by Dan Abnett
'I need access to your astropathic link. I need to contact battlefleet command and speed the closure of this matter. These men weren't a naval security detail/
'I'll instruct the bridge to provide you with the access you need. You may care to extract the inspection requests from my communication log/
That would help. I didn't think the high commanders of Battlefleet Scarus would take this lying down.
I was half-right, but only half. Within half an hour I was on the bridge of the Essene, surrounded by attentive servitors, reporting the incident to battlefleet command by confidential astropathic link. Before long, I was in vox dialogue with aides from the staff office of Admiral Lorpal Spatian, who requested that I secure the Essene at its high-anchor buoy and await the arrival of a security detail and an envoy from the battlefleet procurator.
The idea of sitting tight and waiting for more troopers to arrive didn't especially appeal.
'Deserters, sir/ Procurator Olm Madorthene told me, two hours later. He was a grizzled, narrow man with cropped grey hair and an old augmetic implant down the side of his neck under his left ear. He wore the starched white, high collared jacket, red gloves, pressed black jodhpurs and high patent leather boots of the Battlefleet Disciplinary Detachment. Madorthene had been courteous from the moment he came aboard, saluting me and tucking his gold-braided white crowned cap under his arm respectfully. His detachment of troopers were dressed and equipped identically to the ones that had boarded the Essene to kill us, but from the moment of their arrival I noted their greater discipline and tight order.
'Deserters?'
Madorthene seemed uneasy. He clearly disliked entanglements with an inquisitor.
'From the guard levies. You are aware a founding is presently under way on Gudran. By order of the Lord Militant Commander, seven hundred
and fifty thousand men are being inducted into the Imperial Guard to form the 50th Gudranite Rifles. Such is the size of the founding, and the fact that this is notably the fiftieth regiment assembled from this illustrious world, that a planet-wide celebration and associated ceremonial military events are taking place.'
'And these men deserted?'
Madorthene delicately drew me to one side as his troopers carried the corpses of the insurgents from the vicinity of the airgate and bagged them. I had set Betancore to watch over them.
'We have had trouble/ he confided quietly. 'The muster was originally to have been half a million, but the Lord Militant Commander increased the figure a week prior to the founding – he is preparing for a crusade into the Ophidian sub-sector – and, well, many found themselves conscripted with little notice. Between you and me, the great festivities are partly an attempt to draw attention from the matter. There's been some rioting in barracks at the founding area, and desertion. It's been busy for us.'
'I can well imagine. You know for certain these men are deserters from the guard?'
He nodded and handed me a data-slate. On it was a list of twelve names, linked to file biographies and blurry holo portraits.
'They absconded from Founding Barrack 74 outside Dorsay yesterday, took uniforms and weapons from the bursary at the orbital port and stole a pinnace. No one thought to challenge a squad of naval security troopers.'
'And no one questioned their lack of credentials and flight codes?'
'Regrettably, the pinnace had been pre-loaded with a course plan and transponder codes to take it into the fleet anchorage. They would have been discovered long since had that not been the case. They were clearly looking for a non-military starship like this.'
'These are regular draftees? Infantrymen?'
"Yes.'
'Who could fly a pinnace?'
'The ringleader,' he referred back to the slate, 'one Jonno Lingaart, was a qualified orbital pilot. Worked on the ferries. As I said, a regrettable combination of events.'
I wasn't going to let this go. Madorthene wasn't lying, I was certain of that. But the information he was presenting me with was full of gaps and inconsistencies.
What about the demand for the inspection?'
That came from the pinnace itself. Entirely unofficial. They spotted your ship and improvised. We have sourced the inspection demand to the pinnace's vox-log.'
'No/1 said. He took a step backwards, alert to the anger that was growing in me.
'Sir?'
'I have checked the Essene's communication log. It doesn't tell me the origin of the signals, but it shows the inspection demand came via astro-pathic link, not vox. The pinnace had no astropath/
That's-'
This is the same astropathic link that allocated the Essene its high-anchor buoy. That's been shown as authentic enough. And these men were looking for me. Me, procurator. To kill me. They knew my name/
He went pale and seemed unable to find a reply.
I turned away from him. 'I don't know who these men are – they may indeed have been guard draftees. But someone set them on this course to find me, someone who covered their movements, provided materials and transport, and authenticated their business with this ship. Someone either in the battlefleet or with an outrageous amount of access to its workings. No other explanation fits/
'You're talking of… a conspiracy/
'I am no stranger to underhand behaviour, Madorthene. Nor am I unduly perturbed by attempts on my life. I have enemies. I expect such things. This shows me my enemies are even more powerful than I suspected/
'My lord, I-'
"What is your level of seniority, procurator?'
'I am grade one, magenta cleared, enjoying equivalency with the rank of fleet commodore. I answer directly to Lord Procurator Humbolt/ I knew this from his shoulder flashes, but I wanted to hear him tell me.
'Of course. Your superior wouldn't have trusted such a delicate matter to a junior officer. Nor did he want to show disrespect to me. I trust mis matter is still held in the highest confidence?'
'Sir, yes sir! The lord procurator recognised its… delicacy. Besides, notices of any infractions are being suppressed by order of the Lord Militant Commander, so as not to foment further unrest. The details of this incident are known only to myself and my squad here, the lord procurator and his senior aides/
Then I'd like to keep it that way. I'd like my enemies to believe, for as long as possible, that this assassination attempt was successful. Can I rely on your co-operation, prosecutor?'
'Of course, inquisitor/
You will take an encrypted message back to your lord procurator from me. It will appraise him of the situation and my requirements. I will also supply you with a covert vox-link with which to contact me if any further information becomes available. Any further information, Madorthene, even if you don't believe I will find it relevant/
He nodded keenly again. I didn't add the codicil that if I found this confidence broken I would come after him, the senior aides and the lord procurator himself like the wrath of Rogal Dorn. He could figure that out for himself.
* * *
After Madorthene and his crew had left the Essene, I turned to Betancore. 'What now?' he asked. 'How does it feel to be dead, Midas?'
We left the Essene at midnight aboard the gun-cutter. Fischig, conscious now, remained aboard Maxilla's ship, recovering from his punishing wounds in the Essene 's spectacularly equipped auto-infirmary.
Maxilla had agreed to keep the Essene at anchor for the time being. I had arranged to cover all revenues he stood to lose. I felt I might need a reliable ship at a moment's notice, and it also made sense that if the Essene suddenly departed, it would weaken the cover-story that we were all dead.
I talked it over with Maxilla in the bridge chamber. He sat in his great throne, sipping amasec while reconstruction servitors painstakingly restructured his lower limbs.
'I'm sorry you are now so involved, Tobius.'
'I'm not/ he said. This has been the most interesting run I've made in a long time.'
'You're prepared to stay until I give you word?'
&
nbsp; "You're paying well, inquisitor!' he laughed at this. 'In truth, I am content to help you serve the Emperor. Besides, that oaf Fischig needs better care than your cutter's dingy medical suite can provide, and I can assure you I won't be running off anywhere until he's safely off my ship.'
I left the bridge, almost charmed by Maxilla's generous spirit. There could be many reasons why he assisted me so willingly – fear of the Inquisition being the chief one – but in truth, I was certain it was because he had rediscovered the pleasure of interaction with other humans. It was there in his eagerness to talk, to show off his art treasures, to help, to accommodate… He had been alone in the company of machines for too long.
Betancore changed the transponder codes of the gun-cutter as we left the Essene 's hold. We kept a number of alternative craft identifiers in the cod-ifier memory. For the past few months, and during the stop-over at Hubris, we had run as an official transport of the Inquisition, making no attempt to hide our nature.
Now we were a trade delegation from Sameter, specialising in gene-fixed cereal crops, hoping to interest Gudrun's noble estates in easy maintenance, pest-free crops now that the founding had drained their labour pool.
Betancore voxed Gudrun Control, identified us, and requested route and permission for landfall at Dorsay, the northern capital. They obliged us without hesitation. Another greedy trader in town for the festival.
We swept down through the vast elements of Battlefleet Scarus at high-anchor: rows of grotesque, swollen-bellied troop ships; massive destroyers
with jutting prow-rams and proud aquila emblems; the vast battleships of the line, cold, grey orthogonal giants of space, blistered with weapon emplacements; barbed frigates, long and lean and cruel as wood-wasps; schools of fighter craft, running the picket.
Post-orbital space was seething with transports, scudding tugs, resupply launches, merchant cutters, bulky service lifters and skeletal loading platforms. Away to starboard, the mixed echelons of the merchant ships, the bulk freighters, the sleek sprint traders, the super-massive guild ships, the hybrid rogues. The Essene was out there somewhere.
Winking buoy lights, describing the stacks and levels of the anchor stations, filled the night, another constellation blocking out the real starfield.
Betancore nursed us down through the traffic, down into the crystal bright ionosphere, down into the opalescent ranges of the high clouds. We were heading across the crossover from night to day as the planet turned, making for Dorsay, where dawn was coming up on another day of the Festival of Founding.
NINE
At Dorsay.
Market forces.
In pursuit of Tanokbrey.
Dorsay wasn't waking up. It had been awake all night. Vox-horns along the old streets, avenues and canals broadcast martial themes, and streamers and pennants flew from every available surface.
I had speed-read Aemos's summation of the planet: Gudrun, capital of the Helican sub-sector, Scarus Sector, Segmentum Obscurus. Boasting a human culture for three and a half thousand years, feudally governed by powerful noble houses, whose reach and power extended across three dozen other worlds in the Helican sub-sector. Thracian Primaris, that vast, bloated hub of industry and commerce, was the most populated and productive world in the region, but Gudrun was the cultural and administrative heart. And it was reckoned the combined wealth of the noble houses rivalled the commercial worth of the output of the Thracian hives.
Seen from our approach run, Dorsay gleamed white in the dawn. It lay on the coast, around the lip of a sea-fed lagoon, straddling the mighty river Drunner. From the cutter's ports as we turned in, we could see the white specks of sailboats out in the lagoon basin. Beyond the vast white spread of the city, I could see massive stockades and emplacements established in the rolling green hills and bluffs, temporary barracks for the founding regiment.
Betancore set us down at Giova Field, the municipal port serving Dorsay. It was built on a long, narrow island in the lagoon facing the city, and
the space premium meant smaller ships like ours were lowered on mono-tasked heavy elevators and berthed in a honeycomb of compartments drilled into the porous lava-rock of the island's heart.
Lowink stayed with the cutter. Midas, Aemos, Bequin and myself prepared to go into Dorsay. We changed into simple, anonymous clothing: dark blue robes for Aemos, plain black suits of good cloth and long leather coats for Betancore and myself, and a long gown of porcelain blue crepe with a cream-lace shawl for Alizebeth Bequin. Betancore, with some reluctance, had reopened Vibben's possessions to find clothing suitable for Bequin.
She didn't seem to mind that their former owner was dead.
Under red awnings fluttering in the dawn breeze, the island jetties were thick with passengers waiting for transport to the mainland. We queued among groups of merchants, visiting dignitaries and fleet ratings on furlough. Busking musicians and pedlars plied the captive audience.
At length, we hired one of the grav-skiffs lining up at the jetty. It was a long, speartip-shaped airboat with a glossy violet hull. Open-topped, it provided seats for six, with the steersman perched high at the aft over the bulbous anti-grav generators. It slid us across the lagoon, keeping two metres above the choppy, dappled water.
Dorsay rose before us. Now on its level, we could appreciate how majestic, how towering the city was. Rising above the water on stilts formed of vast basalt stacks and pillars, the buildings were constructed from smoothly fitted, cyclopean stone blocks, their facades limewashed, their shallow roofs dressed with verdigrised copper tiles. Gargoyles yawned at gutter ends or curled around downpipes and drain sluices. Upper storeys had balconies with railings made of tarnished copper; many balconies also had canopies. Arched stone bridges and metal stair-walks linked neighbouring buildings, sometimes across the water-filled streets themselves. Along the canal sides, stone walkways formed a water-level street for pedestrians.
And there were many of those. The place was alive with movement, colour and noise. Once we got into the city proper, our passage down the canals was slowed by other grav-skiffs, water-buses, private yawls and motor-driven boats.
Above us, at high traffic levels, speeders and atmospheric fliers buzzed back and forth. Everywhere we looked were banners celebrating Battlefleet Scarus and the Gudrunite guard regiments, especially the 50th Rifles.
Aemos chattered to himself as usual, noting the elements of Dorsay into his wrist slate, his hunger for accumulating knowledge unstinted. I watched him for a while, his nervous moves, his boyish glee at new details, his obsessive-compulsive tapping at his slate.
The keypads of that battered old slate were worn smooth.
Midas Betancore was alert and sharp as always. He sat in the front of the grav-skiff, soaking up details like Aemos. But the details he noticed would be far more pertinent and immediately useful than my old savant's.
Bequin simply sat back and smiled, the chop of the breeze fluttering her shawl. I doubted she could ever have come here under her own steam. Gudrun was the epicentre of the sub-sector culture, the big bright world she had always dreamed about and of which she yearned to be a part.
I let her have her fun. There would be hard work later.
We took a suite of rooms at the Dorsay Regency. I considered it expedient to have a base of operations on the mainland. Betancore drilled out the door frames with a hand tool and installed locator bolts with built-in flash deterrents. We also wired the internal doorways. The house servitors were given strict instructions not to enter when we were absent.
I stood on the heavy, limewashed balcony, under a faded awning of purple canvas, and listened to the March of the Adeptes as it played out, distorted, from the speaker horns that dressed the street.
The canal below was thick with traffic. I saw a skiff overladen with drunken guardsmen, all wearing their newly issued red and gold kits. Men of the 50th Gudrunite Rifles, raising hell and risking death by drowning as they enjoyed their last hours on their homeworld. In a few days they wo
uld be packed into a troopship and bound for who knew what horror a sub-sector away.
One of them fell into the canal as they tried to stagger ashore. His comrades dredged him out, and baptised his head with the contents of a liquor bottle.
Aemos joined me, and showed me a data-slate map.
The Regal Bonded Merchant Guild of Sinesias/ he said. 'Headquarters are five streets away'
Guild Sinesias owned some of the most imposing premises in the commercial district of Dorsay. A spur of the Grand Canal actually fed in under the coloured glass portico of the main buildings, so that visiting traders could ran their skiffs inside and disembark under cover in a tiled and carpeted reception dock.
Our grav-skiff carried us in, and we stepped out amid clusters of tall, thin, gowned traders from Messina, merchants from Sameter in ludicrously heavy hats and veils, and obese bankers from the Thracian hives.
I strode ashore and turned to offer Bequin my hand. She nodded courteously as she left the skiff. I hadn't briefed her much. The aristocratic airs and graces were her own spontaneous invention. Though I still loathed her, I admired her more with each passing moment. She was playing things perfectly.
'Your name and business here, sire, madam?' a Guild Sinesias chamberlain asked as he approached us. He was dripping in finery, gold brocaded gowns attiring every servant in the place. Augmetic implants blistered in place of his ears and he clutched a slate and stylus.
'My name is Farchaval, a merchant from Hesperus. This is Lady Far-chaval. We come to tender grain contracts with the high houses of this
world, and we are told Guild Sinesias will provide us the necessary brokerage.'
'Do you have a guild responser, sire?'
'Of course. My contact was Saemon Crotes.'
'Crotes?' the chamberlain paused.
'Oh, Gregor, I'm so bored/ Bequin suddenly announced. This is so, so very slow and dull. I want to cruise the canals again. Why can't we go back and deal with those spirited fellows at Guild Mensurae?'
'Later, my dearest/ I said, delighted and wrong-footed by her improvisation.
'You have already… visited another guild?' the chamberlain asked quickly.
