The Blessed Father of Death

By Joseph J. Urban III and Lesley Marsh

The War Between the States is finished. In the wake of the bloodiest military conflict in American history, Malcolm Jefferson, a former Confederate officer, created an international shipping fleet that was suddenly catapulted into the most successful merchant house in the world when luck, cunning, and ruthlessness gave him access to radical new technology discovered after an armada of alien ships attacked our world in a holy war of conquest.

It is 1877, and steam-powered vessels now patrol the cosmos, lunar colonies are established, new species are discovered, and alliances are formed. Foreign mystics, psychic warriors, and Martian shock troops now do battle with Union soldiers, interstellar colonials, and alien mercenaries.

Amidst this chaos, a Martian princess following a prophecy that declares she is the key to interplanetary peace is brought to Jefferson, whose own destiny gives him a blessing that will bring about that salvation or interstellar destruction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 8, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462827343

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Copyright © 2008 by Joseph J. Urban, III.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Foreword

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Introduction to the Appendixes

Timeline

Lunar Culture

Martian Culture

Notes on Languages

A Brief Encyclopedia

for the Languages and Terms

of the Cosmos

Introduction to Genesis Child

Foreword

I have always believed that science-fiction is more then spaceships and laser beams. The great writers of science-fiction were using their work to present allegorical references to readers in a form that they could better digest and enjoy. Issues such as racism, religious prejudice, political turmoil, and ethical values are not preached in science-fiction writing, but crafted in the form of a good story. The story would present the reader with ideas in such a way that they would hardly notice the challenging elements, until much later.

I chose science-fiction as a medium to question my values and challenge my own thoughts. It is a wide plane to examine, with lots of opportunities for creative storytelling to excite the readers about a subject that they would never normally discuss around the dinner table.

I have always been proud to work as a journalist over the years for the purpose of helping people. I had that in mind when I wrote this book. I would give special attention to sexual-assault service centers, police-sponsored events, and children’s activities over the years because I believe such organizations make a difference. I hope the desire to make a difference is conveyed in this work, because challenging traditional ways of thinking and encouraging new ideas is something I believe in.

I set this piece shortly after the War Between the States, which is also called the Civil War, though we were not a fully united nation at that time, merely a collection of states. It was a time period that I knew little about historically, except of course the obvious noble images that I had studied in school. During my research, I discovered so much about the resentment, the frustration, and the feeling of displacement that happened after the war concluded that I knew I had to enlarge upon it.

I wanted a world that reflected my own need to find a purpose in a chaotic time period, as well as know my desire to find out clearly where I was and who I was. So I created such a world. I created something that was, for me, radically different from where we live but very familiar.

I borrowed ideas from the great writers of the past, but I enlarged upon those ideas. The little green men from Mars inspired me to elaborate on a whole civilization and world. It forced me to think of the entire evolutionary patterns for a civilization over the millennia and how things might have been.

I refused to be limited by scientific facts however. I wanted to be free to tell a good story, so I did more than invent civilizations and culture, I rewrote science. I changed the elements of space and time to fit the universe I wanted to explore. I ignored the laws of physics and biology and concentrated on the idea that such things didn’t matter compared to a good story.

I gave little explanations for such changes in the middle of the story, though I elaborated in the appendixes for those who are curious. But during the story, those details are not very important to me. It’s enough to know two different life-forms can communicate despite any conflicts with Darwin’s theories of evolution. It’s enough to enjoy the idea of swashbuckling captains with swords and pistols sailing through the cosmos without worrying about the nuances of gravitational pull or a lack of oxygen.

But I always remembered that the driving goal was to challenge ideas. My heroes slowly became less and less noble and instead evolved into killers, bigots, racists, and drunks. My villains were less interested in doing evil for the sake of evil and more interested in furthering their own political agendas, such as creating a free world for all of their citizens to live in.

People may become more heroic or villainous over time, but they are people first. And people aren’t perfect.

I want to thank now everyone that made this work possible—from Tolkien to Lucas, from Roddenberry to Herbert, from Howard to Clavell, from Lovecraft to Heinlein. Last I would thank my family, God, and everyone else that I learned anything from.

Your teaching made this work possible.

Joseph J. Urban, III

Introduction

More than five thousand years of religion, science, beliefs, and values were changed in a day. That was the day that we found out that we weren’t unique in the universe, that our world was not as special as we presumed it to be.

—Julius Windsor, HMS Xenoanthropologist

Chapter 1

Centuries of myth and legend have given way to understanding with the new era of exploration. The various nations of the world have taken their knowledge and lust for power and used them to spur each other forward into the realm of the next frontier: the cosmos.

Traversing the chill air that makes up the blackness of the space between worlds, we discovered the purple waters and lush white jungles of Luna. On this moon, thought to be a dead rock in space, we discovered that we were very mistaken in our assumptions. The native princes and kings who lived in deep aquatic castles and palaces in the seas, lakes, and oceans that pocketed the fertile lands stood before us. These native people watched us with uneasy eyes as our various nations offered trade, or battle, each in their turn.

During our time on Luna, we also discovered the nomadic and barbaric races that hid in the pale, white jungles. Those humanlike creatures that practiced blood offerings to pagan gods were simple in intelligence, cunning in battle, and ruthless in killing.

We discovered the treasure and triumphs of new gems, weapons, artwork, flora, fauna, and technology. All of it lay before us to trade for and enjoy. But all of those rewards and threats paled in comparison to the military power of the peoples of the Red Planet; blood colored, that we named Mars, god of war. It was the offspring of that world that brought the attack against our own, and forced us to bridge the gap between Terra and Luna, and fight what enemy that may threaten our planets’ freedom.

—Julius Windsor, HMS Xenoanthropologist

Malcolm Jefferson paced back and forth across the quarterdeck slowly. The helmsmen held the course, and Jefferson felt a cool headwind on his cheeks. He turned up the collar on his jacket against the frosty air and glanced at the white flames of the stars, his gaze shifting occasionally to the silver-colored light reflecting off the moon, Luna, full and round in the darkness of the night.

Jefferson was a tall man with blonde-brown hair that he wore long and tied back. His face was clean shaven and tanned from long years that he had spent on the ocean. Beneath his midnight blue wool jacket, a long-barreled Colt pistol hung low on his hip, while his notched saber hung from his belt in a well-oiled leather sheath. He had young features, but his green-gray eyes were aged from the years he had spent at war in his youth.

Pulling out a cheroot from his jacket pocket, he took a box of wooden matches, cupped his hands to shield them from the wind, and struck one. Lighting up the thin cigar, he inhaled deeply, enjoying the flavor of the Virginian tobacco. He felt a touch of homesickness at that point, recalling the rolling fields of his plantation. He remembered galloping on long rides through the countryside and the various balls and galas that he would attend as a lad with the lusty enthusiasm of youth before the damned Yankees had invaded his daddy’s lands and left him broken and dispossessed.

But that was then. Now, he ran one of the most powerful merchant fleets from Hong Kong to San Francisco. He had caused huge amounts of damage to British and Chinese shipping between the coasts of India to Canton. His offices in California had been linked across the nation to Boston and New York by railroads; and he kept a tight reign on the warehouses, factories, ships, and the men who worked under him.

His real love was the deck of a ship. Even though the ironclad steamers had nothing on the beauty of a wooden tea clipper, his mind appreciated their precision and power. The steamers lacked the savoir faire of the old British sailing vessels from decades before during the height of the opium and tea trading; there was no real artistry, only a cast-iron determination that drove forward with a relentless pace.

The steamers recalled to his mind the exploits of Caesar, whom he had studied in his younger years. He remembered how the unstoppable Roman legions had crushed anything in front of them and how Rome Imperial had been unbeatable until internal politics and greed had broken it from the inside out.

He smiled wryly at that thought and tapped the ash over the side of the gunwale, then slid the thin cigar back into his mouth and held it between his teeth. Lifting the binoculars that hung from around his neck, he scanned the horizon, searching absently. Seeing nothing unusual, he lowered the binoculars, and his eyes lifted to the sails that were reefed in the darkness. He cocked an ear to listen to the chug of the steam-powered engine below and the sound of the pistons rising and falling, propelling his ship forward, reminding him of boots thudding on Richmond’s cobblestone streets when the war had started.

Pulling a silver pocket watch from his wool coat, he recalled how he had received it from his late father the day he had graduated from the Virginia Military Institute. His eyes stared fixedly at the watch’s face, remembering that night. The dancing and whiskey, the colors of the various uniformed men and their proud parents, the sound of music, and the faces of lovely women—it all came back to him in a rush; and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. The piece indicated that it was now three in the morning, Standard Time, and he slid it back into his jacket and pulled another taste of the smoke from his cheroot, the sudden chime of the ship’s bell ringing in the darkness.

Jefferson enjoyed this shift. It was beautiful, watching the stars, and he found the cold night air invigorating. Standing on the quarterdeck of such a vessel was where a captain belonged anyhow—the wind in your face, rushing forward like a stallion at the races, sailing to your next port of call. There was nothing like a ship to make you feel free. When you captained a lady like this one, there was no one to tell you what to do, or how to live, or who to obey. You could do what you wished and live how you wished—you were free.

A sudden alarm from the forward watch startled him from his thoughts.

Unknown ship coming in north by northwest, sir, called the lookout.

Jefferson swung his binoculars up again and scanned the horizon. In the distance, he could see a vessel silhouetting the stars. He couldn’t see the lines of the vessel—and certainly not her flag—and frowned at the potential threat.

Action stations, he called out, and the bell was rung again, alerting his sleeping crew. In moments, he heard booted feet banging on the decks below and saw men rushing to their posts.

David Chamberlain was normally the captain of The Constance, but as long as Jefferson stood aboard a vessel owned by his company, it would be Jefferson who would stand as acting captain. Chamberlain had been assigned the role of acting first officer of the ship and had been sleeping when the alarm sounded. Blinking the drowsiness from his eyes, he hurried to the quarterdeck to see his captain, employer, and friend, motioning him up the brief stairs to stand next to him.

As Chamberlain leapt up the steps, he swung a heavy topcoat over his shoulders and fastened the brass buttons somewhat clumsily and stretched his fingers to release the stiffness that sleeping in close quarters could produce. He could see his breath clouding the air and damned the cold night air, recalling the warmth of Savannah. The chill winds blew his blonde hair over his ears in thin wisps as he leaned toward the gunwale, looking toward the horizon.

What is it, Mal? he asked as he peered through the darkness, his gaze roaming through the night sky, returning occasionally to glance at Jefferson who stared intently through the binoculars.

I don’t know yet, he answered, somewhat distracted. I don’t recognize her lines, though. And it’s too damn dark to see her flag. He handed over the binoculars. Have the lads douse the lanterns, though, until we can get closer, he muttered.

Kill the lights, Chamberlain called up to the watch in the fighting top.

Can you make it out, Davy? Jefferson asked. He spat off the side of the ship as his first officer strained to read the other ship’s flag in the darkness as The Constance’s lights were extinguished, allowing their vessel the camouflage of the night.

Dunno, he said, somewhat to himself. She looks maybe French, I think, he answered.

Nah, Jefferson responded quickly, too long in the beam, unless they’ve a new class I’ve not seen. I reckon she’s a merchantman, maybe a cutter. Not a warship, thank God.

She’s angling to starboard, Mal, think she’s seen us, Chamberlain said with some concern.

Gun ports opening?

Looks like they’re still closed, but she’s pulling short. We’re getting a taste of her broadside I think, but I can’t tell for sure on the ports themselves.

Jefferson brooded silently for a moment, looking out over the horizon.

She’s making a lot of action toward us, but still no flag though? he asked, somewhat frustrated.

I haven’t seen a whiff of colors flying, as yet, Mal. And I can’t see any lights neither, now. They killed them near as soon as we did. Merchant ship ain’t need to be so cagey, eh? She’s acting right peculiar, and I don’t like it.

Yeah, me neither, Jefferson growled.

Battle stations?

Ordering the crew to battle stations was most likely unnecessary at this time. The Constance was sailing in a neutral shipping lane, after all. Other vessels might traverse it from time to time, but it was unlikely that they would see real military action from any ship. A preemptive attack from a ship would be an act of war from a neutral nation, and a single ship of that size would not be a warship.

But prudence demanded that protocol be followed. A ship that tacked course to them without signaling, failed to offer lights, and showed no sign of a flag meant possible danger.

Jefferson thought on that all for a moment as he continued to scan for a flag, but still saw nothing.

Do it, he said eventually. It might be premature, but gambling was for cards and women, not for company ships or the men who crewed them.

Battle stations, Chamberlain called out to the deck officer who quickly upgraded the status with the sounding of another alarm. At this time, both Chamberlain and Jefferson knew they were still well out of range for cannon. Despite this, they opened gun stanchions, a hostile act to a neutral ship. Still, they hadn’t seen any colors or been offered a signal shot or a possible deputation.

As the order for battle stations was given to the crew, the unknown ship suddenly redirected itself and made all speed toward their vessel, as if the other captain had suddenly anticipated the hostile act, though it would be impossible for another vessel to gauge what they were doing this far out.

Chamberlain guessed that they could probably outrun her, but he also knew no ship that size was a match for The Constance, so he watched his captain for clues on what he’d do next and wondered what game the unknown vessel was playing at.

After handing the binoculars back to his captain, Chamberlain stamped his feet briefly in the chill. Rubbing his palms together to warm them, he glanced over to midship and saw a company of about twelve sailors rushing out to the main deck and spreading out in a loose formation, taking small cover stations. The sailors were quickly loading Winchester repeating rifles, as Jefferson had a standing order that any men he could spare would be prepared instantly for repelling boarders if possible combat might occur. In the meantime, below decks, the bulk of the gunners were loading cannon while the Gatling guns on the forward and rear of the ship were quickly manned. The weapons on the fighting top were also being loaded and prepared.

Jefferson had copied the British navy who had fixed Gatling guns mounted on their vessels, but the Gatling guns on Jefferson’s ships had been outfitted with swivel mounts to track and fire with greater ease at any quickly moving assaults. Jefferson had observed the awesome ferocity of the heavy machine gun when he worked with Thomas Glover, selling large quantities of weapons to the Japanese during the Boshin War of ’68.

Spitting to the leeward, he felt The Constance move steadily forward, her engines pushing them relentlessly toward the unknown vessel that continued to change course to match their speed and direction.

The thick, black steam fumed from the smokestacks as the wheels and pistons pulsed and throbbed. Jefferson pursed his lips, expertly puffing on his cigar, while at the same time giving the order to slow the ship and turn her hard to starboard. Now, though his gun stanchions were open, he was presenting his nose to the opposing vessel, giving them the smallest target, ready to turn to offer a broadside should he need to.

Focusing the pin, he adjusted the lenses of the binoculars, hoping to get a better read on the ship. She had now tacked to offer them a broadside, but thanks to the shining moonlight, Jefferson could see no open gun stanchions. Straining his eyes, he exhaled sharply from the closed teeth which gripped the cigar.

No gun stanchions at all, closed or open.

Instead of the standard gun ports, he saw metal doors on the side of the unknown vessel. They were slowly cranking open, and suddenly all the pieces fell into place. He confirmed the size of the opposing ship and mentally matched it with his own vessel. His lips quirked into a sardonic smile, and he grinned around the cheroot.

Well, Davy, you ready take a prize? he said, inhaling a short tug.

You see a flag? his first officer asked hopefully.

No flag at all or gun ports, he answered, then paused for a moment. No escort, and small enough that we could cut the bitch to ribbons, if we wanted to.

We still don’t know what nation she’s under, Mal, Chamberlain shot back with an edge to his voice.

"Sure, it’s strange that a ship wouldn’t even be flying false colors. Don’t know what it means if a ship has no colors. But I do happen to see she’s opening armored doors that flank the hull, and you sure as hell know what that means."

The shock of the realization colored Chamberlain’s face. He felt a nervous pang in his gut, but discounted it quickly, glancing at the oncoming ship’s small bulk, which The Constance dominated in both armor and weapons. It would be an easy target, and he felt the pulse of adrenaline start to pound in his ears.

Goddamn, Chamberlain whispered at the possibility, a malicious light in his eyes that shone above a wicked grin. It means we can finally get some payback firsthand. Should we tack course and give her full broadside?

Not till she’s in range, Jefferson answered, letting the binoculars fall to dangle again from around his neck. He still wanted to present a narrow target for now, not knowing the range of the enemy’s weapons. Pulling the Colt revolver from his belt, he began to load it methodically, while Chamberlain, seeing his captain, quickly followed suit with his Remington pistol.

Slipping the now-loaded gun back into his holster, Jefferson lifted the binoculars again, but now cursed silently. The vessel was out of range of any of their cannon and Gatling guns, but she was launching a preemptive strike despite this.

Straightening his back slightly, he nodded his head once in response to the enemy vessel’s decision and then called to his men above, warning them of the incoming assault.

From the open doors in the hull of the enemy ship emerged long-necked, red-hued, leathery-skinned creatures that dropped from the hull like demons falling from darkness. They spread their batlike wings; and Jefferson watched, his guts tightening, as he saw, perched on the backs of these flying beasts, green-skinned riders who urged their mounts forward with enthusiastic screams of battle.

He ground his teeth and watched them come. It was a Martian ship, and Jefferson felt his heart throb at the thought of incoming battle.

The beasts, called keisha by the green-skinned warriors who had been taken and made to talk with all the arts that human cruelty could muster, were the advance force for any Martian attack. The riders would fly forth, and the ships would close the distance. When the Martian vessel was close, the enemy would try to board, and their warriors would use crude weapons of battle to rend flesh and spill blood in fierce melee.

Jefferson could only wait until the riders were in range. Suddenly a question flickered in his mind. He had heard of Martian forces attacking Terra and Luna shipping lanes occasionally, but he had never heard of a Martian vessel so small, and yet large enough that it could carry the elusive keisha warriors that had wrought so much death on his people. Nor did such a small vessel travel alone against the heavier, more powerful Terran ships.

Jefferson stared as four of the damn things moved in on them fast, his eyes frosting with grim anger of past memories. The men on deck were now acting under the direction of the master sergeant, who instructed them to hold their fire till the creatures got in range.

The small lithe riders rode forward with intent screams of battle. The lights from The Constance reflected off the enemy riders’ bronze helmets and shields. But the warriors were themselves illuminated by a demonic red light that shone from the long crystal lances they carried in battle. And that glowing red light made their fearsome attack so much more otherworldly.

By now the crew could see the riders as well. The keisha mounts croaked in excited enthusiasm across the black void between the ships. The sailors could see crested head coverings draped over the predatory beaks of the red-skinned beasts and the horrible alien visages covered by battle armor, leaving only slots for their eyes to gaze out of.

As the enemies drew closer, Chamberlain saw the riders sling their lances perpendicularly against their saddles. Lowering their shields to hang from their saddles, they freed their hands and began to ready long slings. With intense speed and quick precision, they twirled heavy glass orbs that would likely contain the poisonous gasses or explosive chemicals that Martian warriors were infamous for using. He knew that they would lob those orbs at the ship and crew, and death would follow.

At this point, John McAllister, the master sergeant, gave the men at the Gatling guns the order to fire; and explosions burst through the night sky. The barrels moved too slowly, though, and the gunners weren’t able to swing the muzzles with the precision needed to catch the fast-moving riders. Seeing their speed, the master sergeant gave the order to the men on deck to fire at will at the riders, praying for accuracy.

McAllister pressed his hands over his ears and opened his mouth to ease the explosion of pressure inside his head from the firing weapons. The grizzled soldier had served in the New York Naval Militia as an Irish conscript and had been present during attacks against the Carolinas during the war. It was his later experience with the first Union expedition to Korea that drew Jefferson’s attention to him when McAllister, looking for a safe berth, made his way up to Canton and across to Hong Kong in search of employment.

The crack and snap of roaring gunfire thundered over the deck as the explosions of a dozen rifles pounded into the night, most of the sailors missing their targets. But one shot scored a good hit, slamming into the wing of an assailant, causing it to let out an avian croak as it flapped its wings desperately and tried to maintain its altitude; but it merely twisted and began the slow plummet into the black.

Chamberlain rushed to the gunwale and stared despite himself. He watched the rider pull a long curved blade from his sheath and rip into the creature’s neck, letting its blood pour out quickly. Then, with a sickening scream as the beast fell with sudden speed, the rider turned the blade on himself, thrust it up under his chin and into his own skull, then collapsed in the saddle—still tied to the mount—as the two fell into the emptiness below.

Chamberlain swallowed reflexively at the warrior’s choice, but it was one any man aboard would have made. When you flew through the black night of the cosmos between Terra and Luna as these two vessels did, there was nothing below the wooden decks of the steam-powered airships except the blackness of space below. And if you fell from the safety of the ship, there could only be the swift release of suicide or the long, agonizing death from the unknown.

He was jolted back to reality when the first glass orb crashed onto the main deck, and the men who were firing scattered. The purple smoke from the explosion billowed and wafted upward, choking and causing the men who inhaled those fumes to gasp then collapse, shaking violently; their spasms wracked their bodies so hard that Chamberlain could see foam flecking the dying sailors’ lips and their backs breaking from the tightening of their muscles.

Chamberlain jerked his scarf up and pulled it tightly around his face, vaguely aware that Jefferson had raised his pistol, followed one of the creatures, and fired, causing the beast to jerk its neck back and let out a bellow as its wings slowly stopped flapping and it began to plummet.

Though many of the men on deck had been killed by the first orb, the second had missed, and the third broke against the forward hull harmlessly. The riders were preparing more ammunition, and Jefferson glanced forward and saw the eight dead men on deck, their bodies still in the death throes from one successful hit. He considered that if the Martian forces had attacked in greater strength, it was probable that all of his lads would have been dead by now.

But the Martians hadn’t attacked in greater strength, and he and his men returned fire. Sailors from the fighting top were taking shot after shot at the riders with grim accuracy and precision. In a matter of moments, the other two riders were finished off as well. During the attack, the artillery on board The Constance had crippled the Martian ship—though her propellers were keeping her stable; but there were clear fires billowing on the enemy vessel, and the green-skinned men were rushing to combat them.

Full speed, bring us closer, Jefferson bellowed, the bloodlust from the battle clouding his reason.

The Constance moved forward, and the gun crews fired barrage after barrage into the gaping holes in the Martian vessel. They were less than sixty yards from the enemy