Stargazers: "Troy Station"

Troy Station: 

Asimov sits alone in the darkness of Troy Station.  A window running the length of his room is all that separates him from the endless vacuum of space.  Stars, near and far, glitter like diamonds, drifting gracefully as the station spirals.  He drinks in the darkness, taking delicate sips of red wine.  A glossy black desk behind him captures the dim light of the stars, their light appearing in its in distorted reflections.  He turns and presses a button underneath the desk, and a screen rises from another part of it.

The holographic screen casts a blue light.  It illuminates his form as he examines the images projected on its surface.  Pictures and profiles of Arthur, of Chastity, of the Naphtali and the Dinah and the coverage of the Battle of Canaan are displayed.  They are meticulously detailed, showing restricted military reports, casualty lists on both sides, and all known information on both the Lady and the Guides are large.  His door buzzes, and he sets his cabernet down and the desk molds, shifting and forming around the base to hold it in place.

Pressing another button beside the first, he opens the door on the far wall.  The wall folds open, sliding sideways and casting a faint light from the exterior hall into the room.  Lancelot enters obscured by hard shadows.  The door closes, and he appears in finer detail in the shadows.  He moves slowly, as if uncomfortable with his body.  Most of him has been reconstructed, steel grafted to flesh, wires latched to nerves.  A carapace has been constructed to protect exposed wires, but he is not wearing it right now.

He stops with military precision at the other side of Asimov’s desk.  Folding his arms behind his back, he stands straight.  His left eye glows a faint red in the darkness of the room.  “Sir, I have been given leave by the medical staff and am ready for duty.”

“Physically,” says Asimov, glancing Lancelot over.  He sees scar tissue and steel.  He fixes his own faintly glowing eyes on Lancelot’s.  “But how are you emotionally?”

Lancelot frowns visibly in the darkness, and Asimov grins.

“Either way, we have time to rest.”  He leans back and sideways, resting his face on his balled fist in a languid display of comfort.  “She didn’t mean to, but she helped us all along, the Lady.”

Lancelot’s brow knits.  “Sir?”

“She set everything into motion, Lancelot.”  Asimov stares at the chess board on his desk, and pauses to move one physical ivory piece.  He takes none of the black holographic pieces that his opponent plays, but he is beginning to see the game, and he is moving himself into position to check the king.  Afterwards, he turns in his chair to stare out at the stars.  He recognizes them all, and they have been his companions across multiple lifetimes.  “Soon, very soon, everything will change.”

 

Part 1

End