THE PRODIGAL FATHERS

Chapter I

The freighter shuddered as the muffled sounds of landing thrusters flooded the cavernous cargo bay. The interior was packed with identical metal storage modules, strapped haphazardly to all available surfaces in an attempt to squeeze every last credit from the aging beast of burden. The thrusters died away as the ship settled with a grinding jolt.

"Here's where you get off and disappear."

The cargo engineer spoke harshly, loosening his restraining belt as the cargo bay doors began to crack open to a cacophony of hydraulic hissing. "I've got one heck of a load to get off this crate and you're not on the manifest, so you'd better be clear of this piece of junk before the local brass shows up to check us out. Now move!"

I rose casually from my seat against the cargo bay bulkhead and gazed out through the open loading doors at the city beyond. Rain was pouring, bathing the landing area in a liquid mirror, and reflecting the city high above. Beyond the glare of the ship's own flood lamps, the night glimmered with millions of lights, the bright colors of electronic billboards and neon flashes punctuating the glowing sea. Unseen aircraft sped overhead in the darkness, their navigation lights tracing countless pathways through the skies. So this is Manhattan.

With a brief nod towards the cargo engineer, I dropped to the ground outside and jogged towards the nearest shelter I could make out through the downpour: Liberty Tavern. Reaching the shelter of the doorway, I paused to shake the rain from my clothes. I was dressed like a spacer, with the typical padded jacket and pants common to any pilot spending time in zero gravity. Gray and faded, they were the only things I'd worn for months. And after shelling out most of my credits for the only ride I could afford, some decrepit freighter manned by a crew of stuffy Bretonians, they would have to last for quite a bit longer. I pushed open the door.

The Liberty Tavern consisted of a large, dimly lit room with a series of booths and tables along one wall, and a long counter manned by a single bartender on the other. Soft jazz played in the background, above the soothing murmur of quiet conversation among the few patrons present at this hour of the night. I turned and strode purposefully towards the counter. I needed heavy fortification.

"Can I help you?" The bartender stood drying a glass, noting me with an uninterested eye. I knew what he was probably thinking. Another spacer come to refuel his fortitude after a long haul through Liberty space, no doubt. If only. I approached the counter and leaned heavily on the polished surface, in desperate need of something hard to knock the sleep out of me. I had business to attend to.

"Sidewinder fang."

The bartender looked up in mild interest. Now that was different. "A few hours earlier and you would've been in good company. Some guy comes in here all the time tellin' me I should start stockin' that stuff. Trent. You know him?"

"No."

"Ah. Well, all we've got is Liberty Ale. We try our best to avoid dead customers here."

"Just give me what you've got and leave the bottle."

"Here. Best ale in the four houses." The bartender poured the drink and slid it across the counter, setting the bottle within easy reach. "Gonna be here long?"

"Not likely."

"Where you from?"

"A place where taverns are worthy of such a title. How much?"

"Two credits."

I passed the bartender my card, hoping it would cover the charge. Not that the drink was worth it. "Keep the change." I turned towards the far end of the bar in hopes of discovering an unoccupied booth where I could slip in a little R&R.

"Hold on just a minute, I didn't catch your name..."

"I didn't throw it." I glanced at the near worthless card still clutched in the bartender's hand. "Where can I pick up a job around here?" I steeled myself and decided I could rest later; I needed to pick up a job before the maintenance facilities shut down for the night. Without a ship to my name, that presented my only likely prospects.

The bartender gestured towards a large glowing screen on the far wall. "There's a job board over there with some listings. Or talk to him." He pointed out a man sitting alone across the room in one of the corner booths, his eyes fixed on a small computer on the table in front of him. "He's been hirin' pilots for days now."

"I don't suppose he's handing out ships."

"Actually, he's been outfittin' 'em with his own equipment, believe it or not."

I looked sharply at the bartender. "Come again?"

"Just what I say, he's been outfittin' spacers with his own ships an' equipment, provided they'll tolerate his grunt work."

My mind raced. "What sort of work, exactly?"

"Talk to him, I'm no spacer." The bartender turned away and caught up his dishtowel and another glass.

I turned and studied the man in question. He looked to be middle age, perhaps in his 50s, with graying hair at his temples and a rugged, weathered face. He was dressed in nondescript black clothing that suggested high-level business. Just the kind of character that I didn't touch. He seemed to be watching something on a portable computer.

Listening closely as I moved towards him, I could make out bites of sound from what seemed to be a news broadcast. Most likely more of the nonstop coverage of the latest archeological findings across the galaxy; there was little else any newscaster could seem to chatter on about, despite the fact that rogues of every description were practically waging war on the trade lanes in their own backyard. After a true war between the houses nearly erupted over obscure alien artifacts several years back, everyone wanted to know what was going on with the research into alien history; xenoarcheology, they called it. The public interest was dying by now, but the networks seemed slow on the uptake.

I came up to the man's booth and sat down directly across from him. I didn't deal with men like this, but then men like this don't usually deal out ships to every pilot who runs a little grunt work. Not that I was planning on running any. "I hear you're looking for pilots."

The man looked up, apparently unsurprised by my abrupt intrusion. He powered down his computer and regarded me carefully. "Perhaps I am. Who are you?"

"An interested party."

"I see... what is it that you do, exactly?"

"That entirely depends on what you have to offer me."

He glanced at my threadbare jacket. "You're a pilot, then?"

"The name's Craig."

The man leaned back and studied me for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable and strangely cold. After several seconds, he slowly leaned forward, pushing his computer aside. "I see. I think I can find something for you, Mr. Craig." He spoke carefully, articulating each word in a manner distinctly devoid of emotion. "But first, tell me, what exactly do you think you know about The Order?"