RESIDENCY: Harborcreek, Planet Erie, Pennsylvania System
OCCUPATION: Freelance trader/courier/escort
EDUCATION: Home-schooled throughout Primary levels. Secondary school at Freeport 9 (Zoners, Omicron Theta system). Studied History and Languages (did not graduate) at University of Warwick, Planet Cambridge. Spaceflight certificate from the Zoner space academy on Planet Erie.
LIBERTY SECURITY FORCE
CASE FILE #8210524-229080
CLASSIFICATION: SENSITIVE
PRIORITY: LOW CASE AGENT:Monica Doggett
This Civil Register file got flagged as suspicious in a routine check of the Rheinländer birth certificate, which showed signs of Zoner register-hacking. It is a very high-quality Zoner forgery, good enough to fool any civilian institutions.
I made an enquiry to the Rheinland security agency, through the usual diplomatic channels, and it turns out that not only is Mr. Lombard's birth certificate fake, so are his Primary and Secondary school reports -- and, more worryingly, his mother's entire Civil Register file. "Irma Rebecka Frisch" has never existed, according to the Marinenachrichtendienst, but is another Zoner fabrication.
I did, however, find evidence of the existence of a "Conrad Lombard", who regularly spent time on Freeport 9. Unsurprisingly, his Civil Register file is also fake, but the name also turned up in an old LSF case file (#8040401-800815) about individuals with possible, but unconfirmed, affiliations with The Order.
I sent Field Agent John Reyes out, under cover, to Freeport 9 to find out more. He learned that Conrad Lombard never married, and had no children. Agent Reyes managed to acquire some old surveillance footage of Conrad Lombard, which were good enough for a biometric analysis. It shows that, with a 98.4% probability, Conrad and Wilfred Lombard are the same person.
This would mean that "Wilfred Lombard" is at least 20 years older than he claims, which could be explained by plastic surgery, or cybernetics, or a combination thereof. He certainly seems to be very fit, strong, and agile, for a man in his late fifties. I briefly considered that maybe he could be of Maltese origin, but I have seen nothing to indicate that Mr. Lombard uses Cardamine.
I am still not entirely sure what conclusions to draw from the investigation so far. I would guess that "Conrad Lombard", if that is his real name, wanted to leave The Order, and asked the Zoners to help him establish a new identity. I do not think that "Wilfred Lombard" poses a security threat to Liberty, but we should of course keep monitoring him.
I also recommend we investigate if there are any connections between Wilfred Lombard and Franklin Hunnicutt.
Monica Doggett Senior Agent
Liberty Security Force
HARBORCREEK, PLANET ERIE, PENNSYLVANIA SYSTEM. 3rd of July, 821 A.S.
Wilfred looked up from the book he was reading, blinked owlishly a couple of times, and then scowled towards the front door.
Slowly, quietly, he put down the datapad on the coffee table, reached underneath the table and drew out a machete, and got to his feet, never taking his eyes from the front door.
There was a knock on the door.
Wilfred stroked his beard and tried to assess the situation. There had just been a knock on the door. That implied that there was someone here to see him. Should he answer it?
On the one hand, any visitor who made him this alarmed, to almost instinctively reach for a weapon, before he'd even seen who it was, could be bad news. On the other hand, this particular visitor had the courtesy of knocking on the door rather than barging in.
Wilfred shrugged, and went and opened the door.
Outside there was a man in his late fourties, bald with a blond goatee-and-moustache, with a completely neutral look on his face.
"James!" Wilfred exclaimed. "Come on in! Man, it's been ages."
"Long time," James's deep voice boomed, as he entered and hung his long-out-of-fashion hat on a hook by the door.
"Can I get you anything?"
"Well, if you happen to have any hard cider..."
"Of course," said Wilfred, heading for the kitchen. "Comin' up."
"Thanks," said James when Wilfred returned with two half-litre-bottles of cider and two glasses, the machete tucked under his arm. James nodded towards the weapon. "Were you expecting someone else?"
"I wasn't expecting anyone," said Wilfred, putting down the machete on a dresser by the door. "That's just it. Certain kinds of unexpected visitors put me on edge, so to speak. You could have let me know you were coming," he added, a little reproachfully.
James had a near-perfect poker-face. "What, and spoil the surprise?" He sat down on the sofa. "Isn't a machete a bit crude for your tastes?"
"Yeah, but they're cheap, which is good when you're broke. I lost my old sword."
"Oh. Sorry to hear that." James looked towards the machete again. "Dual-wielding?"
Wilfred frowned. "You know me a bit too well." He reached behind the sofa and pulled out a second weapon. For just a fraction of a moment, James looked nervous. Wilfred put the second machete on the coffee table, and sat down.
"Yeah, a bit crude," Wilfred went on. He smiled. "But knowing you, you don't disapprove of simple but efficient."
"Heh." James chuckled. "No. What did you have before?"
"I had a cutlass, actually."
"A cutlass?" James's stone-face almost cracked a smile. "What are you now, an old buccaneer?"
"Don't mock the cutlass!" Wilfred waggled a finger at James. "It got me out of many a pickle, for a long time."
"Okay, okay. How'd you lose it?"
"Shipwreck. You've heard about The Order, yeah?"
James nodded.
"Well, after the Nomad War..." Wilfred raised an eyebrow, and James nodded again. "... I joined The Order for a few years. Then one day, the cruiser I served on was attacked by an elite force from the Bounty Hunters' Guild, called the 'BHG Core'."
"I thought The Core was a separate organization?"
"It is, now. Anyway... the Nomads weren't very active in the years following the War, so I was looking to leave The Order anyway. But not like that, of course. I hadn't planned on seeing my friends and crewmates die, and losing pretty much everything I owned, as our crippled ship careened into a star."
"Mmm," James murmured. "Sorry to hear it."
"Well..." Wilfred took a swig of cider. "My escape pod was eventually picked up by a passing Zoner ship. I'd already been a frequent visitor at Freeport 9, so I had some friends there. They helped me start over." He smiled. "I like the Zoners. They remind me of the Swiss, for some reason."
James produced another single-syllable chuckle. "Heh. Non-aggressive, but armed neutrality? Yeah, I can see that." He sipped on his cider. "So, then you tried to lay low for a while?"
"Yep, then I tried to lie low, and build up my new identity. Stayed at Freeport 9 for a while, served as crewman on a couple of Zoner cargo vessels, studied on Planet Cambridge..."
"Studied? What'd you study?"
Wilfred grinned. "History and languages. Go figure."
"Heh." Another monosyllabic chuckle.
"And I lived on Planet Gran Canaria a couple of years, too. That's a pretty good place for lying low." Wilfred sighed. "But then, Gallia began its invasion. And then it was 'once more unto the breach'."
James rolled his eyes. "And here come the Shakespeare quotes. What's that, 'Henry V'?"
"It is indeed. Very appropriate, I thought." Wilfred changed posture and held out a hand, a warning sign that declamation was about to be perpetrated.
"In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage."
James, still stone-faced, clapped his hands slowly. "Very nice."
"Shakespeare knew his stuff," said Wilfred with a theatrical bow.
"Well, he knew iambic pentameter, for sure. I'm not used to hearing you so eager for war, though."
"No, that's true, but 'needs must', to almost quote the Bard again."
"Almost?"
"Attributed to him, but he never actually used that exact phrase. But no, I'm not eager for war. You know what my name means, don't you?"
"I'm fairly well up to speed on Germanic names, yes," said James pointedly.
"Well, there you go. I---"
"Actually, I was surprised to find that you still go by Wilfred."
"Not 'still' -- 'again'," said Wilfred. "Wilfred is my real name -- in the sense that it's the name I chose for myself -- so I always come back to it as soon as I can. I have a couple of recurring aliases, though."
"Right. We all have our systems and quirks."
"Do you still go by James, by the way?"
"Actually, no, it's Franklin now. Franklin Hunnicutt."
"Franklin Hunnicutt," Wilfred repeated. He smiled. "So you're still making variations on the 'Hun' theme, then?"
"Well, yeah. Bad word-play is all I have. Not everyone is as fortunate as you, Mr. 'Lombard'."
"I know." Wilfred grinned even wider. "I got it lucky. I just thought that 'Hyneman' was particularly convoluted. But okay, Franklin Hunnicutt it is. I hope I don't screw up too much."
"It's okay, it takes a bit of time to adjust," said James, or Franklin.
"Right. Anyway. I was eager for war once, when I was very young. A very, very long time ago. I think I've told you about it before. But now, on the subject of war, I'm more likely to quote 'MacBeth'."
Wilfred smirked. Franklin, né James, stared silently at him. Wilfred raised an eyebrow.
"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."
"Now you're bumming me out," said Franklin.
"Sorry. I'll stop now. And no, I don't know Shakespeare's entire oeuvre by heart. I've just memorised a few select quotes, so I can appear more intellectual."
"Sure. So, what about Gallia?"
"Gallia? Nothing," said Wilfred. "I care not one jot about Gallia. Except that the Nomads have become more active again. And the Gaul invasion is taking too much of the Sirian Houses' attention away from a bigger threat. And the war between Liberty and Rheinland didn't help, either."
"Aha. So what's your plan?"
"Plan?" Wilfred threw his hands out, very nearly spilling his drink. "I make it up as I go. As usual. The Zoners got me here -- Erie was originally a Zoner settlement -- and I've got a Libertonian citizenship, because that's useful. Now I'm saving up for a ship of my own."
"Well, that shouldn't take you very long, should it? If you've served on cargo ships, I mean. Zoner crewmen earn pretty well, don't they?"
"Yeah, but I've been saving up for almost a decade to pay for a new sword."
"Say what?"
"I found a traditional swordsmith who was willing to learn how to work titanium alloys," Wilfred explained, "but she wanted a cool two million credits for it."
"Huh. Why didn't you get the ship first and the sword second?"
"I didn't think I'd need a ship. Not so soon. And I was trying to lie low, remember? Once you start hitting the trade lanes, people will start noticing you."
"Okay." Franklin nodded. "So, new sword, new ship. Then what?"
"Then... work up some cash, get a better ship. One that's better suited for deep-space exploration. And then I'm thinking I'll head out to the Edge Worlds again. I'm thinking that if I can chart where the Nomads are coming from and how they're moving, I can hopefully get someone in the Houses to listen to reason..." Wilfred shrugged. "I dunno. I just don't know, James. I have no plan, I just make it up as I go. I can't do much alone, I know I can't. But it's better to do something than nothing at all. Y'know?"
He made a face. "D'oh! Sorry, Franklin! I haven't adjusted yet."
Franklin's walrus-style moustache twitched. "Okay. I don't know if I'd've done things any different."
"Thanks," said Wilfred, unenthusiastically. "Oh, by the way -- if you ever happen to find yourself in the Edge Worlds and in need of assistance, try to reach Freeport 9 in Omicron Theta. The chief bartender, Ruben Walton, is a friend."
"He knows about you?" said Franklin. "About us?"
"He doesn't know everything, I'm not that stupid," said Wilfred. "But yeah, he helped me hack the NeuralNet and set up my new identity."
"Okay..."
"I trust him. He always has the juiciest gossip, but he also has the good sense to know what to keep secret."
"Okay."
"And if he wants proof that I know you, tell him that you want 'urgent advice, or rather keen counsel'," said Wilfred. "Those exact words. He'll know what it means."
"Yeah, I think I get it. Okay. Ruben Walton, Freeport 9, Omicron Theta, 'urgent advice or keen counsel'," Franklin repeated, committing the information to memory.
He stroked his goatee. "So, new sword, huh? Another cutlass?"
"Nah, a hand-and-a-half longsword."
"Titanium alloy? Nice."
"So, what about you?" said Wilfred. "I'm not entirely surprised to see you, actually. When I heard about the Colonial Remnant, I was wondering if you might show up."
"Well, we call ourselves the Crayter Republic, these days. Or, I should say, they call themselves that. I've left."
"Oh? Did something happen?"
"Nah. I just wanted to look around the rest of the Sirius Sector. So I came to Liberty." Franklin took another sip. "I tried to get an engineering job with Ageira, but I didn't pass the security clearance."
"Yeah..." Wilfred swirled his glass. "The security agencies aren't as good as they think they are, but sometimes they're better than I think."
"I noticed," said Franklin. "I wanna try again, with the DSE, but if that doesn't work... I dunno, I might go back to movie special effects."
"Heh. That was a long time ago."
"Yeah, but it has some fun problem-solving challenges."
"Yeah, or you could do some tech research on your own," said Wilfred. "I mean, how many honorary doctorates do you have now?"
"A few."
"Doctor James, James, calling Doctor James..." Wilfred teased, in a sing-song voice. Then he caught himself. "Sorry! Franklin! Damn it!"
Franklin flashed a nano-second smile. "It's okay, I know how it is. If it helps you remember, 'Franklin Hunnicutt' is also a reference to 'M*A*S*H'."
"Mash? What mash? Oh, 'M*A*S*H'!"
"Subtle, huh?" Franklin smirked.
"Yeah, I don't expect many people to get that," Wilfred smiled. "Clever."
"Yeah, I guess it's just you and Keith, maybe." Franklin took another sip, then stroked some cider out of his moustache.
"Yeah..." Wilfred put the glass down. "So you've heard that Keith is still around."
"Yes. And that he hasn't changed his name."
Wilfred smiled.
"Has he ever?" wondered Franklin.
"No. Keith just doesn't care." Wilfred's voice became softer. "That's not why you want to move to Liberty, is it?"
"No. Why?"
"Just wondering. I never knew what your feud was about." Wilfred looked like he had thought of a very clever pun. "What was your beef with Keef?"
Franklin sighed loudly. "It's a long story..."
"It always is."
"... and it has to do with what you just said -- Keith just doesn't care." Franklin stared into thin air for a moment. "And that's about as much as I want to talk about it."
"Okay, fair enough."
"But I'm not going to search him out and pick a fight with him, if that's what you're wondering."
"Fair enough."
"I haven't forgiven him," said Franklin, his voice a little harder. "But I don't want to pick a fight with him."
"Okay. I hear you."
"Right," said Franklin. He finished his cider, and stood up.
"Sit back down," said Wilfred.
"Why?"
"Because after all this time, I'm not gonna let you visit for just ten minutes and then leave on a sour note. We're going to get through at least one more cider, maybe three, and talk about something else."
Franklin relaxed, and sighed. "Fine."
"Sit down, James," said Wilfred, himself standing up. "Sorry, Franklin! Sorry."
Franklin actually smiled, and sat down. "It's okay. I know how it is."
"Yeah, well... sorry. Anyway, drinks." Wilfred hurried into the kitchen and returned with two new cider bottles. "Here you go, Franklin," he said pointedly.
"Thanks. So, what do you want to talk about?"
"Old memories? Always a popular topic," said Wilfred, a little sarcastically. "Or, you tell me about Crayter, and I'll tell you about Sirius."
"Okay," said Franklin, taking a big gulp of cider. "Well, it's a long story..."
ERIE SPACEPORT, PLANET ERIE, PENNSYLVANIA SYSTEM. 18th of April, 823 A.S.
Brett Manning, ship dealer at the Erie spaceport, slid a datapad and a stylus across the desk. "All right, please sign here and here."
Wilfred signed where Manning had indicated and returned the datapad.
"Thank you." Manning closed the purchasing contract and put the datapad away. "Okay, I'm ready to receive your credits transfer." He rubbed his temple.
"Yup, just one moment," said Wilfred. He took out a datapad of his own and logged into the NeuralNet banking system.
"Oh, you're not using a neural implant?" asked Manning.
"No, I don't have one," said Wilfred. He entered the amount of credits Manning had asked, and authorised the transfer.
Manning got a faraway look in his eyes for a second. "Received," he said. "All right, Mr. Lombard, you are now the proud owner of a Sunburst."
"Thank you very much," smiled Wilfred, putting away his datapad.
"I'll help you bring it to your hangar bay," said Manning, stepping around his desk. "Do you have any other questions, so far?"
Wilfred shook his head. "No, I can't think of any, right now. Like you told me before, the Sunburst is nothing fancy, but a reliable work-horse freighter. And very affordable, of course. That's exactly what I'm looking for, right now."
"Yes, and I saw that you've already sorted out your mining licence. Do you plan to make a career in mining?"
"No, I think I'll split my time between mining and transporting cargo. I..."
Wilfred trailed off as they reached the Sunburst he had just bought. He gave it an appreciating look.
"... I don't mind long flights," he went on. "Actually, I quite like them."
"You're no stranger to spaceflight, I hear," said Manning.
Wilfred smiled. "No, I was practically born in space. My father was the captain of a Humpback, and we lived on the ship."
"Ah, now I see. So are you following in his footsteps?"
"I guess I am," Wilfred nodded.
"Maybe taking over the family business? Is your father retired?"
"Uh, no... He's dead."
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Manning. "I didn't mean---"
"No, that's all right," said Wilfred. "It was years ago."
"What happened?"
"Shipwreck," said Wilfred flatly. "We were on a supply run to Freeport 9, when we suffered a catastrophic engine failure. My mother put me in an escape pod, while the crew tried to hold the reactor together. But no-one else made it out."
"You were the only survivor?"
Wilfred nodded.
"I am very sorry to hear that," said Manning in a business-like voice. "And I'm sorry if I brought up bad memories."
"No worries. It was years ago."
"Were you very young when it happened?"
"It was in 806 A.S.," said Wilfred. "I was 17."
"Hm. I'm sad to say I hear such stories fairly often. Space is a dangerous place."
"So it is. I've heard many of those stories too, in the spaceport bars."
"Yes... And yet despite the dangers, you 'space orphans' keep going back for more."
"Many do, at least," said Wilfred. "Space is harsh, but beautiful!"
"Yes... And you tend to make damn fine pilots, too," said Manning. "What happened to you after your shipwreck?"
"The Zoners of Freeport 9 took me in. I lived on the Freeport for a while, and later I worked as crew on Zoner transports. So yeah, I'm no stranger to spaceflight." Wilfred smiled.
Manning smiled too. "All right, Mr. Lombard, then I expect you'll be familiar with the flight controls. They're not too different from the Humpback's."
"Well, let's take a look!"
They climbed aboard and made their way into the cockpit, which was just big enough for the both of them. Wilfred looked over the controls.
"Yeah, looks familiar enough. I mean, there's only so many ways you can arrange flight controls -- forward and reverse thrust, vertical thrust, lateral thrust, pitch, roll, and yaw. Six degrees of freedom. But, one question, though..."
Manning gave Wilfred a look. "I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess it's 'What do these do?'," he said, pointing at the flight stick and the throttle.
Wilfred grinned. "I guess you must get that joke quite a lot."
Manning made a tired face. "All. The. Time."
"Sorry, I just couldn't resist," Wilfred grinned wider.
Manning smiled. "All right, I take it that you won't need my help to get to the hangar bay?"
"Nah, I'll be fine. I'll take a short flight around town, just to get familiar with the handling. And then it was berth 12, you said?"
"That's right. Okay, Mr. Lombard, pleasure doing business with you!" Manning held out his hand.
Wilfred took it and shook it. "Likewise!"
Manning climbed out of the ship, and Wilfred watched him walk back towards his office. Then he made the pre-flight check, started up the engine, and slowly, gently manoeuvered the ship out from the dealer's hangar.
After just a five-minute flight around Erie City, Wilfred was satisfied, and he headed back to the spaceport. He carefully landed at berth 12, and shut down the ship. He sat back, deep in thought.
An affordable, reliable work-horse. That's what it was. Eventually, of course, he'd need a bigger ship, better armed and better armoured, but this was step one. Step two was cash, as much as possible, and that would begin tomorrow.
He turned to look at the pilot's seat, and the automated escape pod launcher. Yes, he could secure his sword against the back of the seat, so it would be safe when the escape pod deployed and engulfed the seat. Good. He didn't want to lose another one. He'd be back later, after sundown, to install it.
And tomorrow, he'd take off into space -- finally! -- and try his hand at helium mining. Tomorrow, step two would begin.
FREEPORT 8, SIGMA-15 SYSTEM. 23rd of February, 824 A.S.
He had gone over the black-box recording six times, but he still wasn't sure what to make of it. He'd been surprised enough that a Nomad had engaged in a conversation instead of attacking him on sight.
"Elune", it had called itself.
"It"? Or "she"? He didn't know if Nomads even had any genders, or how many. But during their short "talk" -- he had to put that word within scare-quotes, too -- he had gotten the impression that the personality running the vessel was feminine. Or trying to present as feminine, anyway.
So, "she", then. If it presented as female, then it was a she.
She had said that she wasn't a K'hara.
Up until now, Wilfred had thought that "Slomon K'hara" was the proper name for the alien species that most people referred to as "Nomads" in common parlance (if they didn't use a less flattering nickname, such as "Nommie", "Squid", or "bastard"). As far as he'd known, "K'hara" and "Nomad" were interchangeable terms. But maybe they weren't?
Did the Nomads have different factions?
Well... why not? Why wouldn't they? After all, humans had always had different factions.
And if the Nomads had different factions, could it be possible to incite a conflict between them? Like they had tried to do with humans, during the Nomad War.
Wilfred shook his head. The Nomads were telepathic. Any conflicts could probably be settled quite quickly over the "Mindshare" that Elune had mentioned. It was possible that they just had one great hive-mind, with no distinct personalities.
No, that wasn't right either. Elune had a personality, at least more of one than any other Nomad Wilfred had encountered.
He went over the recording again. It hadn't been entirely easy to communicate -- Nomads were not fluent in English, and the conversation had been a jumble of telepathic outbursts, emotions, concepts, and radio-frequency noises.
Elune had said that she was a "Guardian" of the K'hara, and that she was older than them.
Wilfred smiled inwardly. In his most pretentious moments, he might claim to be a "Guardian of the humans", and actually believe himself. Such moments generally happened right before making a slapstick pratfall that would make Buster Keaton stand up and applaud.
Elune had offered to "enter" Wilfred's mind. At first he'd thought she meant infesting him with an Incubus, but in hindsight -- a hindsight greatly assisted by the blackbox recording -- she'd probably just meant making a stronger telepathic link, and connecting him to the Mindshare. That might have helped with the communication. In hindsight, should he have accepted? Should he accept a future offer?
He shook his head. No. He didn't want to risk giving away his secrets. Not that he thought the Nomads would do anything with them, exactly, but you never knew. And they had agents in human society, too. No, the risks were too great.
He turned off the recording and rubbed his temples. Perhaps the Mindshare wasn't all-encompassing. Perhaps there were divisions in the Nomad society, but even so, how could they be exploited? It was clear that he didn't know enough about the Nomads, but how could he find out more?
The Spatial he flew now was a decent ship for exploring deep space. It was a start. And he had his network of contacts within the Zoners, who helped him with information about locating jump-holes, and so on. That helped. He could continue to explore the Edge Worlds.
The Zoners... The Ingenuus Research Group? Wilfred had looked up that Hans von Goeben guy, after their encounter just before New Year's, and so he had learned about the IRG. If anyone ought to know anything about the Nomads, it seemed it should be them.
MANHATTAN SPACEPORT, PLANET MANHATTAN, NEW YORK SYSTEM. 10th of April, 824 A.S.
By pure chance, he had run into Hans von Goeben again, at Freeport 11.
Dr. von Goeben knew about "Elune". She was apparently seen around the Omicrons from time to time. But the doctor hadn't been able to shed any light on whether the Nomads were divided into factions, and hadn't been very happy about being milked for information. "Even out here, you can't be too careful about who is listening," he had said.
Wilfred had decided to head back into the core systems, for a change of pace. Presently, he was sitting in a spaceport hotel room, not-quite-enjoying a meal of Synth Paste, and thinking about his prospects.
Exploring the wilderness of the Edge Worlds was all very well, but it didn't bring in any money. On the contrary, it was hazardous and repair costs were sometimes quite high.
Wilfred drummed his fingers on the table. Maybe it was time to get back in the cargo-hauling business, to improve his finances a bit. He still had enough credits to buy a transport ship, perhaps a Serenity.
Yes, it was time. He would keep his Spatial, because it was a better exploration ship -- he thought back to the time he had tried to make exploration work in a Heron, and smiled wryly -- but he'd buy the Serenity as well. That way he could go out and explore the Edge Worlds or haul cargo in the Houses as his fancy took him.
Being a millionaire has its perks, he thought. It's almost absurd that it's not enough.
He thought about a story he had heard, about a billionaire from Planet Curacao, Ezrael Vertiga. He had apparently sold his family's business and bought his way into The Core. The things some people do for the sake of adventure, Wilfred thought, and smiled at himself again.
He got his datapad and started lazily browsing the NeuralNet. That's when he caught the bulletin from The Sol Project.
Sol? Some time ago, he had heard a rumour that astronomers had observed Sol going nova, for unknown reasons. But, come to think of it, he'd never actually gotten confirmation from a reputable source.
But if Sol hadn't been destroyed, the whole system was sure to have been overrun by the Coalition, anyway.
But... that was well over 800 years ago. And authoritarian societies rarely last for very long, he thought to himself. History has a liberal bias.
Sitting in his hotel room, near the Nuremberg spaceport, Wilfred tried to wind down. It had been a long and frustrating day.
He had spent two weeks mired in negotiations with the local authorities, about ferrying some Nuremberg refugees to New Berlin. The authorities were discontent about putting people on a Serenity, a standard cargo hauler without passenger accommodations. Wilfred argued that travelling in comfort was subordinate to escaping the radioactive clouds of a dark-matter storm, and he was sure the refugees would agree. But the authorities well hell-bent on doing things by the book.
Over the last couple of days, he had started talking with some seedier elements about simply smuggling some refugees out, but that was going slowly too. Presently, he was not in the best of moods.
And then the newscast came on. Wilfred listened to it with a stone-faced expression. He drew a deep breath, and let out a sound that was somewhere halfway between a loud sigh and a grumble.
"But for crying out loud..." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "What's wrong with these people?" he asked no-one in particular.
He turned off the newscast and tried to get comfortable on the bed. He suspected it would be some time before he'd fall asleep.
A quote from Shakespeare(*) came to his mind, not for the first time:
PLANET CAMBRIDGE, CAMBRIDGE SYSTEM. Glorious 25th of May, 826 A.S.
The Spatial gently drifted down through the atmosphere towards the spaceport, and set down on its designated landing pad. Wilfred stepped out of his ship, quickly made his way into the terminal building, and soon sat on the shuttle to the University.
He entered the University gates and purposefully walked across the campus grounds to the botanical garden. There is was, close to the fountain at the centre of the garden. The big lilac tree.
He slowed down, approaching the lilac almost reverentially. He gently pulled down a branch and put his nose to the flowers, taking in the heady fragrance.
He recognised one of the Literature professors, sitting on a bench nearby, looking up from her datapad at him. He nodded to her; she nodded back.
Then he took out a pocket knife and cut off a sprig. He wrapped the cut stem in some tissue paper, stepped over to the fountain and dipped it in the water, and covered the wet paper with some plastic wrap.
He looked back at the Literature professor. They nodded to each other again, and then he left. Within minutes, he was back on the shuttle back to the spaceport.
Back in the ship, he sat down on his bunk in the pilot's quarters behind the cockpit. He smelled the sprig of lilac again.
How Do They Rise Up, he thought to himself. He rubbed his eyes, maybe wiping away what could possibly perhaps have been a tear.
He took out a datapad from a Velcro pocket on the wall. He logged into the University Library, and downloaded the book. The thousand-years-old words filled the screen.
