Star stuff, p.12
Star Stuff, page 12
"Some wine, masters?" the women said in unison.
They began to pour, filling mugs. Tom's frown deepened. Even Hancock barely seemed to notice the wine. He looked at the women, then back at the cardinal and glowered.
"Now hear me, old man!" the bulldog said. "What's all this about brides? These girls are young enough to be my granddaughters. And I'm young enough to be your grandson!"
Tom loudly cleared his throat. "Forgive my officer's bluntness, Your Eminence. What Commander Hancock means to say is: Your brides are charming and your hospitality is appreciated."
The Red Cardinal reached toward one young woman. He trailed his fingernails along her body, tracing the curve from shoulder to hip to waist, a perfect S.
"Ah yes, they are young, and I am old, I understand." The cardinal blinked rheumy eyes and smiled at Hancock. "Perhaps you are a little … envious?"
Hancock bristled and leaped to his feet. "I'm a happily married man!"
Tom stifled a smile. Hancock was anything but happily married. Tom knew the old man loved flying into space just to escape his wife for a while. And when the Hancocks did spend time together, it was endless bickering. Probably one reason the bulldog drank so much.
"Ah yes, I'm sure you are," the Red Cardinal said. "But my brides, see … they are something special. They are pious. They are sweet."
Tom cleared his throat. "Your Eminence, we'd love to learn more about your planet. Who brought you here from Earth? Who were the lifeforms guarding the planet? Why did you warn us to stay away?"
"Ah, such curious beings you Earthlings are!" said the Red Cardinal. "I was once like you. A man of Earth. Just a man. An American man. With a name. A job. A meaningless life. But that was centuries ago. I have found a higher calling. I purged my mind from constant curiosity and meddling! That is the way we worship in Bahay."
Winter slammed down her cup, splashing wine across the tabletop, and leaped to her feet. "Enough of this bullshit!" She pointed an accusing finger at the cardinal. "You hear me, Cardi? How about you stop dodging our questions, and I won't ruin your dinner party?"
"Winter!" Tom rumbled. "Sit down!"
But the cardinal only laughed. "It's all right, friend! I understand. Hastiness is curiosity's child. I will try to answer like an Earthling. How do you say on Earth …" He frowned, raised his fist, and thrust out his bottom lip. "To the point!"
Tom nodded. "Very well, let's hear it."
The cardinal sipped his wine, then licked the red liquid off his teeth. "Many eras ago, in what you call the nineteenth century, I left America, for I found it rife with sin. I arrived in the sunny islands of the Philippines, and I found a paradise world. Fresh fruit. Golden beaches. Beautiful people. I preached to them, and they called me papa. But then …" A snarl twisted his lips. "Then the Americans came. The very people I fled. They arrived with their ships. With their cannons and rifles. And they began to kill. To destroy paradise."
The cardinal clenched his fist. It shook. For long moments, he could not speak. But finally, as if by great effort, he unclenched his fist and softened his expression. He lifted a glass sphere from the table, turning it over and over, examining it in the candlelight.
A problem stone, Tom realized.
"But then the messengers of paradise came to me," the cardinal continued. "The luminous ones. The Santelmos." He tossed the sphere into the air, and it hovered and glowed like a moon. "Aliens, some call them. To me they were angels. They spoke to me, and I to them. They offered us salvation. They opened the doors of their silver chariots. So I took my people here to Bahay. And I've been protecting them since."
"That sounds like a whole lot of mystical hooey," Winter muttered.
"You see, if anyone were to speak of this world …" The Red Cardinal dipped a fingernail into his wine cup, stirred the liquid. "They would spoil this paradise. You must, of course, keep Bahay a secret. A most sacred secret. Never to be revealed. Not even on pain of death."
The Earthlings glanced at one another.
Winter leaped to her feet again. "Was that a threat?"
Just then, the doors opened again. More scantily-clad women entered.
"Ah, here we are!" The cardinal clapped his hands in delight. "The main course. I hope you're hungry."
The brides placed the tray on the table. A roast man lay upon it.
Everyone jumped off their seats.
"What is the meaning of this?" Hancock roared.
Supine on the tray, the roast man gazed at the ceiling. The wooden statue of Christ stared down. They were like reflections of the same man, one in heaven, the other in hell.
"Ah, forgive me!" the Red Cardinal said. "Yes, roast mourning monks can appear alarming at first. I assure you, it's no human!" He laughed—a sound like shattering glass, like snapping bones. "They are humble apelike creatures who roam the jungles of Bahay. We call them mourning monks because the fur around their heads resembles a hood. They're similar to orangutans on Earth. And, like orangutans, they're quite delicious. The meat is particularly fatty this time of year."
He sliced into the animal's shoulder, began to carve off the arm.
Tom pushed back his chair. "I think we'll be leaving. Thank you for your hospitality, Your Eminence. But it's getting dark, and our fellow travelers await us at our camp."
Winter left the table so hurriedly she knocked over the chair. "We're outta here."
Hancock began trudging toward the door, then paused. He grabbed his cup of wine, drained it, then turned to leave again. Even Floribeth, who never caused a fuss, looked at the roasted humanoid, turned green, and hurried away.
As they rushed through the cathedral, Winter leaned toward Tom.
"What did I tell ya?" she said. "The old bastard is batshit crazy. Probably has a bunch of severed heads in the dungeon."
"Are the villagers truly his flock?" Tom wondered aloud. "Or his captives? We might be dealing with a very old hostage situation here, sister."
They found their way back to the nave, walked among the dark columns, and approached the heavy wooden doors. The hunchbacked doorman was back, peering with one large yellow eye, the other squinty.
For a moment, Tom feared they were trapped. But the dwarf dutifully opened the door, and Tom and his companions rushed back into the courtyard.
On the basalt cobblestones, they froze and stared.
Tom cursed. "The shuttle!"
Winter inhaled sharply. "What are those things?"
"Are those …" Tom sneered and drew a hidden pistol from inside his jacket. "Wolves?"
But no. At least not Earth wolves. These canines were the size of bears. Black fur covered them, and their lips rippled with sneers. Their yellow eyes shone, and drool dripped down fangs so long they were practically tusks. The creatures covered the shuttle, a dozen or more, clawing, biting, ripping chunks off the bulkhead. Pieces of the engine lay strewn across the courtyard. A few of the gargantuan canines were chewing pistons and carburetors like bones.
Tom fired his pistol into the sky. The wolves howled. Their fur bristled, and they padded toward him, leaving the shuttle's carcass. They opened their mighty jaws and howls shook the cathedral.
Tom and his companions aimed their guns, ready to fight.
But the cathedral doors banged open. The Red Cardinal stood there, wreathed in firelight.
"Wolves, be gone!" he thundered.
The wolves snapped their heads toward him. The cardinal swung his thurible in wide arcs, scattering smoke.
"Leave this hallowed ground!" the cardinal said.
The wolves took a few steps toward him, growling. The cardinal slammed his thurible down onto the courtyard, embers spilled, and flames leaped into the air. One wolf caught fire. The beast whimpered and turned to flee. The others followed. The pack raced out the courtyard and disappeared down the shadowy mountainside.
Tom reeled toward the cardinal. "What the hell are those things?"
"Wild animals!" The cardinal shook his head in disgust. "Foul beasts. They prowl these mountains. Scavengers." He approached the ravaged shuttle. The machinery lay in broken pieces across the courtyard. "Such wanton destruction …"
Floribeth knelt by the broken pieces, then looked up at Tom. "We can't fix this, sir. The shuttle is totaled. So is the transmitter." She sighed. "We can't even call for a pick up."
Tom's heart sank. The village lay a thousand miles away past jungles, mountains, and sea. Without a shuttle, they were stranded here. There were other shuttles back at the village. Would the marines come searching for them? Would they even know how to find Basilica?
"I'm sorry, friends," said the Red Cardinal. A smile twitched his lips. "There is a train that leaves in the morning. We're not as technologically advanced as you Earthlings, but we do have some machines. The train can bring you to your village within three days. We've even built bridges and tunnels connecting our islands."
Tom nodded. "Very well. We'll find a tavern in the city, and—"
"Oh no, I cannot allow that!" said the Red Cardinal. "The people of this city are superstitious and fear outsiders. You must stay here with me in Basilica Cathedral! Our rooms are very cozy, and you get a nice cool breeze on the upper floors. Come, I insist."
Tom cursed inwardly and returned into the cathedral.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Singing woke him up at night.
Tom opened his eyes, blinked, and stared at the foot of his bed.
A ghostly young woman stood there, singing gently. A Bahayan woman, holding a lyre, a silver flower tucked behind her ear. Wind stirred the curtains. Ripples of silk hid the woman, and moonlight streamed into the room. When the curtains settled, the woman was gone.
Tom frowned and pulled himself from bed.
"Hello?" he said.
The cardinal had given him this chamber high in the cathedral. The floor, walls, and ceiling were all the same basalt bricks. Only the moonlight lit the room. The woman was gone, but Tom could hear her singing from the corridor. Soft. Intoxicating. A siren's song. Her language was foreign, yet as he listened, Tom became more and more convinced she was singing about him. To him.
He pulled on his coat and exited his bedroom. He saw her at the end of the corridor, silhouetted by candlelight. She looked at him, eyes gleaming like a cat's, then turned and vanished behind a corner.
Tom followed. He found himself walking down a spiraling staircase. He heard the singing from below, glimpsed the woman's shadow heading lower, hidden behind the curve of the tower. He kept climbing down and down—for hours it seemed. Soon there were no more windows, no more moonlight to guide his steps. He was inside the mountain now, delving deep.
Tom lifted a candelabrum from the wall. He walked with the candles lighting his way. All the while the song continued, luring him on. A soft, beautiful song. A ballad. A song of moonlight on dark water and the wind between midnight trees.
Finally the song led him off the staircase, down a dungeon corridor, and toward a stone door. The door was ajar, spilling firelight. It beckoned like a hearth to a hunter returning from the cold.
The song died.
Tom approached the light, compelled by a force he could not understand. He moved like a moth to the flame. He nudged the door and peered inside.
He saw a round chamber. Enormous gears covered the walls, some the size of wagon wheels, others the size of watermills. The singing woman stood by one gear, silent, holding the lyre to her chest. She was nude, and only the lyre protected her modesty. The strings were still.
A stone slab rose in the center of the chamber like an altar. A figure in crimson robes stood there, hunched over the altar, his back toward Tom. The figure was freakishly long and slender. Standing upright, it would tower over any man, but it stood stooped over.
The figure swiveled toward Tom, joints creaking. Yellow eyes shone within a shadowy hood. Tom could just make out bloody fangs. A tongue emerged from the shadows to lick the blood. The tongue was like a serpent, covered in white scales.
A pile of skin and bones lay on the altar. It was a man, Tom realized. A man drained of all fat and meat and fluids. A husk. It looked like folds of rubber draped over bones.
Tom stared in frozen horror.
The nude woman stepped toward him, smiling. Instead of a lyre, she now held an ornate hookah. Purple liquid bubbled inside. She reached Tom, stroked his cheek, and blew smoke into his face.
"It was only a dream," she whispered. "Only a dream …"
Tom felt his eyes grow heavy. Felt himself falling. Felt strong hands catch him. And then there was only darkness.
Many hours later, he woke up in bed. It was morning. A dream tingled his mind. Images of fangs and a scaly tongue hovered before him. And then the dream faded, and there was only the day.
Urgent knocking sounded on the door.
Not waiting for an answer, Winter burst into the room. She was panting, her cheeks red.
"It's Hancock!" she blurted out. "Your drunk old XO. He's missing."
* * * * *
"What happened to my officer?" Tom thundered, pounding the tabletop.
The Red Cardinal sat on his throne of dog bones. Delicately, he tapped a silver knife against an egg. He cracked open the top, revealing the innards. There was a fertilized chick inside, only partly developed.
"Ah yes, the old man who loves his wine." The Red Cardinal lifted the egg to his mouth, tossed it back, and slurped the innards. His throat bobbed as the baby chick slid down. The cardinal lowered the empty shell. "So that explains it."
"What do you mean?" Tom demanded, his own breakfast untouched. The brides had served him similar eggs, alongside fried fish with the heads still attached, the eyes oddly conscious, still moving, seeming to stare across the room. Tom had no appetite.
Winter and Floribeth had joined them in the dining room. The two women stood very still, not touching their food. Winter had her hand on her gun.
"What I mean," said the Red Cardinal, "is that your man betrayed us. One of my brides disappeared overnight. I thought she had fled back to her village, perhaps weary of life in the cathedral. But now I understand. Your man must have taken her."
"Hancock?" Tom snorted. "You heard the man. He's happily married. And he's loyal. To his wife and to me."
The Red Cardinal lifted a fried fish. He sank his teeth into the head, ripped it off, and chewed. It crunched.
"Ah, but you saw him last night," the Red Cardinal said, sucking up an eyeball. "Eying my special brides. They can be … most alluring. They can seduce any man." He dabbed his lips with a napkin. "This is not the first time this has happened, dear captain. Men fall in love with them. They promise the women the moons above and the stars beyond. And they flee together." He shook his head sadly. "Often the wolves get them before they can even leave the island. It's such a terrible thing."
A memory tickled Tom. Something important. Something he had seen last night. Something he had dreamed. But he could not grasp it.
He looked at Winter. "We need to get back to the village, grab a few working shuttles, and organize a search." He turned toward the cardinal. "When does the morning train leave?"
The cardinal sprinkled salt onto the rest of his fish. "Ah, it's most unfortunate. The train seems to be have broken."
"More wolves, I presume?" Tom said, voice tight.
"I'm afraid so. They are such savage beasts."
"I'm losing patience here, cardinal," Tom said. "Whatever game you're playing, I won't play it."
He left the dining room. Winter and Floribeth followed.
Tom led the two women down a corridor. In a dark alcove, he paused and turned toward them. Winter and Floribeth stared back, barely visible in the shadows.
"Do any one of you believe Hancock just upped and left?" Tom said.
Winter shrugged. "Hey, I've seen old men do crazy shit around pretty girls."
Floribeth shook her head. "Not a chance, sir. I knew Hancock. He'd never go AWOL like this." She shivered. "I don't like this place."
"Tonight, the three of us will share a bedroom," Tom said. "We'll take turns guarding. If there's danger here, we'll—"
"Sir!" said Floribeth, then blushed deeply. "I mean—pardon for interrupting, sir, but you can't seriously suggest we stay another night?"
Winter nodded. "Floribeth's right. We'll find a tavern in the city. Hell, we can just camp under the stars. Within a day or two, my men will come looking for me."
"We stay in this cathedral," Tom said. "Something is going on here. I want to know what. I lied to the cardinal. We will play his game. And we'll win."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
That night, the singing woke Tom again.
He sat up in bed and looked around, for a moment disoriented. But just for a moment. He leaped from bed and reached for his rifle.
"Floribeth?" he whispered, looking around the shadowy room.
The young ensign had taken the third and final guard shift of the night. But she was gone. And that eerie singing came from the corridor.
Slowly, over the past twenty-odd hours, fragments of Tom's dream had been resurfacing. A woman singing in the cathedral halls, nude and graceful like some ancient Greek sculpture. A towering red figure, hunched over. A husk of skin. A puff of purple smoke and a crooked smile. Tom remembered little more.
But he had heard this song before. He was sure of it. An eerily beautiful song. It wafted from the hallway like a ghost's caress.
Tom roused his sister from bed.
"Winter!" he whispered, shaking her.
She leaped up and grabbed her rifle. "Where's Floribeth?"
"I don't know."
Winter nodded. "Come on."
Both siblings had slept in their uniforms and boots. Guns in hand, they exited the room.
The corridor was long and dark. A young woman stood at the far end, silhouetted by firelight, singing a sad song. She played a lyre.
