Courage (12 page)

“Judge not lest ye be judged,” Garza rattled off.

“What?”

“It’s from the Bible. You don’t go to Hell for holding an opinion. Those who’ve looked down on you have committed a wrongdoing for judging you negatively based on your opinion.”

“There needs to be more preachers like you.”

“That’s a discussion for another day.” Garza smiled. “How did you decide on being atheist, might I ask?”

Roger went back down a painful part of memory lane. “I wasn’t an atheist until about five years ago. I grew up Catholic. I never questioned it. It was just something my family did. But then my sister died in a car crash while talking on her cell phone. The truck driver who ran her over said she’d drifted into his lane, and since it was dark out, he didn’t notice until it was too late. The last thing he saw was her shocked face in his headlights right before he pancaked her. She was only seventeen.” He fell silent.

A few seconds later, Garza said, “That’s horrible. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. After my sister’s death, I began wondering why bad things happened to good people. If we’re all being watched over, as I was told time and time again growing up, why does so much horrible crap happen? I researched a bunch of religions and read several texts, but all the messages were about how to be a holy person, and happy, and have a good relationship with one invisible man or another. I couldn’t find anything on what God was doing while us humans lived our miserable lives. In the end, I could only rationalize that there was no god, that there was no one making sure we came out okay and got to enjoy life. No offense, ma’am, but I can’t stomach organized religion.”

“None taken,” Garza said with a sympathetic smile. “It’s not mandatory to go to church every week, much less follow one doctrine or another. Even though I’m Christian, I love Buddhist meditation practices, and I have civilian friends who are Pagan. They have different beliefs than you and me, but we all strive for happiness and doing the right thing, along with taking care of the world we live on. You get to do that in your own way.”

“That I do,” Roger said unhappily. The impending war still made him feel a little lightheaded.

“Do you feel any better yet?”

“Yes and no. I think I’ve pegged what’s bugging me the most. And it really isn’t the whole religion thing.”

“Well that’s good to hear.”

“Maybe,” Roger said. “What do you believe a god should be like?”

Garza looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “That’s a loaded question. Why do you ask?”

“Because when I met him, he was and wasn’t what I’d expected. He was exactly what I’d expected if I were to meet God face-to-face, but his personality was so... not godly.” He adjusted his position in the pew and propped an elbow on the back of it. “I’m not sure how to put it. I could tell he knows tons of things I don’t that a god needs to know, or whatever the heck it is I’m trying to say, but he wasn’t entirely all-knowing and all-seeing with this blueprint he wants humanity to follow. He was... he was more human than I expected. He made it clear that he isn’t perfect. I dunno. Am I making any sense?”

Garza sat in silence, her gaze unfocused as she digested what he’d just told her. He hoped what he’d just said didn’t come off as insulting. Finally, she said, “Have you ever wondered if perfection is a man-made thing?”

Roger thought a moment, then looked at the pastor.

“There’s another phrase in the Bible that says God created us in his own image. Now that you’ve said that, I’m wondering if he made us with the same flaws he has.”

“How does that make any sense?”

“If God is perfect, then why make us so flawed when it causes so much suffering?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does God have to be perfect?”

Roger opened his mouth to retort, but closed it. His first reaction had been to blurt “of course he does!” But that sounded so ridiculous. “Are you trying to say Baku couldn’t design us to be perfect because he isn’t perfect?”

The pastor nodded. “A parent can teach a child or wish them to be different from them, but in the end the child will turn out similar to his or her parents. It’s inevitable. However, the child can make conscious choices to behave differently than what they were taught or saw. God is father to us all, so what’s stopping us from inheriting his flaws?”

“He’s not around to parent us?” Roger said with a shrug. Garza’s speculation was intriguing. In all honesty, things made a bit more sense that way. But still: it was so hard to peel himself away from a lifetime of preconceived notions his parents had passed on to him. But maybe he could break away from his parents’ preconceptions and form his own. He’d met Baku in person for cryin’ out loud.

“Nature versus nurture. And that is a heated debate. In the end, I believe perfection is a manmade concept, and many thousand years ago, we humans tacked the concept onto something we had no understanding of and just assumed we’d got that part right.”

“I think you’re right, but I need to continue thinking on it.”

“You’re always welcome to come back and talk some more.”

Roger stood and stretched. “Thanks.”

* * *

Soon-to-be Fleet Admiral Reginald Whitman waited at attention by the altar of his local church, with several dozen people looking on from the pews. Considering that God himself had asked him to do His work, church seemed the most appropriate place to don his final rank promotion. No one had argued. Everyone was a mix of pride, joy, worry, and confusion. No one really knew what was going on. Not even Whitman. However, he’d already compiled a munitions list, complete with all sorts of big boy ground toys. God hadn’t told him what to bring to war, so Whitman played it on the conservative side with tanks and the likes. In the end, nothing beat the raw power of well-trained American soldiers fighting for their country.

Almost all of the witnesses present were Whitman’s family. His wife, Big Mama, stood next to him in a black dress that he loved seeing on her voluptuous figure. Her girlfriends often bugged her to try and lose some weight, but even the much skinnier ones couldn’t measure up to Big Mama’s beauty. She held herself with an air of dignity and pride balanced by a sweet smile and rich voice.

He and Big Mama had four wonderful, beautiful kids together, two girls and two boys, who were standing in the front pew with his grandchildren. His kids, all tall and lithe, were in their twenties and thirties--he couldn’t recall their exact age until a birthday rolled around, and even then it often turned into a guessing game. His grandchildren ranged from toddler to child, all of them standing respectably quiet as the ceremonial officer read off the short speech that accompanied each pinning ceremony. The ceremony itself would last maybe two minutes, even though it had taken several hours of scrambling around to get the family together, along with an officer who could lead it. But this was worth it.

The officer, decked out in full dress uniform, finished the words and opened the case holding a Fleet Admiral’s pins and stripes. Laying atop black velvet were five silver stars arranged in a pentagon. They gleamed up at Whitman and Big Mama. Next to the collar pins lay a pair of golden shoulder stripes, sporting five stars and an anchor. He was about to be placed next to Nimitz, Leahy, King, and Halsey, all deceased Fleet Admirals. This was a blessed day indeed.

Big Mama picked up the collar pins and adorned Whitman with them, then adjusted his collar and patted them down. Then she picked up the shoulder stripes and buttoned them on, straightening and patting them down as well. Whitman gazed into his wife’s beautiful dark eyes as she took a step back and held him by his shoulders, scrutinizing him. Only his military training kept him at attention. That slight frown paired with her eyes and rosy lips and chocolate cheeks looked mighty fine.

The officer officially granted Whitman with the title of Fleet Admiral of the United States Navy, and the witnesses, his family, broke into applause. The two officers exchanged salutes and shook hands. Whitman turned to his wife, who kissed him squarely on the lips. It was a borderline chaste kiss, but enough to make him wish the family wasn’t watching.

“I’m proud of you, honey,” Big Mama said in her rich southern voice.

“Thank you, ma’am.” He looked to the pews. “We’re all goin’ out for an early dinner to celebrate. And then you and me are gonna do some celebratin’ of our own,” he added in a low, mischievous voice, “

“Oh, are we?” she said with a coy smile.

Whitman’s family filed out of the pews, and he kissed and hugged his entire family, and thanked them as he was congratulated over and over. Once the last grandchild had been kissed and hugged, and given a good tickle, Whitman led his family out the church and into the hot Texas afternoon. Not a single cloud granted them the mercy of a bit of shade.

“I’m drivin’,” Big Mama said, fishing her keys from her oversized purse.

Whitman preferred to drive, but this was one of those times where it was best to let his wife have her way. Both of them enjoyed driving his Mercedes. He’d be the stupidest man alive if he didn’t share his sweet ride. He dutifully took the passenger seat as the rest of his family filed into their respective vehicles.

Big Mama backed out of the parking spot and led the procession along the big ole flatiron of land to Longhorn Steakhouse. As soon as they left the parking lot, she floored it all the way to ninety. One peek in the rearview mirror showed that the rest of the family was keeping up no problem. At this rate, it would take them only fifteen minutes to get into town.

“Honey, I want to talk to you about somethin’,” Big Mama said, worry in her voice.

Whitman peeled his eyes from the rolling scenery. “What is it, baby?”

“I’m scared for you.”

“Why?”

“I’m proud of you, too. Very proud. But I’m scared. Before the ceremony started, you made it sound like you expect to die in this war. I know you’re doin’ God’s work, but I’m not ready for him to take you yet.”

Whitman hadn’t realized he’d made his intentions so obvious. He sat quiet a moment, trying to figure out the best way to broach the truth. “You remember what the doctor said the last time I went?”

“Yeah. You’re at high risk of a heart attack.”

Whitman nodded and resumed looking out his window. “I know it in my gut that I don’t have much longer to live. I don’t wanna die in the back of no ambulance. I’d rather go down, guns blazin’, while makin’ my family and country proud. While makin’ you proud. God has answered my prayers.”

“I don’t wanna be a widow.”

Whitman sat in choked silence. It was one thing planning out his end in his head. It was another hearing it from his wife. “I know, baby,” he said softly. “I know. But at least this way the last time you see me alive, I’ll be on my feet and smilin’; not lyin’ in some hospital with all sorts of tubes and wires comin’ out of me. That’s all I want.” Whitman took his wife’s hand in his and kissed it. She smiled her sweet smile as tears glistened down her cheeks.

Chapter 10

Donai and Skitt were down in the archives, poring over the results from Roxie’s blood work, which matched somewhat close to the average humanoid in the universe. She had the same composition of water, proteins and inorganic salts and, unsurprisingly, a high white blood cell count. However, her white blood cell count was way off the charts, topping off at over a million cells per microliter, while the average human had somewhere between 4,000 to 11,000. No wonder she’d fought the dragon venom so long.

The venom was running rampant through her blood stream, killing off living tissue as fast as the white blood cells could combat it. The white blood cells in the microscope footage were swooping in and devouring the black tendrils of venom, yet mass graves of inert cells lay in its wake. Thankfully, the antivenin had given the girl’s antibodies a healthy boost. A second, fresher blood sample showed that the poison’s progression was almost halted. Less venom showed up among the milieu of white blood cells. Donai felt confident that Rox would live, but probably at the loss of function of her right arm, despite what Jenna had witnessed.

To Donai’s frustration, Roxie’s blood didn’t have a match in the blood bank. Maybe Aerigo hadn’t given a blood sample during his previous visit. Rox shared the trait of being A+ but there were too many other differences to risk grabbing a donor from the blood bank if she needed a transfusion. She was going to need one once the last drop of venom had been neutralized. They were going to have to find a way to draw blood from Aerigo sooner or later.

Donai waved at the black monitor in front of him, and the machine started up like it was supposed to before. He logged into the database and was greeted by a painting of a beach at sunset--well a sunset that wasn’t tarnished by the sickly greens and browns of contemporary skies. The soft reds, oranges and yellows before him were just a memory now, thanks to millennia of pollution. Litton icons popped up all over the desktop background. Donai poked the air in front of the database icon, which looked like a miniature bookshelf, and found himself wishing more tools in the hospital required less direct contact. A brief loading bar popped up, then disappeared, followed by a blank text box and a search button.

“Hello, Donai,” the computer said to him in a male voice with a sophisticated accent. “How may I help you today?”

“Hey, Kennin, remember that search I was doing earlier today?”

“Yes, sir. You came up with no results in seven of the Twelve Commons you checked. Care to try the rest?”

“Not yet. I have another search for you.” Donai leaned back in his swivel chair and interlaced his fingers in front of his stomach. Skitt rolled his chair closer, almost elbow to elbow.

“Let’s give it a try.”

“Look up ‘glowing eyes’ and see if that gets us anywhere.”

“On it.” The computer typed in the words by itself and clicked on the search button. A new loading bar appeared.

“Gave up on ‘Ijis’, Donai?” Skitt said with a smirk.

“Very funny,” Donai said flatly, the said to the computer, “Kennin, try various phonetic spellings for Aigis while you’re at it, will you.”

“Certainly, sir. In Kintish?”

“Yeah.”

A second loading bar appeared under the first.

The first loading bar filled up and disappeared. “Sir, there are no matches in Kintish.”

“Try all known languages then,” Donai said with a frustrated wave of his hand.

“On it, sir.” The remaining loading bar slid higher up the screen as another popped up beneath it. “And here are the results for your other search.” The topmost loading bar filled up and disappeared. A new window popped up:

Search results: five matches found.

Donai bolted upright in his chair and grabbed the desk. “We have a match--five matches!”

“Lucky us,” Skitt said lightly.

“The results are a combination of video and written journals,” Kennin said, “along with a detailed report on a specific patient. Do you have authorization to view this confidential information?”

“Yes, Kennin! He’s back and under my care. Why do you think I’m here?”

“Standard question, sir. That and the files are around six hundred years old. According to my vast database, the number of beings with lifespans that match or come close to the patients in these files barely exceed the solitary digits. You are lucky. For a final bit of standard clearance verification, what is the patient’s name?”

“Aerigo,” Donai said, fighting the urge to stare dumbly at the computer screen. “Now show us what you found.” Six hundred years? That was a mind-numbing number, considering Aerigo looked like he was in his thirties. How old was he?

“A satisfactory answer, sir. And I finally have a match for your first search.” The remaining loading bar filled up and disappeared. A smaller window popped up over the first one. It looked like an excerpt from a dictionary.

“Oh, that’s how you spell it,” Donai said.

“There are over ten thousand languages in my database, sir. There can be easily that many on just one world. Kismet houses five thou--”

“Stop the tangent already.”

“Sorry, sir. However, you may wish to know that there’s a common term found in both your searches. Also, there’s a bit more in online books. Aerigo isn’t the first of his kind to visit Kismet.”

Donai and Skitt looked at each other, eyes wide and mouths slightly ajar. So Donai hadn’t been making things up when he’d seen Aerigo and wondered where he’d heard about glowing eyes before.

“May I divulge this tangential information?”

“Uh, quickly,” Donai said, recovering from shock. “We have two patients in critical condition and we need to know how to keep them alive.”

“Understood,” Kennin said. “Kismet knows Aigis as Nomas, or a Noma. Nomas go back thousands of years, to the time when the Neo-Josos, the alien invaders, almost committed total genocide on this world. There is conflicting information on what happened where the Nomas are involved. Shall I say more?”

Donai frowned and reluctantly said, “Not right now.” He tapped the air over the search results, and Aerigo’s profile popped up. He and Skitt leaned closer to read the data.

Patient Name: Aerigo (no surname)

Date: 17 August 7085

Height: 6’3”

Weight: 525 lbs.

Hair/eyes/skin: black/blue/olive

Age: 2817 (according to home world)

Birth Planet: Durna (Cathar Galaxy)

Race: Aigis (suspect Noma, according to

Kismet)

Reason for admittance: severe depression

“Five hundred and twenty five pounds?” Skitt exclaimed. “No wonder it took four of us to haul him onto the gurney!”

“I’m still trying to wrap my brain around how old he is,” Donai said. “Scientists still haven’t cracked the code on how some organisms live that long.”

“What exactly is an Aigis or a Noma?”

“I’m not sure,” Donai said slowly. “I could’ve sworn I read something on Nomas ages ago--not in a medical book or file--but elsewhere.”

Kennin said, “I can compile search results from the internet for you, sir, if you wish.”

“Go ahead and email them to me. I’ll read them when I have the time.”

“Very well, sir. Is there a specific medical condition you’re looking for in the data pertaining to Aerigo?”

“Uh, there wouldn’t be anything about dragon venom, would there?” Doubtful.

The computer was silent a moment. “I’m afraid not. There is, however, a rich amount of biological and psychological information within the journal. I suggest starting with the videos. They are a bit roundabout, but they are full of useful information on Nomas. Dragon venom attacks the mind and body after all.”

Donai nodded and the built-in camera in the computer acknowledged his physical response. It went black and loaded the first video.

“Can’t hurt to try,” Skitt said.

“Nope. I’ll just fast forward through all the useless stuff.”

A date appeared in the center of the screen, and then a paragraph faded in below it.

17 August 7085

This series of video files is dedicated to knowing the truth about Kismet’s history and the people involved: the Nomas. Over the years, researches and historians tried to find more people like Aerigo, but none were ever found-not even on the planet Aerigo was born on. With this journal, we hope to preserve the truth that Nomas exist, what their traits are in regards to medical treatment, and that our history books lie...

The words faded out and were replaced by a camera view of the emergency entrance of Nostrum Hospital. Two glass doors in the top of the screen slid open and three men entered. One was an old man with salt-and-pepper hair and goatee. He wore long, tan shorts, and sandals. No shirt. The other two looked to be in their late twenties and both well built. The leaner one had black hair that spiked forward, and a frown on his face. He wore black pants and boots, and a long-sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows. He half carried, half dragged a bigger, bulkier man over his shoulder. The bigger man had his head bowed and free arm dangling as he absently dragged one foot in front of the other. He wore black pants and a white tunic shirt. The small collection of people seated in the waiting room stared.

In the bottom left corner of the screen a lady wearing old-fashioned purple scrubs and sitting at the reception desk looked up. “Let me get you a gurney!” She bolted from her chair and headed for the wall behind.

The coherent young man said, “Just get him a wheelchair. He’s not dying.”

The receptionist paused, long ponytail swishing behind her, and walked off screen. She returned a moment later with a wheelchair. This piece of equipment was clunkier and squarer than its contemporary incarnation. The younger man roughly dumped Aerigo in it, and he heavily leaned to one side. The receptionist gawked at him and tried to push Aerigo upright. Her slight form looked half of Aerigo’s size. She pushed all her weight against him and got him upright. The younger man, eyes glowing red, reached over and put Aerigo’s limp arms in his lap, then set each foot on the foot pedals.

“Another Noma!” Skitt exclaimed. “Or is it? I’ve only seen their eyes glow yellow.”

“I don’t know,” Donai said. So far this video, intriguing as it was, wasn’t telling anything he needed to know. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what the heck happened to Aerigo so long ago. That and it was neat to see what the hospital looked like centuries before he was born. But if the clip went on too long, he’d skip this part and maybe come back to it later.

The receptionist fixed some loose strands of hair. “So how can we help this man today?”

The coherent men looked at each other, then the older one spoke. “We need to leave Aerigo in your care. He needs to be put under twenty four hour surveillance for a while.”

“We’ll admit him to our Psychology Ward if that’s what you need,” the receptionist said. The younger man winced and the older one nodded. The receptionist picked up a tablet from on her desk and handed it to the older man, who accepted it. The tablet was a clunkier version of what they used today. It was thicker and had squared off corners. “Is this his first time here?”

“Yep,” the younger one said tersely.

“How’d you hear of this world, Daio?” The older man said, examining the tablet’s screen.

“I get around the universe,” Daio said, sounding annoyed. “I’ve had to come here a few times.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. What does my son have you doing nowadays?”

Daio gave the old man a hard look. “What makes you think I’d tell you?”

The old man shrugged. “You’re helping Aerigo for once. You haven’t done that in a long time.”

“I have my reasons. That’s all you need to know.”

“Okay.” The old man looked back to the tablet and began tapping in information with his fingertips. “By the way, how did you hear about what happened to Aerigo on Druconica?”

Daio looked away and frowned, then distantly said, “Trust me, I heard.”

The old man looked at him with a raised eyebrow a moment, then shook his head and resumed tapping away. “Fine. And don’t forget: once Aerigo gets better, you’ll have to come back for him. Kismet is closed to me. I’ll forget it exists once I leave.”

“Yeah, yeah. Baku, are you sure you can’t just magic him better or something? This is humiliating to see him here, in this condition.”

Baku shook his head. “Aerigo needs to recover at his own pace. There’s nothing I can do for him.”

“But he’s an Aigis! The rules are different for us.”

“Nothing I can do will be as permanent or thorough a fix as time and his own coping skills.”

Daio stared at Aerigo a long moment. The glow faded from his eyes and his tone softened. “What the hell happened to him?”

“I thought you heard.”

“All I heard is what happened to the Balvadiers and Durians. When I came to investigate, I didn’t expect him to be like this.”