Magus Star Rising
Chapter Twenty Seven

Oftentimes, what one witnesses is

only part of the truth.

THE SCROLLS OF VANERA

Proof

Two figures, locked in a killing embrace; a blur of desperate, frantic motion; a glint of a sharpened blade; blood, pooling thick and red. And then...

The images projected on the vid screen were horrifying, sickening, incontrovertible. Yet, even though the rational part of his mind rebelled at what he saw, Luis Ortega couldn’t tear his eyes away. God help me, he thought. But they’re fascinating! Unbelievable. The old Senitte myths are true! He rewound the vid, sitting forward in his chair, his left leg bouncing anxiously.

What would Mama think of this? He wondered. As a bruja, his mother had performed certain acts that he could only describe as magical in nature. It was her function as a ‘wise woman’ or witch in the slums of the Beta Omatedon colony to command such elemental forces to help those in need. Even now Ortega couldn’t figure out how some of those ‘miracles’ were accomplished although he was certain most were tricks or illusions. But those incidents were minor and benevolent compared to what had happened at the hospice between Arshelle and Neltra.

That was something else indeed.

“My God, Luis. Haven’t you looked at that hideous act enough already? I’m beginning to wonder about you. I never imagined you interested in something so... so... lurid.”

Ortega glanced up at Marsha Rusinovich. Her usually normal, wisecracking nature had turned deadly serious. She stood looking down on him, dressed in her off-duty jeans and untucked, oversized T-shirt which hung loosely around her ample hips. Concern creased her face.

Ortega sighed, put down the remote control, and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He was exhausted. It had been a long previous night and most of the current day hadn’t been easy either. “Sweet Jesús, Sister,” he said tiredly as he stood up and stretched. “What a thing to say. I am not interested in this because of its prurient aspects. Surely you know me better than that.” He looked sharply at Marsha, her own tired eyes staring back at him.

Her large body seemed to shrink at his withering look, a certain indication of how distracted she was. Marsha rarely backed off any confrontation. “Oh, Luis, I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean it. It’s just that... I guess I still can’t believe it. It’s all so monstrous and fantastic! I don’t know how you can stand to watch that over and over again.”

Ortega’ features softened as he stood and gently put his hands on Marsha’s shoulders. “I know, I know,” he said, using his best reassuring tone. “I still can’t quite believe it myself but I have to try to understand what happened.”

He studied Marsha’s face, plump and slightly etched with laugh lines around her eyes. How old was she? He wondered. Mid to late forties? He had forgotten and it was hard to tell in any case because of her striking youthfulness. He had only known her two years but despite their frequent verbal and intellectual sparring and opposing personalities he had come to respect and even like her. He wondered, though, if it had been the right decision to ask for her help. The situation was dangerous.

And complicated. He had spent most of the day yesterday and today meeting with hospice officials and the local law. Neltra’s husband had been found after a lengthy search, not at work, but in the arms of his mistress. The garment worker had been shocked at the news of his wife’s brutal murder but, apparently, not too upset. He seemed more worried about his employer replaceing out that he had been skipping work than anything else.

Bastard, Ortega thought, not giving a flying stroke if God forgave him the curse or not. Uncaring, cheating bastard. No wonder he wanted her to work. The rest of Neltra’s family lived several days’ travel from Frenati City. The Karda would, so they said, notify them as soon as possible and begin to study the situation. Since the murder had been committed on hospice soil, so to speak, their hands might be tied. It might end up being thrown into the diplomatic arena.

In the meantime, a killer is running free.

Ortega and Marsha stood in the living room of his home, the worn but pleasant surroundings belying the worry and fear hovering on the edges of the two colleagues’ awareness.

Marsha turned and walked to the kitchen archway, wringing her hands. “I can’t believe they’re not going to move on this any sooner. Damn this political crap! What about the press? Will they publicize this?”

Ortega shrugged. “Not yet. At least I don’t think so. Even Director Namaguchi’s hands are tied at present. For the moment an official hospice investigation is being considered. That’s all. It was all I could do to convince the director that we might be able to help.”

Ortega walked to the window and looked out onto the old-fashioned planned community that was his neighborhood. Elevated oilglobes bathed the working-class suburb in a soft glow, revealing small, identical houses and lots that catered to the local garment workers. Normally this was a quiet neighborhood but Magus Star fever had struck even here. Children played in the street while their parents and their friends mingled on porches and lawns, talking and drinking. Many houses were decorated with glittering lights and stars. Some households had even set up viewing scopes to try to get a closer glimpse of the mysterious heavenly wanderer.

“Do you think they’ll come?” Marsha’s worried voice intruded on his thoughts. “And if they do, will they believe us? Christ, I can hardly believe it myself!”

Ortega nodded. Once upon a time, not so long ago, in fact, he would have reprimanded Marsha for using the lord’s name in vain. Adhering to that ‘proper’ attitude was the least of his worries now. He looked at the antique Terran clock ticking away on his equally retro wooden mantle. Only another hour before the meeting. “They’ll come. And, once they see this vid, they’ll believe.”

His eyes locked on the vid screen again as he slowly sat back down and picked up the remote control.