Pure Power

By D K Dewey

Pures live among us. Their lives span centuries to millennia, resilient and resistant to injury and disease. They can “skip” ahead through time, decades at a leap, continuing their lives when they revive.
A potent evil which could devastate humanity is accidentally resurrected. An ancient and evil Pure who was once King William the Bastard, conqueror of England, intends to unleash that horror on the world. It will not affect him, but it will ravage the lives of nearly everyone else on earth. Now known as a contemporary businessman, he has centuries of knowledge, wealth, and power to call on, and he intends to use it to kill any Pures in his path, as he wreaks havoc on Normals.
Some Pures view us “Normals” as less than them. Across the globe, from an oceanic recovery endeavor to an arid desert treasure hunt, a group of them struggle for their very lives, and for the future of humanity.
In the Orient, the son of a Warlord who lived hundreds of years ago opposes the plans of both groups of Pures. Nobody knows his intent or his full capabilities.
Some of the Pures involved in the conflict include Maximus, the best of the soldiers of Ancient Rome. The Apache war leader, Geronimo, historically reputed to be all but unkillable, expert with the bow and the blade, is still alive and living in New York. They team up with a woman whose more recent life was almost taken from her in the Salem Witch Trials, a Spaniard some 300 years old, a 900 year old English prince, and Gheret, a man whose beginning is buried in antiquity—the oldest sentient being on the planet. His own son, An’Kahar, by his Inuit wife long ago, works with him toward the survival of humanity.
Their origins can be found in the First Book of the Pure. This sequel continues the stories of those Pures, and may easily be read as a stand-alone novel. It brings them together and pits them against insurmountable odds. It shows long lives both bitter and sweet, and intricately tied to lives lived by us, the Normals of this world.
Share their adventures as they face enemies on every front, as they deal with the blessing and curse of their longevity, and as they clash in a no-holds-bared titanic struggle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D K Dewey
• Release date: Aug 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310399732

D K Dewey

D K DEWEY’S joys and passions include writing, teaching, and people. He sees the stories of peoples’ lives as so uniquely different as to make them small, localized masterpieces. To really know someone’s story is to know that person. He has enjoyed relationships both close and casual, and feels enriched by the lives of others.His love for science fiction is a lifelong passion. As a boy he traveled with Edgar Rice Burroughs, Robert Heinlein, C.S. Lewis, Isaac Asimov and many others, in many adventures. In more recent years the list of authors he enjoys has multiplied, including C.J. Cherryh, Anne McCaffrey, James Rollins, A.G. Riddle and most recently, R.D. Brady. There are so many wonderful authors who contributed to his imagination and style that they cannot be listed here.To you who read, keep reading, and let your mind soar!

Book preview

Chapter 1

Partners

Detective David Lacy lay as still as a corpse in the morgue at midnight except for the fact that he was still breathing. He was very close to becoming said corpse, with a hole in his right kidney and an inadequately repaired puncture in his pericardium. His wound was critical, so he was in the ICU, tubes running from a central machine to every orifice on his body. He looked, at first glance, like something from a science fiction movie, skin as pale as a child’s school paste. Even the rasping pulse of the breathing machine gave the room a sense of darkness and brooding.

Two bullets at close range had laid out the law enforcement officer of twenty-five years. His partner of the past fourteen, Detective Gerard Goyette, was sitting in the too quiet room, listening to his friend’s shallow breathing. As he sat in the stillness he could hear his own heart beating. He was a hard, fit, six-foot-two gumshoe, as he liked to call himself. He had a fine career with the NYPD except for some reprimands for taking too many chances. His immediate boss had some trouble with Gerard’s hair too, but usually, as now, it was held back in a ponytail. He had a sculptured face with lightly shaded skin and ebony black hair. Ah Dave, it should have been me, thought Gerard Goyette, calm as a department store manikin on the outside, but aching inside.

Dave stirred and opened his eyes marginally. Two nurses came in at that moment to remove the ventilator tube from his throat. Removing it was gruesome to watch, and tended to trigger a gag reflex in Gerard. It was painful for Dave, but he could at least talk after that, though with difficulty. He blinked at Gerard, which encouraged his friend to come closer. Dave had to struggle to talk, but he would not be silenced by Gerard’s concern. Hey partner, don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault. You know that, right?

I do. He knew that was what Dave wanted to hear. But I’d have gladly taken those hits for you. You have to know that. I tried. His voice caught and it was obviously a struggle for him to get that much out.

All Dave could muster was a hoarse whisper. Nah. We pays our money and we takes our chances. He almost managed a smile as he usually did when he spoke in odd platitudes.

Of a sudden Gerard had an overwhelming need to share some things with this friend, his partner. He was in some ways closer than family. Gerard had once had family, well, more than once, he thought to himself more honestly. But telling Dave his story would be dangerous both for himself and for Dave. It might not make a difference for Dave, since his chance of recovery was slim at best. Right now it just didn’t look very likely based on what the doctors had shared. The doctors were negative, but they wouldn’t give odds. Probably a good thing to not take odds on a cop’s life. Gerard made his decision. He quietly scooted his chair very close to Dave. Can you hear me if I talk at this level, Dave?

Dave nodded, very slightly. You can be pretty loud when you want. It was the first real smile he had tried since the shooting. It won’t bother me.

No, but having this overheard would bother me. This is very private. I need to tell you some things I should have told you a long time ago. It’s like a story, but it takes a lot of time to tell if you’re willing. But you’ve got to understand that what I’m going to tell you must forever be a secret. This must go with you to your grave some day. He immediately regretted his choice of words, since Dave seemed so close to the grave now.

Got nuthin’ but time. Go ahead. Make it good. It was obvious it would be far easier for him to listen than to speak.

Gerard thought about how to approach this, and did as anyone who knew his pattern would have expected: he made a quick decision and never looked back. He jumped in, as he did with life in general. It started a long time ago, in a place not too far away. He smiled. With that intro, he became comfortable with his decision to tell his story.

There was a man named Gheret, who lived a long time ago, he began. He was, and is, a Pure. That doesn’t mean he had what you would call pure bloodlines. It means he regenerates tissue at an impossible rate. If he’d been shot like you, he’d already be walking out of here, looking to take revenge on his attackers.

Dave moved his head to look straight at Gerard. No lie, partner. Truth?

Oh yes, this is a true story, my friend. And a long one, so let’s get you as comfortable as we can. He fluffed Dave’s pillows and eased his back into a better position. When Dave nodded to indicate he was as comfortable as he was going to get, Gerard went on.

Gheret was the first of, well, not many, but of a new kind of human. Let me start with some recent history, and explain some things.

Chapter 2

A New Old Enemy

Detective Gerard Goyette remembered Karl Schmidt’s death. He was there. He recalled it vividly and with conflicting emotions. He regretted not being the one to pull the trigger, but he was grateful Karl was dead. Everyone in his line of work had at least felt some relief at that particular death. Schmidt had been a ruthless man, although high class and seemingly unconnected with much that his organization had done during his years leading it. That same organization had been responsible for killing someone Gerard had been close to, and he had sworn vengeance, and justice. Long ago he would have just sought revenge. Now it was truly justice as well. That was over twelve years ago. While Karl had been killed, Gerard decided someone else should still pay. He studied, he interviewed, he researched, and above all he remembered. He spent much of his work time and all of his own time developing the case, and finally had a lead that could bring out the truth. Very recent changes to this old case had come up, but Gerard was still going to find out who was directly responsible. They would pay.

Now, twelve years after Karl’s death, Gerard waited patiently in the alley. Ninety minutes later Donnie the Dodger, his target, finally showed. Once having lived in the western US, and later the Deep South, Gerard could lay on an accent as thick as fleas on a dog (pronounced own a doog). Yet he could set that aside quickly and speak fluently and with an educated edge that would stand up against any university professor. He was a great cop and an accomplished linguist. Stepping out in front of Donnie he used his accent. Doanie? Ah’ve sum queastions fer yew.

Donnie’s first response was to pull out a switchblade and pop it open. Back it up, man, or I’ll cut you real bad.

The detective stepped closer and Donnie raised his knife hand, brandishing the blade like a sword. Gerard expected such a foolish action, and caught his arm above the elbow, bending it back before Donnie could use the blade. He ripped the switchblade from the young man’s hand and let him go. He flipped the knife once to gauge its weight and threw it at an old, sagging board fence twenty feet away, where it pierced through to its hilt. Jest a toy. He smiled at Donnie.

You delivert the message what killed Jenny Helvicki, Doanie boy.

With a complete change in accent and tone he continued with a grimly serious demeanor. "I need to know who you delivered it to, and now." Gerard grabbed Donnie’s jacket lapels and lifted him far enough off the ground so his grasping toes couldn’t quite touch the ground with his sneakers. Gerard’s fingers wrapped tightly in Donnie’s leather jacket, constricting his chest.

This ain’t right, man! You can’t do this, I got rights, I know my rights, you let me… The rest was cut off as Gerard jerked Donnie back to ground fast and hard and smashed his right knee into Donnie’s crotch. Donnie gasped and his eyes glazed for a minute, but he shut up.

Don’t speak until you’re ready to give me a name, got that? Just nod. Donnie nodded. If you ever want to have kids, you’d better tell me soon, because this game gets old very quickly. Got a name yet? He snarled as he brought his knee back, ready to use it again. Again Donnie gave a fast up-and-down nod.

He caught his breath as Gerard abruptly jerked him into the air again, holding him there as if he weighed nothing. Who?

DeHaan. I gave it to Mr. DeHaan. He’s a big man in the Schmidt organization. You don’t wanna mess with him! You gonna let me go now?

Sure Donnie. Gerard slammed him back to his feet so hard his teeth clicked together.

Anything else I should know, Donnie?

Mr. Schmidt’s back, and you shouldn’t ought to be treatin’ me like this.

Gerard shook Donnie hard. Karl Schmidt’s been dead twelve years, idiot!

No man, that’s what ever’body thought, but he’s back, I swear. Just walked in last week and took over again. The fear in Donnie’s eyes intensified.

He released Donnie’s jacket and smoothed out his lapels with one hand, while the other suddenly had a long, well-used knife in it. Not a word to Mr. DeHaan, right? You understand me, don’t you Donnie?

With eyes as big as saucers, Donnie nodded. Absolutely, I won’t say nothin’.

If you do, I’ll make you a promise. Gerard moved his knife in a slow, vertical motion from Donnie’s pronounced adam’s apple to his zipper and held it there. "I’ll slice you open from your neck to your groin, and you can try to hold your guts in while you die. I know, it’s illegal and morally reprehensible, but if you talk, you will die. That’s not a threat. It’s a promise. How illegal it is won’t matter to you, will it, once you’re dead?"

Donnie was wide-eyed with a mix of terror and a tiny bit of bravado still lurking under the surface. You wouldn’t.

This lanky man with a mane of loose, black hair framing his face shook his head to flip the hair from his eyes and smiled. It’s been awhile, but I’ve done it before, boy.

Donnie turned and ran from the alley like a cat with its tail on fire. Gerard’s feral smile would have shown anyone watching that he enjoyed the discomfort of this fairly minor player in a very nasty game.

***

Gerard went back to his precinct and settled in at his small metal desk across from his partner, Detective Dave Lacy. They’d been partners a long time, but Gerard thought he’d worked this so quietly that Dave had no idea he was on a vendetta against Jenny’s killer.

What’s shakin’ Ger’? New case?

No, just parts of an old one I keep picking at from time to time–bones from yesterday’s trout. Don’t worry about it.

I’m not worried, but I do think I should know what my partner’s working on, don’t you?

Gerard sighed, and decided he ought to tell Dave about it. "What is pertinent is that an old case, the murder of Jenny Helvicki, has been a burr under my saddle for a long time, and I just got a pretty good lead."

All right, let’s hear it.

With another sigh, Gerard started talking. The Schmidt organization was responsible for the hit. I know that in my heart. I’ve worked through the details on this case too many times. It had to be them. Too many details lead straight back to that organization.

Whoa now. They’re a bad bunch, but let’s not be leapin’ off any cliffs, eh?

Okay, no cliffs. But I know they did it, and now I have info that tells me who received the address where we had her hidden. Whoever got it would’ve known the safe house location. That person’s responsible for the murder of that girl and two cops.

So, you got a name?

DeHaan–he works for the Schmidt organization. I came back to the office to track him down and find out what I can about how he fits in.

Ok. Let me make a couple of calls to Vice and see what they’ve got. Since you’re keeping this quiet, I assume you haven’t done that. Dave spoke with enough lilt in his voice to make it a question.

No, and I’m not real sure I want to now either.

They don’t have to know specifics. I’ll just get what info they’re willing to give. It might not help much.

Their conversation was interrupted as a big man was loudly hustled through the bullpen by two officers. Keep movin’, Moron! In response the man in cuffs turned and head butted one of his two escorts. Both men went down, cursing and yelling. The second escorting officer tried to help his partner, but couldn’t get close enough. As the two men rolled close to Gerard and Dave, Gerard kicked the perp in the back of the head. Still cursing, the officer stood and looked at the unconscious man on the floor, then at Gerard. How ‘bout that? He bumped his head. With a nod to Gerard, he and his partner dragged their charge away.

Gerard fixed Dave with a stare. Ok. Be careful calling Vice.

Gerard considered starting his research online, which could be so much faster than researching had once been. Using the Cop-House phone line to connect could take forever, and then everything was slow as cool mud. No, he just pulled some files and started going through them.

Dave started working the phones. A little checking and a few phone calls later, six hours had passed. Nothing was easy, and nothing good seemed to happen with any real speed.

Lots of dirt on Schmidt, but nothing that’ll stick, so nobody’s pursued it in the courts. That ol’ boy’s been dead for over a decade. You know that, right? And yeah, this Jenny Helvicki case seems to rest right on that organization, but again, it’s all Teflon coated.

"I’m aware that Karl Schmidt was dead, but the organization still exists."

"Whoa there, Sport. What do you mean by, ‘was dead’?"

"I have it on good authority that Karl walked back into his headquarters last week and took control. He was dead, but he seems to have recovered."

"Then he wasn’t dead, Gerard. C’mon, don’t go spooky on me now. If he was dead, he is dead. I understand it’s a pretty permanent thing."

"Okay then, he seemed to have been dead." He stretched out the word seemed. Better with that?

Some. So how’s your lead going?

Gerard seemed anxious to leave that line of questioning behind and move on. Mr. Jack DeHaan is technically an accountant for them, but it doesn’t look like he actually attended a college or trade school for accounting. I know that isn’t too conclusive, but I suspect he does something else entirely for them.

Why don’t we go ask this DeHaan character a few questions, and see where he falls in all this crapola. Dave stood to get his hat, an Indiana Jones kind of hat that would have fit in nicely in the early 1940s.

Thanks, partner. Let’s do that. I'll talk with DeHaan, and you run down anything else we have on Schmidt. We can compare notes tomorrow.

Don’t think so Gerard. We’re going together. Let’s go see Mr. DeHaan.

Chapter 3

More Info

Shifting back to the present, in the dimly lit, now quiet hospital room, Gerard locked eyes with Dave. But we never did go see Mr. DeHaan together, did we Dave?

Dave had to whisper. No. Funny thing about that. You kept distracting me, and we never got to it. But I know all that—most of it anyways.

I know my friend, but you’ll see it all differently as I go along. Have patience and let me explain some things. You need to know about some other people too. Some of the people in this story are pretty old.

Dave’s whisper was hoarse. Old is okay. I’m gettin’ there too.

But not old like they are. All right, there’s this man named Gheret. He’s the oldest man alive I think. It’s hard to say, because people this old hide it from everyone.

Dave’s eyebrows went up.

Well, it's impossible to hide completely, but they’re quite good at it. They all look like they’re thirty something, or even younger. But they’re way older. Gheret was born back when people were more savage than today, and could barely speak to each other. As most people gauge time, Gheret is ancient. Seeing Dave’s raised eyebrow again, he continued. The world isn’t as old as you might think, Dave. Be that as it may, he’s pretty old. He’s lived many lifetimes, in many identities. He’s skipped through some periods of time, because that’s also a talent these Pures have. They can kind of suspend themselves, and revive many years later, still young in body. He’d stopped for a large coffee on his way in, and now Dave’s eyes focused on it like iron shavings to a magnet. You know I’d share this with you if you could have any yet.

Gerard settled back in and took most of the day giving a synopsis of what Karl Schmidt had shared with Kenneth, the young reporter he’d kidnapped. (See The First Book of the Pure.) He spoke of Maximus Palamos from ancient Rome, a soldier and later a philosopher, still alive and fighting.

Mary Parker, now called Ruby, condemned to death at the Salem witch trials; not hung, not dead, and certainly older than her 1692 identity would indicate.

Robert Dunning, born to royalty, but despising his father’s brutality and greed, made a life with his business partner and close friend, Maximus Palamos. The ancient Roman and Robert had shared many eras of their lives together, but not all. He called Maximus uncle.

Geronimo, an Apache, one of Gerard’s own people, reported to be unkillable in the old west, and still alive and cheating death.

He spoke of Karl Schmidt, which caught Dave’s full attention. He was evil incarnate, seeking nothing with his vast wealth and experience but his own gain.

From there Gerard kept talking with more current information. So, this Gheret had kids, and maybe others of them have children too. I just don’t know enough about them yet. But I will. He began weaving what seemed a legend, a fantasy beyond belief–yet from fourteen years experience Dave knew his partner had never lied to him, and always had his back. So Dave listened to him weave this wild tale of the ages and bring it together in his own brief lifetime.

Chapter 4

The North Sea

Gheret stood on the deck of his ship, feeling the stiff breeze and tasting the tang of the salty air. He had the ability to make himself live in the moment. He didn’t think of his vast enterprises, his distant past, his incredible journey from then until now, passing through many centuries of human struggles—sometimes as a tourist, watching, and sometimes living them with passion. Today he was an explorer, and he was focused on that.

In the primitive tribal system in which Gheret originated, people lived a day at a time, and there were no records of anything. Nobody kept track of offspring except the women who nursed their children. Even they often had no idea who the father was for any given child. Gheret had no knowledge of his own parents. Nor did Gheret know how many children he happened to help conceive. He undoubtedly had some, but hadn’t been interested, didn’t know, or simply hadn’t cared at all back then.

He skipped by kind of sleeping for a long time. Usually it was from two to seven decades, or thereabouts. When he revived, he moved around until he settled in an Inuit village in northern Alaska. He had kids there too, but this time in a family unit: three sons. One of them, An’Kahar, killed his older brother on a hunting trip. Then Gheret was caught in an avalanche and was assumed dead. Actually Gheret thought he was dead too, but then he revived. At that point he had to face the fact that he was still alive. Another of his sons lived a normal life and then died. His wife had died in the ordinary course of time. When he revived this time, a very long time had passed, presumably more than usual because of the frozen conditions in which he had skipped. He moved through other identities until now, in 1991, he was Gheret McStieve, wealthy businessman and near recluse. Until recently he’d been unaware of any other children he might have fathered along the way.

But now, in this lifetime, Gheret had reconnected with An’Kahar, his only known surviving son, from his Inuit family. They were both very old, but physically young and vital. They could have passed as brothers, instead of father and son. They, and An’Kahar’s lover, Ruby, had grown close. Gheret set up an Ark of Recovery company, which, on the surface, was in the business of finding lost treasures: sunken ships and the like. In reality it had a dual crew. Most were sailors and scientists looking for sunken treasure. A very few knew of Gheret’s real nature, and were ever on the alert for signs of other Pures. They had plenty of competition from other companies seeking treasure laden vessels lost during the centuries.

Gheret made his son, An’Kahar, an offer. I’m going to spend a few weeks on the Ark. Why don’t you join me, take a break from work.

Ruby and I are pretty involved in a project right now. It would be tough to break off and get away. Another time and I’d love to. Be careful out there. I understand the competition can be deadly.

Gheret laughed out loud. I’m a cautious guy, son, and nobody else even remembers the vessel we’re looking for this time. We’ll be all alone. Gheret had a bit of an advantage. Given his long history, he had very specific knowledge of some vessels. He had seen them, or heard of their loss immediately after their last voyage. They had found one such ship: a Spanish galleon transporting gold in every size and shape to Spain from the New World. Gheret had known of its uncompleted voyage, and the route it had taken. He used his own history and knowledge along with some very sophisticated equipment to track it down. After three years he’d found both it and the fortune on board.

Perhaps because of the tenacity which was such a strong part of his life, or just because he enjoyed a challenge, Gheret joined the crew for this part of the adventure. They were on the trail of a Portuguese vessel. Gheret remembered it well. He had been part of the crew on a previous voyage. The area they were searching was in the North Sea near the coast of Denmark. He remembered that the captain of the Valkyrie had loaded a secret cargo to take to the King of Sweden. There was intrigue in the air as the expedition was readied. Gheret had a very healthy curiosity, and checked in various ways to see what the mystery was all about. He found it had been a treasure of gemstones: chests filled with gold coins and polished jewels. He never found out why it was headed for Sweden, so he let it go and stayed away from what seemed to be, though secretive, just a trade mission of some kind.

Later Gheret heard of the demise of the ship near the coast of Denmark, sunk by a storm. He had climatologists research old weather patterns and storms of historical interest. He found one that corresponded with the loss of the Valkyrie. Based on that he charted the best course for the ship and determined where that course intersected the storm. It was all approximate, but his team had been searching for two years, and now they were ready to push hard and finish the search. The excitement on their vessel was palpable as they came close to their goal.

Gheret looked up and yelled at the man stationed atop the tallest mast. Ho, the Watch! What do you see on the approaching ship? He still preferred the personal touch when it came to the security of his vessels.

Private vessel, sir, United States markings.

He called up to the captain and told him to veer to port to meet the oncoming ship. The Ark was well-armed, so he had little to fear from a private vessel, even if the crew was up to no good. He had a handpicked crew, including some pirates of his own, very well trained.

It took some time, but the ships came close and identified themselves to each other. Gheret invited the other captain to come aboard and spend some time with him and his own captain. He couldn’t quite figure what the purpose of such a ship in these waters could be. The odds of them both being in pursuit of the same lost vessel were astronomical.

As they went through the introductions Gheret sized up the other man. He was the captain and owner of the Arkadia. He looked to be about Gheret’s age, which of course was just an illusion since many lifetimes were folded into Gheret’s youthful body. Gheret estimated the other man’s age to be late twenties at most. He had the light color complexion many Spaniards showed, but with contrasting blonde hair that always stayed wind-tossed. His physique showed the smooth, solid muscles of a man accustomed to hard work.

They shook hands and Gheret noticed that the Arkadia’s captain had calloused hands from the rigging and work on the Arkadia. Gheret liked a man in charge being willing to work.

So, Captain, Gheret started, when the other man interrupted him.

Please, no formalities. I’m Greg Cordoba–please call me Greg. What would you like to know about me, the ship, or our purpose? Be straightforward with me and I’ll be the same with you.

Well, Greg, Gheret started again, I’m Gheret McStieve, and I find your attitude refreshing. I’d love to know what you’re doing out here? That’s my first question.

Captain Cordoba hesitated. To reveal his purpose could damage his chances of actually finding, and retaining, his prize. On the other hand, hiding his true reason for being there might cause even more trouble.

Trusting his ability to read people’s character, he decided to share. We’re searching for a lost Portuguese vessel. I’ve been compiling information on it for some time now, and we’re expecting to find it along this coast. It’s nothing special. May I ask the purpose of your being here, as well?

How do you know of the Valkyrie?

Greg dropped his jaw and stared. How could Gheret possibly know the ships name?

Very few people have any knowledge of it at all. Try to research it and you’ll find next to nothing. Where did you get your information about it, Greg?

Greg smiled. You’re being as direct as I’d hoped. Good. I’m not as young and foolish as I look. I’ve invested a great deal of money in this venture, and I suspect you’re after the same prize. I have personal knowledge of the ship, based on some family history. I’ve not shared it beyond my closest associates on the research staff of my vessel, which is the site of pretty much my entire company. He paused. "We are after the same thing, aren’t we? You’re here for the Valkyrie, too."

Yes, I too have been looking for it and have invested a tidy sum of time, money and energy in it. I’d love to know more about your family history that ties you to this ship. Do you believe it gives you a certain claim to it that I may not have?

Feeling territorial, Mr. McStieve?

With a wonderfully warm smile he’d practiced since before Cleopatra sailed the Nile, Gheret answered him. Please, if you’re Greg, then I’m Gheret. And no, I don’t think the vessel is mine. With the interest I have in this lost ship though, I invite your input. I’d be very happy to share my information and investigation to date: perhaps it would speed up the search if we worked together.

Together? I’ve a hard time believing you’re serious about that. Treasure hunters I’ve met all seem to support the stereotype that they’re a notoriously territorial bunch. Men have died to protect such interests.

I must admit to you that I’m not seeking a treasure of gemstones and such: I seek history, and connections I have to this ship. I have no particular need of more money, although— He paused and displayed a wide grin. Everyone likes to make a profit. And what of you and your ‘family history?’

A kinsman by my own name was on the crew of that ship when it went down. A letter from him to his family as the ship sailed told of the route and the cargo. He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, but he was a very resourceful guy. His name was Gregor, close enough to mine—a distant cousin I suppose.

So, do you want to share, or at least let me work with you? Greg, I realize you’ve no reason to trust me. The truth is that I don’t need, or particularly want the treasure from this search. My crew can be rewarded with a percentage as though I received it. Those bonuses won’t hurt me. I’ve a lawyer aboard who could write up something that would give you more assurance than my word. You can adjust the agreement prior to signing it of course. Again the youthful, disarming grin.

Greg laughed. "You have a lawyer on board? Why?"

I like to tell him it’s in case we run of out of bait. But he does like to work with the crew, and occasionally comes in handy. Perhaps our families have more in common that we would want to share, hmm? How old are you, Greg? Now Gheret fixed him with a cold, black stare, daring him to answer the question.

‘Older than you think,’ is a good enough answer for now. Yes, I welcome your input and support on this endeavor as well. I think we can divide the ship and its contents up in such a way that we’ll both be satisfied. Now it was Greg’s turn to grin. May I invite you to a private dinner on the Arkadia?

"Delighted. You won’t