rectangular portal, Yosef could see dozens of ships lining up to debark into the Hoyer. The bays were already packed. Where in God’s name would they put them? In the background, stars glistened like melancholy diamonds in an onyx sea.
Yosef pursed his withered lips worriedly. Short, bald, and over three hundred years of age, he felt worn and hollow. He pushed back a short distance from the table and gazed at the tired little girl in front of him.
“It’s your move, Sybil.”
The eight-year-old heaved a breath and frowned at the tri-level checkerboard. A beautiful olive-skinned child, she had a perfect oval face with a button nose and huge brown eyes. Mahogany curls clung to her forehead and dropped to her shoulders. She fidgeted nervously. Yosef knew why. She missed her mother so terribly she could barely stand it. That’s why he’d asked her to play with him, to take her mind off Rachel’s continued absence.
“I don’t know where to move, Yosef.” She wiped sweaty palms on her blue robe.
“You’re just tired, Sybil. Would you rather take a nap?”
“No. I—I have bad dreams when I close my eyes.”
“Do you want to talk about them?”
She shrugged. He’d tried to get her to discuss her dreams for hours, hoping he could defuse their insidious terror, but she refused. Yosef cocked his head sympathetically, studying the way her young mouth quivered. Were her dreams about the death of her father? Sybil had told him in great detail about that horrifying day in the temple when the Mashiah’s guards burst through the doors and opened fire, strafing the temple with beams of violet, killing men, women, and children indiscriminately. She and her mother had escaped only to be captured by Ornias and confined with a thousand other people in a tiny square where they stood for three days without food or water. On the third day, the guards opened fire, burying Rachel and Sybil beneath a mountain of bloody dead. Undoubtedly, the gruesome ordeal had saved their lives—but damned them to horrifying memories. The stuff of terrifying nightmares.
Sybil moved to three different squares before she ambivalently settled on a new one. “There, Yosef. I guess I’m done.”
He reached across the table and patted her arm gently. “We don’t have to play. Would you like to do something else?”
“No, I just…”
Ari Funk lunged awkwardly into the room waving a pulse pistol. A tall willowy old man in a soiled gray robe, he had a shriveled triangular face tucked inside a gray mop of hair. A broad smile creased his lips.
“Watch this!” he called, shoving the gun in his holster and doing a remarkable fast draw. Yosef jumped backward. The guard, noticing the barrel pointed at his left eye, let out a shrill gasp and dove for the floor. His elbows and knees banged against the wall.
“What’d you think of that?” Ari asked conversationally and grinned like a demented imp.
Yosef scowled and thrust a hand toward the far wall. “You idiot. Put that thing away. Look what you made the guard do!”
Ari blinked at the young man sprawled like a dead spider in the corner. “You were worried, eh?” Pride lit his old face. “Wait till you see what else I learned in that holo library of yours. I’ve been battling those 3-D ghosts for hours.”
With all the dignity he could manage, the guard pulled himself to his feet and straightened his black uniform before throwing Ari a hard look and going back to his technical manual. Under his breath, he murmured, “Crazy old bozon.”
“He’s not crazy,” Yosef defended indignantly. “He’s senile. There’s a big difference.”
“Don’t help me, Yosef,” Ari urged.
Heedlessly, Yosef waved a hand at the guard. “Just wait until you’re three hundred and seventeen. You’ll find things don’t work the way they used to either.”
Ari’s gray eyes jerked wide. “Good God!” He slapped his pistol on the table with a painful clang. “You’re not going to bring up Agnes
Yosef pursed his withered lips worriedly. Short, bald, and over three hundred years of age, he felt worn and hollow. He pushed back a short distance from the table and gazed at the tired little girl in front of him.
“It’s your move, Sybil.”
The eight-year-old heaved a breath and frowned at the tri-level checkerboard. A beautiful olive-skinned child, she had a perfect oval face with a button nose and huge brown eyes. Mahogany curls clung to her forehead and dropped to her shoulders. She fidgeted nervously. Yosef knew why. She missed her mother so terribly she could barely stand it. That’s why he’d asked her to play with him, to take her mind off Rachel’s continued absence.
“I don’t know where to move, Yosef.” She wiped sweaty palms on her blue robe.
“You’re just tired, Sybil. Would you rather take a nap?”
“No. I—I have bad dreams when I close my eyes.”
“Do you want to talk about them?”
She shrugged. He’d tried to get her to discuss her dreams for hours, hoping he could defuse their insidious terror, but she refused. Yosef cocked his head sympathetically, studying the way her young mouth quivered. Were her dreams about the death of her father? Sybil had told him in great detail about that horrifying day in the temple when the Mashiah’s guards burst through the doors and opened fire, strafing the temple with beams of violet, killing men, women, and children indiscriminately. She and her mother had escaped only to be captured by Ornias and confined with a thousand other people in a tiny square where they stood for three days without food or water. On the third day, the guards opened fire, burying Rachel and Sybil beneath a mountain of bloody dead. Undoubtedly, the gruesome ordeal had saved their lives—but damned them to horrifying memories. The stuff of terrifying nightmares.
Sybil moved to three different squares before she ambivalently settled on a new one. “There, Yosef. I guess I’m done.”
He reached across the table and patted her arm gently. “We don’t have to play. Would you like to do something else?”
“No, I just…”
Ari Funk lunged awkwardly into the room waving a pulse pistol. A tall willowy old man in a soiled gray robe, he had a shriveled triangular face tucked inside a gray mop of hair. A broad smile creased his lips.
“Watch this!” he called, shoving the gun in his holster and doing a remarkable fast draw. Yosef jumped backward. The guard, noticing the barrel pointed at his left eye, let out a shrill gasp and dove for the floor. His elbows and knees banged against the wall.
“What’d you think of that?” Ari asked conversationally and grinned like a demented imp.
Yosef scowled and thrust a hand toward the far wall. “You idiot. Put that thing away. Look what you made the guard do!”
Ari blinked at the young man sprawled like a dead spider in the corner. “You were worried, eh?” Pride lit his old face. “Wait till you see what else I learned in that holo library of yours. I’ve been battling those 3-D ghosts for hours.”
With all the dignity he could manage, the guard pulled himself to his feet and straightened his black uniform before throwing Ari a hard look and going back to his technical manual. Under his breath, he murmured, “Crazy old bozon.”
“He’s not crazy,” Yosef defended indignantly. “He’s senile. There’s a big difference.”
“Don’t help me, Yosef,” Ari urged.
Heedlessly, Yosef waved a hand at the guard. “Just wait until you’re three hundred and seventeen. You’ll find things don’t work the way they used to either.”
Ari’s gray eyes jerked wide. “Good God!” He slapped his pistol on the table with a painful clang. “You’re not going to bring up Agnes
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