Originally published in Planet Magazine No. 17 (March 1998).
Part One: The Museum of Horrors
The Initiate
Grand Master Fulbak bon Jaldwin stood at the exact center of the mother Temple on Terranova. The dais on which he stood rotated slowly so that none of his circular audience would be favored. His unamplified voice reverberated in a calculated, complex acoustic pattern about the room as he spoke the ritual words.
“Does anyone present hold that any of these men and women should not be admitted to the Order of Poor Fellows of the Temple of Solomon? … If so, speak their names, now.”
But silence reigned in the Centrum, the rotunda sancta sanctora of Temple Jerusalem. All movement of those present had ceased after the question was asked…. Lighted only by candles, as of yore, the domed Centrum resembled a planetarium without stars. Against an inverted bowl of marble were cast, instead, the shadows of the Priors, Knights, Esquires, and Brothers who stood on concrete steps, ranked from the outer wall to the initiation circle. Some of those of the higher ranks had traveled here from their outworld temples. The ceremony was an annual one-ring circus without horses, trapeze, or clowns.
“The initiates will step forth and kiss the cross, which symbolizes our history and traditions — and Baphomet, who symbolizes the wisdom we have acquired from foreign lands and far worlds.”
Fergus Sinclair was the last in the long line of initiates to step forward, but he soon-enough kissed the engraved golden cross and the jeweled skull. Of whom the latter was the remains, he had not been told. He was curious, but he knew his place in the Order; he would be told what he had to know. More than that would come as a gift of his own quiet resourcefulness…. He moved back into the line of initiates.
The Grand Master outthrust his arms. The ample sleeves of his symbol-patterned white robe slid to his bony elbows. The master of masters looked like an ancient alchemist about to announce the successful transmutation of base metals into gold. He lacked only a conical hat to impersonate Merlin, the fabled court sorcerer of Camelot.
“Welcome to the Order, novice Brothers and Sisters Templar.”
These were the words Fergus had been waiting years to hear — for most of his youth, plus three hard years of study in the Templar Academy. He was now a full-fledged Templar, if not yet a Knight.
“Go forth and perform only good works. Gather unto yourselves and to your Temple the acclaim of humble accomplishment. Never put aside the wisdom of the ages for transitory popular belief. Support your Brothers and Sisters. And, above all, protect those who have sought our protection.”
The Grand Master pressed his palms together and bowed respectfully as the new Brothers and Sisters turned and strode from the Centrum, two abreast. This was the only time they would be the first allowed to leave a room of ranked Templars.
The Apprentice
Fergus’s memory of the lofty atmosphere of the Centrum’s initiation ceremony and the following formal banquet in the Refectory were somewhat deflated the next day when he was summoned to the office of the Precentor to be assigned to an Esquire for his apprenticeship. Sitting in one of the two chairs before the Precentor’s desk was a man he had heard gossiped about. Fergus felt a keen disappointment.
“Brother Fergus, this is your journeyman, Esquire Yosi Minaker.”
The Esquire remained seated, but offered his hand to Fergus. “Glad to meetcha, kid. Welcome aboard. You’re on the first team, now.”
This pompous greeting brought about an expression of disapproval on the Precentor’s aged, lined face. Fergus maintained his accustomed appearance of apprentice enthusiasm, and kept his own remarks to a minimum.
“Thank you, sir. It’s a pleasure to serve with you.”
“Esquire Yosi will explain the nature of your assignment, Brother. Go forth and learn from him the craft of your duty. I wish you a safe journey and good luck.”
* * *
Yosi Minaker was an overage Esquire. He felt he would never gain a promotion to Knight, and he had ceased caring. His record in the field was well-known among the members of the Order; it wasn’t exactly exemplary. Minaker was smart, shrewd — but self-centered. His record of early accomplishments had quickly changed to a pattern of survival skills which kept him on the margin of good odor with his bosses.
Minaker was a large man, who smoked cigars when he could get away with it. He seemed perpetually rumpled, even in his formal uniform: a plain, dark-gray suit of heavy military fabric, which consisted of trousers and a jacket with a choke-collar. Even his rank-marking Templar breast pin — a white shield with a large red cross below his Esquire’s symbol — seemed to be pinned off-center, almost as if he were showing disdain for the Order to which he belonged.
His homely, oft-scowling face made him seem more like a suspicious policeman than a private security consultant. It often intimidated those clients who had contracted for Templar services, and gave them a false assurance that Minaker’s recommendations for security upgrade would make them and their property safe.
Most apprentice-Brothers griped about their experiences with Yosi Minaker. But even those gained from their apprenticeship, and became skilled in their work. They often received promotion quickly to and beyond the rank of their journeyman instructor, who was never able to sacrifice opportunism and self-aggrandizement to the general good of the Order.
Fergus had heard his journeyman’s attitude characterized as “don’t-give-a-damn,” but he decided to keep an open mind during his own apprenticeship because he’d been told by a wise older Brother that much of Minaker’s outward attitude was a put-on by a disappointed man seeking a persona appropriate to his years of experience and lack of knighthood.
* * *
Fergus and Minaker sat on a stone bench in the lovely Garden of Contemplation, which surrounded the golden-domed Centrum and separated it from the rest of Temple Jerusalem’s foursquare mass. Only a few late-summer flowers lingered on under the cloudy sky and cool air, Fergus awaited the facts of his new situation from the man who was now in charge of him.
Minaker took a used cigar from his jacket pocket. It was rolled up in a sheet of paper that looked to Fergus like an official memorandum of some kind. (“How typical,”) he thought. Minaker stuffed the paper back into his pocket and lit the cigar with a butane lighter.
Flourishing the lighter, he remarked enigmatically to Fergus, “Also good for setting fires, if you have to.” He puffed and blew a big, blue smoke-ring which was noticed with distaste by an elderly Knight sitting on a nearby bench.
“Okay. We’re being sent to Tristia. Whadda ya know about it, kid?”
“Well …” Fergus tried to recall his galactography. There were so many inhabited worlds that most could carry knowledge of only a few. “Uh…” He couldn’t remember anything about the planet. “I can look it up; I got good marks in Information Retrieval at the Academy.” He smiled wanly at the hulking journeyman, who made a wry gesture with his mouth.
“Yeah, sure … How did you get into this chicken outfit, anyway?”
The question seemed irrelevant to Fergus, but he spoke frankly of his personal history.
“I had an advantage, I guess. My ancient terran ancestors assisted the Templars who escaped from the French persecution to Scotland in the fourteenth century. The St. Clairs were liege to Robert the Bruce. The King of the Scots had been excommunicated by the Pope, so he was able to use the Templar Knights in his war with the English, even though Rome had dissolved and banned the Order …”
“I know the history…. So you got into the Order by favoritism. Is that about the size of it?”
“Well, not exactly, but I guess my ancestry didn’t hurt my chances.”
Minaker grunted. His ancestry hadn’t helped him into the Order. He had come to the attention of the Templars by virtue of his academic record in the study of criminology, and for his thesis, “Building Security: Monitoring Utility Connections and Sewers”…. He returned to the subject of their assignment.
“Tristia is the personal property of the Autarch Kameroni. He changed the aboriginal name of the planet after he took it over and his wife died there of some local disease…. Ever heard of him?”
“Oh yeah. He’s a …” Fergus paused to chose his words.
“He’s a cruel tyrant and a bloody butcher of the first rank. He’s hated by both the aboriginals and colonials of his benighted world. I’d say his chances of living to old age and dying of natural causes are almost nil,” opined Minaker.
“I see,” remarked Fergus. “Quite a challenge for us, then.”
Minaker snorted and took another puff on his smelly cigar. He blasted the smoke into the chill air, without artistry.
“That’s why the Precentor assigned his contract to us.”
Fergus knew that Minaker really meant, “to me.” But Minaker was quite willing to share the predicament of this unfavorable assignment equally with his apprentice.
“So pray that old Kameroni doesn’t get assassinated ’til we write our report and get the hell out of there.”
Arrival and Departure
Esquire Yosi and Brother Fergus trudged across the concrete of the spaceport from the jumpliner “Excelsioris” to the passenger terminal, as their luggage, previously unloaded, was being probed and sniffed by the Autarch’s customs men and security techs…. They were the only passengers to leave the ship for this infamous world, and the “Excelsioris” was being turned around for rejump as quickly as her Captain could prod the ground crew.
The spaceport was located near the capital city of Inoremak in the north temperate zone of Tristia. The planet’s GO-class sun benignly warmed the morning air as it blushed spectrally through the greater thickness at the horizon.
“I’m surprised. I expected this world to be a dark, gloomy place — like something out of a horror video. It’s as nice here as the best parts of Terranova. This assignment may not be so bad after all.”
Ignoring his apprentice’s sanguine remarks, Minaker grumbled, “Did you notice how they didn’t extend a passenger tube to the jumpliner? How they’re making us walk to the terminal? … Kameroni’s sec-thugs don’t trust anyone. They’re watching us as we walk, and they’re probing our luggage now, before we can get there.”
“That’s diplomatic, in a way,” remarked Fergus. “I guess there are precedents for the Autarch’s mistrust of strangers — don’t you think? Offworld assassins hired by locals to kill him?”
“Probably … And we shouldn’t trust that damned tyrant, either.”
Fergus had learned, by now, that Esquire Yosi was short on trust and long on suspicion.
* * *
The Tristian customs men were, nonetheless, quite accommodating to the new visitors. They ignored Minaker’s purposely lighted cigar, despite the many posted NO SMOKING signs. They politely invited the Templars into a VIP lounge for the formality of document clearance.
“I’ll take care of the red tape, kid. You stay here and check the luggage.” Their bags and equipment boxes had been loaded onto an electrocart. A redcap driver awaited the order to move them to the sleek, armored groundcar that was standing by to transport them along the forest-girt guideway away from the capital to Castle Kameroni.
Fergus, glad to be free of documentary matters, began checking their luggage against a list he kept in his personal pocketcomp. He looked at the electrocart’s built-in scale to see if the total weight was less than it should be…. The redcap driver took careful notice of the visitor’s inspection. He would report it to the terminal’s security chief, and this report would rapidly work its way up the line to the Autarch, who would be impressed with his new consultants’ personal security-consciousness.
“Well, well … a Knight Templar — as I live and breathe.”
Fergus turned to find himself facing someone he’d been briefed about — briefly — Crown Prince Mollis. He was a foppish dandy, standing before his hefty bodyguards in an embroidered Nehru jacket and gold-striped trousers. A large medallion depicting a horned, flame-shrouded diablo dangled from his neck. He thus sought to be viewed as devilish and nonconformist.
“I presume so by your shoulder patch: the white of purity and the red of blood.” The soft voice contained a note of cynicism, as if its owner were unconsciously declaring himself to be free of any such subservience as that to an order of functionaries.
“Your Highness.” Fergus bowed. “I’m Brother Fergus Sinclair. Esquire Yosi Minaker is in document clearance. We’re here in the service of His Majesty, the Autarch.”
“Is there anything to those rumors about you Templar fellows…. You know: that medallion depicting two men on one horse.”
“In ancient times, perhaps, Your Highness. Now, we have a commercial image to maintain.” He smiled at the dandy. Mollis closed his eyelids and waved his hands in the air in a gesture of mute acceptance.
Fergus added, “The two-men-on-a-horse symbol has often been misinterpreted, Your Highness. It was about comradeship on the field of battle. Rescuing a fallen brother. That sort of thing.”
Prince Mollis shrugged, “Oh. Too bad,” then changed the subject to something closer to his heart. “So you’re here to keep my father on his throne for a bit longer — to protect him from his many enemies? … A most unenviable assignment, I judge.”
“We’ve been contracted to inspect the security at Castle Kameroni and present a report of our recommendations. We won’t take an active role in the Autarch’s personal security, though.”
Mollis considered this with half-lidded eyes, as if he really couldn’t care about his father’s security.
“Well then, help to keep him alive until I graduate from the ghastly Terranovan school he’s sending me to.” He sniffed and waved a many-ringed hand airily. “It’s supposed to make a man of me…. How droll. Pater is so foolishly idealistic in some ways. But he’s not trying to turn my sister into a lady…. Bah!”
Fergus kept his face a mask of serious purpose while listening to the Crown Prince. When the young man stopped his tirade, Fergus shook his head affirmatively, in lieu of comment.
Mollis glanced at the loaded luggage cart. “You have almost as many bags as I have,” he stated. He returned his gaze to Fergus, who seemed to be about the same age as he.
“Well then, good luck in your mission-impossible, Brother Templar,” he said, and turned toward a passenger tube, now extended to the jumpliner “Excelsioris,” which was being held for the Crown Prince’s unceremonious departure. “Ta-ta.”
As Fergus watched the Crown Prince depart, Yosi Minaker appeared at his side. His comment on the scene was unexpected, but prophetic.
“Sonny Boy should hang around for awhile. I have a feeling that his daddy might get offed while we’re here.”
Fergus reacted to his journeyman’s pessimism with shock.
“Oh, yeah… It won’t be the first time that’s happened to me,” Minaker growled. “I point out unnoticed security failures, and then — before they get corrected — one of those failures proves a handy means for somebody to do his dirty work. Our clients rarely keep our recommendations secret, like they should.”
Brother Fergus felt a lump in his throat. “They didn’t mention this at the Academy,” he declared, lamely. He didn’t want such a failure as the assassination of a client during his first assignment.
“There’re a lot of things you don’t learn in the Academy, kid.”
The Redoubt
The groundcar rounded a curve in the guideway, and the forest that had contained them for kilometers from the spaceport fell away to reveal a vast, sunlit meadow. In its center was a hill that seemed too broad and flat to be natural.
On it was Castle Kameroni…. “Wow,” exclaimed Fergus.
Even Minaker was impressed. “Looks like it was transplanted intact from your ancestors’ cold and drizzly land. It’s a classic, I’ll admit, but a dumb idea…. I wonder how many slaves died piling up that custom-built hill it’s on?”
With its crenelated turrets, battlements, and embrasures, Castle Kameroni was, indeed, a terran classic — an ivy-splotched pile of stone, which every Templar who had learned his Order’s history could appreciate.
“I’m gonna have to gig ’em for that ivy, though. Look. In some places, a dwarf-ninja could use it to climb right up to the crest of the damn wall.”
The winding road up the hill circled the castle three times before it reached the drawbridge over the moat. Fergus searched his memory for some significance, but could find none. (“Superstition, perhaps.”)
As the groundcar sat waiting for the wooden bridge to be lowered, the loudspeaker of the driver’s radio crackled, “Who goes there?”
As the man answered the challenge, Minaker commented, “Ancient. Too ancient…. I have a feeling we’ll have lots of sec-upgrade to recommend here.”
“That challenge was probably just ceremonial,” said Fergus.
“In the security business, ceremony is crap,” sneered Esquire Yosi.
* * *
The groundcar moved across the drawbridge, under the raised portcullis, through the outer yard, and into the interior bailey of the castle — where it was surrounded by armed, uniformed dogmen.
“Watch it, kid. You’re staring.”
“I can’t help it. I’ve heard about them, but I’ve never met a human-animal genetic mix.”
“Way out here in the rimworlds, you’ll see a lot of things that’re frowned on by the moralists and know-it-alls on Terranova.”
The door to the groundcar’s passenger compartment was opened, and a bulldog-faced man stuck his head inside. From the splendor of his uniform, the Templars guessed he must be the Captain of the Guard. His fourragere had a silver ultrasonic whistle at its tip.
“Welcome to Castle Kameroni, noble knights. I’m Capt. Caneena. I’ll escort you to your quarters. The Autarch will meet you at supper, tonight…. Are you armed?” Like a bulldog, his lower fangs showed, even when his mouth was closed.
“No, Captain. We’re unarmed,” said Minaker. (“You know we wouldn’t come in here armed, Cap’n Dogface…. More damn ceremony.”)
As the Templars were led into the castle’s keep by Caneena, Fergus looked meaningfully at his journeyman. Esquire Yosi knew what his apprentice wanted to say.
He held up his hand in an unmistakable gesture. “Never mind, kid,” he whispered. “He doesn’t need to know we haven’t been knighted yet.”
With his keen hearing, the Captain heard every word. He made a mental note to check the background report on these Templars for their actual titles…. Even in his earliest days as a pupman in the kennels, he’d learned the importance of rank and position.
At the Table of the Autarch
“Have some more venison, son. There’s no shortage; my forests are overrun with imported terranovan roe deer…. Try some of those candied yams, too. They’re a delicacy out here in the rimworlds.”
Autarch Kameroni had apparently eaten many a course set before him. He was quite overweight, from a security point of view. But he was not a helpless flabbo. Despite his age and poundage, he was still capable of taking swift personal action against his enemies — and some of those who mistakenly believed themselves to be his friends.
The bearded baron of Castle Kameroni seemed a Falstaffian figure only to those who hadn’t yet felt the lash of his anger. He was dressed in a loose black robe that lacked the cowl that would have made him resemble the abbot of a monastery. He even had a large ring to be kissed by his liege lords. (Minaker guessed it probably contained poison for the kind of extreme emergency he had never faced.) The Autarch Kameroni was nothing like a monk, though. His appetites for what life had to offer were legendary, as was the gossip about how he satisfied them.
Fergus couldn’t eat any more of the rich food on the trencherman’s banquet table in the commonroom of the castle keep below the hanging banners of the planet’s noble houses, but he took some more meat and potatoes, anyway. Minaker didn’t need any urging to partake of the Autarch’s larder. Templars weren’t fed like this in their regional temple refectories, where discipline and self-control were expected.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Fergus. He decided to divert the Autarch’s culinary benevolence with a new table subject. “I was graciously greeted today at the spaceport terminal by Crown Prince Mollis before he left for school.”
The Autarch rolled his eyes heavenward. “I hope he didn’t give you his idiot interpretation of our security here. He’s never had to lift a finger in the defense of his family…. He probably won’t crack a bookchip at that fancy school, either…. It’s so disappointing to have a son turn out bad. I hope you’ll have better luck with your children than I did.”
“Thank you father!” A brittle voice rang out from the second-floor loggia which surrounded the commonroom. “Your confidence is so touching!”
Fergus and Minaker stared upward at the young woman in black leather who leaned over the railing. Her pretty face was contrasted by her unfashionably short blonde hair and the long dagger at her waist. Although it was pleasantly warm, she wore black action-gloves, the kind favored by sportswomen and combatants. The blood-red ruby pin at her neck seemed the one out-of-place touch of feminine decoration in an otherwise dark and ominous configuration.
“This is my daughter, the Princess Enola. I invited her to our table, but she disrespectfully declined,” grumbled the Autarch.
“I was busy…. Welcome to our house, Templars. I feel safer now,” she snarled sweetly, as she turned and strode from their sight.
“Enola lacks the social graces of her sainted mother, but I’ll say this for her: she can handle herself in a tricky situation almost as well as I can,” double-boasted the Autarch.
(“I’ll bet she can,”) thought Minaker. (“I’d like to see how she handles herself in a clinch with me. Maybe …”) The Esquire began planning a sexual conquest — far-fetched though this might seem at first consideration.
“She’s quite attractive, sir,” remarked Fergus, diplomatically.
“Yes, quite attractive,” added Minaker, hastily. (“But not as ‘pretty’ as that brother of hers…. Yech.”)
* * *
“I think we’ve got good security here, Esquire Yosi. It’s the result of many years of experience…. Of course, I’m receptive to any improvements you may suggest.”
The feast had reached the brandy-and-cigars stage. Fergus had politely declined to light up, but Minaker and the Autarch were engaged in a puffing contest that enveloped the area around the table in a blue haze. Refilled brandy snifters had added to the negative situation of the Templars. They were in no condition, right then, to contribute much to the improved security of Castle Kameroni. This was obvious to its sly master, whose wolfish smile betokened a forthcoming ploy he’d used before on other visitors.
“I’d like to show you gentlemen what I’ve already accomplished in my many years of security consciousness…. Would you like to visit my museum?”
The Templars stared at each other through the haze. (“He’s up to something,”) both suspected — something they dared not reject for fear of offending their client.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” replied Minaker. “We would.”
The Autarch leaped to his feet, thrusting his chair backward noisily. The harsh scraping sound against the stone floor echoed throughout the huge room and jarred the stuffed, logy visitors to attention.
“Come along, then.”
Unforgettable Exhibits
The Templars followed in the wake of the Autarch down a gray granite corridor lined with exhibits of body armor, from the elaborate suits of ancient times to the sleek partial-polyarmor of the present. The corridor was straight and, in the visitors’ opinion, too long and narrow.
“When I built the museum, I connected it to the keep by this corridor. With these armor displays added, it’s become an exhibit-hall annex.”
The Templars kept their opinions to themselves as they hastened somewhat unsteadily after their client. They would have to deal with this place in their final report. No guards were stationed here, and apparently there were no intrusion sensors. It was a natural trap.
Finally, they passed through the arched entrance to the museum…. Before them lay a modern complex of plastiglass exhibit cases above a terrazzo floor. Spotlights artfully illuminated the exhibits within the darkened hall.
The Templars were stopped in their tracks by the first exhibit, free-standing and centered just beyond the entrance.
It was a plastiglass man-container, shaped to fit its occupant. On the side, electrodes were mounted. At the bottom were a tube and valve. These were connected to an apparatus with controls and dials on top and casters below, like some garage’s automotive diagnostic machine.
In the container was a mummy. Its mouth was frozen open in a scream.
The Autarch detected their cessation and turned back to begin his lecture-tour with the prime exhibit which had captivated his visitors — as he knew it would. It always did.
“Not bad, eh? I waited years to capture that fellow, a famous rebel leader…. I’ve forgotten his name — some colonial who didn’t know his place.”
Minaker’s screwed-up expression told his reaction, before he quickly changed it to a wan smile. “It’s quite a … unique … exhibit, Your Majesty…. What do you think, Brother?” he inquired mischievously.
“Yes. Quite unique, sir,” echoed Brother Fergus as he stared in horror at the container and its contents.
The Autarch began pointing out the exhibit’s details. “Minnigerode— that was his name.” He chuckled. “On Terranova that’s some kind of pudding, I understand…. Well, I made a pudding out of him, I’ll tell you. I connected his extremities to the neural generator. Then I sat down and jumped the current around on his body at random. The fellow went mad guessing what would hurt next.
“But, of course, all good things must come to an end. So I activated all the electrodes to a more-or-less tolerable level, and while he screamed, I slowly pumped the air from his container — his coffin.
“He’s remarkably preserved, don’t you think? … It must be the high vacuum he ended up in.”
“Remarkable,” mumbled Minaker, who removed his cigar to gape at the erstwhile rebel in the container. “Excellent preservation, sir,” seconded Fergus, who suddenly wanted to return to his guest room.
“Right. Now, come this way.” He turned and proceeded farther into the museum. “Down this aisle is my historical exhibit of torture devices. Some of them are millennia-old — but still useful. There’s really no such thing as an obsolete method for extracting information, you know.”
The Templars hesitated…. The Autarch turned to face them.
“Or would you prefer to see the exhibit of body parts taken from my enemies? I’ve used some rather innovative preservation techniques for them, too.”
Minaker was temporarily speechless. It was Fergus who replied to the Autarch’s invitation in a respectful and hopeful manner.
“Uh… Do you have any stuffed animals, or anything like that?”
“No animals, but I’ve got some stuffed traitors…. Follow me.”
As the Templars reluctantly followed their guide, Minaker recovered his poise long enough to inform his younger colleague, sotto voce, “He’s testing us. He wants to see how tough we are.”
“You don’t say?” replied Fergus, grimly.
Part Two: The Corridor of Death
Security Evaluations
“I don’t feel so good, Esquire. All that food and drink at the Autarch’s table—and then, that museum of prideful horrors.”
The Templars were moving down a hallway on the second floor of the castle keep. They were escorted by one of Capt. Caneena’s dogmen, who never once relaxed his watchful gaze, as if he expected the visitors might attempt to steal one of the many heirlooms on display.
“Bear up, kid. It could get worse.”
Fergus mumbled, “I don’t see how.”
As they moved down the hall, they took notes by speaking them into microphone masks that carried their remarks to belt-mounted portacomps which transcribed them into report-ready language. The guard-escort strained to hear their remarks, but the masks were designed to frustrate such eavesdropping.
As they approached the ornamental wooden door to a bedroom suite, it opened, and Princess Enola leaned against the doorframe in a languid pose, staring at the approaching men. She had a twisted smile and spoke in a voice which dripped with sensuality.
“You two look like a couple of asthmatics holding those things on your faces.” Without waiting for a response from the Templars, she said, “I need improved security in my rooms. How about checking me out?” The significance of her request did not escape them.
Minaker removed his mikemask and quickly ordered his apprentice, “I’ll handle this, kid. Why don’t you work on the museum and the corridor? We can finish this floor, later.”
Fergus amiably accepted his journeyman’s opportunism. It verified some of the anecdotes he’d heard about him back at Temple Jerusalem.
“The museum?… Okay, I’ll give it another check.”
“Good. See ya later.” Enola stepped back to admit the Esquire to her chambers. As she closed the door, she winked at Fergus.
(“Not me, babe… I’ll leave your `security’ to Yosi the Great.”)
“Take me to the museum,” he ordered the guard. The dogman displayed the sharp teeth in his long muzzle in a half-human smirk. “As you wish, sir,” he replied, while guessing otherwise of the Templar.
* * *
“The Autarch expects to fill this floor with exhibits like those upstairs. But now, it’s just used for storage.”
Fergus and the dogman stood in the unfinished basement of the museum. Some boxes were stacked in a corner of the big underroom, but it was otherwise unused. The gray concrete walls were damp in places where ground water had permeated them…. Fergus spoke into his mikemask.
“Okay. Let’s go back upstairs.”
As they passed the museum’s exhibits, Fergus stared studiously ahead, trying not to look at the Autarch’s horrific collection arrayed neatly in the cases. His escort continued to show his teeth at the visitor’s obvious repugnance.
In the armor-lined corridor, he stopped to check one of the ancient suits. He tested the suit by pulling it toward him; it was securely mounted. Then, he lifted the helmet visor. Its hinges were lubricated, and the visor moved quietly. He stood on tiptoes and stuck his hand down into the suit. The guard frowned.
As Fergus was feeling around the interior of the suit, he heard the guard snap to attention by clicking his boot-heels.
“You can try it on, if you like, Brother Fergus.” The deep voice of the Autarch Kameroni boomed out in the narrow hallway.
Fergus pulled out his hand and dusted it off with his other, somewhat ostentatiously, as he faced the castle’s master.
“Good morning, Your Majesty.” He gave a little bow to cover his embarrassment.
“Let me guess: you’re going to recommend that I weld that visor shut.”
Fergus hesitated. “Well, sir…” He stepped down from the suit’s mounting and moved closer to the Autarch. The dogman moved closer to him.
“Yes…? Give me your honest recommendation, Brother Templar.”
“I’m concerned that someone could put an explosive charge in one of these steel suits, sir. Such an explosion would be devastating to anyone passing by…. I recommend that the armor display items be checked frequently with sonic probes to make sure they’re empty.”
“Your `someone’ would have to get in here, first. The walls are one meter of solid granite blocks—and, as you can see, there are no windows here or in the museum.”
“Yes sir, that’s true…. But, according to the blueprints I saw, the foundation walls of the museum are only a few centimeters of ordinary ferroconcrete, being of a modern load-bearing design. They could be breached fairly easily with a diamond electrodrill.”
The Autarch scowled. “From where? The museum is in the outer yard. Capt. Caneena’s men patrol there constantly, and their hearing is very acute—right, Sergeant?” He glanced at the escorting guard.
“Yes, Sire. Quite acute.” he replied.
“That’s good, Your Majesty. But we Templars prefer to view security situations from a worst-case viewpoint…. I’d feel a lot better if geophones were installed in the museum’s basement walls to detect underground tampering, outside.”
“Geophones?…” said Kameroni, shaking his head. “Well, I guess I’m paying for the best security evaluation available, and that’s what I’m going to get…. Put that in your report and I’ll consider it.”
Fergus was relieved. After viewing the museum’s horrors, he preferred to deal with the tyrant of Tristia as if he were walking on eggs. He was surprised at the man’s apparent acceptance of what he must have felt was an unnecessary recommendation.
“Thank you, sir.”
The Autarch nodded. “By the way, where is Esquire Yosi?”
A little frisson of fear raced through Fergus’ nervous system. He feared the consequences of lying to his client, but he also feared for his journeyman’s safety. He chose his words carefully.
“Uh… he was invited to check the security of Princess Enola’s quarters, sir.”
A smile formed on Autarch Kameroni’s lips. “I understand,” he said. Then, he turned and walked slowly back up the corridor toward the keep. “If you need me, I’ll be in my office.”
Perception and Reality
Early next day, Fergus was standing by a window in his guestroom when Minaker entered without knocking.
“Man, you won’t believe the great time I had!”
“You stayed the rest of yesterday and all night, evaluating the Royal Princess’ situation.” He stared at Minaker disapprovingly.
“That girl has her own harem…. Yes, a harem of women beholden to her whims, and—believe me—she has some bizarre whims. She and her gals really wore me out,” he boasted. “She isn’t exactly what we thought she was.”
“I hope you had a good time, Esquire Yosi. Yesterday, the Autarch found me in the corridor to the museum and wanted to know where you were. I had to tell him…. He ran right off to the museum. Said he had to `get an ancient device out of its case.'”
“What?!” The remark transformed Minaker’s face.
“Just kidding…. Don’t worry. He said he understood…. He didn’t seem to care that you were probably bonking his daughter.”
Minaker relaxed. “Well, I guess he isn’t worried I’ll propose to Ms. Enola,” he remarked, dryly. “But just to make sure, I’ll finish the second floor by myself this afternoon to make it seem I belong there. You go over the museum again.” He left the room to hasten downstairs.
(“Oh, great. Another day in the chamber of horrors,”) thought Fergus quietly, assuming his room was bugged.
* * *
The next morning, Fergus again stood at his window while he awaited the arrival of Minaker.
From his top-floor guestroom, he had a sweeping view of the inner yard of the castle. He could see the museum and its connecting corridor. Nearby were some of the other outbuildings: the standby powerhouse, the stables, the greenhouse.
The large plastiglass-roofed greenhouse was closest to the museum. Adjoing it, was a walled garden for nursery plants. Soil was piled up against the garden walls…. Fergus moved his gaze to the stables for few seconds…. Suddenly, he shifted it back to the garden.
“Soil.” He mused, aloud. “A lot of new soil piled up, recently.” He stared at the yellowish earth—then, realized what he was seeing.
“Subsoil,” he said. “Damn! It’s subsoil!”
He ran from the room into the hallway and yelled at the guard outside. “Take me to the Autarch’s office, please. It’s important.”
He completely forgot to consult Esquire Yosi on the matter.
* * *
“Subsoil?… What does that mean?”
The Autarch pushed back from his data-terminal in his highback chair and stared at the young Templar who stood before the ornate mahogany desk. Morning sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the ground-floor office illuminated the scene. Through one of the tall windows, Fergus could see the greenhouse and its garden wall.
He couldn’t believe Kameroni was so dense.
“Sir, it means someone’s been digging deep into the ground. The nursery garden, itself, is all dark topsoil…. Do you know of any recent deep excavation on the castle grounds?”
The tyrant rubbed his bearded chin. “No… But I did ask my resident engineer about tunneling into the museum basement, and he said that was quite unlikely. Besides, all the workers in the castle have been investigated and pronounced trustworthy.”
(“The `trustworthy’ people are the ones you have to watch, man.”)
“Your Majesty. If someone is digging a tunnel from the greenhouse to the museum, they can just pile the soil in the walled nursery garden. It’s the perfect place. The greenhouse is less than twenty meters from the museum. They could start the tunnel from there.”
“What does Esquire Yosi think about your theory?”
“Uh… I haven’t discussed it with him, yet. He’s still working on the second floor.”
“I’ll bet he is,” commented the Autarch. He hesitated, as if he felt too uncertain to take action on Fergus’ information.
“I tell you what: I’ll have Capt. Caneena search the greenhouse for any signs of a tunnel. As I recall, it does have a basement of some kind.” He tapped a key on his data-terminal. Caneena appeared on the screen, and received his orders. The Captain immediately left his station to investigate, though without much enthusiasm. He viewed the Templars as hired intruders.
“Now, do you feel better, Brother Fergus?” Kameroni’s smile showed he wasn’t reconciled to the Templar’s sudden bright idea.
“Yes, sir… But I should point out that, if there is a conspiracy to tunnel into the museum basement, and the conspirators hear about my discovery of their soil heaps, they might rush things.”
“We’ll have to take that chance, won’t we?” Then, the Autarch began to regale Brother Fergus with irrelevant anecdotes of his escapes from assassination, most of which had occurred years ago, and none of which had happened here in his castle.
CRASH!!
A window broke in a shower of genuine, jagged glass, as three men smashed their way through it with pick, hoe, and pruning shears. They quickly gained entry and stood, seeking their bearings…. Their deadly-serious intent was not at all theoretical.
Fergus rushed around the desk to stand between the assassins and their target, who remained seated. The Templar held out his arms, as if to shield his Order’s client. He did this without considering his own safety because it seemed the right thing to do.
The men advanced toward the Autarch and his youthful protector. They didn’t get far.
The Autarch tapped keys on his terminal—Fergus heard the clicking, and for a moment he thought it an odd action, given the perilous circumstances…. He was wrong. It was the only thing to do.
From a ring of concealed jets in the floor, a mixture of smoke and teargas gushed into the room, screening the Autarch from view and painfully closing the eyes of the assassins, who reached the desk just in time to feel the full force of the hissing gas.
The noxious cloud of protective aerosol enveloped Brother Fergus, too. He pawed at his eyes and fell to the floor, helpless to do anything but grovel and moan with pain.
As Fergus and the assassins writhed, the Autarch Kameroni escaped clean away when a pneumatic ram swiftly lowered his chair into a basement well, then closed the opening with a gasketed plate.
Before he lost consciousness, Fergus’ last thought was one of annoyance that Esquire Yosi Minaker wasn’t there to share his “security” experience.
Hero and Prophet
“I present to Brother Templar Fergus Sinclair the Medal of Merit, Tristia’s highest civilian award, for his courageous attempt to forestall an attack upon my person.” The Autarch pinned the golden medal to Fergus’ hospital gown. “Your action was in the finest traditions of the Order of Knights Templar.”
“I’m honored, Your Majesty,” said Fergus through the bandages which skillfully covered his face, neck, and hands. He was in the process of recovering his sight and healing his burns after the gas attack on the assassins which he had found himself in the middle of.
“And Esquire Yosi has something to tell you.” He stepped back from Fergus’ bed in the castle infirmary and motioned the journeyman to approach.
“Brother, it’s my pleasure to inform you that you’ve been promoted to the rank of Esquire Templar for your meritorious service on behalf of our distinguished client, the Autarch Kameroni. This notice was personally promulgated by Grand Master bon Jaldwin.”
Esquire Yosi’s flat intonation was the most enthusiastic he could muster to inform the younger Templar of his swift promotion to the same rank he himself had held for many years.
“Thanks, Yosi.”
The Autarch’s presentation was not yet complete.
“My surgeon assures me you’ll be as good as new in a couple of weeks, Esquire Fergus…. Now, in the matter of the tunnel you projected: you were correct in every respect. My Head Gardner, Ennis Hortu, was the leader of the conspiracy. He and his assistants formed an assassination team and dug the tunnel. Your discovery of those piles of subsoil caused them to have to act, prematurely.”
“Good work, kid,” remarked Minaker, begrudgingly.
“In fact, I’m going now to my museum to install a new exhibit. I’m replacing old Minnigerode in his container with Hortu. You’ll have to come around and see it, later. He’ll be holding his hoe in one hand. It should make a most dramatic display…. Of course, I’ll have to process him, first. I’m sorry you can’t attend the installation, but I want you to get well.” He paused and looked around at Minaker.
“Join me, Esquire Yosi. Then, you can describe the ceremony to your colleague.”
Minaker looked as if *he* had been hit with a hoe. “Well, uh…”
“Just a thought,” amended the Autarch. “You don’t have to. I’m sure my daughter hasn’t quite finished with you, yet.”
“Well, sir, I do have another message to give our hero from Grand Master bon Jaldwin. It’s rather detailed.” Minaker’s lie was apparent to all present in the white-painted recovery room. But the Autarch chose to let it pass. It was also apparent to him that not all Templars were made of the same heroic material.
“Very well. I’ll see you, later.” He moved toward the doorway, but stopped and turned. “We’ll have another banquet before you leave for Terranova.” Then, he was gone.
“Nice footwork, Yosi,” said Fergus through his bandages.
“Damn right, kid. I couldn’t see myself witnessing one of the old boy’s museum `installations.’ Not even on an empty stomach. But he was right about Enola. She does want me back in her quarters.” Yosi’s boasting went unappreciated by his injured apprentice. “Besides, I have to write up our security evaluation.”
Fergus fingered his new medal with his bandage-mittened hands.
“Don’t worry about me. Unlike Minnigerode, I only hurt when I laugh.”
Self-Fulfilling Prophecy
Head Gardner Hortu awaited his installation in the museum. He knew he would soon be Exhibit No. 1, but he had the satisfaction of also knowing that his team of assassins weren’t the only persons in Castle Kameroni plotting the death of its master. He hadn’t been told who the others were, but he’d been assured they were also active.
They were.
As Autarch Kameroni and Capt. Caneena sauntered down the corridor to the museum, a proximity device—newly-installed near one of the ancient suits of armor—detected them.
The device initiated a long cylinder of molded plastic explosive, which had been inserted into the superbly-fabricated steel suit through its helmet visor.
The blast wave of the explosion shattered the suit of armor into many fragments, and sent them many of them flying toward the two men at high velocity. The collision of these fragments with their bodies was reinforced a few milliseconds later by that portion of the wave which was reflected from the thick granite wall.
Thus, a long and bloody reign ended, appropriately, in much blood.
* * *
The remains of the former Autarch were gathered into a large stainless steel kitchen pot and temporarily stored in the walk-in refrigerator for later interment within a marble mausoleum in Inoremak—as was provided for in his will. In his honor, the name of the capital city was reversed, again, to `Kameroni.’
Capt. Caneena’s remains were fed to his men at a ceremonial dinner. This grisly practice, although customary among dogmen, was unknown to the moralists of Terranova—most of whom were even unaware that dogmen were real, and not merely a genetic possibility.
* * *
The explosion was heard by Brother Fergus, lying in his infirmary bed. He was overheard by the on-duty nurse to moan loudly, “Oh, no!” With his heavily-bandaged hand, he tore off his new medal and threw it to the floor.
It was heard by Esquire Yosi, Princess Enola, and the harem girls on the second floor of the keep…. Yosi immediately dressed, left the room, and completed his client-report—which recommended frequent sonic probing of the armor displays in the museum access corridor. He back-dated the report to the previous day before he transmitted copies to Kameroni’s office and to Temple Jerusalem on Terranova.
And, of course, it was heard—with satisfaction—by Head Gardner Hortu, awaiting installation in his plastiglass container. The air in the container had not yet been evacuated, so the the blast wave which surged into the museum and rocked his container came through to his ears, undiminished.
It was not heard by Crown Prince Mollis, who was waiting on a nearby planet for what he believed to be inevitable: that `Pater’s’ Templar security consultants would reveal to his enemies the means of killing him…. He was contacted by the surviving authorities on Tristia, and he began his return—quite pleased that he would not have to matriculate at a faraway school—but somewhat apprehensive at the stark realization that *he* was now the Autarch Kameroni.
As the ancient Knights Templar might have summarized this adventure:
SIC TRANSIT GLORIA MUNDI.
(Thus passes away the glory of a world.) *
Story copyright ©1998 by Frederick Rustam
Illustration copyright ©1998 by Romeo Esparrago
