Ascent

  Ascent

  Volume One of the Galactic Citadel Series

  By

  Thorby Rudbek

  Copyright © 2013 Thorby Rudbek

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9780987767400

  DEDICATION

  So many people have influenced me over the years, and so many experiences have led to this story, that it would be unfair to name some and impossible to name all. Suffice it to say that I accept any errors or omissions as belonging to me, and all the best of this creation as belonging to Him. To paraphrase someone I admire: “this is not the end, nor is it the beginning of the end, but it is the end of the beginning.”

  Prologue

  The old man had walked for half an hour along rough country roads, since parking the ancient Model A just off the tarmac, under some stunted trees. The location had been carefully planned: the remoteness of the area meant that he was not likely to be seen and the relative flatness of the terrain made this length of walk still feasible for him. Notwithstanding his careful planning, his breathing became increasingly laboured as he got closer to his final destination. At last, just as he began to worry that he had over-estimated his endurance, he could see his target through the sparse trees, a point where the scenery ended abruptly.

  The cliff up ahead beckoned.

  By walking along semi-paved roads for most of the route, he had made sure he had left no footprints. The heavy undergrowth around the weather-beaten trees where he had so carefully parked was selected to make the vehicle hard to see, even if, by chance, someone should use the abandoned section of road that led to it – this was important, as he also wanted to be certain that the carefully maintained vintage car that he had ‘owned’ for so many, many years would not be connected with him, for above all, he must not be traced. He had left all the windows open, as this would ensure any trace of his presence would soon be obliterated, much as he intended his own existence to be soon ‘wiped’ from the New England scenery. The location where he had left the Ford would probably ensure that it would not be found for some months – at least, if it were not found before the budding foliage had burst forth – and then he could confidently expect it to remain until all the leaves had been stripped by the increasingly strong winds that could be expected in the fall.

  He walked the last few paces and stopped just inches from the edge. He pulled his gaze away from the precipice, and paused to look around, checking that the area was empty. Sure enough, all he could see along either direction was the rugged shoreline, and behind him, the wild bleakness of nature, just before spring. Satisfied at last, he settled himself on the flat surface near the edge of the cliff, warmed on one side by the sinking sun, cooled on the other by the stiff, end of winter breeze. He was quite tall, although his posture was not as erect as it had been only a few months before. The view along the cliffs and out to sea was beautiful, but something in his face showed that it brought him no comfort. He fingered the unfamiliar chequered flannel shirt, counting the buttons that had caused him a slight delay when he had dressed a few hours earlier. The workman’s trousers completed the outfit very well, but they did not seem quite long enough to stop the breeze from working its way up the trouser legs and cooling him more than he had anticipated now he was seated. The work boots were a style worn ten years earlier, but this did not seem important to him either, just as long as they added to the impression he intended, of an ordinary old man, and an ending that would be viewed as sad, but commonplace, or at least, not suspicious.

  Vital and dynamic, his eyes seemed to belong to a much younger man, but the face that housed them was worn, stretched out. He leaned back. The contact with the slightly warm rock wall seemed to impart some energy to him, warding off the inevitable, but he knew that this would only delay the moment for a short while. A shiver ran through him, not because of the coolness of the air, but rather, due to the combination of ocean, cliffs, and waving foliage. This view seemed to remind him of something, or somewhere he once knew, somewhere he must surely have shared with the one who had been for many years his only companion. The thought was tantalising, but he had felt it so many times before that he scarcely entertained it. Rather, it made him think of the one he had lingered over; she had been sleeping, unaware of his imminent desertion. She is so lovely… His eyes glistened. Thoughts of her made his choice seem like a betrayal, but still he knew his decision to leave was the only way he could spare her an emotional flood, and, equally as importantly, keep her safe. He had known he must leave, while he still could. She would understand, one day…

  The solitude on the cliff was such a change, but it was what he had wanted, what he needed so much so that he could complete his final task. Still – a part of him desired – with a burning intensity that threatened to engulf his resolution – to go back, to be with her, to treasure every moment. He thought that he could have just stayed a few more days, to watch her, to hold her. How could that be wrong, when he loved her so much? But then he might not have had the strength to leave. No, he would have to stand by his decision. He would wait – here. Soon, very soon…

  The solitude started to become more comfortable, and the breeze seemed to not chill him as much. Instead of shivering, he felt calm, dreamlike…

  Something warned him that a stranger was approaching, though the person was not yet in view. This was not expected, not part of his plan. The location he had so carefully chosen was far from any towns, farms or other occupied areas, quite as remote as he could achieve; the season definitely unfavourable, and the weather, well, the weather was quite mild, really.

  I could not have left earlier.

  The old man hesitated, wondering if he should move to a less prominent location, or if he could remain and not be discovered. A part of him argued that, above all, he must not be discovered. But there was more to him than this resolute hardness. He sighed, and stood up, turning towards the approaching man, for he now knew that detail. I cannot refuse. Even now.

  The stranger, a shorter, darker man in simple runners, jeans and tee-shirt, perhaps of mixed first nations and western blood, was startled as he spotted the silvery-haired old man.

  “Afternoon,” he managed as he stopped abruptly a few feet away.

  The old man nodded in response, a slight smile breaking his sombre expression as he repeated the simple greeting in return.

  “Lovely view here. I didn’t mean to disturb you…”

  The old man assured him he did not mind, and invited him to join him, on the wide smooth rock that lay like an ancient park bench a few feet from the edge.

  “Thanks.” He sat down, and his breathing, which was at first laboured, calmed slowly until it could no longer be heard above the crash of the waves far below and the hiss of the wind through the long grass on the rough knoll behind them. The old man had settled back into his chosen spot again, and neither spoke, enjoying the view and feeling at ease, despite the circumstances.

  “You know, you remind me of someone.” The stranger coloured, even through his permanently ‘tanned’ skin, as he realised he had spoken his thoughts out loud.

  The old man did not seem at all surprised, and he encouraged the stranger to continue.

  Soon, the much younger man’s dilemma was being laid bare; it was a complicated tale, and the telling did not come easy to him at first. Despite this, the old adage: ‘a trouble shared is a trouble halved’, seemed to hold true. The twilight was moving on towards the night by the time their strange conversation was concluded.

  “Thanks so much for listening to me. I think I can see the way ahead now.” He stood, and the old man got a little hesitantly to his feet, too, and embraced him, pounding a little on his back. At this, the stranger’s eyes filled, and he looked deeply into the grey (or was it blue?) of his confidante’s
sparkling eyes, eyes that seemed full of life, and yet full of years.

  “If you are ever in Boston, just look me up; there’s only one listing with my surname in the phonebook.” The stranger realised as he spoke that this would not happen, but could see that the gratitude expressed in his words was not wasted. A few more moments, a few more words of appreciation, and he was walking back, across the hillside, back to his future, back with a measure of enthusiasm towards a new millennium – soon to come – rooted in his new-found determination to handle the present in the same way the stranger had handled him. The few brave flowers showing at the side of the old road seemed to nod to him, telling him things would get better, just as surely as spring would soon burst full-blown across the windswept plateau. Only as he climbed into his Toyota truck did he realise that he had not heard the old man’s name. In fact, as he drove – much more carefully than he had on his apparently unguided flight from Boston – he could not even recall the tone of the old man’s voice, just the look in his eyes.

  And that was enough.

  Back on the cliff, the darkness was almost complete, but the old man just sat there, leaning against the rock, staring out to sea, under the pale light of the first quarter moon. At about the time the sun came up, his eyes seemed to lose their sparkle, and there was no movement in response to the first seagulls wheeling overhead, screeching out their joy as they rode the air currents along the cliffs.

  Although he sat motionless like that all through that day and the night that followed, and even into the next day, his tired, worn face still wore the hint of a smile, a shadow of the satisfaction that had filled his last conscious thoughts, and those now lifeless eyes seemed to comprehend the rapidly increasing activity of the small animals as they ventured forth from nearby holes, and the bustling of the seagulls as they prepared their precarious nesting places for the addition of their speckled eggs, and new life to come.

  ***

  The sound of an ageing diesel engine straining under a heavy load broke the peaceful sounds of a fall afternoon. There was a short but shrill squeal of brakes as the old delivery truck pulled up outside what was known rather euphemistically as the 'new development' in the otherwise picturesque, almost timeless town of Redcliff, Maine. The engine surged briefly and over-enthusiastically as the clutch was disengaged, then fell silent after a brief shudder.

  With a reluctant groan of worn metal, the driver's door swung wide open and a short, stocky man wearing faded blue coveralls climbed out and walked around to the tail end of the battered furniture transporter. A gust of wind caught his unruly hair and rearranged it haphazardly, but he ignored it, and released the well-worn catch on the louvered door at the back of his truck. Grabbing the handle with his stained and stubby hands, he shoved the door up out of the way. It slid up with a rattle and crashed resoundingly into the stop in the roof.

  Grunting with exertion, Lester climbed into the interior of the old Chevrolet and squeezed awkwardly between the cardboard boxes stacked inside. He leaned over in the gloom and strained to make out the label on one particular item. Then, satisfied with his choice, he bent down and picked up the package. His breath came in whistling gasps as he heaved the carton over the others and lowered it to the floor at the back of the battered box-van.

  Lester jumped down, wincing as his shins felt the shock of his ill-considered, impulsive impact on the tarmac transmitted with great efficiency through the rock-hard soles of his old work boots. He paused to push his limp black hair out of his eyes, then walked over to the grey door numbered '78B', and rang the bell. He looked around impatiently; a few weeds were standing tall in the tiny flower garden between the duplex and the tarmacked parking space, mocking the almost fossilised remains of some small shrubs, planted thoughtlessly in a spot barely touched by the irregular rain.

  In a moment of fanciful insight, Lester considered that the development might almost have been transplanted from the little-known mid-western city in which he had been born, one that had lost its major employer just after he dropped out of high school. He had finally left his home town after four years of marginal, occasional employment, and moved gradually across the central States, eventually settling when there was nowhere further east that he could go.

  A couple of beech trees swayed slightly at the edge of the parking lot; a few of their leaves were tinted with the faintest touch of red - early warning signals of the character-building weather soon to come. The salty breeze plucked at his hair again and this time Lester flicked it back out of the way irritably.

  Overhead, small grey clouds scudded past; though he did not recognise the signs, they were forward scouts for a battalion-sized impending cold front. Finally, just as Lester was beginning to wonder if he could get away with leaving the box on the doorstep or if he would have to move it back from its somewhat precarious location on the trailing edge of the van's worn plywood floor into an empty corner for a later attempt at delivery, the door opened. A middle-aged woman with grey hair and a puzzled, almost vacant expression regarded him for a moment from the dim interior of her unit, her stretch denim pants emphasizing her generous figure in a way entirely contrary to her intentions, and only slightly softened by her baggy blouse.

  “Mrs. Blake?” Lester’s voice transmitted the sudden uncertainty he now felt over his destination, due to the occupant’s obvious confusion about his presence.

  “Oh, you must've come with my replacement table,” she concluded, her face clearing.

  “Yes, Ma'am.”

  She nodded, but still seemed uncertain about something. She leaned sideways and looked around expectantly.

  “I spoke to you yesterday when you 'phoned - Lester Turnball's the name. The box is on the truck.” His thumb flicked back over his shoulder unconsciously at the tail of the vehicle, hidden behind his quite significant mass.

  “Finally! Right then,” her face brightened with understanding at last. “Bring it inside, do.”

  Lester hurried back to the truck and pulled the heavy box backwards and into his arms. He staggered to the doorway and glanced at Mrs. Blake for directions.

  “This way.”

  Lester followed the woman into the front room and put down the heavy package, leaned against the wall and sighed. “It's going in here, then?” he asked hopefully.

  “Sure, that will do fine,” Mrs. Blake responded. “It will match nicely with my audio unit. Could you just–” The phone rang, and she hurried off into the kitchen to answer it.

  “I'll be off then,” Lester muttered quietly, taking advantage of the timely interruption to get on with his tight schedule of deliveries.

  When Mrs. Blake finally finished chatting to her sister in New York, nearly twenty minutes later, and walked back into the living room, she swore softly to herself as she realised that the delivery had completely slipped her mind. What am I supposed to do with that? She looked with disgust at the cardboard that superfluously encased her latest acquisition like armour-plating on a glider. Rummaging through the 'junk drawer' in the kitchen, she finally located a short screwdriver and walked back into the living room, wielding it somewhat uncertainly in her right hand. She started to pry the staples out of the package. After a few minutes of struggling with the heavy-duty staples in the tough cardboard, and with a broken fingernail and misplaced temper for her pains, she pulled the last of the packaging off her new coffee table. Angrily she stomped outside and dumped the cardboard alongside the row of garbage cans between the two duplexes.

  The storm rolled in from the Atlantic in time to disturb Mrs. Blake’s coffee and tea biscuits, which were enjoyed even more than usual because of the novelty of the new coffee table. A sparse selection of leaves was pulled prematurely from the beeches, and the warped window in her kitchen rattled with a sound reminiscent of an out-of-practice Morse code signaller, until she remembered to wedge it against the wooden frame with a folded sheet of the local newspaper. As the wind rose it started to pluck at the discarded packaging by the garbage cans like a play
ful puppy. A particularly strong gust dislodged one of the sheets of cardboard, and in apparent defiance of the laws of gravity it floated quickly across the tarmac, past a parked van and over the road. Turbulence on the corner by the service station lifted the sheet high into the air like Aladdin’s magic carpet, and it disappeared over the building, out of sight.

  A few minutes later the wind began to die down, and a heavy rain started to fall over the town of Redcliff. The water rapidly soaked into the seemingly levitated cardboard, its weight gradually increasing until the exuberant wind could no longer override the ever-present and significant influence of the Law of Gravity. The simple, mundane layer of pulpy, seventy per cent recycled paper products sank slowly downwards, but it was not destined to fall on Earth - its fall would start a ripple that at first would touch but one life, yet would eventually impact the lives of countless billions across the galaxy.

  Chapter One

  Power is a state of mind – Penchetan, early Arshonnan scout

  “But why do you say I should not?” The girl’s voice was as soft as the lighting in the otherwise serenely silent, curiously cavernous chamber, but still managed to hint of the depth of her frustration.

  No one responded. Something unusual about the quality of the stillness struck her as ominous, and she nervously repeated her question. Still no response. She spoke his name hesitantly, almost reverently.

  Nothing.

  Some indeterminate time later - she could never recall afterwards how long - she came to herself outside, standing forlornly in the driving rain amongst the weeds and grasses. Darkness had fallen; it had been day when her world had changed. Her long pale hair was soaked and rivulets of water had run down her neck into her bright but flimsy flowing gown, so that she was almost as wet under the ironically cheerful garment as were her exposed hands and forearms. Her pallid shins and small bare feet were smeared with mud and streaks of green, and her body was chilled far below the range of her past experience.