Phyllis Eisenstein - In the Hands Of Glory

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September 2006

IN THE HANDS OF GLORY

Phyllis Eisenstein

DIA COULDN’T HELP WONDERING IF HE WOULD PENETRATE

HER DISGUISE.

She had just opened her mouth to give an excuse for their presence

when Unknown leveled his gun over her shoulder and fired, drilling a

small, silent hole in the young man’s face. Before Dia could react, he had

pushed her aside and sprung forward to catch the sagging body before it

could strike the desk.

At Talley’s signal, the rest of the team came in. By gesture, they

reported the corridor quiet. Softly, they shut the anteroom door. The

locksmith knelt at the inner door, tested it, found it locked, and began to

manipulate her equipment. Unknown took Dia’s arm in a crushing grip

and drew her to one side, away from any line of sight from the inner office.

Talley and the other team member stood over the locksmith, waiting

tensely, their guns drawn. At the locksmith’s nod, Unknown slammed his

hand over Dia’s mouth and gave his own nod. Dia was too angry to

struggle against the sudden restraint as she watched the door slide open.

contents

PART ONE:

PRISONER

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

PART TWO:

HERO

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

PART THREE:

COLLABORATOR

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

PART FOUR:

REBEL

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the

author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Another Original publication of TIMESCAPE BOOKS

A Timescape Book published by

POCKET BOOKS, a Simon & Schuster division of

GULF & WESTERN CORPORATION

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020

whatsoever. For information address Timescape Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y.

10020

ISBN: 0-671-83335-9

First Timescape Books printing November, 1981

10 9 8 7654321

POCKET and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster.

Use of the TIMESCAPE trademark under exclusive license from trademark owner.

Printed in the U.S.A.

for Lynne Aronson,

best of friends

PART ONE:

PRISONER

We were orbiting Beta Corvi, engaged in routine maintenance, when

the courier arrived. I suspected the contents even before unsealing

the canister—for years rumors had been circulating from world to

world and throughout the fleets: the Congress of Planets, in secret

session, was debating the fate of the Federation; already the

organization was breaking down as far-flung members ignored the

central authority. I had heard those rumors and tried to quell them,

never believing that the end would come in my lifetime. Yet now I

held the recall order in my hands:

The 36th Tactical Strike Force will report immediately to Patrol

HQ to participate in ceremonies marking the dissolution of the

Stellar Federation.

There followed a directive on the disposition of my ships subsequent

to the ceremonies—some to be distributed among planets near HQ,

some to be turned over for auction, the majority to be retired to

“permanent storage.” The message ended:

After the Federation Patrol is disbanded, every effort will be

made by the independent planetary governments to find

alternative employment for Patrol personnel.

Like our ships, we were going to be junked.

—from the Memoirs of Brigadier General

Marcus Bohannon, Commander,

36th Tactical Strike Force,

Stellar Federation Patrol

ONE

^ »

An instant frozen in memory: above, beside, before, behind—the placid

sky; below—the sculptured carpet of summer-green forest, with rivulets

like silver wire sparkling under the high sun. The aircraft rode an

electromagnetic jetstream across the winds of Amphora; in the cockpit,

Dia opened her mouth to ask her companion some trivial question…

The instant melted in chaos: a flash too brilliant for the eyes, leaving

darkness in its wake; a sound too loud for the ears, ringing through flesh

and blood and bone; a breath-snatching concussion, as if a giant hand had

batted the craft aside.

Blind, deaf, numb, she screamed the pilot’s name even as she reached

for her own controls.

Vision came back slowly, black and gold, a narrow corridor set with

burnished bits of brass. The sky was a shimmering clockface, the horizon a

spinning sweep hand. Her fingers tugged at the steering grips, flicked

switches, rapped dials, pushed, pulled… but Dia felt none of it—they were

someone else’s fingers, directed at a distance by her will.

Fighting the sluggish controls, she chanced a sidelong glance at

Michael. His pilot’s console was a wreckage, and fragments of the

shattered windscreen glittered among the ruins. His chair was cracked

and smoldering. He slumped in the seat, held there by only one strap, his

body blackened, bloody, ripped from groin to neck, his skull showing

sudden white where the face was peeled away.

Dia’s own blood blurred the horrid vision, closing her eyes when she

could not; smearing it away with one crimson sleeve, she was able to

wrench her attention back to her own half of the cockpit. The horizon had

slowed its mad reeling, but now the forest loomed close. Wind screamed

past her cheeks as she cursed the failing grips, the gutted fusilage, the

dying engines, but her skin was numb to the blast, and her ears were filled

with the discordant toll of bells. Heeling the craft around, she sought an

open landing space; there was none. The forest changed with proximity:

the nubbly carpet became an endless expanse of green-fringed pikes.

Branches scoured the bottom of the craft, and it bucked and twisted like a

living mount. A series of jolts swung it right, left, right again, and then its

nose caught and the great metal bird heaved tail upward in a ponderous

somersault. Shuddering, it came to rest upside down among the broken

trees.

She dangled from her chair, its harness preventing her from felling to

the canopy. Feebly, her fingers scrabbled at the buckles. Her head felt near

bursting, and her lungs struggled against a great weight. The last thing

she saw before consciousness slipped away was Michael’s skull-face,

staring at her, blood dripping from it in a steady rhythm.

TWO

« ^ »

Once more she stands at attention in the graduation line, one of thirty

shiny-new third lieutenants waiting for the Brigadier to set gold bars

upon their shoulders. Once more she hears the anthem of the Patrol, all

brass and drums, vibrating the ground beneath her boots. She hardly

notices the Brigadier himself—he is merely a tall shape moving slowly

toward her, pausing at the man on her left, then abruptly blocking her

field of vision. She perceives the tug at each shoulder as the insignia slips

into place, feels the firm grip on her proffered hand; when it is released,

she snaps an automatic salute, and the Brigadier answers briefly before

sliding onward…

Now she sees that face in the crowd once more. A single face in the

front row, vignetted by the gray blur of a hundred other faces. A

dark-haired face with trim mustache, shaggy brows, a high-bridged

nose, eyes black as space. Those eyes have followed her from the moment

she climbed to the dais, from the moment her own gaze made chance

contact with them. Who is he? she wonders again—the face seems

familiar, but her memory has no name to give it. He smiles, and in that

smile she can read a message a question… a promise. She smiles in

return, a mere quirk of the lips, nothing unbecoming a newly minted

officer; and they smile together until the time when the new officers

must turn and march off, eyes front, arms and legs swinging in unison.

Evening and the celebration: each graduate on the arm of a parent,

women with their fathers, men with their mothers, leading the Grand

Parade. Many are the great names represented here; many the high

ranks and the decorations to match the aspirations of the young.

Resplendent in dress uniform, they strut around the floor like exotic

birds, bedecked with plumes and gold and flashing gems, a circle of

royal blue and white. Dia walks with her father, her fingers light upon

his arm, her eyes searching for a face in the throng.

Then a hand touches her shoulder, and she turns, knowing that he has

been watching her all along.

$Music whirls them away, rushes about them like a riptide, drenches

them. Locked together, they swoop, they sail, they soar, as if they have

been dancing partners all their lives. They circle the room, weaving

among the other dancers like gold threads highlighting a tapestry. There

are no words between them, not while the music makes its demands, but

their eyes speak. And then they are through the great double doors and

outside, on the wide balcony of this tallest spire of the Citadel. The clean

wind snatches at their breath as they cling to the balustrade and each

other.

“So,” he says, and he holds her at arm’s length and looks at her afresh.

For the first time she sees his full-major’s leaves, and the four

marksmanship medals on his chest. He is tall, and his hands are strong

on her shoulders. “You,” he says. “I want you..”

She catches his wrists, clamping her fingers hard to still their shaking.

His eyes loom, dark and deep. She cannot tear her own away from them.

“I don’t even know your name,” she whispers.

“Michael Drew.”

“I know that name.”

He smiles again, that selfsame smile. “Of course you do.”

She touches the row of medals, senses the muscles beneath them,

fancies she can even feel the pulsing heart, though the pounding she

hears is her own heart, racing wildly. “I know that name.”

His lips are warm, and his breath is sweet, and his arms are too

strong to push away, even if she wanted to.

Michael.

She woke to dimness, to silence, and to pain. Her first conscious breath

was a needle in her left side, echoing in her shoulder and neck, rippling

down her arm. Clenching her teeth, she tried to exhale slowly. Her whole

body ached as if she had been beaten with steel bars. Except her

legs—those she could not feel at all. Her mouth tasted of blood. She

moaned softly, his name.

“Don’t move, Lieutenant,” said a high-pitched, childlike voice near her

head. A shape bent over her, a shadow among shadows; she could not

make out features or clothing. “You are in pain?”

“My side,” she whispered.

A slight pressure of fingers at her temples brought a but at a distance,

as if the connections between her mind and body and immensely

lengthened. Her eyelids drooped, and taut muscles relaxed. She could

think now, though her mind seemed encased in gel. Her ribs were cracked,

she knew, and worse—from the hips down she had no sensation. I’m

smashed to pieces. I should be dead. Like Michael The memory of his

corpse cut through her stupor; she opened her eyes against it, against the

tears that struggled in her chest and throat. Desperately, she searched for

something else to focus on. She lay upon her back, on a hard surface, a

blanket pulled up to her chin. If there were walls or ceiling anywhere

about, they were lost in the gloom; only the faintest illumination, as from

a distant candle, relieved the darkness. Cool, damp air assailed her

nostrils.

To her unknown companion, she whispered, “Who are you?”

“Rest, Lieutenant. Conserve your strength.”

“Are you loyal? Or a rebel?”

Only silence answered her question.

Far off, a light appeared—it bobbed and flashed like a firefly,

brightening until it became a lantern carried by a slow-walking man. In

the growing radiance, Dia could begin to see her surroundings—a wall of

pale stone rose on her right, its surface glinting with moisture. Her bed

was a thin med-evac pallet, resting on a floor of hard-packed earth some

few meters broad. Beyond this lay a wilderness of rubble—massive slabs of

limestone, piled man-high tumbled or tilted in ragged rows, like dominoes

rudely dumped from their boxes. Among these scattered megaliths wound

a narrow path, along which came the man. Entering the clear space, he set

the lantern near Dia’s hip and knelt beside it. He was a lean,

hollow-cheeked fellow, with hair so blond that his brows and lashes were

nearly invisible against his pale skin. Dark clothing lent him a spectral

quality, as if his hands and head floated in the shadowy air.

“Lieutenant Catlin? I’m your doctor.” His voice was deep and resonant.

He touched her forehead gently, and now she realized that her face was

heavily bandaged. “So you’re having some pain? Well, that’s not

surprising. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“How bad is it?” she murmured.

His gaze shifted to her lower left thigh; she perceived faint, colored

lights dancing across his face and surmised that he was consulting a

medical display. “I don’t think you want to know that right now. Don’t

worry—you’re young, you’ll heal quickly. I don’t expect any permanent

damage.”

“My legs…”

“Nerve blocks. You won’t be doing much walking in the near future.” He

climbed to his feet and picked up the lantern. “Relax, Lieutenant—you’re

going to be all right.” He turned away, his body shielding the glow, casting

vaulting shadows on the rock wall.

“Please, Doctor,” she whispered, “leave me a light.”

He glanced back. “Tomorrow. You won’t be needing it today.”

She felt a touch above her nose, the fingers of the unseen companion,

who must have been sitting behind her head. Almost immediately,

bone-weariness crept down her body, and her vision blurred. Her last

waking thought was of Michael.

THREE

« ^ »

Around the parallel bars, up and over and around again, flight without

wings, swooping, soaring, twisting; left hand, right hand, knees straight,

up and over one last time, then double somersault down! The mat jars

beneath her feet, and then Michael scoops her into his arms and swings

her around; centrifugal force flings her ankles up and away.

“Beautiful!” he shouts, his voice loud in her ears. “Beautiful,” he

whispers, nuzzling her neck.

Limp, she hangs on him like a cloth doll, her breath ragged. Every

muscle aches; her arms shake, her wrists feel like jelly. Her head lolls

back as he lowers her to the mat and begins a slow massage. Her back,

her shoulders, her arms… As he works, he speaks of the future, of

competitions and awards, of his pride, and her parents‘. She sighs in

pain and pleasure, hardly listening, but feeling, feeling the smooth

pressure of his hands on her sweat-slick flesh. Gradually, his touch

lightens, massage blending into caress, and his voice sinks to a wordless

murmur. He leans close, his body brushing hers; she turns and reaches

out for him, for the whole of his weight. Tortured muscles cry for her

attention, but she ignores them. Michael is all; Michael is everything;

nothing else matters.

For an instant, when she opened her eyes, she thought he lay beside her,

that the crash and the pain and his death were only a nightmare. A

mellow glow and the sounds of shuffling cards dragged her back to reality.

An experimental breath told her the pain had returned. “Help me,” she

gasped, and a delicate pressure at her temples immersed her in a pool of

euphoria. She lay shuddering for a long moment and then murmured,

“Thank you, whoever you are.”

A riffle of cards answered her.

Dia turned her face toward the sound and saw, on the floor beside her,

illuminated by a small lantern, a plump, furry creature about one-half

human size. A harness of black leather crossed its chest, supporting a

holstered gun of unfamiliar design; and its eyes were hidden behind thick,

dark goggles. It held a stack of playing cards in five-fingered paws, and its

bewhiskered muzzle twitched as it turned over the top card and added it

to the array on the floor. The animal was playing solitaire. “What the

hell… ?” said Dia.

The creature inclined its head in her direction, and a small pink tongue

flicked out of its mouth. “My name,” it said in a familiar, high voice, “is

Strux. I am an adult male and your nurse. Do you play cribbage?”

“You’re… not human,” said Dia. “No, indeed. I am, however, quite

skilled in medical matters, and you may repose your utmost confidence in

me.”

Regaining her composure, Dia said, “I was not aware that any members

of a nonhuman intelligent race were currently on Amphora.” She delved

into memories of the trading ships that occasionally touched down on her

world: sometimes their crews were human, sometimes not. At a distance,

she had seen saffron-skinned giants and feathered midgets; she knew,

from holographs, of others that no one on Amphora had ever viewed in the

flesh—scaly, chitinous, betentacled, they bore little resemblance to this

sleek, brown-furred individual. “What planet are you from?”

Strux laid a red queen on a black king. “I apologize for not being

allowed to answer that question, Lieutenant.” Turning toward her, he said,

“Am I to understand that you do not play cribbage?”

“No, I don’t.”

“A pity.” His teeth were small, pointed; his nose was moist and black

and mobile. “Would you care to learn?”

Cautiously, she moved her arms, found them stiff and awkward—the left

would not bend at all, the right made only a shallow arc. Dragging at the

blanket with weak fingers, she exposed her upper body. A loose, sleeveless

gray tunic swaddled her, and the unbending arm was encased in a white

tube from shoulder to knuckles; the other arm was bandaged with a

flexible joint at the elbow. She could not lift either. “I don’t think I could

handle the cards right now.”

His attention on the deck once more, Strux turned up the ace of hearts.

“I know many games. Perhaps when you have mended somewhat, we will

find one that is mutually suitable.”

She gazed upward, along the glistening wall. “You give me the

impression that I’ll be here quite a long time.”

“So you may,” he replied.

She glanced at him sidelong. “And where is here?”

His nose twitched, whiskers bobbing. “Again, I am not allowed to

answer.”

“This is a cavern, isn’t it?”

He gathered the cards together. “I am sure you will find cribbage a

much more rewarding endeavor, Lieutenant, than this interrogation.” He

shuffled with swift precision. “Would you care for a drink of water?”

Thoughtfully, she tested her mouth with her tongue. “I don’t seem to be

thirsty.”

Strux leaned over her, opened the collar of the tunic and prodded her

left shoulder. By tucking her chin almost against her chest, Dia was able to

see a small whitish hemisphere cradled in the hollow of her neck. “This

will last perhaps an hour longer,” he said. “After that, should you become

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v1.0September2006INTHEHANDSOFGLORYPhyllisEisenstein DIACOULDN’THELPWONDERINGIFHEWOULDPENETRATEHERDISGUISE.ShehadjustopenedhermouthtogiveanexcusefortheirpresencewhenUnknownleveledhisgunoverhershoulderandfired,drillingasmall,silentholeintheyoungman’sface.BeforeDiacouldreact,hehadpushedherasideandsprun...

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