The Lost Secret Page 6

  “Oh…” Maddox said. “Oh,” he said again. “I see.”

  “No, I don’t think you do.”

  Maddox decided it was time to wait and listen, really listen.

  “Ah,” Cook said. “I finally have your undivided attention. It’s about time.”

  Maddox nodded.

  Cook leaned back in his seat as his nostrils flared. “This latest episode has shown me that I need the Iron Lady again. The Intelligence Department isn’t as sharp as it used to be. Mike Stokes is good, but he isn’t suspicious enough. I trust the man with anything, but we need greater deviousness. Have you ever wondered why you have such a crooked bent of mind? One reason is the genes you inherited from Mary O’Hara.”

  “I’m not sure she’d appreciate your compliment,” Maddox said.

  “O’Hara isn’t what she used to be,” Cook said. “After you joined Star Watch—it doesn’t matter. I need the Iron Lady as she used to be. I need someone to match wits with Lisa Meyers or those the Methuselah Woman throws against us. I’ve come to believe that there’s only one way I’ll get O’Hara back.”

  “The Library Planet,” Maddox said, having already deduced the direction of the Lord High Admiral’s thoughts.

  Cook frowned, although he nodded. “Yes, the Builders’ so-called Library Planet. I’ve spoken with the professor. He’s willing to lead you there. Without the Builder nexus in the Xerxes System, such a trip will take much longer than in the past.”

  “There is the nexus in the Beyond.”

  “The Throne World nexus?” asked Cook.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought about that, but the professor recommends you bypass it.”

  “Fair enough…” Maddox said. “However, the planet is supposed to be fifteen hundred light-years from Earth. That will mean—oh, I see. You hope we’re gone for years.”

  “Really,” Cook said in an unconvincing tone.

  “We might surprise you,” Maddox said.

  “I have no doubt about that. However, concerning surprises, I have another one for you.”

  Maddox raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ve promoted Lieutenant Noonan to Lieutenant Commander.”

  It took a few seconds before Maddox said, “She deserves it.”

  “I’ve also given her an independent command.”

  “Oh,” Maddox said. “Hmm. I’ll miss her.”

  “Well…about that,” Cook said.

  Maddox appeared perplexed until he looked around. “This is a darter, the tiniest of scout ships.”

  “She will be in command of the darter,” Cook said. “That means she will no longer be a crew member of Victory.”

  Maddox scratched a cheek. “If she’s traveling with us, she’ll be under my authority.”

  “Only to a degree,” Cook said.

  “Divided command, especially on a long-range Patrol mission, is a bad idea and bad for morale.”

  “The Lieutenant Commander has an independent command of the darter. She is in charge of her vessel. She will serve under you as the flotilla commander, but you do realize that you can’t order her around in here.”

  “I realize that now,” Maddox said.

  “Captain, help her, if you can. We need more ship captains in Star Watch. Don’t sabotage her.”

  “No,” Maddox said. “I won’t sabotage her. Valerie deserves a command of her own. I look forward to having her in my flotilla. Are any other ships coming?”

  “Just Victory and the Tarrypin,” Cook said.

  “The Tarrypin is the name of the darter?”

  “Correct.”

  “When do we start?”

  “As soon as I leave,” Cook said. “I’m hoping you discover more than just how to use the Builder items we’ve collected over the years. In other words, take any useful item you find on the Library Planet.”

  “And if we find Builders?”

  Cook nodded sagely. “You’re acting for Star Watch on a deep-space Patrol mission. Use your best judgment in all things.”

  Maddox stood and saluted the Lord High Admiral. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the assignment.”

  “It’s your reward for saving the Earth from the mobile null region. These last few days have shown me—never mind about that. Come back in one piece, Captain. And make sure your grandmother survives.”

  Maddox’s eyebrows rose high. “She’s coming with us?”

  “Better she go with you than to risk Lisa Meyers’s people finally capturing her while you’re away,” Cook said.

  “Yes, sir, I totally agree with that.”

  “I thought you might.” Cook held out one of his big old hands. “Good luck, Captain.”

  Maddox shook hands with Admiral Cook. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”

  -10-

  Several days later and far away in the Beyond on the Throne World, a wall speaker clicked into life in Methuselah Man Strand’s prison.

  Since his deep-thinking bout many months ago, the little gnome of a madman had changed considerably. Strand no longer wore a dirty monk’s habit. He’d resumed wearing a shirt, trousers, socks and shoes. The clothes were clean and well pressed and the shoes shiny because he’d polished them so much. He cut his hair short so it barely touched his ears and now shaved religiously. The skin of his face was rough but soap-scrubbed. His eyes…he hadn’t been able to bury all the infernal heat, but he’d started hooding it as he used to in the old days.

  He appeared like a little old man who might have an occasional devious thought—the larger-than-average cranium might have caused the latter. Still, he appeared as a man who no doubt kept a tidy house, drove an ancient chrome-shiny flitter and had a huge bank balance due to decades of thrift and shrewdly played stock options. The signs he might be mad had disappeared.

  He’d scrubbed the prison chambers, often while on his hands and knees. There was no smell of urine or old sweat anywhere. A half-finished model strikefighter sat on the table, with tiny paint bottles, a tin of discolored water and a thin paintbrush beside it.

  At the click of the wall speaker, Strand sat straighter and attentively.

  “Methuselah Man Strand,” an unseen dominant said. “Prepare yourself. The Emperor has decided to grace you with a visit today.”

  “Thank you,” Strand said. “I’ll do just that.”

  As the wall speaker clicked off, Strand slid off his chair, gathered the strikefighter model and went to a bureau, opening a drawer and placing the model inside. He hurried back, made sure each paint bottle’s cap was twisted shut, and then collected them, the tin of discolored water and the brush, and depositing them in the drawer. He gently slid the drawer closed and opened a different one. He took out a feather duster and began searching the chamber for specks of lint or dust, sweeping each area or nook clean.

  He thought about whistling as he dusted but decided that would be carrying the deception into farce. His present state would be obvious farce to the Emperor as it stood, but it had produced the result he’d hoped to obtain.

  Strand smiled. It was an evil and devious thing. He grunted, forcing the smile away, and then hooding the infernal light shining in his eyes.

  I’ve been acting mad too long. Maybe I was going crazy.

  His shoulders shuddered. The idea appalled him, as it would be a crime against the universe if its greatest and most sublime genius lost his faculties due to induced insanity. He realized more than ever that he had to get out of here. Certainly, the New Men would never let him go. Thus, he’d decided to take a different track. This one mandated—

  “No…” he whispered, straightening his back and touching his hip. It was sore with an ache. He’d done far too much sitting around these past years. He’d never felt the old aches and pains until Maddox had slugged him in the face on the planet Sind.

  “You wait, you bastard,” Strand muttered, thinking about Maddox.

  He dusted faster, scowling at a corner. What’s wrong with me? No more acting like Mr. Crazy, okay? He was back, not j
ust back as Strand, but as the creator of the Thomas More Society. It had been a stretch, but he remembered how to play the persuader as the Idea Man, the one who promised the pot of gold to others and caused them to follow hither.

  Strand breathed evenly as he strove for calm. Maybe it had been too much fun for him playing the crazy man. Acting mad had become a bad habit. Well, he’d changed; he would remain changed.

  “No…” he whispered. “I’m the counselor, the old man of wisdom.”

  He smiled, and this time, he made it a nice clean smile, as he was one of those anyone could trust.

  “Yes, Mary Ann, I’m a saint.”

  He began to whistle a cheery tune. So what if he put it on thick? He was the new and improved Strand, which actually meant the old, old Strand of times gone by.

  He finished dusting two hours later. The Emperor hadn’t shown up yet. Strand shrugged. He was impatient, and yet, he had time on his hands as never before.

  He paced his expectations, deciding the Emperor might play him for days, to test him, as it were. Well, that was fine. The Emperor had all the cards except for one.

  I’m Strand, the smartest and most devious manipulator in history. There is no way the Emperor or his golden-skinned posers are going to keep me prisoner. They have no idea what’s coming…

  Strand sighed. The problem was that they did have an idea about his powers of deception. They’d tasted his greatness and had learned to fear it with respect bordering on superstition.

  That was fine. It simply meant he’d have to work harder. He could do it. He had to do it, or he would lose his mind and rave like a maniac for their amusement for the rest of his miserable days.

  I’m desperate.

  The realization brought clarity, hyper-clarity, in his case. He found himself breathing faster and starting to sweat.

  He let himself worry for several minutes longer in order to get it out of his system. Then, he controlled his breathing, making it deep and slow. He retired to the restroom, took off his shirt, washed his underarms and applied more deodorant and then went to his closet and put on a fresh shirt. Finally, he went to the kitchen, toasted two pieces of bread and cut a fresh tomato into slices. He made a tomato sandwich and ate it there, wiping everything down and cleaning the knife.

  At that point, a wall speaker clicked again.

  Oh, no, the Emperor canceled. I can’t believe this. No, no, stay calm, old man, you can do it.

  “Methuselah Man Strand?” a hidden dominant said.

  “Yes?”

  “The Emperor is coming. Please go to the main entrance to greet him.”

  Strand swallowed nervously before beginning to head there. At last, he could start to implement his newest long-term deception.

  -11-

  Strand stood respectfully as the heavy metal door to his prison complex swung open.

  The golden-skinned Emperor regarded him from the threshold. The Emperor was tall, very tall, in fact, predatorily handsome in his jet-black uniform and military cap. The New Man towered over Strand, studying him with the intense stare of a true king of beasts. The Emperor wore a holstered sidearm and an electric whip belted at his side.

  With supreme athletic grace, the Emperor entered the prison. Behind him, the heavy door swung shut, the locks clicking into place.

  “I’m—” Strand said.

  The Emperor’s right hand rose, palm forward. It was not right to speak first in his presence.

  “Please, Sire,” Strand said, while bowing his head, “forgive me for a lack of protocol. It’s been too long for me.”

  The Emperor’s lips twisted. It was impossible to tell if this showed amusement or sarcastic disbelief. He peered this way and that, sniffed the air and soon nodded, as if the quarters met his exacting standards. The Emperor thereupon indicted the nearby table.

  Strand dutifully headed for it, holding out a chair for the Emperor.

  The Emperor stood at a distance and shook his head.

  Strand released the chair and went around the table to another chair, waiting by it.

  Languidly, the Emperor approached the first chair, pulled it back, picked it up and studied it from every angle. He rapped his knuckles on various pieces. Perhaps he suspected hollowed areas or poisoned needles to prick him when he sat. Finally, he set down the chair and sat, placing his folded hands on the table.

  Strand raised his eyebrows.

  “By all means, sit,” the Emperor said in his commanding voice.

  Strand sat down across from the Emperor of the Throne World.

  The imperious New Man cleared his throat. “The Chief Warden has informed me about your change in…shall we call it tactics? You no longer appear to play the madman.”

  “It wasn’t so much a matter of policy, Sire, but of self-preservation.”

  “Explain,” the Emperor said.

  “You’ve isolated me in solitary confinement for years. Surely, you expected me to eventually crack from the strain.”

  “Your madness wasn’t all an act, then?”

  “I’d begun to believe it was a trap,” Strand said, “one that I’d fashioned for myself. Or perhaps it was an excuse for me to delve into the madness that has begun to well up in my mind.”

  “Of course, you realize I don’t take anything you say at face value.”

  “I don’t blame you, Sire.”

  The Emperor frowned.

  “Please excuse my poor choice of words, Sire. I’m in no position to judge your actions or to cast aspersions or blame upon you.”

  The frown remained. “Each man believes himself a judge of others, at least in his own mind. It is our common human condition to do so. You lie when saying what you just did to me.”

  “Perhaps that is so, Sire. I’m attempting to change my ways. But…truth doesn’t come easily for me.”

  The Emperor laughed. “Strand, Strand, Methuselah Man Strand, you were a liar from the beginning. When you lie, you speak your native tongue.”

  “You’re quoting Jesus when he spoke to the Pharisees about Satan.”

  “No matter whom I’m quoting, it holds true for you.”

  “I will not quibble with you, Sire.”

  “Then what will you do?”

  The Methuselah Man looked down because he feared the Emperor might see his eyes shine with desire. Strand had many strong desires: to escape the prison, to throttle Maddox—watching the hybrid choke to death as he begged for mercy—to teach the New Men a lesson they would never forget in a thousand years—

  Strand struggled with himself, seeking mastery over his emotions. Despite the many legends concerning him, he seethed with sensations that drove his logic and himself to profound feats of—

  Get a grip. You’re not mad. You’re the sanest person in existence, so start acting like it.

  Strand inhaled. Earlier, he’d lowered his hands under the table. Now, he squeezed his fists, trying to reign in—

  “This is futile,” the Emperor said sharply.

  The words were like a slap to the face, once more anchoring Strand to reality. He looked up, all the infernal heat and rage gone from his eyes. He buried that rage deep in his heart, locked behind a sealed hatch. He placed his hands flat on the table. They did not shake, although perhaps the Emperor noticed the knuckles going from white, to red and then to the Methuselah Man’s normal color.

  “Sire, by placing me here, you’ve given me years to contemplate my former life. I haven’t put all that time to good use. Truly, during the majority of it, I plotted and planned vengeance. I still desire vengeance, but of late, my thoughts have taken a different turn.”

  “This should be amusing.”

  Strand waved a hand in the air. “I’ve begun to realize that I’ve wasted my time. I’ve let myself wallow instead of thinking…” He turned away.

  “Is that supposed to be convincing?” the Emperor asked mildly.

  “No, Sire. How can I put this into words you’ll believe?”

  “Frankly, I doubt tha
t’s possible.”

  Strand nodded. “Yes. Yes… I suppose you’re right. You view me as a criminal.”

  “Be assured, it’s nothing so prosaic at that,” the Emperor said. “I view you as a monster, perhaps as the Tempter promising Heaven but intending to give Hell instead.”

  “Sire…I find myself wanting to leave my prison.”

  “Ah. True words, you actually spoke true words. How simply marvelous. Pray, continue, Strand.”

  “My change in demeanor was to show you that I’ve changed my goals. For instance, I no longer believe I can gain my freedom.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second.”

  “Let me parse that a little closer,” Strand said. “By freedom, I mean the ability to act as an autonomously free agent. Instead of wishing for such a thing, I’ve shifted my goal toward gaining some freedom, particularly as your aide or counselor.”

  The Emperor scoffed. “You think I’m in need of counsel? From you?”

  Strand’s eyes widened as he faced forward. “Oh, yes, Sire, with all my heart.”

  The Emperor scowled, clearly not liking hearing that.

  “Perhaps I put that wrongly,” Strand said. “You need help to fix the problem that I bequeathed the Throne World.”

  “What problem?” the Emperor demanded.

  “The inability to sire daughters,” Strand said softly.

  “What nonsense.”

  Strand shook his head. “I understand you might consider it an act of lèse-majesté for me to contradict you so forthrightly, Sire, but what I say is true. I unintendedly gave the Throne World an Achilles heel.”

  “I see no evidence of this.”

  “Sire, surely you’re not blind to—”

  The Emperor raised his right hand sharply, palm forward. “Have a care, old man. I could snuff you out like that.” He snapped his long golden fingers. “But I would rather make your life more miserable as I watch you squirm.”

  Strand dipped his head.

  The Emperor lowered his raised hand, his mouth twisted, perhaps as he considered Strand’s point. “It’s true we cannot sire girls. But what does it matter? We’ve taken all the women each of us needs so we can continue flourishing.”