Chapter 19: Double Take, part 2: Touch and Go --------------------------------------------- I just finished cleaning my room. It might be the last time I'll have a chance to do that, so I figured I'd do a good job. No sense in leaving a messy room behind after I die. I can't believe I just thought that. This is insane. I'm making plans for my own death, before I leave. There's no reason to think that this mission will be any more dangerous than anything else I've ever done. I mean, I survived the battle in Jidoor. That was a fight against several thousand people. This is one, maybe a gang at most, of killers. It should be a cakewalk, in theory. But the black hand in the paper keeps on coming back. I walk over to my dresser and get ready to leave; it keeps my mind occupied. I do up all the buttons on my vest; it makes a slighty chinking sounds as I pull it tight around me. I then pull my black shirt over top of it, doing that up quickly, and pushing the ends into my trousers. I cinch those up with a belt, nice and tight. The belt buckle is looking fairly dull, so I grab a rag and polish it until the dullness goes away, and all there is a soft silver finish. I pause one last moment to pin my rank insignia onto my shirt, and then dash out of my room, snapping up my two swords as I go. The airship launch area is just ahead. It's still early, and pretty much no one is around. Only a few mechanics, some of whom are still in their pyjamas. I walk over to the nearest Spitfire, and hop into the cockpit, sliding in next to the soft leather that Garek had put in. I flip a few switches, and everything starts humming softly about me. The seat starts vibrating slightly, little lights flicker on and off, and the weapon systems make a sharp pinging sound as they come online, one by one. I wait for a moment while the engine turbines begin to roar to life, and pull back on the control stick, and lift off into the sky. A flip of a switch, and I jerk forward as the engines kick in at full throttle. Soaring away. Towards South Figaro. ***************************** I land the Spitfire just outside of the city, on the outskirts of a forest. I make sure to lock it up tight, just in case. I seal the hatch, plug the turbines, take the anchoring chain, loop it around a tree and then back to the ship, just to lock it tight. Any Imperial could figure out how to get the airship working again, but I doubt anyone outside of the Empire knows the techniques I used. The run to Figaro is going to be short with my shoes working. I don't pay attention to the blurry streaks going past, pointing their fingers at me. They're not important right now. I push a little faster, and the shoes get a little lighter for me, letting me increase my speed that much more. The streaks get longer and more indistinct as I go... which are the people, and which are the trees? I can't tell any longer: all I can see are long streaks of blue and green and brown. Time to slow down a bit; it wouldn't be any good if I got killed right now by running into a blurry image that just happened to be a tree. So I let the shoes subside a bit; my feet feel that bit heavier, and my pace slows some. That's better. I can see straight again. Even from this distance, South Figaro looks to be a pretty full city. You can almost feel the life in it. I hear the Domans took refuge here after abandoning their home; guess things have become pretty crowded by now. The city was having a minor population boom anyhow: a huge stream of immigrants must be pushing the limits of the housing. That'll make it that much harder to find my killer. Wonderful. Well, I'm almost there now. Guess I'd best turn down the speed for a while: the last thing I need is people asking questions about me. Whoever this psycho is, he's got something against me, and attracting attention when a nutcase is after you is the last thing I need right now. The streaks are fading down, shrinking, becoming more distinct... and now I'm just some guy out on a jog. I reach up to my shirt, pull off my badge, and slide it into my pocket. This is still a pretty Returner-friendly town; I don't need everyone to know that I'm an Imperial. I doubt they'd think twice about imprisoning me simply for being part of it. ***************************** "So you don't recall who sent the package?" I ask her this, and the woman begins tapping her wrinkled lower lip, apparently having to think about this. I've just shown the local carrier pigeon servicewoman if she knows who sent the hands, and all she can do is think about it. This is insane; she must be what - fifty? Sixty? Seventy, even? She makes old man Strago look like the kid he always claims to be. I'll bet she can barely remember her own name, much less who sent off eight packages recently. Why do I feel like I'm on a wild goose chase? "Well, I'm not sure, young man. It was a few days ago, you know...." she says. Her voice sounds a broken french horn. "Listen, lady: this is not the sort of individual you can just forget. Whoever it was sent off eight packages in a week from this service. How many people do you know send off mail eight times a week? Who can afford that?" "Well, my Lawrence, bless his soul, used to send me letters from Mobliz..." she begins to ramble, and I just start rubbing my forehead. This is getting me nowhere. How can I get her to understand how urgent this is? I pull out the outside strip of paper from that last package, looking it over for some clue. Nothing there but my name in large block letters. Nothing- "Wait a second," I blurt out. Why didn't I think of this before? "Do you keep a log of who has sent packages? A signed list of who uses your service?" "Well, yes, it's right on that desk." I'm out of my seat in a flash. This could work. I set the scrap of paper down on the desk beside the log book, and begin flipping through the pages like a madman. The papers flutter like hummingbird wings, one and one and one and there is last week's signouts. Twenty-three sendings total. I glance at the handwriting on the scrap again, then start looking at the signatures, one by one. Too cursive, too unclear, too small, too - there. I pull the book up close to me, and run my fingers across the deepest, blockiest letters I've ever seen. Carrig. That's the guy's name. Carrig. "Have you found what you were looking for, young man?" the woman asks me. I grab the scrap of paper, stuff it into my pocket again, then turn to face her. I start to smile a bit. "Yes I did. Thanks for all your help." "Any time for such a determined young man. Would you like to send a pretty letter to your girlfriend now?" she says. I shake my head no, thank her again, and leave the shop. The welcome bells jingle as I leave. Carrig. Now, where have I heard the name Carrig before? I know I've seen that handwriting before. I know I have; I've got a good memory for this sort of thing. But where? I don't know anyone named Carrig, so that means it must be an alias. But who would try and kill me? This doesn't make any sense. Someone is going to a lot of trouble to take me out, to pique my interest in their anger, and yet they won't even let me figure out who they are. Well damn Carrig, or whatever his name is. He'd better watch his back, because heaven help me, I'm going to tear him apart. I'm not letting this happen to anyone else. I won't let him destroy this life for me. "Sebastian! Sebastian Dafydd Alltaire!" a voice yells all of a sudden. I whirl around, ready to draw my swords. It must be Carrig. No one else knows my middle name in this town. I look around the street I'm on. I never noticed for empty it was until now, but I can see that it's pretty much empty. Only the dregs at the wall sides. Now, where is Carrig? I can't see him anywhere near here. Is he on a rooftop? "Sebastian! Turn around! I'd prefer if I did this face to face!" yells the voice. It's from behind. I turn about, and there's this hulking guy behind me, He's wearing a huge, heavy black cloak, but he's definately wearing armour underneath. With my armoured vest, he probably can't tell that I'm protected, but him, he's a different story. Looks like plate armour; he's throwing off his cloak, and it's plate armour. No doubt about it. He draws his sword and it looks big enough to slice a building in half. He must barely fit into that armour, if he can lift that blade. He spins it around, trying to impress me. I'm not. He finishes his little display and slams the tip into the ground, and a little cloud of dust puffs up. "You must be Carrig," I tell him, drawing my own swords. My shoes begin to tingle slightly; I know how they feel. This guy's going to be a tough one. "You're still not very bright, are you boy? You still can't figure out the simplest riddles," he thunders. I know that voice! It's... I... He pulls the helmet from his head, and throws it aside, letting me see who he is for the first time. And I don't know what to do. It's my father.