Amish Vampires in Space (24 page)

Singer smiled. “All are aboard, sir.”

“You’re certain?”

“We can’t afford to wait much longer,” Perth said. “I’ve pulled the ship back out of the projected expansion range, but I feel uncomfortable even here. That star is dangerous.”

“The end is soon, then.”

Perth frowned. “Pilot’s instinct.”

Seal nodded. “So is everyone comfortable for a pull-away then? A return to the slip?” He searched for the ship schedule, found it hanging near the top portion of the desk. He pulled it into view, over Perth’s head. “The estimated time to Obelisk now is—”

“Nine days and six hours, Seal,” Perth said.

“And how’s that look for our schedule?”

“Brings us in right on time. Just a few hours to spare.”

Seal breathed out slowly. “That’s closer than I’d like, obviously.” He thought of the admiral’s stack ranking again. Straightened in his seat. “Any reason not to leave immediately? Anyone?”

All shook their heads. Seal couldn’t miss the look of displeasure on Greels’s face, though. “Greels?” he said. “Your people ready to go?”

Greels made a retching sound. “In more ways than one, sir.”

“And why do you say that?”

Greels shook his head. “Never mind. The issues are mostly personal…” His eyes shifted to his left. “Ain’t that right, darling?”

Darly bristled. “Mr. Greels, your confinement is for your own good.”

Confinement?

Greels shrugged. “If you say so.”

Seal’s eyes flitted between bottom left and right. “I sense tension,” he said. “Tension leads to inefficiencies.”

Greels smiled. “Nothing we can’t work out.”

Seal frowned, checked the images of the other two participants. Perth was frowning, not wanting to get distracted. Singer was just standing by. Looking attentive. Ready to assist. “I won’t ask what this is about right now,” Seal said.

“Just visit me in my quarters,” Greels said. “I’ll tell you what it is about.” A smile. “Or maybe Darly can visit you.”

“
Mister
Greels,” Darly said.

“Okay, now I’m going to have to inquire.” Seal touched the image of Perth and Singer, effectively freezing them in place. They would see only a screen showing his face and the words “Please stand by.” He didn’t like to be so abrupt, but sometimes it was necessary. “What is this about?” he asked.

Darly stared straight at him. “Mr. Greels sent me on a blind chase. Involved me in one of his personal games. And I have work to do. A roomful of patients to treat.”

“Is that true?” Seal asked Greels.

“If she says so,” Greels said. “Fine.”

Seal grimaced. “Greels. We don’t have time for pettiness. What is going on?”

“He is on the verge of exhaustion,” Darly said. “He needs time to rest. To come to his right mind.”

Greels’s eyes did look sunken. Tired. He’d appeared that way for a while now, though. Seal credited that to actual work being done. But maybe there was something more. Seal didn’t want to have to mess with it, though. Greels had always been reliable. There were already enough variables.

Greels shook his head. “This is what I get for trying to look out for someone else.” He scowled. “And a cleaner, to boot.”

Seal raised a hand. “Are you both ready to leave this system?”

Both paused, then Greels said, “Absolutely!”

Darly just nodded. “Any time.”

“All I need to know.” He put their images to sleep, brought the other two to life. Perth was resting his head on a finger, looking—it appeared—at his lap. He looked up again. “Captain?”

“Get us back en route,” he said. “Back on schedule.”

Perth nodded. “Right away, sir.”

Seal nodded and closed the pilot’s image. He looked at Singer. “As for you…” A smile. “Thank you for all you’ve done. You’ve been a great help.”

Singer blushed, lowered her eyes. “You’re welcome, Seal. Anytime I can be of assistance.”

Seal nodded. “There will be other opportunities. Especially the way it is going.”

“Seal?”

He shook his head. “Never mind. You did well.” A nod. “I appreciate it, both as your captain and, I hope, your friend.”

Singer raised her eyebrows. “Of course, sir. On both.”

He nodded. “Very good. Now I have a dispute to mediate. You really don’t want my job, do you?”

“Seal?”

He sighed. “We’ll talk later.”

Singer nodded. “I hope so.”

Seal closed her image, hesitated before bringing the others live. He thought about the admiral’s stack rank again. Shook his head. Touched both images. “Now, where were we…?”

• • •

Soundlessly the
Raven
moved again into slip space. The planet Alabaster, its sun, and all the objects that circled that dying star disappeared, replaced by a solid grey fog.

Patrolling the parimeter of Bay 17, Congi noticed the delicate change in stellar motion, the subtle drop from normal space into slip space. At first he felt a twinge of primal fear, but then, when intelligence asserted itself, when higher order brain functions informed, he smiled. Bit his lower lip. The ship would be alone for almost two weeks now. It would pass through systems empty of life. A graveyard of stars.

Congi had his maintenance cart with him. It hovered to his right, and one hand rested on it. The cart was merely a prop, though. A necessary accessory to his role.

Bay 17 was in nighttime mode, the lights on their lowest setting. The bay’s lighting schedule had been adjusted to fit that of the majority of the newcomers. Nighttime began an hour ago, and it would last another six, as the elders had arranged. Most of the community’s usual chores were no longer required, of course. But there were some, animal-related, that still had to be done before daybreak. The “milking,” for instance.

That gave Congi limited time for what he intended to do, but it was enough.

From where he stood he could see the section that had been partitioned into animal pens. Directly ahead, after a short row of sealed parcels—Amish belongings—was a pen of sheep. All were lying together near the starboard end. Next to that was a pen of goats. These were at rest, as well, though occasionally one bleated aloud. Or looked around nervously.

Everyone was nervous tonight, Congi knew. So much had changed for them.

And for him.

He was hungry. It didn’t show, but he was always hungry. He’d tried items from the cafeteria, raided the vending units, but none of it pleased him. Nothing satisfied. It was if he were unable to metabolize human foods anymore. As if he were eating stones. And even the little he was able to ingest was insufficient. There was too much need. Plus, none of it tasted right.

Congi knew he wasn’t himself, but whatever he now was, he liked. It was what he should be. He felt stronger, more confident. More significant. He was a finder always, but now he would find only what was most important: sustenance.

He drew a synthetic duster from his cart. Swished it around the top of the nearest parcel, made his way slowly toward the end of the row. He glanced across the row of pens, toward the square habitations on the opposite side of the bay. It was very dark, with little motion whatsoever. There wasn’t even a guard posted. He’d heard that was part of the Amish disposition. Trust in their fellow man, reflecting their trust in a higher power. Protection that came from above.

He wondered what the Amish thought of the heavens now that they’d truly seen them. How very dark it all was. How empty. How chaotic and unpredictable. Part of him used to blanch at such things. Chaos. The loss of control. But now he found himself embracing them. Running to them. All parts working together.

He checked the shelters again. Saw nothing. Still dusting, he moved his cart slowly to the end of the parcels, and then around to the other side. He was closer to the animal pens and to the Amish themselves. His view of their area was obstructed in places by the small-scale force fields that held the larger animals. The fields stood out like shimmering areas of uncertainty. Blurred areas.

So much like life.

Just beyond the sheep a large bull was so enclosed. It rested on its feet. Head bowed, but occasionally a heavy snort of anger could be heard. A reaction to a dream predator, perhaps? Or an imagined bovine rival?

Congi shook his head. He knew little about animals. Such traditional stock was rarely seen anymore. Everything was engineered and manipulated. That didn’t matter, though. The animal itself intrigued him. He wondered how it would taste? All of it. He began to salivate.

That was not for now. Most important for
now
, was that the animal wasn’t looking Congi’s way.

He knew every spot in the bay where people—or cameras—could be watching, of course. This particular spot was best. The pens directly ahead. Plus he had his cart to crouch behind, if necessary. He pushed it in front of him. Slid the duster inside and then partially shielded himself as he slowly moved ahead. He reached the plastinium fence the loaders had constructed. There was a narrow gate in this section. He searched the area again, saw no one watching, and released the mechanical latch. Swung the door open. It was silent on its hinges.

He had no experience with this, but somehow he knew he could do it. Directly ahead were the sleeping sheep. There was no ram in this pen, thankfully. Nothing with a sense of purpose, of responsibility. There were just the white, fluffy animals. They weren’t even huddled together. They lay meters apart from each other. He’d been watching the pen for some time. Had his eyes on one animal in particular. A female. It stood a bit shorter than the rest and had a discernible limp when walking. Black ears and face, but otherwise white. He approached it, looked around, and then crouched over its midsection. The animal’s head and neck were stretched out on the ground, facing away from Congi. Perfect. He knew right where to strike. The map of the body was visible. Where the warm spots were.

He felt a rush of hunger.

Not here!
Congi’s intellect warned. Too exposed! Too dangerous!

But I want it, hunger responded. We need it to survive.

Suddenly, he was soaked in sweat.
We need to plan. Plan
and
survive.

He heard a noise, a heavy snort. He turned to his right to see the shielded bull staring in his direction. Curious. Noticed him, somehow.

Congi shook his head. He felt the chill of his body, still perspiring. He put his arms around the ewe and hefted it, standing upright. It awoke but made no sound. Still dazed. He pulled it close and bolted for the gate. He was surprised at how light the animal was.

Strong, he was strong now.

The animal made a single bleat before Congi brought a hand over its mouth. That stifled a second bleat as he reached the gate and swung it closed. He lifted the edge of his cart, placed it in the shallow pan on top. He pushed the cart and animal quickly away.

He would eat. He would survive. He would plan.

• • •

THREE DAYS LATER

Samuel was a tired man. A worried man. He knew his feelings weren’t appropriate. Weren’t justified. The Lord had a plan in all this. Obviously He did. He always did. But Samuel knew there was much danger here. Even with the community together in one place, it was vulnerable. Surrounded like sheep in the wilderness.

Samuel was seated in one of the two chairs in the shelter the Englishers had given him. It was a stiff blue chair, made out of an unusual material. But it was functional. Sturdy enough. He sat with both feet firmly on the floor. And he thought.

The shelter itself seemed foreign. It was just three walls and a sliding curtain on one side—now partly open. There was an air-filled mattress in one corner, the two chairs, a small desk with just enough room to spread his Bible and a piece of paper on. A desk that also doubled as the dinner table. Otherwise it was an empty shell. Just like Samuel often felt now. Empty and tired.

Typically, his wife Ruth shared the space with him, but today—their fourth inside the leviathan—she was busy with some of the other wives. Robbed of their usual chores, the most difficult task so far had been keeping everyone busy. Keeping idle hands from forming into sinful hands. So some of the women had reinstated school for the children. Kept both women and children busy. It wasn’t a bad solution.

Some of the men helped with that too. Helping to teach the survival skills they would need for their new world. It was all based on assumptions, of course. None of them had lived long enough to remember the original taming of Alabaster, so none of them knew what to expect. All they had were the promises of these Englishers that the world would be ready.

What were their assurances, really? Just words.

Samuel grunted. It was difficult being a leader. It weighed on him. Perhaps it was time to move on with life. To ask that they appoint someone else? Mark was able. James—

Samuel noticed a shadow moving outside the curtain. It started at one end of their “room” and moved toward the curtain opening. Then Deacon Mark’s face appeared at the doorway. He removed his hat, brought it to his chest. “Brother Samuel?”

Samuel nodded. “Ya, what is it?”

Mark’s eyes showed sympathy. “How are you feeling?”

“I am fine. Strong for the day. Why do you ask?”

A smile. “I know you haven’t been resting well,” he said. “Ruth told me.”

Samuel sniffed. “That woman.” A wave. “Never you mind her. I am fit for what the Lord brings my way.” He forced a smile. “Not what are
you
bringing me?”

Mark stepped into the room. “We seem to have a, um, problem with the animals.”

Samuel nodded slowly. “I expected as much,” he said. “These surroundings are so foreign. The routine. We brought the heartiest of stock. I hoped they’d survive the trip.” He looked at the floor. Becca had spread a small throw rug over the otherwise black surface. “There are many unknown elements, though.” He grimaced. “And these Englishers, they don’t know anything.”

Mark shook his head. “The livestock appear to be generally healthy, Samuel. That’s not the problem.”

“No? Are the hens no longer laying? Because that is to be expected, as well. The roosters—how can we expect them to perform?”