The Catholic priest finally finished and stepped back just as Randall awoke. Jim looked up and smiled weakly at Wakinyan. “You wearing that long face for me, Rich?” he asked.
“No,” Wakinyan said as he looked down at the floor. “I’ve kind of broke my arm—and it’s a little painful.”
“Yeah, I bet it is,” Jim knew he was lying. “I was just talking to Paladin about you,” he continued.
“What did he say?” Wakinyan asked sadly, humoring the man while forcing out his words in hushed tones.
“He’s very proud of you!” Jim beamed. “He knew you would stop them!”
“It was his fleet that stopped them—not me!” Wakinyan thought of the many brave mariners and marines who gave their lives.
“That’s not what he thinks,” James was insistent. “He said you’ve done so well that he’s giving you another assignment.”
“Is he now,” Richard played along.
“It’s transporting something—or someone—and it’s really very important!” James was unsure of the cargo. “He also said, you knew the way.”
For a moment, Richard paused. “I always do,” he said as a tear leaked out from an eye.
James rational mind and memory then began to fade. “He’s having Boosy fly escort. That’s queer, I didn’t know our fighters could do that?”
Wakinyan bit his lip. “They’ve been modified,” Richard’s voice quivered. “Boosy can fly anywhere she wants to now!” his words breaking up at the end.
Winslow wiped away a few tears that unexpectedly rolled down his own cheeks.
James eyes slowly began to close. “Mr. Edwards wants to know the course, Captain,” his speech began to slur.
Wakinyan took a breath as more tears coated his face. “Tell him, Mars! We’re going back to Mars!”
“We’re going home?” James questioned happily.
“Yeah. We’re all going home!” Richard cried a little as spoke to his friend.
Tara covered her face with her hands and turned away. She began a quiet weeping that was irrepressible. The sacrifices made by Jim and Boosy that she saw earlier in the Mariner’s hanger bay still did not prepare her for this. Yet, their deaths like the others had to be if this new world was to be born and the race of the Valamar was to be given a chance to allow the descendents of humanity to prosper among the stars. Although neither Colette Boussard nor James Randall would be recognized for it, their rolls in the battle were preeminent to the beginning of this destiny.
Still she grieved because it was seemed so unjust, so unfair. But the forfeiture of their lives was always to be taken to heart by Richard Wakinyan and reflected in his deeds so as never to be in vain. As always, the greatest worth was placed only upon things earned by the most difficult struggle and sacrifice it took to pay for them.
“That’s great!” Jim’s smile broadened. “Home again—I can’t wait!”
Richard’s left hand took hold of Jim’s and squeezed it gently while the ache in his heart increased.
“Orders, captain?” James asked obediently to the officer he long served.
Richard took another deep breath and swallowed hard. “Shields up. Set the maneuvering watch and have Smitty start all outboard engines,” he sniffled.
“Shields up. Maneuvering watch now set, Sir,” Jim brought the ghost of the Crazy Horse to a state of readiness. “All outboard motors started and at nominal power.”
“Weigh anchor and castoff. Have Smitty move her forward,” Richard painfully visualized his dead bridge crew manning their positions and getting the spectral ship underway. He then cried a little more.
“Anchor weighed and moving forward, Sir.”
“Set jump points,” Wakinyan ordained his second in command of the otherworldly destroyer. “Activate main drives and ready jump engines,”
For a moment, Jim paused and then made a few indiscernible mutterings as though he was talking to someone else. But then his voice came back and rose in continuance. “Main drives activated and jump engine online, Captain. We should be there pretty quick. Listen? Do you hear them? Do you hear those engines? Marcus has got them really purring!”
“I hear them!” Wakinyan lied again. “Bring her up slowly—and go to sub-light flank,” Richard commanded his phantom ship.
“Aye, Sir. She’s coming up now, Captain—going to flank. Wow! She’s really moving! I’ve never seen her traveling this fast before!” Jim observed the ship’s departure in his mind. “Approaching jump point.”
Richard hesitated, as the room seemed to darken and collapse around them. It was as though a black hole had formed and was sucking the last of Jim’s life force away. Wakinyan was absolutely sure about what was going to happen next, and his heart pounded in timorous apprehension. But it was not to be forestalled any longer, for Randall’s fate was fixed.
“On my command. “Five—four—three—two—one.”
Suddenly, a numbing shiver took Wakinyan as his voice totally broke up, his head noticeable trembling as tears began to course unhindered from his eyes. The last word stuck in Richard’s throat, as though a nail had been driven into it to hold it there.
Jim abruptly let out a short, but painful moan.
Richard then shut his eyes tightly, dreading the next word he would have to speak. He realized the moment of their parting was now at hand. With his face twisted in anguish, he had to find the courage to give the dying man one final order.
A deathly silence fell over the room in a held interlude of despair. It was as though the chamber was its own, sad universe, quite separate from everything else that existed. And it fell to Wakinyan to end it, regardless that the two men had been closer than brothers. In this instant, the last of Wakinyan’s hope failed, knowing that nothing could be done to save the life of his best friend.
“Jump!” a forceful whisper at last emerged from Richard’s mouth.
Jim then let out a small wheeze and went silent. His head fell limply to the side.
Both doctors swiftly began checking Jim for signs of life. But as their medical scanners ran through each routine, they all came back with a single word: “negative”.
“That’s it,” one of them announced teary-eyed and with finality.
For a moment, Wakinyan stood disbelieving. Then he suddenly fell to his knees and began loudly sobbing uncontrollably. Richard buried his face in Jim’s body, as he mourned. Still, Rich’s left hand tightly, but shakily gripped his friend’s like a vice as though to hold Jim’s spirit there.
The chaplain took a short pace forward to Jim once more. Gently his hands began caressing Jim’s head. “Accept the soul of Captain James Andrew Randall into Thy Kingdom, O’Lord, Thy heroic—and most loving servant!” he asked God humbly in sorrow.
It was then that Winslow lost it and quickly left the room.
* * * * *
Epilogue
Tara held Wakinyan tightly by the waist, drawing him into her as they walked slowly down a corridor of the Ariana. His left arm was wrapped closely around her neck for more support as her taught grip pulled at his wrist. The top of Richard’s flight suit dangled loosely from his shoulders, revealing new bruises and old scars. The warrior’s right arm was encased in a hollow plastic cast that bubbled in a healing fluid, but yet rigidly kept his broken arm immobile with the aid of a sling that was fastened around his neck. His eyes were dark and sunken while his face was cast in a long and disorientated expression that was pale of color. To transient crewmen of chance encounter, his demeanor was evidence of how brutally climactic the previous battle really was.
Wakinyan was exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally. Sometimes faltering as he stepped, passing mariners occasionally reached out to steady him. They knew from the dazed, unblinking stare in his eyes that the man had succumbed to a mixture of bodily trauma, painkillers, battle fatigue, and grief. Yet, Richard fought to stay on his feet as a semblance of pride in him refused any help
.
As the woman gently guided “her knight” passed Martian Marine guards, immense respect swelled in their hearts while pity moistened their eyes and a sniffle or two was heard. Brisk salutes offered their devotion in willful speed, precision, and execution. They were extremely proud of the man who had led them.
Wakinyan, however, did not see their tokens of military courtesy and personal esteem. Adrift in the waters of an unthinking mental haze, the strain of command and battle had taken its toll upon him. Regardless of the great inner strength that he still wielded, the man was in dire need of the necessity of rest. And as Tara conducted Wakinyan to her cabin, she was completely determined that he would have it.
The mutant woman had appointed herself as Richard’s nurse and guardian to the surprise of all, especially General Franks and Deputy Commander Winslow. By the resolute expression on her face, they had realized that Tara would not have it any other way. She had even gotten nose-to-nose with Winslow at one point, terrifying the officer with a steadfast gaze from her penetrating black eyes and overwhelming presence.
“You will let him rest!” she had ordered John. “No one is going to disturb him until he’s fully recovered!” she intimidated Winslow with an implied threat of her intervention. Somewhat promptly after that, all then agreed to Tara’s demands.
After finally reaching her cabin, the two entered. Tara quickly directed Wakinyan to her bunk, and sat him down. She then removed the old war knife that was hastily tucked into his belt.
As she took the sheathed blade by its handle, a sudden jolt of tingling and surging energy shocked her hand into releasing her grip. The knife fell away and banged hard on the deck before coming to halt several feet beyond.
To the psychic woman, the strong and unusual energy the knife contained not only had temporarily incapacitated her arm, but also reached beyond her great powers of perception. It touched an infinite plane of existence that she was totally blind to, and this frightened her.
As she looked down upon the knife, Tara became reluctant to grip it again. Only after her initial hesitation and overcoming her own fear, did she slowly reached for the weapon once more.
As she grabbed and clutched its handle this time, however, a now pleasant impression welcomed her in approval—as though it knew her intentions. Regardless, she picked the weapon up and laid it down upon a table some distance away. Tara then attended to unlacing and removing Wakinyan’s moccasin boots.
When she had finished, she both held and pushed him ever so mindfully down upon the mattress, guiding his body to lie totally on the bunk. As Richard’s tired eyes gazed upwards at her, Tara smiled back warmly.
“Try to get some sleep,” she prompted in tender tones and with a loving touch of her hand to his face. “I have to leave for a few minutes. There are some things I have to attend to, but if you need anything, there’s a squad of marines outside the hatch,”
Richard feebly nodded his head in understanding and closed his eyes. Tara then turned and quietly walked away, caringly looking back at him as she strolled to the hatchway.
“Lights out,” Tara commanded the room’s computer in a soft voice before she left.
After the woman parted, the dim room was only illuminated by the amber glow of a few safety lamps. Yet, it created a harbor of shelter within Richard’s mind. The peace and solitude of the compartment gradually released the warrior from his heavy burdens, and within a few minutes, Wakinyan quickly drifted off into sleep.
* * * * *
As Wakinyan opened his eyes, he stood upon a high plateau that overlooked a great plain of undulating grass that was patched by rolling hills and a few sparse mountains. Through them snaked a great river; its pristine current catching reflections off of the noonday’s sun as it warmed all in its heated, golden rays. The sky was a deep medium blue with an occasional wisp of cloud moving at a snail’s pace. And though a casual wind blew, the Lakota warrior heard a distance rumble that drew closer.
The thunder increased dramatically and shook the ground in deep tremors. After a few moments, however, Wakinyan realized it came not from the sky, but from the mighty hooves of an enormous herd of large shaggy animals that raced and trampled quickly through the valley below. Their numbers were incredible and easily surpassed many thousands. He was awed by their magnificence, and smiled as he watched them move onward without care.
For the first time in many years, his soul felt totally at peace. And as he inhaled the clean crisp air in deep breaths, he slowly became rejuvenated to the picturesque setting. He thought to himself that he would not leave here—ever.
But the “killy-killy” of a bird above drew both Richard’s attention and gaze upward. He then viewed a small red-backed hawk circling overhead. Its strong extended wings rode the updrafts of wind with expert skill. And although it was absolutely beautiful to behold, it circled like a harbinger, refusing to leave until it delivered its message of forewarning.
Suddenly from behind, Wakinyan heard a man’s voice. “Ahh-h!” it intoned loudly as if to draw Richard’s awareness deliberately.
Wakinyan spun to the unexpected intrusion, taking a hand-to-hand combat stance. He turned to fight, but the man whom he abruptly faced stood like a statue with a stoic face. Although a rifle was cradled in the stranger’s left arm, his right hand, however, was raised in a peace offering.
“Hau Kola,” the man called out in the ancient tongue of the Lakota Oglalas. “Little Wolf, I have not come to fight you,” he added still speaking in the ancient language of the Sioux.
Wakinyan for a moment froze as he studied the stranger, sensing something unusual about him. Wakinyan, however, realized that if the man was a threat that he could have easily shot him in the back.
Slowly exhaling his breath, Richard relaxed and stood upright. It was then that he noticed the stranger was an American Indian like himself, however, garbed in clothing of a bygone era.
Wakinyan’s eyes scanned the intruder with curiosity. He was a handsome man of approximately the same age, clothed in a light tan buckskin blouse and blue pants. He wore beaded moccasins on his feet that were faintly covered with dust.
A decorative breastplate of hairpipe, buffalo horn, and beads was fastened across the stranger’s chest with deerhide ties, while a single eagle’s feather stuck out from behind his long, dark brown hair. Thick bracelets were rapped around the cloth biceps of each of his strong arms, and the old slug-throwing repeating rifle that was slung across his left arm looked in excellent operating condition.
“Who are you, and how do you know that name?” Richard challenged back in the tribal language that his Uncle Nathan had taught him.
“I am the one who came before you—I am the one who you ride with now,” the man explained, “and I have come to give you counsel.”
“Counsel?” Wakinyan questioned, ignoring the stranger’s riddle about himself. “About what?”
The man reached out with his right hand as if to draw a picture with his fingers. “A storm gathers on the horizon, Little Wolf. Black riders draw together to gallop across the night’s sky and cover the all the plains with blood thicker than a red blanket. And though tears will fall as rain, they will not be able to wash it away,” the stranger prophesized in Oglala oral tradition.
“And what do you ask of me?” Wakinyan questioned the soothsayer.
The stranger paused for a moment to stare deeply into Richard eyes. “You and your warriors must stand against them. For there is no one else who can.”
“And if we don’t?”
“If you do not, then the sky will grow dark—and there will be no more sunrises. The people will be gone and all the lands will be as dust. Nothing will live or grow again!” the stranger ended his foretelling.
Sadness fell upon Wakinyan’s face, for he felt the man had spoken the truth. Still the Martian fleet Commander wanted more proof. “How do I know what you say is true?” Richard questioned with some doubt.
The man turned as if to leave, but stopped. “You know in your heart that I do not speak with a double tongue. But I realize you must hold something more than just words,” the stranger added.
Reaching behind his back, the man retrieved an object and swiftly flipped it at Wakinyan. With lightning speed, Richard’s right hand caught the item in a quick snatch.
Richard’s gaze slowly broke from the stranger and hesitantly fell upon what he had caught. As his handed opened to allow inspection of the object, he shockingly realized what he held; it was his own sheathed knife.
Startled, Richard looked up quickly again to study the man’s face with intensity. In a burst of insight, the stranger became more than just familiar.
“I know who you are!” Richard proclaimed in an enlightened wonderment. “But you’re been dead for almost three hundred years!”
The man, however, just stood still. “The earth covers the body and turns to grass, but the spirit dwells always within the heart of the people. Farewell, Little Wolf—until we meet again,” the man bid Wakinyan goodbye.
Suddenly, a fog appeared from nowhere and clouded Wakinyan’s vision. In a moment, it cloaked the entire plateau with a fine gray mist.
* * * * *
Tara raced back to her cabin as fast as she could. Although she had relegated her duties as ship’s master to Martin Pearl, the towing of the Crazy Horse back to Valamars had become real a headache.
The now derelict ship had broken away from the Ariana’s magnetic tow twice while almost accidentally ramming another escorting destroyer. It had seemed as though the ship had a mind of its own and wanted to depart away from the living with its dead. But the Crazy Horse, however, had assumed the greatest importance to all the new citizens of Valamars.
This was why Jerome Gris wanted it back. The creative leader of the mutants saw it as more than just a supply of scrape metal to be recycled.
He too, like so many others, had been inspired by its deeds. Although the battle had been over for only a few hours, word of the Crazy Horse’s fight with the Ruthann had not only spread among the fleet’s crews, but back to Valamars itself.