“You have you own network, Sir.”
“As does Admiral Easter and the other three Vice Admirals. What I want is proof of Maxtin’s under the table dealings.”
“You’d expose them to the public?” Dar’Jeryd asks.
“Never. The security of the UCP is paramount. But I would offer to expose Maxtin’s agents to force his support for war against the Mokarran.”
“You would impeach the Admiral?”
“I’d rather have the support. Hardcore evidence would sway him to justify a change of stance on war.”
“You still need the votes of the other three Admirals,” Dar’Jeryd says.
“They are puppets. They follow Maxtin.”
“Then may I suggest we gather dirt on them. Push them into voting for war,” Dar’Jeryd says.
“I’ve considered the option, but Maxtin is the swing vote. Bring him down, and the others follow. They support Maxtin enough to resign before voting against him.”
“Their replacements might favor war.”
“Still a gamble. I want Maxtin to stand up and openly request war,” Kantian says.
The personal commlink to Admiral Easter chirps.
Reluctant, Kantian presses the button.
“Admiral Kantian?”
He responds to the unrecognized voice. “Affirmative. Who are you on Easter’s private comm system?”
“Medical Technicon Danvers, Sir. The Admiral was found unresponsive. We’ve revived her, but—”
Kantian knows what the report yields. “Spit it out, son.”
“She requests you report immediately, Sir. She is slipping, and if she fades again, I doubt we’ll be able to restore her breathing.”
Kantian’s own voice shakes as much as the medical tech’s. Selfishly, he doesn’t want to lose the valuable advice of his mentor. At the same time his preparations to win her office are not complete.
••••••
TRAPPED BY TUBES attached to arm veins and covering orifices, a frail woman, wrinkled to a husk, remains in a nightmarish picture at the end of life. Emaciated fingers claw at the facemask. She drags it away from her mouth.
“Admiral, the lack of the oxygen breathing mixture will cause you to choke on the fluids building in your lungs.”
“A few minutes of lingering life only forces unnecessary pain on me,” she coughs. Unrolling her fingers to reveal a cherry crystal. “A final gift to you.”
Kantian takes the oddly shaped crystal. He’s never seen a computer port accepting of the machine-ground tip, allowing him to read the information it contains.
Easter coughs. The medical techs rush to replace the mask.
“No,” she protests.
“Get away from her.” Kantian pockets the crystal before shoving a tech away from the bed. “Let her go.”
When the ear-wrenching cough ceases, Vice-presidential Admiral Wendy Easter slumps against her pillows, burbles a last breath and dies.
REYNARD LOSES FULL control of his remaining stomach contents. He wipes the bile from his lips, unable to shake the nausea. The chill hangs in the air. Cold cuts through his leather. For a moment he misses the heat of the hellish dimension he escaped. Dense, icy mist prevents visibility much beyond the tips of his fingers. He kicks at the rough ground, scuffing a charcoal substance across the sole.
Zero visibility.
The Old Maestro would remind me: eyes are deceptive. Never trust them. Deep breath.
Reynard closes his eyes and slows his breathing. His tummy burns. He ignores the shuffling juices, concentrates on his lungs and reaches out with his ears. Calming his own heartbeat allows him to detect sandaled footsteps. He sprints toward their approach.
A faint yellow light limps toward him. As it brightens, the fog around it clears and reveals a man in a white toga. The burning oil leaves a foul smell around him. Reynard recognizes the Socrates-like man reminiscent of the actor from Bill and Ted.
“Hello, friend, I’m Diogenes. Are you the person I seek?”
Not Socrates. “Diogenes, Diogenes, Diogenes…You’re Greek, but I don’t recall your story.” He snaps his fingers. “You seek the one-armed man.”
“The importance of youth never matures over the centuries. I, my son, have foreordained myself to search for an honest man. Your mind is open here.” His bones creak with age as he sits on a rock solidifying from the fog. “Be careful of the quests you launch, Reynard. I began my search for an honest man when I was younger than you. Dooming myself for infinity to my quest. I cannot sleep until he’s found, and I’m sorry to say even you’re not the honest man I seek.”
“I respectfully apologize for not being able to end your pursuit.”
“The matter is for you not to make the same foolish mistake. What you lack in your quest is wisdom, and you will never obtain wisdom if you don’t undergo the quest.”
“A conundrum.”
“What I was unable to achieve trapped me here. I would keep you from the same fate.”
“Why me?”
“Any man on such a path.”
“I’ll never gain wisdom if I don’t follow my own path.”
“I didn’t accept that there are no honest men.”
“Maybe you should have sought an honest woman.” Reynard smiles.
“The gender doesn’t matter. But what does is we all wear masks—even you. We’ve many faces inside as does time, causality and the universe.”
“When would an ancient Greek philosopher from a period when the world was considered flat learn of quantum physics.”
“Now who speaks with a limited scope? We never thought Earth was flat, and our view of the world was much larger than history recorded. As is your journey.”
“The Sandmen won’t let me step away from this pursuit.”
Footsteps approach in the icy fog.
“Not once you took possession of the sword.”
No way of going back and undoing my choice. “What do you know of the sword?” Reynard demands.
“I explain no more.” Diogenes stresses, “Like people, Sandmen wear masks. They are not all you believe.”
Reynard instinctively controls the appearance of the sword as the jackal-headed humanoid towers over him, wearing a mask reminiscent of a Sandman’s mask but appearing obsidian over ivory.
“I’m not ready to give you my two coins.”
“You pay the boatman. I test your heart,” the jackal-headed Anubis booms.
“I’m not in need of a funerary deity.”
Anubis cocks his head as if he gazes straight through Reynard. “I only emerge at death. You got away before my test was complete.”
“Fuck you.” Reynard
