by Eric Thomson
“We’re likely still within the sphere claimed by the empire, Iona. There’s an upper limit to the distances stable wormholes can connect.”
“Stable, Skipper. Perhaps the one that spit us out turned rogue while we were in transit.”
“But the transit still took roughly the right length of time. It means we’re not much further from Parth than ISC37800-24. I’m more concerned about Ostrow and his ships. If they decide to pursue, we’ll be playing hide and seek while trying to figure out where we are and how we re-enter the mapped network.”
“And won’t he be surprised?” She paused, head turned to one side. “According to the catalog, we landed in ISC254130-9, which is unclaimed and therefore not within the empire. But you’re right, it’s only a few light years further from Parth than our original destination, but much closer to the Coalsack Nebula.”
“Tell me they surveyed it.”
“Over twenty-five years ago, Skipper. Even though it’s only a binary, that survey will probably be out of date. Still, we were lucky. It could have been much worse.” A pause. “Here we go. It lists nine wormholes, but only four with identified connecting star systems. Hang on, Tupo is setting up a visual.”
A network schematic took the tactical projection’s place. Four yellow lines radiated out from ISC254130-9, connecting to yellow nodes tagged with Imperial Star Catalog numbers. They, in turn, sprouted more yellow lines. However, scattered among the four charted wormholes, another five were marked in red with no identified node at the other end, except for one, which was also red but had an ISC number.
“Presumably, we can now add a tenth connection, the new one to Parth punted here from 37800-24.”
“But tagged in deep red as a known rogue.”
“No arguments here. What is ISC377242-15?”
“It’s a triple star system inside the Coalsack Nebula. Apparently, it was home to Tortuga Station, a hollowed out asteroid turned pirate’s nest. Legend has it that when wormhole transits became the primary means of interstellar travel, Tortuga lost most of its charm as a meeting place for scum of every known oxygen breathing species. And without ill-gotten gains to fund the place...”
“Because of a triple system’s flaky wormhole junction problem,” DeCarde said.
“Correct.” Mikkel’s hologram looked up at Morane’s face. “No, Skipper. Don’t you dare.”
“Dare what?”
“Transit through 377242-15. One rogue wormhole terminus is enough.”
A faint smile creased Morane’s face. “Did you check where the four surveyed wormholes lead?”
Mikkel didn’t immediately reply. Then, “One is a direct connection to Yotai.”
“Which, as the sector capital, will have a defensive array covering every terminus. I’m sure Admiral Zahar won’t be kind enough to simply wave us through.”
“How about the one linking to Peralka? It takes us closer to the Coalsack, but from there, we can travel back through four uninhabited systems to where we would have gone from Parth if we weren’t running away.”
“Peralka is home to the 162nd Battle Group, and since it’s the last imperial star system before the Coalsack Badlands, it also has defensive arrays guarding the wormhole termini. Less risky than Yotai, perhaps, but still too much for the likes of us. The third surveyed wormhole leads to a part of the network that’ll force us through a triple before we’re back on course to Arietis and our ultimate destination while avoiding inhabited systems. Then there’s the fourth, which will make us cross the Parth system again unless we want to backtrack so far we’ll almost end up in the Shield Sector again. Our food supplies won’t last that long.”
DeCarde let out a low whistle. “And here I thought finding and mapping the wormhole network made interstellar travel easier.”
“It did, unless you’re like us, trying to make your way undetected, and in this case, there are no easy answers.”
“There’s at least one easy answer,” Mikkel said. “Since there’s no survey of 377242-15’s wormhole junction, I’d say a side trip into the Coalsack Nebula to see if the mythical Tortuga Station still exists makes it option five out of four possibles.”
“Then we take Wormhole Three, and hope that triple won’t send us sideways.”
Mikkel snorted. “At least it’s deep enough within the empire’s sphere that another shifting transit won’t send us so far we end up contemplating alternate feeding methods.”
“Alternate feeding methods?” DeCarde put on a puzzled face.
“Old naval tradition for shipwreck survivors. The one who draws the short straw becomes alternate food.”
An expression of disgust crossed the Marine’s face.
“And here I thought I was the only one interested in unappetizing historical trivia.”
“I blame my upbringing.”
“You were born to a parent in the Navy?”
“My father was a historian with a warped sense of humor. I’m actually the first in my family to wear a naval uniform, and look where that got me.” Holographic Mikkel turned to Morane again. “My recommendation is Wormhole Three, not Wormhole Nine. We know where Three supposedly ends. Nine’s far terminus might no longer even be anywhere near Tortuga Station.”
“So be it. Ask Tupo to plot a course and sync the ships. If Ostrow is following us, he’ll be here in less than two hours.”
— 38 —
“Anything?” Morane, after shaking off the usual emergence nausea, looked at the tactical projection. It showed four ships — five, but two were really one — heading toward Wormhole Three as if pulled by a common thread. They were running silent, as per Morane’s standing orders to do so whenever they came out of FTL, or through a wormhole terminus. And they were at battle stations.
“No, sir,” Lettis replied, shaking his head. “But the rebels could have entered the system and gone FTL while we were still in hyperspace. We’re seeing what’s near that terminus as it was ten hours ago.”
“If they’ve gone FTL, the question is where,” Creswell said. “By the time they completed their transit we were too far for detection, and I doubt Ostrow has enough information about us and our intentions to come up with the same conclusion as you, Captain, and chosen Wormhole Three. Not to mention the amount of disorientation caused by finding oneself in the wrong star system.”
“Nor would he have enjoyed the gentle nudging of a first officer uninterested in seeing if the legendary Tortuga Station still existed. Let’s hope he turned around the moment he realized that not only did we manage to break clean, but this wasn’t the right star system, as per the most recent survey. Some admirals aren’t fond of straying too far from the comforts of home.”
Mikkel’s hologram smirked. “Unlike some captains who call themselves desperate.”
“Mock me if you want, Iona. But the idea of no longer being fettered by the chains of an increasingly despotic Fleet command, while simultaneously seeking a way to escape the madness Dendera created, changes your outlook on life. In the meantime, please tell me everything is well.”
“Everything is well, Skipper. The other ships report no issues, and we’re already synced for the next wormhole transit.”
“Even Lori?”
“Narwhal has yet to show any strain at carrying Tanith.”
“They built those old Monokeros class transports to last, didn’t they?”
“Thankfully for the stasis stiffs.”
“Captain.” Lettis glanced over his shoulder at Morane. “Something just came out of Wormhole Three. Four somethings, to be precise. No transponders.” Red icons appeared on the tactical projection.
Creswell snorted softly. “I’d be shocked to meet a starship actually broadcasting its identity nowadays.”
The minutes ticked by in silence as they neared Wormhole Three’s event horizon. The newcomers showed no sign of having spotted the 197th Battle Group’s remains and stayed on a course aimed at Wormhole One, which led to Yotai, the sector capital.
“I ma
ke them as three Kalinka class frigates and one civilian liner,” Lettis finally said.
“Protecting a regular run against pirates?” DeCarde asked.
Morane shook his head. “They wouldn’t deliberately go through an uninhabited binary system, especially not one with so many unsurveyed termini. There are safer routes leading to Yotai from just about anywhere in this part of the empire.”
“The liner looks like it has superficial hull damage.” Lettis pointed at a side screen showing the image of a graceful interstellar greyhound, one of a breed that combined speed and luxury. “And it’s the kind you’d get from a stern chase after your shields collapse.”
“So a rescuee, then.”
Mikkel grunted. “Or a victim. And no, Skipper, we shouldn’t investigate even though Vanquish can take on three old Kalinkas.”
Sister Gwenneth, who’d become a fixture in the CIC during battle stations, albeit a silent one, unexpectedly spoke. “I sense evil in those ships, Captain Morane. Something isn’t right.”
That sibylline statement earned her dumbfounded stares from captain and crew. It wasn’t her first since coming aboard, but it was her most astonishing so far.
“I beg your pardon, Sister.”
“You were wondering whether they rescued that liner from malefactors or whether it is their victim. I would say the latter.”
“Are you counseling me to intercept them?”
Gwenneth shook her head. “The time for rescue has likely passed already.”
“That’s for sure, Sister,” Lettis said. “They went FTL.”
“More Navy vessels turned pirate or privateer in service to rebellious viceroys and governors?” DeCarde asked.
The Sister of the Void nodded once. “Chaos always nurtures the seven deadly sins. And it always inevitably dissolves the painfully thin veneer of civilization that keeps humanity’s baser instincts in check, despite the technological prowess that has allowed our species to colonize hundreds of worlds.”
“And how did you figure those frigates pirated the liner, Sister?” Creswell asked. “With respect.”
Gwenneth gave her a thin smile. “I didn’t say pirated. I merely said it likely fell victim to the frigates. But to answer your question, we of the Order are attuned to the Void, Commander. Some more than others and a strong enough evil disturbs the Void.”
Creswell frowned, trying to find meaning in what seemed very much like a non-answer. Then, she shook her head and shrugged. “I suppose I won’t hear a more useful answer no matter how I phrase my question.”
“Yet, my answer is clear to one who can see. But to see, you must also believe.”
Morane raised both hands to forestall a religious debate in the CIC.
“It’s academic at this point since that trio is now out of our immediate reach and on a course too perilous for us. We will go ahead with the Wormhole Three transit.”
“Thank you for that, Skipper,” Mikkel said. “I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of another debate about our duty to save those already among us versus helping more strangers at the risk of not achieving our goal.”
“However, Sister Gwenneth’s most recent intervention brings my thoughts back to the friar currently held in stasis aboard Tanith.” He turned to her. “Would now be a good time to decant him? We might determine if he knows who among the remaining prisoners could interest the rebels? You said he might give us answers. If I recall correctly, the procedure with this sort of deep stasis takes several hours. Peg Vietti could do it while we transit through the wormhole and when we emerge in what will hopefully be an empty star system, you can speak with your colleague.”
**
Lieutenant Vietti stuck her head into Tanith’s saloon where Adrienne Barca and Command Sergeant Tejko were enjoying a cup of the prison ship’s excellent coffee.
“Hey Peg. Want one?” Barca raised the mug in her hand. “We might as well enjoy our fill before your captain finds out and has you send every last roasted bean over to the flagship.”
“No. I’m a tea drinker, through and through, like any proper spacer. Captain Morane wants us to decant a prisoner while we’re in transit. A Friar Locarno.”
“Did he say why?”
“Locarno might be able to tell us which among the remaining stasis stiffs is of such importance that the rebels who rescued Grand Duke Custis didn’t destroy Tanith or decant other bodies. And why this Admiral Ostrow was and might still be on our ass.”
Barca made a face. “Let me guess. You want us Marines to do it.”
“My hands are full monitoring Tanith’s systems, now that Kyle Wen and his team are back in Narwhal. She might be our carrier, but there’s still plenty to track, so we and our human cargo stay alive.”
The Marine snorted. “Human cargo, eh? That sounds no better than stasis stiffs or sleeping uglies as my troopers like to call them. I’ll read up on the procedures. It can’t be difficult if they let Imperial Prison Service bulls do it. They’re not known for shining intellects. Otherwise, they’d be in the Corps.”
“You can start the moment we’ve entered the wormhole.”
“Which is when?”
“Thirty minutes, give or take.”
“That should be enough time to read the manual. I bet it’s mostly pictures anyway.” Barca drained her mug and stood. “We’ll set this Friar Locarno up in one of the crew cabins, Sergeant, with a troop medic standing watch.”
“I’ll sort it out, sir. Have fun learning how to decant.”
**
“Another good transit.” Morane climbed to his feet and stretched. “Let’s hope we can cross this system without making any unfortunate encounters. As soon as sensors report the all-clear, we can go light up and accelerate away on the new course. Signals, call Tanith. Let’s see if we have a Friar Locarno up and about.”
“No need. Tanith is calling us, sir.”
“Put it on.”
Lieutenant Vietti swam into focus on the port side secondary display. “Good day, Captain. We that is, Centurion Barca and her Marines decanted Friar Locarno as ordered during the transit. He woke two hours ago. Once he regained his faculties, we told him about events since finding Tanith in the Parth system. He requests to speak with a representative of his Order.”
“As it happens, Sister Gwenneth is in the CIC.” Morane glanced over his shoulder and with a nod of the head, invited her to join him by the command chair.
A new face appeared beside Vietti’s. Crowned by a shock of silver hair and framed by an equally silver beard, it was deeply lined by the travails of age and disappointment at an imperfect universe. His deep-set dark eyes beneath woolen brows seemed to hold secrets from before the dawn of time. He could easily be over a hundred years old. Someone who saw most of the Ruggero dynasty at work as it eroded the compact between the Crown on one hand and the Senate, Fleet and Sovereign Star Systems on the other. And all purely in a quest for absolute power.
“I am Gwenneth, late of the now-defunct Yotai Abbey.”
“Defunct?”
“Admiral Zahar and his rebels razed it. They murdered most of the Brethren. And you are Locarno, late of the Order’s delegation at the imperial palace?”
“I am he.” Locarno inclined his head. “Pardon my rudeness in not naming myself first.”
Gwenneth made a dismissive gesture. “It is of no import, Friar. Why were you in a prisoner draft, destined for exile on Parth?”
“The empress turned against the Order when we refused to involve ourselves in secular matters such as helping her find anyone who might become disloyal, so she could purge them. I am the last surviving member of the delegation at the imperial palace and was spared only because of my age and length of service to the throne. And that only at the behest of Dendera’s closest confidante, the one person she still trusts. Death squads from the 1st Imperial Guards Regiment murdered the others.” A spasm of pain seemed to deepen the lines etched in his tired features. “I was told by Centurion Barca and Lieutenant Vietti you thi
nk another prisoner aboard this ship might greatly interest Grand Duke Custis. But that you could not identify the individual and suspect Custis couldn’t either.”
Morane nodded. “Indeed. Otherwise, I’m sure the rebels would have gladly destroyed Tanith. It has to be the only logical reason they left her intact where we found her, considering they couldn’t move her in FTL and needed to find a solution such as ours.”
“And your logic is sound, Captain Morane. There is indeed an individual of interest aboard, hidden among the surviving prisoners under a false identity, one only I know. And I suspect my knowing is somehow related to surviving Dendera’s purge, or at least being exiled to Parth instead of murdered.”
— 39 —
“Who?”
Morane’s single word question hung in the air for what seemed like an eternity before Locarno shook his head. “My most sincere apologies, Captain, especially in light of your safeguarding my life and that of the others condemned with me, whether it be justly or unjustly. But the answer to your question is a matter the Brethren must consider. Lieutenant Vietti tells me a ship carrying the Yotai Abbey survivors is under your care. I would speak to a plenary session aboard her so that our Order may debate the matter.”
A sideways glance at Gwenneth confirmed she would support Locarno should Morane argue the point. It was written all over her angular features, and almost certainly by design as if she knew he would take her unspoken objection into account.
“Very well. I will let the matter rest. For now. We will transfer you from Tanith to Dawn Trader, but please consider this, Friar Locarno. If what you know has a bearing on our collective welfare, let alone survival, I believe your moral obligation is to share it with us.”
The man inclined his head.
