A Taste Of Despair

By Robert E. Taylor

The Jada-Ko-Vari. A sentient, alien virus-race that infects any storage medium sufficiently large to contain them – computers, ships, even the human brain. Once inside, they control whatever they occupy completely. Their goal is simple. To eradicate humanity.
After a brush with the supposed leader of the aliens, James Hamilton and his ship-mates return to human space to find everything seemingly normal.
But normality is something Hamilton has grown wary of over the years.
Hamilton knows the aliens, if they have made it to human space, will be almost impossible to stop. Able to access any networked resource and always one-step ahead of him, the aliens are as close to omnipotent as any human god could ever wish to be.
To defeat them, he must outwit them.
But outwitting the Jada-Ko-Vari will be difficult. It appeared as if they had already wiped out one species from the galaxy – the great and powerful Humal civilization.
Against that kind of overwhelming power, what can one man hope to achieve?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert E. Taylor
• Release date: Jan 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465738271

Robert E. Taylor

Robert Taylor lives with his long-term partner just outside London, England. He has travelled widely, visiting most of Europe, much of North Africa and parts of the Middle-East. His jobs have included many diverse careers such as Bank Courier, Cinema Projectionist and even Scuba Diving Instructor. In his off time, he enjoys travel, reading, computer gaming and watching movies.

Book preview

A TASTE OF DESPAIR

by

Robert E. Taylor

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SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Robert Taylor

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Copyright © 2011 Robert Taylor

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All rights reserved.

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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities are entirely coincidental.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Writing a sequel to a book that you originally wrote twenty years previously is a surprisingly hard thing to do. Although I made notes originally about the future direction of the story, they were just notes, designed at the time to remind me of scenes I had envisaged and ideas I had concerning the characters. Twenty years later, a lot of those notes made little or no sense. The concepts and ideas they were designed to remind me of had long since fled my brain in order to make room for other, more important, matters.

When I finally got around to reworking A Breath of Hope and publishing that, even some of the things within that tale made me frown. Some of the hooks and character ideas had vanished into the mists of time as far as my memories were concerned.

In working on the sequel, twenty years on, I decided it was in my best interest to ignore a lot of the original notes and simply take the original story and extrapolate from there, without paying more than lip-service to my original, sometimes puzzling, notes.

So here you have it! The sequel, A Taste of Despair. The writing of it was a struggle but it is done at last. My initial idea was to wrap up the story in this book but, as usual, my concept of what will fit into a standard-sized novel and what I actually do manage to shoehorn in are two very different things. So there will be another book after this one. At least that one I won’t have to scratch my head over decades’ old notes to get started!

I have tried to keep the writing simple, in keeping with the idea for the original, which is to say, an easy read such as I remember from my childhood in the seventies. My hope, as always, is that people find it enjoyable and entertaining.

I hope you get some enjoyment out of this novel and please, please leave me some feedback about it. Positive or negative. I can’t get better at this if I don’t know where I’m going wrong.

Enjoy.

Robert Taylor, December 2011

PROLOGUE

The door banged open and Joel Amyson strode in, managing to look self-important even though he was not at all vital to the project.

Oh God! Here he comes! Hal Manning commented.

His coworker on the late shift, Dane O’Connell, rolled his eyes. Just what we needed. I told you not to call him!

It’s protocol! I had to.

Amyson strode over to the pair at the monitoring station.

So. What have we got? When did it start? His tone suggested he was in charge, but both the other men knew he survived at the project mostly because of his family connections.

Hal and Dane exchanged glances. Both men were in their thirties, accomplished professionals. To have the likes of Amyson ordering them around had always grated on their nerves.

It started about ten minutes ago. Hal told him. A massive data stream from out of nowhere, aimed specifically at the Tachyon array.

Amyson frowned. Aimed specifically here? Not a general broadcast?

Nope. Dane replied. It’s about as narrow a beam as you can get, considering the source.

The source? Where is it coming from?

Here. Hal pulled up an image on his display. A flashing point indicated the transmission’s source.

Where is that? Amyson demanded. Who, or what is sending it?

Hal and Dane exchanged glances again.

We think it’s from Mr. Vogerian. Hal said.

Amyson looked surprised. The project’s founder? How? I don’t understand. Explain that, please.

Hal sighed. When Mr. Vogerian funded the Tachyon Listening Post Project, he set one stipulation. That we incorporate into the hardware a specific set of recognition codes that would allow him, or his agents, to transmit to the array if needs be.

Why would he do that? Amyson asked, then. Why wasn’t I told about this?

Because you are a nobody. Hal thought.

Everyone assumed it was a standard backdoor access deal. Dane answered. The sort of thing that would let him access the servers if he felt we were shafting him, or misusing his investment. It’s fairly common practice these days.

You weren’t told because you didn’t need to know about it. Hal stated.

Amyson bridled. As one of the project coordinators I should be informed about everything concerned with project!

Like you’d understand any of it. Hal thought. But he said. We understand you have many more important things to concern yourself with than some old access code that was never likely to be used.

Amyson looked slightly less irritated. Be that as it may, I should still be kept informed on matters that could lead to improper use of the project.

Which is why you’re here, now, isn’t it? Hal told him bluntly.

Amyson scowled at Hal. So what is this transmission. Is it from Mr. Vogerian? Or just someone using his code?

We have no idea. The source is far off, beyond the rim and then some. Maybe Mr. Vogerian sent an expedition out there. He was into exploration, as I recall. Dane replied.

But what is he sending? Any ideas?

Hal shrugged. The files are locked until transmission is complete. At least, that’s as much as we have been able to glean so far.

Files? The transmission is separate files?

Dane nodded. Yep. Like packets of information. Over a hundred now. Each file is huge, almost a petabyte in size. And they are encrypted in some way, so the final file size may be even larger.

Do we have the capacity to store that much information?

Hal sighed. For now. But it depends how long this transmission continues for. If it goes on for another twenty minutes or so, we’ll have maxed out the server capacity we have.

What about the data we’ve already collected from the array? Is that secure?

Dane nodded. The data regularly gets backed up to a remote site. We won’t lose that.

Hal could see Amyson’s discomfort. What do you think we should do?

Amyson opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and closed his mouth again.

He has no idea. Hal noted. No idea at all.

Amyson’s discomfort was saved by an attention-seeking bleat from Hal’s display. All the men turned to look at it.

It’s stopped. Dane observed. The signal’s stopped.

See if you can open one of the files. Amyson suggested.

Hal nodded, for once not irritated by Amyson. After working his terminal for a few moments he looked back at the others.

It looks like one of the files is unencrypting itself. It’s expanding out, nearly two petabytes now. But for some reason I can’t get a look at the file itself. It’s sealed itself off somehow, created a secure memory sector.

Could it be some sort of viral attack?

Dane frowned. Possibly.

A set of beeps now came seemingly from Amyson himself. Hal and Dane turned to look at him suspiciously.

My comms unit. He explained, pulling out a small, personal communicator. It was a standard, project-issued unit, as given to each employee working at the array. He glanced at the screen.

It’s from the Project Director, He told them. He wishes to speak to me privately in the secure comms booth.

Both men looked surprised. The Director hadn’t been seen or heard from in weeks.

It can’t be a coincidence. Dane noted. For the Director to call now, at this moment. Maybe he knows something about the transmission?

Amyson nodded. You two carry on. I’ll be back shortly.

Hal and Dane watched as he left the room, heading to the secure comms booth. That particular place was a matter of speculation for most of the employees of the project. Only those of Coordinator grade or higher had been issued with passes to use the room. For the rest of the staff, it was off limits.

What an asshole! Hal observed as the door closed behind Amyson.

Dane nodded in agreement, then turned back to the display. The self-extracting file had finished extracting and now just sat there, in its own little private memory island. The other files remained locked and encrypted. There were nearly two hundred of them.

Look at that. Dane noted. The last file to transmit didn’t finish. It got cut off half-way through.

The two men looked at one another. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Hal asked.

Way ahead of you. Dane replied, punching keys rapidly.

Well? Hal inquired.

The analysis takes time. Dane reminded him. But we can at least get a look at it. The partial file’s encryption wasn’t complete. We’ll get some idea of what information is within. Just let it run.

The two men waited for a minute, then two. At last, the console beeped its readiness and began to display its findings.

The two men stared in rapt fascination, devouring the visual graphic with something akin to awe. They were so involved that, when the door opened behind them and Amyson returned they barely acknowledged his presence.

What is it, gentlemen? Amyson asked from just behind them.

I don’t know. Hal admitted, without looking around. It’s beautiful, though.

Dane nodded. I’ll tell you what it looks like to me. It looks like a network map, maybe a brain patterning scan, or neural network.

Very good. Amyson said. Of course, this display and your analysis software are not capable of rendering a true representation of it. It’s sad that it is not complete. Still, plenty more where he came from, as the saying goes.

He? Hal looked round now and gasped.

Dane followed his companion’s lead and turned.

Amyson stood a couple of feet behind them, dressed as before. He held some sort of weapon in his left hand. Dane thought it looked like some sort of riot stunner.

What the… Hal began. He never got to finish the sentence. The stunner discharged and he was flung back against the console with sufficient violence that his head cracked the display panel.

Dane lifted his hands slowly in surrender. What’s this all about Amyson? Why’d you shoot Hal? Whatever he’d used on Hal, it was no stunner.

Amyson smiled. It’s about the strong dominating the weak. Natural order, and all that sort of thing. You’ll make a passable candidate. As for your fellow, this one had a natural dislike of him. I saw no reason to ignore such a dislike. He won’t be a part of the solution.

Dane swallowed heavily. Solution? What solution, Amyson?

Amyson smiled. The solution that sees these, He gestured at Hal. Fleshy sacks of organic filth replaced with something purer. Something better.

Dane looked frightened.

Oh, and stop calling me Amyson. Amyson said.

What should I call you? Dane said.

Amyson smiled again. A shallow, humorless smile that caused a shiver to run down Dane’s spine.

I’ve grown rather fond of the name Walsh.

CHAPTER ONE

The Imperial customs cutter Ulysses hung several light-seconds away from the derelict ship. The glow from its main engines was a subdued orange, the powerful thrusters barely making any effort to keep up with the sluggish ship. At need they could propel the cutter at a far greater acceleration than most vessels could manage. Running down smugglers and catching pirates were part and parcel of its design philosophy and the Imperial coffers hadn’t stinted where construction costs were concerned.

Today, however, looked to be a boring mission.

The old freighter they’d been tasked to intercept had entered the Glendara star system at the extreme edge of the system’s sensor range. That was a long way out. Way beyond the farthest planet. Not only that, but it had emerged from hyperspace with such slowness that even the powerful sensors available to the core world of Timoran had barely registered its arrival.

Then it had refused to respond to hails, except to alter its course to head at an angle that would lead it nowhere in particular within the system, eventually to head out back into the depths of space.

It was all very suspicious.

Naturally, those charged with the protection of the citizens of Glendara were concerned. The ship’s activities suggested smugglers or other criminals trying to avoid notice and make an illicit rendezvous in deep space.

Accordingly, the Ulysses was given the order to investigate at once.

Normally, intercepting a ship at such extreme distance, even to a ship with engines as powerful as the Ulysses had, would have been impractical. Long before they could reach the vessel it would have time to react, fleeing or head out to a hyperspace jump point. Such a long range intercept was a waste of fuel and time.

However, the last few years had seen such vessels as the Ulysses outfitted with an upgrade to their hyperdrives. The drive unit was now capable of generating a micro-jump, likened by its inventors as squeezing a wet bar of soap in your hand and having it squirt free. This burst of energy lasted only a second or less, but gave the ship the ability to jump across systems in the blink of an eye. It had been nicknamed the Skip Drive. Piracy was no longer a matter of keeping ahead of the authorities, since the authorities could be right on you in an instant.

So the Ulysses had left Timoran’s huge orbital hub, Tantalus Station, and leapt across system with the speed and eagerness of a cat pouncing on a mouse.

Except. Captain Donard Rames, thought. This was more of an elephant than a mouse.

The vessel they had found out-massed them by a considerable factor. Had it been a heavily armed pirate vessel, they might well have met their match. Though the Ulysses was well equipped to deal with belligerent criminals, it was less than a quarter the size of the big freighter they had encountered.

The vessel was what was often referred to as a tug-hauler. A tractor unit at the front, pulling its cargo load behind it. In this case the tractor unit was mostly engines. Three of them, arranged at one hundred and twenty degree intervals around a ludicrously tiny crew module. The cargo section was a long thin spine to which were coupled three, equally long and enormous freight modules.

The design was archaic and Rames had concluded that the vessel was an old relic of the early days of space-flight. He wondered whether the modules had gravity plating. Back in the early days of colonization the exotic materials that allowed gravity generation were terribly expensive. Modern manufacturing techniques had remedied that and now everyone had gravity plating. But even so, if the modules on this freighter had even residual gravity then the modules themselves would have been an astronomical cost to manufacture back then.

The freighter appeared to be a derelict. In addition to the total lack of comms traffic, tactical was informing him it was completely unarmed and had minimal life-support aboard.

Someone had an accident with their hyperdrive. Rames thought.

It was the most likely explanation for the freighter’s distant and slow emergence into Glendara space. An accident, malfunctioned drive, or some other mishap. That the ship had emerged from hyperspace at all was remarkable enough. Hyperspace accidents usually left the ship trapped within the hyper-realm, or smashed into sub-atomic particles and strewn across half a light-year of normal space.

Rames was old enough, though, to have heard of cases where the ship had escaped from hyperspace, but its crew had been less fortunate. The entry and exit from hyperspace exposed the vessel to radiation and odd dimensional effects that Rames didn’t even pretend to understand. But he’d heard the tales. People smeared like jam around the inside of their vessel, others half embedded in bulkheads and machinery. One report even had two people fused together into one, like some kind of reversed conjoined twin operation. Rumor even said, though he imagined this to be total star-myth, that the pair had even survived, at least for a time.

Either way, he was glad that it wasn’t him that had to go aboard and poke around. He had marines for that.

Glancing around the small bridge he spotted Grimes, his exo, at the shoulder of the sensor suite operator, Tyson.

Anything number one? He asked.

Grimes shook his head, peering uncertainly over Tyson shoulder at the display. Nothing concrete. There are faint life-signs, perhaps indicative of people in cryo-capsules. But the readings are fluctuating a little, they’re not steady.

Cryo-capsules generally send a signal if they detect comms traffic, though. Might be just glitches. Tyson added, helpfully.

No more word on an ID? Rames inquired, turning to his second officer, Michaels.

Michaels shook his head, peering at a console of his own. Nothing yet. No transponder code, though. The database isn’t all that large. There should be something listed, but so far nada.

Something prickled at the back of his mind, something about the ship scratched at his brain. Like he had seen it before….somewhere. But the information wouldn’t reveal itself, either to his mind’s eye, or Michaels’ electronic inquiries.

Check right back to the start of the database. Whatever this is, it’s been out here a long time, by the looks of it.

Michaels nodded and fiddled with his console some more.

Rames drew a deep breath, visions of two people fused together and frozen in a tube springing unwanted into his head. Very well. Send the marines in.

Grimes nodded and began issuing the order.

*****

Major Miko Harvan waited patiently as the lock cycled, allowing the access to the derelict. His armored space-suit was a dull green color, save for a flash of bright yellow where his rank insignia sat on his arm.

He stood at the front of his seven man squad, as always.

Lead from the front. His old man had always advised him. The men will respect you for it.

Miko wasn’t sure about that last bit. But being at the pointy-end was where his natural inclination told him to be. He hefted his standard issue stun pistol as the door began to open. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but for boarding actions it served well, with enough power to take down lightly armored foes, but not able to drill a hole through the hull or damage equipment. Not that lack of atmosphere would bother either him or his men. The suits saw to that. But it was a standard tactical doctrine adopted when man first felt the need to carry firearms of any sort into space. Only a complete idiot would field something capable of causing a hull breach.

The door slid open rather hesitantly. Miko knew the derelict had very little power at the moment, but the lock mechanism had drawn its power from the Ulysses via the umbilical tunnel they had crossed through.

Odd. The mechanism is either damaged or very old. He thought.

Miko stepped through into the ship’s main corridor. The power feed from the Ulysses gave them minimal gravity. Enough to keep them on the floor, but not enough that you’d want to go doing acrobatics in it. To the right, he knew, lay the freighter’s bridge, tiny and cramped, more of a cockpit, really. Lining the corridor in which he stood were the crew quarters, toilet facilities and rec area/galley. To the left was the engine room.

That was all there was to the main habitation section. The bare minimum.

Silently, he motioned his men to split up and search the tractor section of the freighter. He could have just told them, via the suit radios, but he liked to practice non-verbal commands. You never knew when it might come in handy.

In truth, there were too many of them for the cramped ship. As they set about searching, they got in each other’s way, which was not to his liking.

The larger of the cabins had seen quite a bit of use, much more so than the rest. Likewise the galley was heavily abused, meal-wrappers strewn everywhere. All of it was ancient looking stuff, as if whoever had used it last had not used it for years.

The search did not take long. It was a small space, after all. No signs of life.

Miko formally relayed the findings back to the Ulysses. They already knew everything he told them, but it was procedure. They were, no doubt, following every step via video link.

Move through and check the cargo modules. Rames told them over the radio.

Miko acknowledged the order and gestured to his men. They made their way aft towards the hatch to the cargo spine.

The artificial gravity in the spine was as weak as it was in the rest of the ship, but the circular corridor which was the spine had gravity plating around its entire circumference, allowing a person to simply walk up the curved sides of the spine and seemingly stand on the ceiling. The reason for this were the three large elevator plates sat at equidistant points around the tunnel circumference. The elevators were designed to take their passengers safely down to the bottom of each cargo module. Up and down, top and bottom, it was all relative in space.

Miko split his men into two pairs and a group of three, and then joined one of the pairs at random. The elevators operated obediently at their touch and soon the three teams were each heading down to the bottom of a cargo module.

When the elevator doors opened, Miko and his two companions were surprised by what they saw.

The module was vast by modern standards. At least one hundred meters long, thirty across and twenty high. It was like a warehouse.

A warehouse packed with goods. Miko thought.

Shipping containers, chests and boxes of every conceivable size and shape filled the space almost from roof to ceiling. A catwalk ran around the edge of the module, ten meters up, with a cross-walk reaching from one side of the module to the other every twenty meters along the length of the structure.

There has to be thousands of tons of goods here. Miko realized in awe. And there are two other modules just like it!

It was the immediate foreground, though, which caught the attention of the three Marines. The area around the elevator had been turned into a makeshift living area complete with tables, chairs, beds and a kitchen area. Free-standing partitions helped to separate areas and beds and give an illusion of privacy. Judging from the number of beds, at least ten people had made this place a temporary home.

Had there been stowaways aboard? Miko wondered. Or had the freighter taken on passengers for a little extra money?

Spread out. He told his two men. Take a look around. See if you can find the people that were here.

They nodded and got on with it. He didn’t have to add that they’d likely find corpses. The life support in the module was currently at a minimum. No one could survive in it for long without a suit. Minutes at best. His men weren’t fools.

The residual gravity was present here, too, making the search that much easier. He noted with amusement what appeared to be a decontamination booth that seemed to have been converted into a shower unit.

He checked in with the other two teams. They had found similarly full modules, but no trace of passengers or crew so far. There were certainly no signs of makeshift camps in the other two modules.

Looks like we got the short straw, then. Miko observed as he wandered about the camp.

There were some personal effects scattered about. Clothes for the most part and here and there an info pad lay where it had been discarded. On the whole, though, the area was devoid of personal touches.

Sir! Over here! We’ve found them!

Miko checked his HUD, locating the caller’s position, then hurried over.

This is the bit I wasn’t looking forward to. He reminded himself; visions of bodies smeared like jam filled his mind’s eye.

The caller was Alvin, young and impressionable, on his first tour about the Ulysses. The Marine was about half-way down on the right-hand side of the cargo module. Here, the makers of the camp had cleared another space.

In contrast to the sprawling nature of the camp, this area was utilitarian and business-like. Three rows of four cryo-tubes arranged in an area perhaps twenty feet square.

Miko was no expert, but the tubes looked old to him. Not old as in been there for years, but more that they were an old design. Obsolete. Primitive.

Despite their apparent obsolescence, eleven of the tubes were operational, green lights flickering to show their stable state. The twelfth tube, though, glowed with a baleful red, emergency state.

What have we got here. Miko muttered. Without thinking he moved to join Alvin at the malfunctioning tube.

Looks like the power cell on this one was faulty. Alvin told him. According to the log, power failed completely about four years ago. The occupant is long dead.

Miko glanced at the display panel on the side of the tube. There was power to the electronics, but the screen showed the main chiller cell had drained years before. With no power to keep the body cooled, the flesh had warmed up and simply rotted away inside the tube. It was doubtful the occupant had ever known anything about it.

Don’t you dare open that! Miko warned Alvin. The young Marine had a tendency to meddle. They might be in suits, but he didn’t want to see what was left of the poor soul inside particularly. He’d not long had breakfast.

I won’t. Alvin agreed.

Miko scowled inside his helmet. How come the automated systems didn’t revive the body when the power began to fail? Was the cell failure that fast?

Alvin shook his head. Looks like someone over-rode the safeties. They set a specific time for this guy to reanimate. A time years back, not long after he went into the freezer. But, the cell failed before then. No safeties equals no safety.

Why would anyone do that? That’s crazy.

Alvin shrugged. Civvies. They do dumb-ass shit like that.

Miko frowned. The young Marine’s dismissal was too convenient. There had no doubt been a reason why the failed coffin had been set the way it had. But figuring it out was above his pay-grade.

He called in to the Ulysses and asked for further instructions.

*****

On the cutter’s bridge, Rames had followed the Marines progress through the ship and cargo modules. The discovery of the still living bodies complicated his life. A derelict was one thing. A ship with cryo-frozen people on board was a headache. He could see the paperwork mounting up higher with each passing second. Major Harvan was asking for further orders.

Grimes! I want Anderton and Fuller suited up and over there asap!

The exo nodded and began speaking into his wristcomm. Anderton and Fuller were the cutter’s medical staff. Mostly they dealt with injuries inflicted through clumsiness, but occasionally a boarding action would provide a little excitement for them in the form of bullet wounds or knife cuts. This would be right up their alley.

"Harvan! I’m sending Anderton and Fuller to you. Get a couple of men to escort them to the capsules. And see if you can get some power on in there. Ulysses can’t sustain this big a power drain for long."

The cutter was providing as much power to the big freighter as it could spare through the umbilical. But the freighter was old and tired and sucked greedily at the teat of its smaller companion. The sooner they got the vessels own generators going, the better.

Sir! I think I’ve got something. But you’re not going to believe it! Michaels voice was full of disbelief.

Rames turned to him. What is it?

Michaels frowned at his display. I was getting nothing through the ship recognition database, and the ID number on the hull was coming up as unknown, which is weird. But I fed in some of the shipping numbers on the crates the Marines have been passing. I got something.

Well? Rames demanded. Michaels liked to build up suspense, apparently.

It’s a container from a company called TerraPharm Inc. A medical equipment supplier that went out of business nearly thirty years ago. But you know, we are a customs vessel, after all. Our database of lost and stolen merchandise is vast. Turns out this particular shipment was logged as lost over fifty years ago. It’s listed as being bound for the colony on Alpha Centauri.

Rames scowled at his second. Alpha Centauri? That can hardly be called a colony. Must be several million people there.

Michaels nodded. Absolutely! But fifty years ago it was a colony, just a few thousand inhabitants. The major exodus hadn’t started from Earth yet.

Okay. Thanks for the history lesson. But get to the point!

Sure! Michaels agreed, noticing his Captain’s increasing irritation. "The thing is, the manifest lists the container as lost, along with the transport vessel, the Morebaeus."

And there it was. The name that had been prickling at Rames’ brain all along. The Morebaeus!

Every one of his age had heard the story. The first big freighter from Earth to do a supply run to a fledgling colony. It all came back to Rames now. Childhood history lessons in school. The ship had vanished without trace on its maiden voyage, loaded down with goods for the new colony.

Why the Hell didn’t I remember that?

Rames frowned. He wasn’t that old that he could forget something so easily, even if it was a childhood memory.

Not a memory. He reminded himself. An infatuation.

As a boy, he had heard the story and become completely obsessed with it. It was all there now. Clear and vivid, every detail. He’d even written an imaginative story explaining what had happened to the crew.

Aliens and monsters! He thought with a grin. He could even remember all the details of the tale. The characters, the plot, the works.

Sir? Michaels had noticed the distant look on his Captain’s face.

Rames nodded. I’m just remembering the stories.

Stories?

"About the Morebaeus. How it disappeared. Why? That sort of thing."

Michaels frowned. I’ve never heard of it.

It was Rames’ turn to