CHAPTER 29 - THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT

The stainless steel jacket surrounding the new boiler moved slowly in the bright light of the Aerodrome hangar at Zippy’s. The crews were pulling it out for the second time this day and boiler was suspended 30 meters above the ground inches from nacelle number three on the right side of the gleaming Dirigible. Tek carefully maneuvered the three ton engine with a hoist and tackle. A dozen of the mechanics and apron tenders pulled on three long hawsers.

“Left, Left, slow now,” said Tek. “Left. Stop.” Tek wiped sweat from his brow. They had just put the engine back during the morning, but she failed to burn correctly and the steam pressure was erratic, in fact it was dangerous. So Daggy had told Tek to pull it out. They had started out badly behind schedule for the release of the ship, and now they were in even worse shape.

Too many changes, too many innovations, too deadly a mission, no room for error thought Daggy. Daggy rubbed her eyes. They were screwed, and soon Punky might be dead, or worse, in some flaming nightmare of hydrogen, superheated steam, and melting aluminum spars.

“Ok, now down a bit,” shouted Tek. One of the exhausted teams holding the rope pulled a bit, rather than give some slack. The boiler swung hard to the right, and they all heard a horrible ripping sound as the two spars gave way and bits of aluminum, wiring, and a roll of toilet paper fell to the floor.

“Merde,” said Daggy.

“Hold It!, screamed Tek. No one moved.

Daggy said nothing. There was no purpose in it. Everyone knew the odds, the challenges, and the urgent mission of this radical and potentially deadly prototype. The HMS Dread, the first Rigid Airship ever built in Second Life.

Daggy took a deep breath. They had spare spars and the modular design would allow for replacement, and test within a few hours. A few hours they could hardly afford.

But it was the navigation system that was the real defect in the design. One of the most critical components it was impossibly late. The scripts were buggy and the Lindens kept changing the operating environment. It was hopeless. They might have to scrub the whole mission if navigation failed.

In the design shed Punky Pugilist was well into her 22d hour of study. A pile of draft manuals, heavily annotated in red pencil, often ending in a string of question marks, lay open on her desk. A cold cup of espresso had congealed atop her desk. Caffeine had ceased to work hours ago. Punky was both exhausted and exhilarated about the ship and the mission before her. She was bordering on the edge of stupidity and sleep too long delayed. Punky stood and walked to the second level platform that faced the enormous hanger that held the airship. She opened the door and stepped onto the platform.

She gleamed in the pickle arc lights. She spoke to Punky. A sweet seductive voice, a voice of love and steel. The voice of a harsh mistress and a caressing cooing voice of a true love. Only Punky heard the voice, but the voice was loud and clear in her ears. The HMS Dread said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be ready on time.”

Punky felt refreshed. She turned toward the door and her studies.

In the driving snow, outside the entrance to the enormous hanger at Zippys, an light grey navy van skidded to a stop in the slush covering the tarmac. To marines exited, followed by a heavily shackled and blindfolded prisoner. As the marines pulled the prisoner to his feet, a group of civilian guards stepped forward to accept their charge, but the bearing and demeanor of the civilians had ‘active duty’ written all over them. One of the civilian guards presented an authorization, and signed the prisoner assignment form. Then the van pulled away and the guards painfully pulled the tape from the prisoner’s eyes.

Ed blinked and stared into the snowy night. Ed had been unsure of where he was taken, but the enormous shape of the building that obscured half the evening sky made his guess work simple. Zippy’s Blimp Works the pale sign said in the reflected moonlight.

The Chair paced back and forth across the old Turkish rug in the reception hall of the modest Monforte Detached Palace in Capital City. The home was at the end of Beast Street and from the three story wall of French doors in the ‘Small Reception Hall of Countess Beretrude the Bloody Whore’, The Chair could see dawn’s fingers of light crawling and poking at the night and forcing the darkness into retreat.

Snow continued to fall and the Capital Dome was covered in white. So pure, so clean, the Capital looked, thought The Chair, and then he heard a bitter laugh. In a moment he realized that the laugh had been his.

Sparkle Basevi, Sindy’s old school chum, lay sleeping on a magnificent ermine lined fainting couch. The Chair adjusted the vicuna comforter covering Sparkle. He felt compassion for Sparkle, but he dare not tell her the truth. At least not at this time. Ed could tell her, if he returned with Punky. If he failed to return, The Chair would find some way to ensure she remained ignorant, but was well cared for.

The Chair turned at the sound of echoing steps on the ancient parquet floors approaching from the North Wing, the Wing of King Ragnachar the Sot, it was called. After a few moments Dr. Bodkin Adams entered the room, a look of deep concern on his face.

“How are they doing?” asked a concerned Chair.

“Well…” said Adams, “It’s a bit early to say, but I think His Majesty will be just fine. Its Sindy I’m worried about.”

“Oh,” said The Chair who could think of nothing else to say.

“Those burns… I’ve never seen anything like them,” continued Dr. Adams. “I consulted with the University and no one has any record of a similar affliction. Its completely unknown. I’m not sure that our advanced scientific knowledge or even the new highly efficacious Positive Thinking is going to do us any good here. Even the miracle drug, the hideously expensive Placebo has failed.”

“Can I see her now?” asked the Chair.

“Certainly. Sindy’s in and out of consciousness,” said Dr. Adams.

The Chair began to walk down the hallway of the Wing of King Ragnachar the Sot.

“Wait a moment,” cried out Dr. Adams. The Chair turned around.

Dr. Adams yelled from the distance, “It’s best not to mention the scar. She will find out soon enough, and right now she needs rest.”

The scar? Wondered The Chair. The Scar?

The Chair turned again and began the long walk down the Hall of King Ragnachar the Sot.

The wing faced a wide private parkland to the west which The Chair fondly remembered was where he had learned to play Buzkashi and ride a pony. Ah, those were happy carefree days, he thought as he walked swiftly.

He remembered the day when the Old Andirons Buzkashi team had played Choke Preparatory Academy for second place in the regional playoffs. The Choke team was skilled and the young nobs on the team were tough. Several were held back two or three years because the didn’t pass their D levels, but everyone really knew the truth Choke wanted to win badly and they were cheating as was common among the “Seven Brothers” as the strangely named and most expensive preparatory schools were called. What they prepared for was anyone’s guess, but it often included a life of somnambulance, drunkenness, and occasionally 20 years to life.

The game was in the second half, tied one and one, and Muffin had been hit hard by the defending number four on the Choke team – Taffy ‘the Stud’ Bunfunst. He was called the ‘Stud’ because he was… well generously endowed. And vicious remembered The Chair. Bunfunst had hit Muffin hard with an illegal iron tipped riding crop, and Muffin had been bleeding blue blood profusely.

Muffin had reached down while riding very fast and had grabbed the goat, his crop held tightly between his teeth. He had reined his pony to a dead stop and turned hard toward the Circle of Justice. Great clods of dirt and grass filled the sky as Muffin’s pony dug its hooves deep into the dewy field. Bunfust seeing a possible loss to Old Andirons, viciously spurred his Mongolian pony, and reached under his saddle for the ‘unofficial’ whip. The two ponies quickly closed. The goat was bleating madly and had become slippery from the wet grass and Muffins hold slipped and the goat began to fall. Muffin, pulling one foot from the stirrup and sliding dangerously to one side and as far as possible, his head almost touching the ground, recovered the goat, but not before receiving a terrible thwack for Bunfunst. Muffin was stunned and almost fell from his mount. The goat fell to the ground, righted itself, and began to run madly toward the trees and heather.

Rather than pursue the goat, Bunfunst seemed confused about the purpose of the game, or perhaps he had realized the games real purpose, and rode his pony full speed into Muffin. There was a horrible thwack and both ponies whinnied, and neighed and then started fighting. Bunfunst hit Muffin again and again on the head, shoulders, and face with the iron tipped whip. Muffin struggled to maintain his mount. Bunfunst then leaned and grabbed Muffins mink lapels and pulled him from the saddle and threw him to the ground. Bunfunst’s pony reared and it looked really bad for Muffin. He lay prostrate on the muddy field. Then a whistle sounded and the umpire raised a red card. “Commandment 5,” yelled the umpire, “Commandment 5.”

The game was over. It was a draw. Old Andiorns had come through again, they had not lost.

The Chair remembered reading about Bunfunst’s death in the Times last year. It seems he had developed a … what was politely called an ‘unnatural’ affection for one of his mares called Tickles. The relationship had been flagrant and had offended equine morals and one night Bunfunst was found trampled to death. No one was ever arrested or convicted. But “the Studs” two roommates from Choke were suspect.

The Chair reached the door of the private chamber that held Sindy Blazer. The rescue squad had wanted to take her to Saints and Sinners Hospital, but The Chair knew better. Sindy and Muffin would be much safer here in the Detached Palace. Here they were likely to survive, but in the hands of The Order who knew their intentions or their motives. No, they were safer here.

Millicent Gellwat, a long time Detached Palace household staff member was seated in front of the door. She was knitting. The Chair paused and noticed that the knitting was some kind of sheath. There were little bunnies and duckies knitted into a pale pink fluffy fabric. Everything about her knitting said baby booties or little mittens. She was singing a little ditty about buttercups and pansy flowers. Millicent looked up.

“Oh Mr. Chair, please go right in. Sindy’s resting now, much better, yes, much better, the dear thing. And that horrible scar, awfull, just awfull.”

His curiosity got the better of him and The Chair asked Millicent, “Miss Gellwat, may I ask what you’re knitting, it’s so lovely.”

She was a naturally happy and content woman. The kind of rosy cheeked motherly figure one realized was the ideal wife of the freehold farmer. Honest, warm, caring and deeply committed to her gods and her family. She laughed easily and said, “Why it’s a dagger cozy. Do you like it? I can make you one.”

“No, thank you, but I don’t need a dagger cozy right now,” replied The Chair, remembering that all the Household Staff, including Millicent, were certified members of the Assassin’s and Au pair’s Union.

The Chair reached for the door, but the great door made a solid ‘kaChunk’ sound, like the vault at the Reserve Bank, and the door of the bedchamber opened automatically on its enormous steel hinges. Millicent had stepped on a small switch under the rug and had signaled through the ether to the central security office for clearance to pass. Millicent had authorized the massive armored door to be opened. She returned to her knitting.