Ransom: Shadow of an Empire: Cross of Secrets

There was a muffled clunk as the docking ports met and locked. A hiss of oxygen followed with a whir of hydraulics, and the steel-plated doors slid seamlessly open before Marc Hesslin. Before him stood Captain Aldo Berron, Senior Officer McGuirk, and a tall, metal and starcloth-clad officer, Robert Ransomme of the Order of the Savior’s Ransom. The coat of arms was emblazoned upon his uniform, and his cloak and pauldrons indicated his rank as a senior officer.

“Captain Hesslin!” Berron stepped forward and clasped his hand. “It's an honor to meet you, sir. I was a lieutenant in the Battle of Maltara,” he explained.

“Captain Berron! Mere actions do not create an aura of heroism,” Marc answered dryly. “But you, at least, understand what it meant to be in the battle.” He turned and Berron introduced McGuirk and the mysterious, bearded Ransomme.

The officer stepped forward. His eyes were hooded but glowed with the light of his zeal for his work.

“Captain Hesslin,” he said, “Perhaps it seems of little honor in your eyes, but your actions saved a system from the slavery the Order strives to end. It is a pleasure for me to meet you, Captain.” He extended his hand to the discomfited Marc.

“Your actions at Maltara deserved for you the cross of the Order which you have borne ever since.” Marc started, wondering if the knight could possibly know that he was still wearing the crimson enamel cross beneath his uniform.

“Lord Ransomme,” he answered respectfully but a trifle stiffly, “you are the one who deserves the praise. You have dedicated your entire life to saving souls from worldly chains. I simply did my duty.”

“You did what was right,” Ransomme replied, “because you knew it to be so. But come,” he declared, noting that Marc was eager to close the topic. “We have two thousand of those poor souls aboard the Delta IV. We have received a distress call from the system of Alterra, and we must make haste. As soon as our refugees have been safely transferred and have received rooms and the required medical exam, we must depart.”

“I understand,” Marc replied. “Shall we begin?” The other three nodded. The next few hours were a constant stream of grateful refugees, men, women, and children from all systems. Files were filled out, medical exams were made, rooms were assigned, and sympathies and encouraging words were passed out.

“Senior Officer Pell, see to it that each refugee receives new clothing, as well,” Marc ordered his first officer.

“Yes, sir!” Pell replied, and sent out a notice that clothing was to be made for each individual.

“Captain!” Marc turned and found Samantha struggling through the crowd. “Sir!” she said. “Permission to join the volunteer transferal crew?” Marc gave it rather distractedly. Samantha rushed off.

At last, the first five hundred refugees were through and situated, and there was a brief lull as the next five hundred had their files filled out. These files contained personal information such as name, age, home-world, occupation, talents, and so forth, to help get them all organized.

“Captain Hesslin.” Marc turned again and found Lord Ransomme at his side. “While we wait for our jobs to resume, let us take advantage of God's gift of rest.” Ransomme invited Marc to walk with him. Strolling through the corridors, Marc could not help but remark that the knight's name was rather unusual.

“As a Knight of the Order of the Savior’s Ransom, we all take a similar name,” Ransomme replied. “The name surname 'Robert' becomes one of our own, a symbol of the attempted robbery of life and soul by the act of slavery, while 'Ransomme' is given to us to remind us of our mission. To avoid confusion we're generally known by our middle name, which remains our own. Now, in my case, I was born 'Robert,' therefore I had no need to take the name. I am actually the only real 'Robert Ransomme' in the entire Order of seventeen hundred knights.”

There was silence for a moment as the pair stepped out onto Level 5. Approaching the balustrade, they looked out over the plaza. Teaming with happy families more than ever, it was a beautiful sight.

“Those poor souls,” murmured Ransomme. “Many of them have never known any home other than a dark, dank pit. No food but scraps and what bits of pitiful life they can consume.” He turned to Marc and studied him with the keen eyes of an eagle.

“Captain,” he said very slowly, “I heard a curious thing from my superior, General Richards. I wonder . . . perhaps you could enlighten me.”

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“I would be glad to if I may,” Marc responded, turning to face the knight. Ransomme gazed out over the plaza.

“I heard tale of a man whose wife and child – a daughter, I believe – were taken by a troop of Marauders, and quite possibly sold into slavery. Now, apparently,” he said, “the father escaped from a brief time as a slave and called in my Order for help, but no trace of the captives could be found.”

Marc went very still. His eyes traced the mosaic pattern of the plaza floor below over and over.

“The same man was found years later, drifting in the time-warp fields of Borania,” Ransomme continued. His eyes fastened on Marc's face, like a cat's eyes upon a sparrow. There was a moment's silence. “You know of whom I speak, Marc.”

Marc turned sharply away. A rattling breath drew through his lungs as he struck his hands upon the balustrade.

“I know it hurts you, Marc,” Ransomme said softly. “If you don't face and accept your past, it will haunt you forever. Your wife and daughter would not wish this for you.”

“And I never wanted slavery for them!” Marc hissed through gritted teeth. “Yet it was my idiocy which led to their pain and mine!” Ransomme looked at him seriously.

“What idiocy?”

“I was called to meet with other commanders of the Vestar Fleet,” Marc muttered. “I was an idiot to not realize that it was a false call! It was the Marauders wish to remove me from the planet Cytha because they were afraid I could defeat them . . . without my ship! That's what heroism did for me!” He turned his head away. Another silence.

“Do you believe them to be alive?”

Marc struck the balustrade again and forced himself to shake his head no. He turned to Ransomme with a haunted look.

“The ship took them through a time-warp,” he whispered. “I followed them through the fields of Borania; they caught me in their tractor beam and brought me onboard, but when I tried to escape with my family, the Marauders threw me out into the fields. I tried to follow the ship, but lost them in endless time rifts. I tried then to make it back to a time before they had been captured, but I couldn’t prevent it!” He turned away again.

“It was in one of those time-warps that I called upon the Order,” he confessed. “They did everything they could, but I didn't realize that it was five years after the fact. Then I warped again and again, dying a little more each time. I couldn't escape the fields, and I couldn't find my Talitha and my little daughter -” he hung his head.

“Finally, the Order found me floating out there and brought me back.” He looked out over the plaza in misery. “They told me that the description of the Marauders matched that of an ancient tribe from a thousand years ago. They were time-travelers . . . likely my darlings died nine-hundred and seventy years ago!”

Ransomme watched him. He gently laid his hand on his shoulder.

“This is why you protect refugees, then,” he said softly. “This is why you bury yourself in work. May God bless you and have mercy on you, Marc! . . . Come. Work will do you a world of good.”

Marc straightened in his agony and followed the knight back to the docking station . . . back to work. Back to try and prevent the same thing which had happened to his family, from happening to these refugees. Back to a life-long living death. Again.

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