The Flight of Broken Wings
16 Apr 2018Gmanharmon
14 April 3304Wolff House
Asellus Primus System
1040
John? It’s Daddy. He’s dead.
When I first met Berthold Wolff last July, with Brenna wrapped around my arm, he was the largest man I had ever met. That’s not an insult; Mr. Wolff stood well over two meters tall and was 140kg of pure muscle, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, with a high-and-tight so squared away you would think a machine clipped his hair. When I shook his hand, it nearly disappeared in his massive paw as he pumped with a vigor I had never felt before.
“So you’re the man Brenna’s been raving about!” He spoke with a loud, stentorian tone that would fit perfectly in a superhero picture, with just a hint of a Prussian accent flavoring his words. When he saw the Lakon Type-7 Transporter behind us, his laugh boomed across the plains. “Never thought I’d see another delivery truck around here! Now I’m not so sure about you!” He and Brenna had a great laugh about it, and I followed suit nervously.
I stood there in my rented suit from Quiness, next to the front door, standing at Brenna’s right in the receiving line. The amount of mourners who came to the wake was staggering: they led to the end of the drive, which itself was half as long as a Farragut Battlecruiser. Herr Wolff’s body lay in state, the bronze-plated casket set upon a dais in the grand foyer, surrounded on all sides by floral arrangements, votive candles, and bereavement cards from well-wishers that came from all corners of the bubble. Brenna remained mostly silent, simply shaking hands and nodding to those who came. I wept as well, but only from my right eye; the new organ hadn’t matured its tear ducts yet, thus, only one side of my face was moist with sorrow.
As my relationship with Brenna blossomed, I grew quite close to Herr Wolff. He was the first person I saw after I had purchased a Vulture when I returned from my first exploration trip across the galaxy.
“Still got that ridiculous cockpit,” he said with a shake of his head as he sat in the pilot’s seat. “I never intended for such a vulnerable point on this ship in my first drafts. Look, John, you see how these cross-members are dainty, latticed things?” I followed his hand as he traced imaginary lines across the glass, raving about how his original designs would have made a much stronger canopy while preserving pilot visibility. “And yet I was overriden, again, by those verdammt bureaucrats and their timetables! Again, perfection was waylaid by budgets and launch dates!
“’But Herr Berthold,’ they would tell me, ‘the ideal pilot will compensate for a fragile cockpit with heavy shielding!’ And I said to them, again and a thousand times again, no amount of shield power or module reinforcements will protect an incompetent flyer from himself! We made these module compromises for a damned reason, and our ships cannot fly themselves!
“Zorgon and Saud may parade their Fer-de-Lances as much as they like, but they’re for pretty-boy pilots who stare at themselves more than they stare at their target indicators. No other ship with this form-factor can bring more firepower to bear on a point target!” He squeezed the joystick and drew out the hardpoints, then laughed when he saw my weaponry.
“Pulse lasers, my boy? Surely you can do better! Exchange them for some plasma accelerators as soon as you get to Diaguandri, and then have Marco Qwent modify your power needs. As much as I hate to see anything be added to perfection, I will admit these engineers know their way around a wrench.”
I stood next to the casket as Brenna knelt before it, completely inconsolable. But the man laying there was not the Berthold Wolff I recognized.
Our wedding ceremony in November was a small, private affair, with a few family members in attendance. Berthold stood next to his daughter, eyes moist and lips quivering, as we pledged our vows and joined as one.
After the ceremony, Herr Wolff beckoned me come inside the house and led me to his smoking room. The walls were paneled in dark wood, the floor was a lush green carpet, and decanters of whiskey, port, and sherry were arranged on every table, complementing large humidors. The heads of rare and extinct game animals were mounted on the walls, looking down at us through cold glass eyes. Berthold, now my father-in-law, was no longer the broad-shouldered, towering presence he once was. A wasting disease had befell him; now his back was hunched, he required the assistance of a cane to walk, and his shirt was a size too large, but his eyes retained the same warmth and vigor they always had. He hobbled over to the French doors at the end of the room, opened them up, and proceeded to the custom-built covered bench that overlooked the expanse of his property.
“Kommen Sie hier, my son,” he said, beckoning with his hand. “I have a present for you.” I walked over to the bench, and saw a long leather-clad case atop it. Before I finished moving, he wasted no time. “I am dying, son. Cancer has grabbed me, and these old bones don’t enjoy the things I used to do anymore.
“I designed and built Core Dynamics ships for the last century, my boy. My work and travels have allowed me to see so much of this wonderful universe we live in, and after I hung up my coat, I wanted to keep seeing and doing things that I never could before. And seeing my only daughter marry such a fine gentleman is the perfect chapter to close my story.
“I can’t live off progenitor cells forever. It’s time for me to move on to a better place.”
After a long pause, I made to speak, but he raised his hand. “No, nothing needs to be said. For right now, let me feel the kick of that gun of yours for the last time.” I opened my tuxedo jacket and drew the 1911 from my leather shoulder holster, ejected the magazine, and cleared the chamber, before handing it to Berthold. He took the pistol and magazine and loaded it slowly, but flawlessly, chambered a round, and proceeded to place seven bullets in one lead-splattered hole on a steel torso silhouette target standing twenty-five meters away. Even in his advanced stage of sickness, he was still very much a marksman with that .45. He smiled and handed the empty pistol back to me, which I set on the bench.
“Go ahead and open the box. It’s yours now, my son.” I reached over and undid the brass buckles, opened the lid, and gazed upon the two halves of a double-barreled rifle, dressed in finest-grade walnut furniture and deep-blued metal. The receiver was engraved with wildlife I didn’t recognize, and the case contained numerous accessories and attachments, including a short scope and a box of ammunition.
“I took this .500 Nitro down to Earth a long time ago, and harvested a Heritage elephant with it,” he exclaimed proudly. “Kicks like a mule, I tell you. It’s probably the most beautiful piece in my collection, and I want you to have it.”
It’s worth about as much as five Anacondas today. His words rang in my mind that day, and it made me realize that I hadn't seen my own father since...
The wake lasted long into the night, and I was left in the foyer, standing in a silent vigil over Berthold’s body. I heard shuffling from the staircase, and turned to see Brenna coming down from the bedroom. She had retired her mourning clothing for bedwear, but retained a solemn expression. She wrapped her arms around me and buried her head in my chest, and I held her close. Leclerc, Berthold’s longtime aide-de-camp and bodyguard, approached us silently and nodded towards the casket.
“Monsieur,” he said in hushed French, “allow me to watch over him for the night. Mademoiselle and yourself should rest.”
“Merci,” Brenna replied, and she led me out to the front door. “I can’t sleep in the house tonight.”
“We can go in the ship, if you want,” I replied. She nodded. The Constitution beckoned to us with her red pulse paint, and we retired to my quarters underneath the bridge. In the morning, Brenna went back to her room for several hours. Leclerc stood watch over the casket, now closed. I waited on the porch steps when I heard Brenna come back out dressed in a flight suit, carrying a valise and a Remlok helmet tucked under her arm. I stood and made to ask her what she was doing, but she waved her hand.
“I can’t stay here, darlin’,” she said. “Not right now. I got too much on my mind, now with Daddy gone, an’, an’...” Her voice trailed off, lips quivering. “I gotta go somewhere, anywhere.”
“Who’s gonna make all the arrangements?” I asked.
“I talked to Leclerc, he’s got power of attorney.” She sniffed and wiped her face. “Just take me somewhere far away, darlin’.”
I looked back towards my Anaconda, then turned back to Brenna. I took her face in my hands and looked into her eyes. “The Constitution’s all gassed up, her larder’s full, we got two SRVs, an’ she’ll make fifty-nine light-years. You just tell me where you wanna go, an’ we’ll go there together.”
The universe is ours, my love.