capture some of that energy in a single moment.
A young woman sat next to him but he paid her little heed, people always gravitated to him when he drew, he supposed that in some subconscious way they wanted to become subjects themselves.
She smiled at Patrick when he gave her a glance, he briefly returned it before lowering his eyes back to has etching. In truth he was a handsome young man, curly brown hair and green eyes that burned with intensity when he was bent over his sketch book, but he was also shy and distant in the way only a murdered family can make you.
“You’re very good,” she said, looking over his shoulder.
“Thank you,” he smiled but didn’t look up, “it’s just a hobby really, and I doubt my work will ever see the light of a gallery.”
She continued to watch him for a few minutes, sitting in silence as he smudged shadows across the fisherman’s face, his fingers making delicate strokes across the yellowed page.
“What’s your name?”
He paused in his drawing to look directly at her, curly blonde hair and blue green eyes like the ocean, she was dressed as a lady of some culture, not the sort that would normally associate with a dock hand or artist.
“Patrick,” he replied, “Patrick McElhone.”
“Patrick,” she smiled as she said his name, “that’s a nice name. My name is Patricia, Patricia Telford.”
He knew the Telford name, the family were big cotton traders from Louisiana originally but had come west when the Civil War became bad for business. They owned property all over the city and land as far out as Sonoma, including it was said a vineyard in Napa.
“Can I see your sketchbook please, Patrick?”
He handed it over without a word, struck dumb being spoken to by a woman whose family wealth was positively terrifying.
She flicked through images of the docks, the fisherman, the bay, even a sketch of Alcatraz Island before pausing at a drawing of a captivatingly beautiful woman, she looked to be in her early forties with flowing dark hair and slightly sad eyes.
“She’s beautiful,” Patricia whispered, “she looks so haunted. This is amazing work, who is she?”
“My mother,” he replied, “I drew that about a year ago, when she got engaged.”
“Why does she look so sad?”
“She has looked like that for a long time, it’s only since meeting my step-father that she has started to soften.”
“I take it this isn’t something that you want to talk about, not with a stranger certainly.”
“Not really.”
She scanned through the remaining images, pausing to study the lines on each before moving on to the next, until at last she came to a blank page.
“May I borrow your pencil?”
Turning to the back side of the page she wrote a few brief words before closing the book and handing it back to Patrick.
“I have reserved a page in your book,” she stood and gave him a slight nod, “I would like to commission a picture when you have the time. You can find me at the address provided.”
He nodded, unsure and dumbfounded.
“Good day, Mr McElhone,” she offered her hand.
“Uh, good day,” Patrick found his feet, and taking her hand he gave it a gentle kiss, “Miss Telford.”
***
The exchange on the docks, between the McElhone boy and the Telford girl was watched by a figure standing in the shadows. He watched not only Patrick but everyone around, scanning from person to person, eyeing everyone, looking for something.
He had journeyed far to be here now, and it had been a journey in haste but now above all times was when he must be at his most cautious. There was far too much at stake to be reckless and impulsive now.
The Telford girl curtsied and left Patrick standing on the dock looking like a lost idiot, smiling to himself and gripping the sketch book, blissfully unaware of the imminent danger.
The man stepped out of the shadows and pushed through the crowds on the wharf keeping his hand on the knife hidden underneath his jacket.
Young McElhone was staring out to the bay, his back to the advancing figure, his mind full of wonder and new curious feelings.
The man stood directly behind him, hand still on the knife handle.
“She likes you.”
Patrick spun in shock and found himself staring at a tall Native American man with deep eyes like the heart of the earth and a tight lipped smile that only slightly curled at the edges.
“Nautzili!”
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