Most people assumed he was on his way back out to the Fringe, to resume his quest of saving the Galaxy for the Empire. Actually the BonoVox was parked in the seventeenth dimension at a spot just outside the Pluto Cloud. The One-Seven was where SF warships needing extensive repairs were sent while waiting their turn before the electron torch. The BonoVox needed no such repairs. But considering what had happened during their last trip Inward, Multx thought this was the best place to stash his vessel, at least for the time being.
Still, after sitting here for a week now, alone and drunk, how he longed to be back aboard her and flying in space again! Heading out to the frontier, the farther out the better. The Fringe. That’s where everything was happening. That’s what made the blood in his veins flow. If he was an expert on just one thing, it was this: As busy and bustling and exciting as Big Bright City was, especially on the eve of the Earth Race, it still couldn’t compare to the adrenaline rush one could get daily out there, so close to the edge.
And that’s what Multx knew he would miss the most.
Despite the air bridges and the sacred span and the thousands of air-chevys darting above, below, and around him, Multx’s little room still had a commendable view.
It looked out over the east canal and into the real downtown part of downtown Big Bright. For the past six days he had watched the great city prepare for the Earth Race. The skies above, the waters below, the streets and airways — busy, maddeningly so. What happens when they give a party in a city of two billion filthy rich people? Another two billion show up. All-just close friends, mind you, but it made for a very crowded place.
From his hiding spot, Multx believed he’d seen every last one of those four billion pass by him in the past six days. He was literally surrounded by humanity, everyone having someplace to go and something to do. It was fascinating to watch, but this distraction did little to relieve the dull ache in his chest. Multx did not like this feeling. After more than one hundred years as a military officer, nearly half of that time commanding a huge starship, one would have thought he’d gained an immunity to such lowly things as apprehension and uneasiness. But apparently that was not the case. Not in the past week, anyway.
It was the waiting — that’s what was killing him. Sitting alone, in his dress white uniform, knowing it was just a matter of time before they found him.
And what would happen after that?
He didn’t want to think about it.
It was early afternoon, the sun was just beginning to warm his tiny balcony when he heard a familiar sizzling sound behind him.
He turned from the porch to find two Space Navy guards standing in the middle of his compartment.
They were in dress uniforms, armed, but with their weapons still holstered, at least for the moment.
“Sorry to disturb you, Star Commander,” one of them said. “But you’re wanted at headquarters immediately.”
“Not a problem,” Multx replied with a sigh. “I’ve been expecting you.”
He stood up, buttoned his tunic, and drained his glass of wine. Then he took in one last breath of the canal air. It tasted bittersweet.
“Okay, brothers,” he said, “lead the way…”
Flash!
An instant later, Multx was sitting in the Grand Briefing Office (GBO), a multiwindow room atop the soaring, octagon-shaped skyscraper known as CD District One.
This gigantic building served as headquarters for the Empire Space Forces. It was nearly five times as big as the SF’s largest warship and was at the southern end of Big Bright City, just before the canal known by the archaic name M’cpoto. (No surprise, the Solar Guards’ headquarters was more than four hundred miles away, due north, at the exact opposite end of the vast city; it sat on the banks of an equally ancient and perpetually fouled canal known as the Chuk.)
Sitting across the huge table from Multx now were six star admirals. Each was more than two hundred years old; each was wearing a uniform weighed down by dozens of medals, ribbons, and battle pins.
These were Multx’s direct superiors, the gods of his world. And even though they were all smiling, Multx knew none of them was happy.
After receiving nods from the other five, one officer activated a hum beam, sealing the GBO in.
“Welcome, Brother Zap,” the first admiral began. “We are enriched by your presence here.”
Multx bowed his head slightly. The flattery sounded sincere, but these guys were very good when it came to these things.
“I draw strength from my friends and the Earth beneath my feet,” Multx replied correctly.
The quick formalities over, the smile left the first admiral’s face. It was time to get down to business.
He spoke: “Zap, old friend, we called you here because we are very concerned about the events following your successful operation on Vines 67. Some time has passed now since the BonoVox was attacked. Have you any further thoughts on what happened?”
“I do not, sir,” Multx replied, cursing himself for having to use those words. “As my report stated, we had no indications of any vessels near us. Then, quite suddenly, this Blackship was simply there, off our starboard side, dispensing its war parties.”
A stark silence enveloped the room. Multx began to say something further, but stopped himself instead.
The first admiral spoke again: “The fact that they were trying to board you, and not destroy you outright, is telling, don’t you agree?”
“I do, sir,” Multx replied glumly. Whoever the mysterious spacemen were, they had quite nearly succeeded in their goal. Had that happened, the BonoVox would have been the first Space Forces starship ever captured by an enemy, and Multx’s name would have gone down in history — as a new adjective for failure.
The second admiral spoke now.
“It is not only disturbing that the bandits chose to take one another’s lives,” he said. “It’s proved inconvenient as well. They left us no evidence as to who they were, or how they managed to get into Supertime, true?”
“Yes, sir — even the fractional analysis of the visual sensor readings did not help us at all,” Multx reported. “We were not able to penetrate the enemy’s spacesuits or even get a glimpse through one of the helmet visors just to get a look at the faces of these men.”
“So they were masked intentionally?” the second admiral asked.
“No doubt part of their overall nefarious plan,” Multx replied. “If their attack failed, then we were not to know who they were. And if they had succeeded… well, I’m sure their names would be on everyone’s lips by now.”
Another painful silence descended on the room. Multx looked past the six men, through the huge window beyond. A gigantic starship was lifting up from below, preparing to rocket away into deep space. Multx felt his heart do a flip. How he wished he was on that ship — any ship! — right now.
The third admiral now spoke to Multx.
“This man you picked up on Fools 6—his name is Hunter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He certainly seemed to be in the right place at the right time, correct?”
“To say the least, sir,” Multx replied.