The Aeolian Master - Book One - Revival HTML version

person or personsss were to help the Galaef escape and regain his throne would he give that someone or
thossse someonesss a Full Pardon?
I've never thought about it, said Ben, but now that you ask, I'm sure he would.
Does that mean he might or that he definitely would?
For you, Roqford, I guarantee he would.
Thank you, said Roqford, and he clicked off.
The officer's dining common was quite elegant with long, red draperies on the windows, its booths
surrounded on the insides by leather seats, carpet on the floor, polished wood walls with pictures hanging on
them, a half wall to the right separating the plush bar from the dining area, with mirrors hung in strategic
locations making the room look larger than it was, which was unnecessary considering the room was large
enough to hold one hundred and fifty people comfortably with no one having to stand.
As sharpie stepped through the doorway and into the officer’s dining common she thought of the luxury and
the good food, which the officers had as compared to the hard life and little food of the prisoners. The idea of it
was appalling. Sharpie started across the floor feeling the soft Ragg carpet under her feet and wondering how
long she could live the life of a prisoner.
She saw Curt sitting in the raised Captain's section—“for the Captain and his guests only." The waiters were
scurrying back and forth, some clearing away the dirty dishes, while others were delivering dessert.
Her enlightening, but depressing talk with Ben made her late for dinner, but considering the circumstances,
whether she ate or not had little importance. After all, she and everyone in this prison could be caught between
two sides of a brutal war.
Curt had his back to her, but from the distance she knew it was him because he was the only one in the
Laskey, a small wiry waiter, was passing her as he hurried toward the kitchen. "The Captain's in his usual
seat, Lieutenant Sharpie," he said.
"Thanks, Laskey. How's the food tonight?"
"As scrumptious as always," he answered over his shoulder.
Sharpie reached into her vest pocket and took out the small, disc-thin voice recorder, which she had used to
record the conversation between her and Ben. She always recorded conversations whenever she believed it
might be important to reproduce them later. In this case, she might be able to help Ben out of his predicament.
She unplugged it and put the small microphone back in her pocket.
What was it they called her in officer's candidate school? Oh yes, Walkie Talkie—the legs with the recorder.
She always recorded the lectures given by the professors in class, and sometimes she recorded conversations
with other students. Sometimes they didn't like it. Hal had been one such student/officer to be. Of course, she
could understand his concern since he had confided in her that he sometimes liked to dress up in a woman's
uniform, put large fruit where the breasts were supposed to be, and parade around in front of a mirror. For some
reason he believed if this information got out it wouldn't be good for his psychological profile.
When he found out that she liked to record conversations with friends, he confronted her about it, and she
confessed to having recorded one of their talks. She had no problem erasing the disc and then giving it to him
to do with as he pleased. After all, as she told him, she wasn't trying to get anything on him. She was just
recording a conversation with a friend. Needless to say he didn't talk to her much after that.
After all these years she was still recording conversations, but this time it was of a serious nature, a matter of
the highest order. The Galaef of the Galactic Empire was being held prisoner in their prison.
She paused at the bottom of the steps wondering if Curt would believe it. She thought not, but if he did, was
there anything they could do about it? After all, they had been thrown into a game way over their heads. What
did they know about Galactic politics? And if they got involved on the wrong side, they might end up in the
pits, or maybe worse.
For the two years she had been working as a guard in the pits, she had seen what it was like, men and women
being starved to death while doing slave labor. It was cruel and inhumane, to say the least. In a way, she was
rooting for the rebels. She didn't know how it would affect her life and her career, but something had to be