The Clock Winked (The Sagittan Chronicles Book 2) (15 page)

“Is that coffee?” the Senator asked, dropping his fists. His
eyes zoomed on the mug of dark liquid with steam rising in a perfect spiral. “I
haven’t had coffee in....” he trailed off.

“Yes,” Pete said. “Would you like some?”

Leslie stepped forward, but Quin put his hand out to stop
her.

“We need to know who you’re afraid of,” John said. “Then you
can have coffee.”

Mr. Canderick stared at the tray. Steam rose from the pot of
coffee and the smell thickened in the air. Leslie held the tray, frozen in
place, and Quin, John, and Pete all stared at Mr. Canderick intently, waiting
for his reply. He breathed in and out. He shifted from one foot to the other.
He scratched his head.

“I...” he paused, looking at each of the people standing in
front of him. “Will you save me from dying?”

“We already did once,” Pete replied, “and we are prepared to
go to great lengths to do it again.”

“Will you leave me alone for a while,” he asked, “if I tell
you this one thing?”

“Yes,” John said.

The room grew very silent as they waited for his reply.

“They are called the Woertans,” he said, and darted towards
Leslie.
“Coffee, please?”

John and Pete looked at each other, frowning, as Leslie
poured Mr. Canderick a mug of coffee.

“I think I know,” Quin stated, turning towards the door.
“Get a guard for Mr. Canderick here. We three need to chat.”

*****

The ground felt comforting and solid under Samson’s feet,
though sweat still dripped from his forehead. The co-pilot handed him his
briefcase; a black car outside the landing dock waited for him. He wiped his
head with a handkerchief.

“Welcome to the dirt, sir,” his chauffeur greeted him.

“Thank you, Lewis,” Samson said. “You received
instructions?”

“Yes, sir.
The location is only a
short drive from here.”

“Excellent.” Samson leaned back in the cozy leather interior
of the pomobile and appreciated the safety of the ground. He watched the
landscape fly by.

About an hour later, Lewis began to slow down.

“We are nearly there, sir,” he said.

Samson sat up. The area was deserted. Trees rose out of the
ground all around the narrow dirt road, blocking most of the sky. Without
warning, a large gate appeared in the trees. Scrawled across the front in
letters of solid iron were the words “Musk Place.”

Lewis came to a stop at the guardhouse. The window slid
open.

“Mr. Samson Lebron to see Jameson Musk,” he said. The guard
nodded at the back window.

“Hello sir,” Samson said, as his window rolled down
smoothly. “I have a meeting with Mr. Musk.”

“Of course, sir,” replied the guard. “He is expecting you.”

Lebron sat back and frowned. He had expected resistance from
the guard. There was no way Musk could know he was coming—everything had been
arranged in secret. The gates creaked open and Lewis pulled through. The
driveway stretched out in front of them, long and ominous, with dark trees
slouching low to the ground and foreboding clouds consuming the sky above.

Musk’s house appeared through the trees. It was large and
square, obviously an Ostik design with the black lines outlining the edges,
giving the house the look of a giant cartoon. The car stopped in front of a winding
stone path that led up to the front door. A fountain shaped like a faun with an
umbrella decorated the main lawn.

Samson climbed stiffly from the vehicle, grasped his
briefcase tightly, and strode up to the front door.

The doorbell was a square. The stentorian sound reverberated
deep within the house. A moment later a man stood at the door.

“I am here to speak to Jameson Musk.” Samson nodded
politely.

“Ah yes, I’ve been expecting you,” he said. “Right this way.
Mr. Lebron, is it? Would you like some coffee? I have the pot brewing right
now.”

Jameson ushered Samson through ahead of himself.

As soon as Samson’s foot crossed the threshold, he froze.
Six men stood in a half circle around the door with pistols aiming at his
chest. He slowly set down his briefcase and raised his hands, frowning
slightly.

If they start
shooting, the bullets are going to hit each other...
Samson thought. He was
slightly confused.

“If you could move,” the voice from behind him said. “I need
to go get the coffee.”

Samson felt Mr. Musk squeeze by under his raised arms and
watched as the man slipped between two of the thugs and disappeared into
another room.

“Please, good man. Have seat.” A commanding voice seemed to
originate from a large stuffed fox on the mantel. A shortish bald man with blue
streaks dripping down his face appeared from behind the gunners. He pointed at
a large, black chair.

Samson slowly moved towards the chair, keeping his hands in
the air. The pistols followed him, although the men holding them didn’t seem to
be very good at not pointing the guns at each other.

“I see it is true that we must have a talk,” the man said.
He pulled up a chair and sat directly in front of Samson. “But let us wait
kindly for Mr. Musk return.” He sat back and stared at Samson. Samson’s eyes
darted from the unrelenting stare to the stuffed fox to the guns aimed at him.

“Here it is, black, just like you like it,” Mr. Musk said,
stepping back into the room with the tray. He seemed oblivious to the guns.

The blue-striped man took a mug and sipped it, still staring
at Samson.

“Curious is what you came,” he began, looking down for a
moment. “I see you choose silence. This is good. It is silence which may not
save a life but save soul.” He smiled. “Tell me this, Samson Sky-man. What is it
the thing you want to hear?”

“Wh...
wh
...
why
he quit,” Samson stuttered, nodding at Musk. His quest now seemed silly, and
possibly even stupid.

“Answers, this is what you look for, yes? I too also look
for answers. But first I must tell you this: not any
man live
forever.”

Samson nodded, eyes widening in terror.

“Dere is a story, of a great clock counting days and seconds
until death, yes? Well, it counts not the hours until you die, but until
my people
die. Dere are those who wish
to keep clock which traps our people, yes? But dere are us who wish for
freedom. I am wishing for freedom.” He turned to the men standing around him.
“Bring this man out.”

Two men left the room.

“You are nothing but an arrogant, overgrown, spoiled child,
yes? You want only for money and power. You overstep to come to this house, you
disobey me. All I want is for information. You give none and then you come
here, yes? Selfish scum is this word we call peoples as you.”

The two men came back, dragging a squirming bundle into the
room.

“
This your
friend, yes?
Mr. Stryker of Lasta Clan.”
He pronounced “Lasta” with a
very strange tongue-rolling sound.

“Lasta?”
Samson squeaked.

“Of this you not know?” the man nodded knowingly. “This is
because Stryker is much
more smarter
than you.”

The bundle squirmed for a moment and then quieted.

“This story I will tell you, is very long. Thousands of
years long, so I cannot begin at beginning.
But this fight
not for you.
This fight between me and him.”
His finger pointed at Stryker. “We fight for a place long way from here, but
not so far as it seem.

“Dere is a Door which
take
us to
our people. We share this Door for many generations. We share this Door as long
as this Clock
keep
watch. But now Clock is dying—who
will own Door we want to know? Us?” he pointed to himself.
“Or
them?”
He pointed to Stryker.

“You, you of course?”
Samson said,
hands quivering.

The man laughed. “You say this for you. My name is something
you do not even know, and for you, you say I will win. You know nothing. We
know not what Clock will choose.”

“What, what are you... what do you want?” Samson asked.

“We want peace,” he said. The bundle on the floor began to
squirm and make noise again. “We want them to stop fighting us. They try to
control Clock so that they have power. When Clock runs out, we want peace. This
clock holds great secret, this we know. But what that secret is, we fear must
stay hidden.” He bowed his head. “Unfortunately, this is none of business for
you. Interfere you must still. You will not be leaving today.”

Samson lowered his arms and sat back in his chair.

“What are you going to do with me?” he asked.

Rathead snapped his fingers and two of the guards stuck
their pistols in holsters and stepped up on either side of Samson—inside the
line of fire from their comrades, of course.

“Not much,” Rathead replied. “Tie up so you cause no
trouble.”

Samson closed his eyes. He was going to have to come up with
a plan, and fast.

*****

Auvek woke with a start. He had fallen asleep in the chair
behind the counter. Outside the wind howled and rain poured down so hard that
the gutters were overflowing; looking through the windows was like looking
through an angry waterfall. Then he noticed Simon.

“AHH!”
He leaped out of his seat.
Simon sat frozen next to the cash register, peering down creepily towards him,
eyes like giant bowls of milk. It was a very startling image. Auvek reached out
to poke him; he didn’t move. An automated voice sounded: “Recharge mode.
Recharge mode.”

Frowning, Auvek stood and backed away from the strange robot
monkey. Why had he gone into recharge mode sitting there? Then he noticed that
the monkey had something gripped tightly in his palm. Carefully, Auvek pried
the monkey’s fingers open and slipped a piece of paper out. A name was scrawled
across it in scritchy handwriting:
Olaf Zebigular
.

He turned to the computer and typed in the name. Only one
page appeared. He began to read:

The Lasta Clan and
Woertans Make Peace at Last

For centuries war has
raged between the members of the Lasta Clan and the Woertans. The argument, it
has been suggested, was caused by two brothers, Romis and Remilio, whose mother
had only had time to make one apple tart before an untimely comet left her body
a burning mass of flesh in the corn field. The two brothers’ inability to deal
with their powerful sorrow combined with the presence of only one tart instead
of
two,
caused them throw fists for several hours,
before accidentally dropping the tart in the flames from the comet.

That day, the brothers
vowed to never speak to one another in peace. So each took their favourite
tools and moved to opposite ends of the river. Romis Woerta Jade built more
tools, barns, and buildings. Remilio Lasta Jade farmed, keeping animals. They
traded with neighboring villages, but eventually they married and their
families grew so large that they became whole villages.

One day, Romis
discovered that his great-granddaughter Simona was secretly meeting with
Remilio’s step-great-grandson, Rodolfo. He gathered together a raiding party,
which caught the young couple together. Simona was branded and Roldolfo was
hung. Remilio retaliated by sending an invading army, who pillaged one of
Romis’s outlying homesteads.

They began to war, and
continued to war until their deaths. Their descendants continued in the same
tradition, battling year in and year out—

A loud rap broke Auvek’s concentration. He jerked back and
looked through the glass. A terrified face peered back at him.

“Please, let me in!” the voice yelled.

Auvek stood and walked to the door. He squinted. The face
behind the glass was Sauvignon Pincer, journalist.

Salve burst through the door with a gust of wind and a wall
of rain. Auvek jumped back as Salve slammed the door behind him and immediately
locked it. “Where can I hide? Where can I hide?”

“What’s wrong? Why are you here?” Auvek asked.

Salve darted behind a bookcase. He peeked out towards the
windows. He was wearing pajamas with yellow ducks drawn on them. “I did
something stupid. I followed Rathead. Then I went home. And I thought he didn’t
see me. And then someone banged on my door.”

Auvek shook his head. “Okay. Well, why did you come here?
You should go to the police.”

“I have something important to tell you.” Salve shrugged.
“And yours was the first light I saw. Can I hide here?”

“I guess so. Do you think they followed you?”

“Most likely.
Either that or they
found out I was snooping in South Pomegranate City a couple days ago.”

“Oh good grief.”
Auvek smacked his
forehead. “Are you trying to get killed? What gang were you snooping into? You know,
reporting is not the safest profession in this city.”

“Not a gang member,” Salve said, his eyes lighting up.
“Just someone who had connections with the gang once.
His
name is Arthur Zebigular.”

“Zebigular?”
Auvek frowned.
“Interesting.”

Salve stepped out from behind the bookcase and reached out
to set his notebook on the counter.

At that moment a rock smashed through the door. Shards of
glass sliced through the air and shattered into a thousand pieces when they hit
the floor. Rain began to pool as the torrential downpour considered the rock an
invitation to enter. Three men in dark face masks leaped through the window.

“Aeiiiii!”
Salve screamed.

“This way!”
Auvek shouted. He
grabbed Salve’s arm and pulled him into the back room and ran head first into
the wall. “Dammit!” He felt around in the dark.