He sat his father down and then told him everything. From his arrival on Megiddo and his being outwitted— twice — by the invaders to his long, painful mind ring trip with Hunter and everything he'd seen inside it, including the three scenarios in Kelly's Hollow.
Then Joxx looked his father straight in the eye.
"You know all the secrets, Father," he said. "And after what I've gone through, you must tell me. Is any of this true?"
His father remained silent for a long moment. "Does it make any difference if it is?" he finally asked his son.
"Of course, it does," Joxx replied. "Because if any of it is true — if anything close to the history that I saw is real— well then, frankly, it would be hard to argue with the logic of Hunter and his forces."
"You're agreeing with those invaders?" his father cried.
"No house, no empire can be built on a lie," Joxx told him. "And this very extended family of ours might very well be living a colossal invention."
Once again, Joxx Senior was silent for a very long time. He turned back to the sea below.
"You realize that you are in line to one day become Emperor?" he began slowly. "The most powerful position in history? By the time of your ascendancy, all of the realm will be reclaimed. Think of the wondrous things that will happen in those magical days. Think of the prestige, the wealth. The power. And it could all very well be yours. No matter what our past might be, is that really something you want to give up?"
There was no reply.
"Well, son… is it?"
Still nothing.
Joxx senior slowly turned and only then realized he'd been talking only to himself.
His son was long gone.
22
There were approximately two thousand entertainment establishments in what was known as Downtown-Downtown Big Bright City.
They were mostly cloud bars, as places that dispensed only high-grade slow-ship wine were called. But there were also many sports clubs, dance clubs, music clubs, fight clubs, and sex clubs — lots of sex clubs.
This part of the vast city was ground zero for the Ches-terwest crowd, people who didn't have any Holy Blood in them but, by hitching on to a Special who did, enjoyed elevated rank simply by that association. The Party Zone was always crowded with these Very Fortunates, day or night, twenty-four/seven. The revelry never stopped.
On the fringe of the Party Zone there were several more blocks of clubs, all best described as being a little more earthy. Lots of brothels were located on this periphery, places where only holo-girls were employed. There were also clubs dedicated primarily to the users of what was once known as coca-neen. An occasional plaything for the Very Fortunates, the feel-good drug was illegal everywhere in the Galaxy except on Earth.
Down the dark alleys beyond the coca bars there could be found yet another fringe, an area many regarded as the lowest common denominator of the Party Zone. The bars here doled out a very rarefied, very refined form of the ancient plant once called opiux, now known more readily as jamma. These places were called jam bars. Their doors were always unlit, their customers always sticking to the shadows. Dark and dangerous, even the most robust star-ship troopers avoided them.
It was in what was probably the most notorious jam bar, a place called Junky-Junx, that Joxx found himself this dreary morning.
He hadn't eaten in five days, but he'd ingested enough jamma to keep his body running like a Starcrasher for weeks, months even. Or at least that was the illusion.
He was in disguise, which was ridiculous, as everyone on the fringe of the Party Zone was usually so zonked out, many would have a hard time recognizing their own mothers.
Joxx's camouflage was a simple one. He was wearing the unadorned uniform of a cargo ship commander: a plain, dark blue flight suit and a typical service hat. Nothing flashy, no medals, no ribbons, not even a weapon. He blended right in with the periphery crowd.
He'd not planned to wind up here, at Junky-Junx, at least not consciously. Though he'd barely tasted slow-ship wine in his lifetime, it just seemed like the natural progression of things, of his life in general these days, that he would jump from place to place looking for the strongest, quickest way to medicate himself. He'd started out drinking five days before, just after catching a ride back to the city from his family's home. The crushing disappointment of his father's nondenial about the Fourth Empire's seamy past had made him snap yet again. After that, it was just a case of how much he could guzzle, how much he could snort, how much he could smoke. He was probably AWOL, technically anyway. And perhaps the Earth Guards were already looking for him. But he didn't care. If he never flew in space again, it wouldn't matter to him. His spirit was that bleak.
Try as he might, though, he still could not erase the haunting images visited inside the mind ring trip. On his arms still were the scratches from the two girls he'd tried to protect in the processing station. He found himself searching the crowded room at times, thinking he saw glimpses of the mother's face floating above the sea of addicts. Or even worse, the cry of her two young daughters, echoing, always in the background. That was why he hadn't slept in five days, either.
No, the slow-ship didn't work, and the coca hadn't, either, so now Joxx was here, sitting at a table in a very darkened corner of the already extremely dark bar, a pile of jamma in front of him. In his hand was a shooter, the device that transferred the narcotic from the pile to his bloodstream.
He had two holo-girls with him, and their personifications also told the tale of his spiral. He'd bought them from a vendor lurking outside Junx, a legless veteran of some long-lost Fringe war who promised they would fill his darkest fantasy. He was right. One appeared in the form of what could only be described as a beautiful witch, all black hair and nails and eyes and lip paint, plunging black gown and cape, a tall black hat. The second projection appeared as a younger female whose sole intention was to look innocent and giddy, obviously setting herself up for the kill by the gorgeous witch.
Dark as it was, Joxx was hardly paying attention to the two girls. He was methodically pumping himself higher and higher with jamma, while the robot band tinkling away at the other side of the club played music that seemed to get lower and lower in tone and mood with every note.
It was after his fifth or sixth load that Joxx noticed someone else had joined them at his table. An old woman dressed in a green gown and a red piece of fabric spun around her head. She had huge stone rings on each finger and wore a glittering necklace as well. She had to be at least eight hundred years old.
She was a witch. A real one.
Unlike some other life forms, witches had managed to survive through the turmoil of the last five thousand years, four empires, and a number of Dark Ages in between. Their longevity was a mystery, as just about everyone the Galaxy looked down on them. Even in his inebriated state, Joxx was amazed to see one actually on the Mother Planet. Riffraff was not very well accepted on Earth. Usually such annoyances were shipped out to the near Fringe planets and strongly advised not to come back.
The trouble here, though, was this woman recognized Joxx. He could see it in her eyes.
"It must be true what they are saying," she said to him now in a very hoarse whisper. "Our greatest star hero, in the Junky-Junx? That proves it then…."
Joxx at first tried to laugh her away. Both holo-girls vanished at first sight of her.
"What is it that they're saying, you old bag?" Joxx asked her with a slurred, dismissive sneer.