by Eric Thomson
“Lars may be a shrewd negotiator, but I think one of the Order’s shrewder administrators will make sure he gets precisely what he deserves.”
“You can count on it, Prioress.”
— 18 —
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“Good morning, Captain Fenrir. I trust you slept well.” Metrobius waved his visitor through the priory’s main gate the following day. “Especially after I confirmed your newly acquired tools were worth their price.”
“And a good day to you, Friar.” Fenrir inclined his head by way of greeting. “I enjoyed a peaceful night indeed, but not because of the items in question. Simply knowing I would enjoy a profitable cruise after visiting your stores is what allowed me to sleep like a man without sin.”
Metrobius let out a hearty burst of laughter as he patted the mariner on the shoulder.
“That man has yet to be born, but I’m sure we’ll both feel satisfied by our upcoming arrangement, my friend. In fact, I guarantee it.”
“Is that a promise or a threat?” Fenrir gave the Friar an amused grin.
“Neither.” Metrobius turned on his heels and led Fenrir toward the low-roofed storehouse, with its steel window shutters and a door that couldn’t be opened by thieves unless they came equipped with a high-powered laser. “But I can offer a glass of iced tea once we shake hands on our deal.”
“Considering how Sister Hermina’s iced tea made me reveal the secret of the railguns, I’m not sure I should accept the offer. You might make me reveal more secrets best kept within the confines of my ship.”
Metrobius touched a small gray panel set into the ancient stone wall beside the door. It, along with the shutters and roof, was newly constructed. The rest of the building, its surface smoothed by centuries of rain and wind, was from early imperial times, a solid landmark that seemed as if it could survive another dozen centuries. He gave the door a gentle push, letting it swing inward on silent hinges, and ushered Fenrir into a blessedly cool, though dark space.
“Our revered prioress has a way of making an honest man even more honest, my friend. I wouldn’t worry about it. My iced tea comes without her special touch. And if we were doing this at the end of the day instead of halfway before noon, I would offer a cold ale in its stead.”
“Now there’s a thought.” Fenrir stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder. “How about I come back in six hours?”
“Time is of the essence.” The Friar entered behind his guest and closed the door. He reached for a switch, and pale globes came to life, bathing the storehouse in a pleasant light, not quite subdued but not aggressive either. Row upon row of wooden racks filled it from wall to wall, each laden with items packed in boxes of various sizes, shapes, and colors.
Fenrir let out a low whistle.
“Impressive, even without knowing what those crates contain. What would you do if the people of Thebes lost their minds and raided the priory, seizing this wealth for themselves instead of waiting while you distribute it in measured doses, as per your quasi-mystical plan aimed at elevating Hatshepsut to galactic citizenship again?”
“First, they would have to get in here. Did you think we wouldn’t protect this place?”
When Fenrir looked around with an air of alarm at having missed signs the storeroom might be impregnable, an amused sound escaped Metrobius’ prominent nose.
“Then, there’s the matter of Thebes losing the Mandate of the Void. I’m sure the government and those citizens with more than two functioning brain cells understand attacking this priory means the end of our mission here, whether the Brethren, be they Hatshepsut natives or from Lyonesse, survive an attack or not. Whoever comes after us would set up a new mission elsewhere, and Thebes would find itself lagging behind another city-state in the race to become first among equals on this world. And whoever is first will represent this star system within humanity reunited.”
Fenrir nodded in understanding.
“I get that. But does everyone around here?”
“The current government certainly does, and I suspect its successors will as well. Politicians, by their nature, often aren’t capable of seeing the long game, but in this case, they know what losing the Mandate of the Void would mean if we vanished. And with us, any hope Thebes might be the first who rises again and leads Hatshepsut. Because being first means power, and even the most short-sighted, most corrupt, most venal politician is attracted to power like a bee to nectar, or a fly to manure.”
Fenrir contemplated his host for a few seconds, then burst out laughing.
“For a monastic, your worldview is surprising and refreshingly secular. Count me among those who will do their utmost to keep you here, if only so I can eventually launch a fleet of ships that don’t need sails and can outrun any pirates they can’t outgun. And I’m already on the path of outgunning the motherless bastards because of wonderfully lethal off-world tech.”
Metrobius thumped him on the arm in a comradely gesture.
“That’s the spirit, my seafaring friend. Come. Let me show you our wares, and you can tell me what suits as payment for the charter. We’ll start by replacing the items you sold on your last trip and count that toward the total.”
Metrobius gave Fenrir a sideways glance and smiled when he saw a faint air of annoyance cross the latter’s face. The mariner could hardly argue since he’d already profited from the Order’s generosity by becoming the best-armed man in the Republic of Thebes. Or at least the one with the deadliest weaponry, considering the Theban police and military forces were equipped with chemical propellant slug throwers whose range was only a fraction of a railgun’s.
The Friar quickly tagged a medical instrument kit and a tool kit of the same sort Fenrir had bartered away in Mazaber.
“And what value do you place on them?” The latter asked. When Metrobius gave him the estimated production cost translated into Theban marks, Fenrir blanched beneath his deep tan. “I did not know that. And you’re simply giving these away?”
“To help Thebes and through it, Hatshepsut recover, yes. Our leadership on Lyonesse decided long ago the best way of reviving a civilization destroyed by Dendera, such as yours, is first through improvements in health care and economic productivity. Only then can it absorb new technological advancements at a higher rate without causing social fractures.”
“I should have demanded another pair of railguns from Crimple for what I gave.”
“How many of those weapons did he own?”
Fenrir shrugged.
“No idea. But back to our negotiation. How many will you send with me?”
“Four. Two Sisters and two Friars.”
“Then the replacement kits cover their cabins and food. Agreed?”
The mariner stuck out his hand. Metrobius grasped it, and they shook.
“Agreed.”
“Now, let’s discuss my expenses, meaning food and pay for the crew, wear and tear on the ship, and say ten percent profit.”
“Five percent. And that’s being generous considering how tight a shipowner’s margins are. I’ll include a captain’s pay among the expenses, though.”
Fenrir gave the Friar a look that was half amused, half exasperated.
“You drive a hard bargain.”
Butter couldn’t melt in Metrobius’ mouth as he smiled back.
“We chief administrators running abbeys and priories are among the toughest negotiators in the known galaxy, my friend. Our job is squeezing the last bit of revenue from every item we produce to fund our good works without relying on charity. Ask the food sellers in town.”
“And enjoy an extra earful of complaints over and above the ones I hear whenever my purser shaves a fraction of a percent off their profits? No thanks. Now, what can you offer that would cover my operating expenses and a five percent profit if I sell it in Mazaber or in the Thebes bazaar, for that matter? I might actually earn more here since fo
lks know what they’re buying.”
“Do multi-function tools with solar power pack chargers interest you? Sell a kit to a carpenter and watch him raise a house in one-tenth of the time at a much lower cost than his competitors.”
“How many?”
Metrobius studied Fenrir with a calculating gaze.
“For you, three kits.”
“Show me.”
The Friar took him across the storeroom and pulled a crate off a metal shelf. He cracked it open and pulled out the power unit.
“Attach any of the heads to this, and you can drill, cut, grind, or drive any screw or bolt.”
“Why didn’t you release these into the general population?”
A mischievous smile appeared on the Friar’s round face.
“Who says we didn’t? At a price in supplies, of course. Food and other perishables don’t travel that well from Lyonesse and take up space better suited for goods useful in rebuilding Hatshepsut.”
A smirk tugged at Fenrir’s lips. “You keep it nicely under wraps.”
“Not so much us as the buyers, happy at a temporary advantage over their competition, small as it may be. As I said, we pay for what we need, and our currency is advanced technology. Filtering it into the general population a bit at a time is better than a massive wave that will knock down many who need longer to adapt and literally wipe out those whose livelihood relies on current technology and processes.”
Fenrir let out a soft snort.
“You people really do work according to a plan, don’t you?”
“Yes, although things sometimes seem chaotic, to say the least. But it’s working on other worlds, and it’ll work here. Three kits. Yours to keep and use aboard your ship or sell wherever you like. That covers your expenses and profit.”
“Four kits.”
“No. Three. And I’m being generous.”
When Fenrir glowered at him, Metrobius said, “Three and a small bottle of Glen Carhaix.”
“What’s that?”
“Possibly the best single malt whiskey in the known galaxy, distilled in my hometown on Lyonesse. Out here, hundreds of light-years and countless wormhole transits away, it’s worth more than the richest man in Thebes can pay, except no one on this world remembers the taste of the good stuff.” The Friar smiled as Fenrir’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Now you’re just playing with me.”
“What have you got to lose? It’s better than the hooch you folks make. That stuff will kill you in due course, or even instantly if you’re not careful who you buy it from.”
“Okay. Three kits and your wonder booze.”
As they shook on it, Metrobius said, “If you enjoy the whiskey, I can give you instructions on setting up your own distillery, but a word of warning, it takes at least three years of aging in barrels before it’s drinkable. The longer, the better. But if you nail it, customers will line up to pay healthy sums for the privilege of sipping a nectar unknown on Hatshepsut for at least two centuries.”
“Three years, eh? Heck of an investment.”
“As I said, the plans are yours for the asking.”
When Fenrir noticed the twinkle in Metrobius’ eyes, he chuckled.
“You just want a supplier for your favorite tipple on this planet.”
“True. All too true. Come. Let’s crack open your bottle and share a sip to celebrate our deal.”
“I should have known.”
After watching Fenrir head back to the harbor aboard a hired Stirling engine cart with his kits, the bottle of Glen Carhaix nestled in a padded tunic pocket, Metrobius intercepted Hermina as she crossed the forecourt.
“It’s done, Sister.”
“Good.”
“And we may have a whiskey distillery in Thebes shortly. I gave Fenrir a small bottle of the Carhaix. One sip was enough. He asked for a copy of the plans, and I expect he’ll form a consortium with his fellow captain-owners to finance the construction and babysit the initial batch through the first three years of maturing.”
Her eyes crinkled as she smiled at him.
“And another bit of progress unleashed on an unsuspecting population. Did he mention when Aswan Trader could set sail?”
“In two days.”
— 19 —
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Two mornings later, while enjoying a cup of tea beneath the quarterdeck awning, Captain Lars Fenrir spotted four Brethren, two tall, slender women and two burly, bearded men, emerging from a shaded alley and head for Aswan Trader’s berth. They caught sight of him staring at them, and the larger of the Friars nodded once, indicating he knew they’d been seen. Each carried a thick duffel bag in one hand, and a smaller pack slung over the opposite shoulder. From a distance, they seemed fit, their backs erect and their pace vigorous. The two younger Brethren with the deeper tans were undoubtedly the locally recruited Friar and Sister, while the older pair must be off-worlders.
Not for the first time, Fenrir marveled at the subtle changes wrought upon Theban society by the Brethren from Lyonesse over the last three years. At the advanced yet straightforward knowledge, they unobtrusively spread throughout the republic, allowing its citizens to rediscover industrial techniques just as they rediscovered faith in the Almighty through the works of the Order of the Void.
Part of him admired their oblique approach rather than risk overwhelming the descendants of those who survived the Retribution Fleet’s scouring. But an increasingly larger part wished they would simply get on with things more directly so Thebes could take a gigantic leap forward and claim the rest of Hatshepsut while it built starships of its own.
Some nights, when he lay awake in his bunk, unable to sleep because of the harbor’s stifling heat, he imagined owning a fleet of small, faster-than-light traders crisscrossing the wormhole network. Ships with climate-controlled environments, rather than a primitive barquentine whose only concession to modernity was its auxiliary Stirling engine, a technology the Thebans rediscovered well before the Brethren arrived with their books of knowledge and secretive smiles.
But by this time next year, that same engine would provide electricity to Aswan Trader while she was under sail, and could radio be far behind, perhaps even long-dreamed-of air conditioning? Space, however, would likely remain beyond Fenrir’s reach. Part of him resented the idea he would never enjoy the same experiences as the Brethren because their plan was generational, beyond the lifetimes of those who grew up on Hatshepsut clawing their way out of the pre-industrial mire.
The group stopped at the foot of the gangway, and the big off-world Friar asked, in a deep, well-modulated voice pitched to reach Fenrir’s ears, “Permission to come aboard, Captain?”
His respectful tone hinted at a man who, just like Friar Metrobius, had a military or naval past in the Lyonesse Defense Force. Perhaps the Order of the Void chose veterans from among the Brethren for their missions, men and women who knew their way around weapons and small unit tactics. Warrior monastics, perhaps? If so, they would be useful should the increasingly bold and restive Central Passage pirates try again.
“Granted.” Fenrir drained his tea and put the cup on the binnacle before heading toward the entry port to greet his passengers properly.
As the dark-haired, dark-eyed lead Friar came up the gangway, Aswan Trader’s master realized he wasn’t just a big man, but one whose height, square shoulders, and broad, angular face could intimidate anyone bent on mischief. The equally tall but slimmer Sister on his heels moved as if she hid a lean, muscular physique beneath her loose khaki clothes. Her intelligent blue eyes, set in a narrow, sharp-featured face beneath short, bleached blond hair, seemed to miss nothing. The other two were more compact, darker of hair and complexion, but no less fit or alert, though Fenrir recognized fellow Thebans. They carried themselves with a shade more familiarity with their surroundings. He couldn’t have explained it in words, but he just knew.
To his surprise, the leading Sister spoke first, even though the Friar seemingly led the group.
“Thank you for allowing us aboard, Captain. I am Rianne.” She gestured at the man beside her. “This is Horam. And behind us are Lilith and Alcide. We’re the Order’s delegation to Mazaber.”
Fenrir bowed his head.
“Welcome.”
As instructed earlier that morning, Aswan Trader’s purser appeared, and Fenrir gestured toward him.
“This is Uri. He’ll show you to your quarters and give you a rundown on how we do things. We’re casting off lines in sixty minutes so we can take the outgoing tide. If you’ve forgotten anything on shore, best retrieve it now.”
“Thank you, Captain, but we are in every respect ready for sea.”
Sister Rianne’s choice of words both surprised and amused him. She looked like the furthest thing from an old salt, yet she had the lingo down pat.
“In that case, go ahead and settle in. If you’d like to observe our departure, then please join me at the taffrail in an hour but be careful you don’t stumble on my sailors along the way.”
“Captain.” The four Brethren bowed their heads in unison, like a well-trained drill team.
Fenrir watched them take the stairs and vanish into the barquentine’s depths, then retrieved his mug from the binnacle and headed for the galley to drop it off.
Friar Horam found the tiny inboard cabin immediately forward of the saloon a little tight for comfort, but he knew the outboard cabins, though they were equipped with portholes, wouldn’t be any better. In fact, they’d be worse because of the space taken up by the hull’s thick members. He quickly unpacked his duffel bag and stowed the contents in the dresser affixed to one bulkhead and gingerly tried the swinging cot, but its ropes didn’t so much as groan under his weight.
Satisfied, he then pulled a large bore needler from his backpack and checked it meticulously to be ready in case of danger. Congruent with Horam’s status as a servant of the Almighty, his needler’s magazines were filled with non-lethal ammunition, though Horam knew he could kill if there was no other choice.
