Doc heads down to the commons, already considering what might be said to take this particular pot off boil. He doesn't relish the prospect.
When the crew is gathered together, Callum looks around at each of them in turn, trying his best to read the emotions under the surface. Turning to Doc, Cal updates him on the situation. "Ev, something happened when we were caught by Geirnig's men. Something that's got Giz on edge - probably the others, too. I'll just come out with it. I'm a Daemonist. Well, not a true Daemonist - it's called Binding. Long story short, I can... trap them, use them. Releasing a bound daemon sends them back to their own plane, and the resulting energy has... beneficial effects for the Binder."
Doing his best to articulate the matter carefully, Cal takes a deep breath and continues. "Whatever you've heard, we don't worship them, or drink blood, or whatever. They're tools - like a spanner; like a gun. When those tools become necessary, I use them as needed. I'm the same man you've all known me to be - but I know this is a lot to take on."
Cal's eyes come to rest on Gilly.
Gilly looks less than 100% reassured at Callum's words. She scrunches up her face more, feet swinging in a staccato pattern.
"Ain't just like usin' a gun or a spanner," she says shortly. "Guns an' spanners ain't alive wishin' they could kill an' eat folk."
The mechanic sighs and runs her perpetually-stained fingers through her wild hair. "How long you been... doin' this... binding? Years?"
Callum nods. "Since before any of you knew me. I've been a Binder longer than... well, longer than I wasn't. It's not about liking them ,Giz. There are plenty of chemicals that are dangerous - can burn, explode, poison - but we still use them because they are useful. Like it or not, the daemons are out there - and their nature won't change, no matter what we do. And you're right, they are completely evil. That's part of the reason for the binding. As long as they're bound in a corporeal object, they can't do any harm."
"I don't go looking for reasons to do this, but it's saved my life more than a few times, just today. Bound up, it's a tool like any other. Just like a gun - no real danger until you use it. It's the will of the wielder that's the real danger. So I guess it gets down to this - do you trust me, Gilly?"
Doc continues to listen silently, waiting to hear the tenor of the entire group.
Zedd shrugs.
"It's saved my life before too. Captain has it under control. I don't see why it's a big deal."
Elsie barks at Zedd's comment, and Ambrose snorts with derision.
Ha! You said it girl, the big guy is a terrible liar. Guess it's up to me to say what's on everyone's mind.
The pilot looks at the captain square on, maintaining eye contact.
That was a bad situation, and we're all glad we made it out in one piece. But Daemons don't sit right with me. There's always a cost, and there'll come a time when it's too high. The whole world's against us, now we risk the Almighty's wrath too? What makes you think you can control them? You're strong, and brave, but stronger'n you have tried to bend daemons to their will and been torn to bits.
Gilly's not really sure what Ambrose is talking about, but she pulls her feet up and shifts to a cross-legged position in the chair, pulling a little sliver of wood out of one pocket in order to stick it in her mouth in lieu of a pipe. Alas, she never did get that tobacco.
She chews it thoughtfully a second, still squint-eyeing at Callum, then shrugs.
"I don't care much about the moralizin' of it," she says bluntly, "but I do care, in a big ol' way, that Geirnig saw and Geirnig knows. An' I don't like the surprise of it thrust on me none. 'S like discoverin' mid-cycle your seven-eighths wrench is a nine-sixteenths, and next thing you know your engine's blowed up...
" 'm the last person can holler at anyone else for usin' dangerous stuff," and Gilly pats at one of the Boom-flasks at her belt, "but now we gotta hassle with gettin' jobs once Geirnig puts it out that Callum Rhen's a daemonist. Don't make our lives easier none."
She sighs, and pinches at her nose with her stained fingers. "This is the first time you've ever given me much reason t'not trust you, Cap-- you been a good cap'n, all my time flyin' with you-- just make sure ain't no more nasty surprizzes waitin', yeah?"
"Believe me, if there was a way out of there with alerting Geirnig, and still keeping our heads attached, I didn't see it. He actually seemed more interested in keeping me alive once he realized..."
"Anyway, I'm sorry to keep you all in the dark on this - there just never seems to be a good time to broach the subject. As for nasty surprises, well, if I could promise something like that, Giz, we'd all be a lot richer, without thugs like Geirnig and Biggs on our backs. Well, at least we're rid of Tiny's baggage."
Doc stands silently watching the exchange of words. He raises an eyebrow at some statements, seems to find others slightly humorous, and scowls almost imperceptibly at others. When he speaks, his words are measured and deliberately professorial... a tone the older man rarely strikes up among the crew. His forefinger taps lightly on the small skull that tops his cane.
"I was a professor of Antiquities and Ancient Cultures once. My dissertation and fieldwork was largely related to the ethno-religious and ethno-medical practices of the Diori and ancient Islaani - which includes their magical traditions and practices. As a point of comparison, naturally, I studied our culture's 'take' on the same subjects... looking with a broader and more unbiased eye than the Triune church permits."
He lets his Curriculum Vitae stand for a moment. "What I'm hearing here are some facts, some reasonable concerns, and a good deal of church dogma founded on nothing more 'factual' than ghost stories. We've known Callum long enough to get some measure of his character. If you're going to condemn him, I hope you've got something more concrete to base it on than some hysteric priest's vague warnings when you were eight."
"I know enough about Callum's... interests that they don't bother me much. My field research has found that daemonologists - working within their skill limits - are at little risk of daemon-possession or attack. What I can't speak to is how much of a problem revealing his interests to a small town thug like Geirnig might cause us. He isn't the law and this isn't a major city. And there are ways to cast doubt on his credibility if we need to."
Ambrose listens to Gilly and Doc's concerns, and the latter's observations and studies on daemons. He takes a seat and runs a finger through his hair, leaving his hand there as though it's supporting his head.
I ain't condemning the Captain, Doc, just sayin' that there's always a time when something goes wrong. Engine won't start, gun gets jammed, you take that one last drink and heave it up all over the bar. Things happen and you gotta roll with 'em. Captain might bind a hundred daemons and send their twisted souls back to the nether. But if just one daemon gets free, then what? You're a smart man, Doc, and you pulled our asses out of the fire back there. And I know you know your stuff--but your research won't be worth much when that day comes, 'less you got a heavy book to throw at the hell-beasts.
He shakes his head and slouches in his chair, tapping the table absent-mindedly.
That said, Giernig can say all he wants. No one's gonna believe it was Daemons that took him down. The whole town saw our bird lighting up the sky and chewing up his purdy house, he chuckles despite the seriousness of his earlier worries. That was somethin', wasn't it! Our girl is a beauty...
Gilly puffs her cheeks up with air, shrugs, then lets it on out. As long as Geirnig doesn't have some sorta proof.... well, guess they're all right.
The mechanic looks less than convinced at Doc's wordy speech, but... Callum's still the same fella he was twenty-four hours ago, she guesses.
With a shrug, she slides off the chair. "Right. Well. I'll be back in the engines, keepin' us movin' on."
As for Ambrose's worries... well, she keeps her thoughts to herself, but she reckons they've got about as much chance of talkin' Cap out of his daemon-binding as they would have a good chance of getting her to give up her boom-bottles.
"I ain't condemning the Captain, Doc, just sayin' that there's always a time when something goes wrong. Engine won't start, gun gets jammed, you take that one last drink and heave it up all over the bar. Things happen and you gotta roll with 'em. Captain might bind a hundred daemons and send their twisted souls back to the nether. But if just one daemon gets free, then what? You're a smart man, Doc, and you pulled our asses out of the fire back there. And I know you know your stuff--but your research won't be worth much when that day comes, 'less you got a heavy book to throw at the hell-beasts."
Long listens to Ambrose despite a couple points where he all but jumps in to refute the errant logic. By the end of the pilot's words, the professor is seething. "Well, hell, I guess I know where you and I stand then, don't I? Folksy fear and superstition trumps knowledge and experience... But I'm just a bookworm so what the f#$~ do I know, eh? That's nice." He gives Ambrose a hard look. "Yeah, I think I'm done here."
Doc makes sure Gladys is on his hip and his cane is in-hand as he readies to retire to his quarters. He debates adding a snide jab but thinks better of it, saying to Callum, "At some point, we should chat about how to handle things if an entity gets sent against us. I've got a number of resources you might find useful." He gives the Captain a polite nod and leaves with a scowl.
"Take it easy, Doc, they... Doc!" Callum calls after the man as he storms out, but doesn't pursue him.
"Well, that went well."
Zedd looks around as Doc storms out.
"Much easier when there is just somethin' to hit or shoot..."
He grumbles to himself as he makes his way back to the bay, checking for any repairs Bingo will need.
"Take it easy, Doc, they... Doc!" Callum calls after the man as he storms out, but doesn't pursue him.
"Well, that went well."
Ambrose shrugs.
I guess my provincial views offended the Doc's sensibilities a touch. Seems a man who can tolerate daemon-binding would have a thicker skin in an argument.
He stands up with a sigh and puts a hand on Callum's shoulder.
I don't like this business, but I know I can't sway you, and I damn sure ain't leaving my home because of it. So promise me you'll let me know when things take a turn for the worse. I'll stand with you when the daemons come.
With a nod, and Callum's leave, he returns to the cockpit.
Ambrose's words leave a grin on Callum's face, which breaks first into chuckles, then full blown laughter.
'When they come,' he says. Not if; when. I could talk all day, but they'll just believe what they want to believe. As far as I'm concerned, I'm a ticking time-bomb, but they'll stay. And they think I'm the crazy one.
Sitting alone in the common room, Callum couldn't remember when he'd last laughed this hard.
The conversation winds down and crew members drift off to their usual haunts. The captain sits alone in the dim, flickering light of the galley, thinking captain-ly (or possibly Daemon-ly) thoughts as his fingers brush Rabbit’s note. Ambrose mans the bridge, accompanied by mutt and moonlight. Doc avoids the bridge except to check their progress with his usual calculated professionalism ... and maybe a sliver of added coolness towards the pilot. Tiny and Gizmo run practiced eyes and hands over their respective birds, dutifully seeing to the needs of their rides before those of themselves. Despite whatever schisms lie between crew members, however, the Kestrel’s engines hum contentedly, whether due to her crew being safely back aboard or simply with being once again airborne is impossible to tell.
Within minutes, the ship and crew are sailing once more through the night, ghosting along the southern edge of the Ponts Range peaks on their way to the coordinates of Grage’s cargo pickup site.
With any luck, the crew has put the worst of this simple job behind them.
— End of Chapter 1 —
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