The secret and hidden wealth of Homeworld had grown from a foundation initiated by the First Earl, using prizes of war won by his military forces and rewards granted by grateful allies. At his instigation, the rewards from hard and relentless campaigns had been carefully invested, both on Homeworld and off-planet. The resulting growth in wealth was well disguised, kept secret as a matter of necessity, to ensure that envious predatory eyes were never attracted to the planet. To this end, Homeworld trade was always through nominees and agents, never openly and never with exposure to publicity. Even the Empire, Steg thought, could not suspect fully the riches that lay hidden behind the facade so carefully cultivated by Homeworld.
Not even the Lady Gaetja, in her wildest dreams, would have access to these details. But she knew now that she had ignited the tempers of Homeworld and would require substantial and ongoing support from her allies to prevent those tempers from taking their revenge. The battle for Homeworld had not yet begun and would not be confined to the planet, Steg thought. Opposition to Lady Gaetja would be backed by all the resources available to the planet and to its people.
“We need to stop, and rest up until nightfall,” Thomas broke into Steg’s reverie, “while we still have the forest to shelter us. Our destination is not far, two kays at the most, and the closer we get, the more likely we are to encounter another patrol. While I agree the Imperials don’t have enough men to saturate the countryside with patrols, we still need to take care.”
Steg acknowledged the drill sergeant’s comments and eased himself to the ground. He stretched out. His eyes closed.
Evening came far too quickly for Steg. He stretched and yawned.
“Have a good rest?” the drill sergeant inquired. Without waiting for a reply, he continued. “We should finish the rest of our rations. No fire, so it’ll be a cold meal, I’m afraid. We have another hour, then we move.”
They used the night to hide their cautious approach towards the clamor of noise and light that marked the unofficial perimeter of Homeworld’s small spaceport. This outer boundary formed a semi-circular fringe contiguous to the official boundary of the spaceport. Its main feature was a random collection of taverns that provided cheap lodging, meals, drinks and other entertainment to offworlders, mainly crewmembers and workers from the spaceport proper. Here the transient spaceport population was accommodated and entertained in tiny, cramped buildings.
While they had not yet encountered Imperial soldiers, Steg suspected they would be manning the entrances into the spaceport. He fell back into the deeper shadows at a signal from Thomas who then moved forward and entered one of the taverns. The wait seemed like hours before Thomas returned from around the rear of the tavern.
“I spent some time talking with locals and then went on through and out the back door, just in case,” he explained as he straightened his jacket. “Just as well. While I saw no uniformed Imperials, an offworlder was interested enough to follow me. He’ll have a very sore head when he wakes. The Imperials are allowing everyone to go about the normal affairs, apparently in an attempt to demonstrate nothing is amiss on Homeworld. I caught a comment that this is not really an Imperial affair, rather a company venture. House of Aluta, of course—the visitors were wearing Alutan colors. That House is so large, they are no different, Imperial is the same as Aluta.”
“Marius is of the House. Well, now we know. What about the spaceport itself?”
“Well patrolled, according to the Homeworlders I spoke with, and the Imperials are checking papers very thoroughly.”
“And the freighter?”
“Only one Rimerian freighter is in port, and it is loaded for departure and apparently cleared. The crew are fixing a minor drive problem. That’s your ship. Thank the stars the Imperials realize it would be an act of war if they stopped and boarded a Rimerian flag carrier.”
“So all I need do is board the freighter?”
“A simple task.”
******
Chapter 5
Thomas led Steg along the narrow streets, turning away from the streets where the lights were bright and the noise loud. The streets became narrower, twisting and turning and then turning again until Steg almost lost all sense of direction. Eventually Thomas stopped at a shadowed doorway and after checking the street, he knocked sharply, with a rhythmic sound. Nothing happened. The drill sergeant knocked again with a repeat of the pattern. After what seemed an age, the door was slowly opened. Although the light seeping out through the narrow gap of the open door was dim, Steg blinked in surprise.
“Oh honorable sirs,” fluted the high voice of the Chirrix standing in the doorway. “Why do you disturb a poor and tired worker at this late hour?”
Thomas replied in a brief burst of almost song, the words unintelligible to Steg. He realized Thomas was speaking to the Chirrix in its own language. An exchange of more unintelligible passages followed. Then, apparently satisfied, the Chirrix opened the door wide, motioned for its two visitors to enter, and quickly bolted and secured the door behind them. Its skull feathers were erect, and Steg assumed that was a sign of the strange alien’s nervousness. It conversed further with Thomas and then led them down the narrow corridor into a large work and storeroom where it switched on the overhead lights.
“Now young lord,” the Chirrix fluted and whistled as it addressed Steg. “Seek here for your new attire. You have credit for a complete wardrobe, which I will arrange to be sent quickly to your ship. It will be on board before you, I guarantee. And you, old friend, you need a change of clothes, as well.” The alien indicated the shelves and racks of clothing that filled the storeroom.
Intrigued, Steg moved down the rows of racks, checking and examining cloaks, jackets, trousers, shirts and further items in styles and colors ranging from the most somber to impossibly dazzling. He selected items that he thought would be appropriate for his new identity and handed them to the alien. Some he placed aside for immediate wear. When he was done, he changed into his new offworld finery and rejoined Thomas. As they departed the alien repeated his promise to deliver Steg’s new clothes immediately to the waiting freighter.
“Now you have met our wardrobe master.”
“Wardrobe master?” Steg almost choked at the unexpected label.
“Yes, sometimes we find it necessary when we—Guards—go offworld—on duty, as it were—to be kitted out first with suitable clothing for our task. Our resident Chirrix provides a suitable wardrobe, in return for which we have helped him develop a profitable trade with his home system. The one thing they cannot grow on their planet is cotton, and we ship hundreds of bales for him each year. Cotton somehow helps their metabolism at nesting time, I have heard.”
“His presence here would surprise the Imperials.”
“Yes, their xenos claim Chirrix and humans are natural enemies—or at least, they claim Chirrix have an uncontrollable urge to kill humans. Not true. The young males, before they mature, are likely to attack anything that looks like food; however, they can be avoided. Our friend here is an elder and does not have that in-built urge. He even wears an artificial skullcap—his own skull feathers fell out years ago. Just remember, if you ever encounter a young male, he will attack. Only the Chirrix elders have adequate control to deal with us.”
They ventured further into the extended port area where the streets were wider, well lit, and busier with both humans and aliens. No one gave Steg and his companion as much as a second glance. After a half-kay of walking, they approached one of the spaceport access points. Steg was apprehensive as they joined the small throng waiting to be cleared through the entrance.
One by one they moved forward as Imperial soldiers supervised a very thorough inspection of documents and identities. At last Steg stepped up, presented his identity and travel documents, and pressed his hand onto the print-plate. To his immense relief no alarms sounded and the security officer waved him through. Steg exited the checkpoint and slowed to wait for his companion who finally cleared the checkpoint. Steg t
hen walked briskly towards the exit gate for the Rimerian star freighter that was to take him offworld. Thomas followed at a discrete distance.
“Stop. Hey—you. Stop.” The command rang out sharply, echoing off the walls and ceiling of the long corridor leading to the embarkation ramp. Steg had almost reached the exit door; only yards to go to reach safety. Thomas was close behind him. Again the voice rang out. “Stop. If you don’t stop, I’ll fire.”
Thomas gripped Steg’s arm and they stopped and turned. “Be ready, lad,” cautioned Thomas softly. The Imperial officer was hurrying towards them, stunner in hand. He was accompanied by two Imperial soldiers, also armed. They were still some distance away.
“’I’ll hold them off, Steg. You head for the exit.”
“What, hold off three of them?”
“Yes. I’ll walk towards them. You turn and head for that door. Run when you hear me shout. Get aboard. Travel well. I will see you when you return.”
“Sergeant, I cannot let you –“
“That’s an order, Steg. From me, from the Acolytes. Now move.”
Steg turned and walked steadily towards the exit that would take him up the ramp to board the star freighter. He heard Thomas move away, back down the corridor. Again the Imperial officer’s voice rang out.
“Stop, both of you. Or I’ll fire.”
Then came the shouted instruction from the drill sergeant. “Go!”
Steg ran. He risked a quick look behind him and saw Thomas throw himself at the three Imperials. Steg ran forward through the exit. He bounded up the boarding ramp where a Rimerian purser was waiting. He handed over his travel documents.
“About time. The Captain wants to seal the ship immediately you’re on board. Departure will be in minutes, if not seconds.” He directed a crew member to show Steg to his cabin. “We’ve already loaded your luggage.”
Steg was startled to recognize the crew member; he was a Homeworlder.
“Welcome to Well Drinker, sir. You have one minute to strap in,” the man advised as he directed Steg to his cabin. A ship siren sounded an almost deafening blast. “That’s the pre-launch warning.”
Steg could feel the deck vibrating beneath his feet. The ship was coming alive, gathering itself for its leap into space. He collapsed onto the cushioned and padded seat as the crewman hurried away. The small cabin contained a bunk along one wall and lockers along the other wall. A viewscreen showed a view of the exterior of the star ship and a door at the end of the cabin presumably opened up into a small bathroom. The pull of acceleration caused him to fumble with his straps until at last he was secure. The ship was moving, lifting off and away from Homeworld, away from the Imperials forces that had tried to capture him. Steg was exhausted. But he was also exhilarated. He was headed into deep space.
******
Chapter 6
The First Senior struggled to disengage from the photon pulsing channels of the Glass Complex. At last he raised his head and for a moment his eyes were blank as his mind almost refused to accept the reality of his bodily-sourced sensory data. Was this, he wondered, how death happened? Did the body and the mind somehow separate—disassociate—as the brain established its preference for the photon flows within the Complex? He shuddered. He was growing old and frail. Events of recent days had saddened and depressed him; the Glass Complex had failed to anticipate and repel the Imperial attack. He was weary and knew the problems ahead would take him to the brink of utter exhaustion. Would he then have the strength to withdraw from the Complex or would the photons take with them the very essence of his being? The question was one he was barely able to ask and he dreaded the probable answer.
He gathered in his strength and focused on his companions. They were younger, far younger. They could jump into the photon flows with glee and youthful exuberance and who had no difficulties in disengaging from the Complex whenever they so desired. Ah, the joys and strengths of youth, he thought wistfully, almost enviously. At last he realized he had been asked a question.
“Yes?” his tongue struggled with the simple word and he regretted the slight quaver in his voice.
“We have the Guard officers—Major Reading and Colonel Shaw—waiting for your briefing, First Senior. Do you wish them to return later?” The youthful face was filled with concern.
The First Senior shook off his weakness and straightened himself in an act of defiance against his unwilling mind. “No, Tobias. You may bring them into the conference room.”
The small group of Acolytes and the two soldiers quickly assembled around the conference table and waited for the Senior to begin his briefing. At last he gathered the words to use.
“Gentlemen,” he nodded at the two officers. “I am pleased that you managed to come here without encountering our unwelcome visitors. Continue to take care. The Imperials—Alutans—are on their guard against retaliatory action from Homeworld, from either Guards or Militia.”
“First Senior, your call was urgent and so we came.” The speaker was the same major who had witnessed the sword fight between Steg de Coeur and the offworlder, Marius of the House of Aluta. The strain of his current duties and responsibilities was showing in the additional lines of tiredness and worry on his face.
“Indeed. Yes. We need to brief you on the current strategy from the Complex. We have confirmed this is not a sanctioned Imperial operation but rather a rogue venture by the House of Aluta. We believe the key to recovering Homeworld is to cause the Alutan forces to diversify and dissipate their efforts. We need time, time to regroup, time to re-organize, so that we can strike back decisively and finally. So, for this stage, most of our recommendations involve guerrilla tactics here on Homeworld and offworld.” He paused.
“This is agreed, First Senior,” confirmed Colonel Shaw. “We’re regrouping our forces, those who escaped the initial attack and who remain free. We are also quietly activating the Militia, bringing it to full readiness. We’re mustering and arming our military forces in all the major cities and towns. However, a number of logistics problems need to be resolved before we can move against the offworlders. Yes, we have them outnumbered—they landed just over five thousand marines and we can immediately muster close to ten times that number. Given more time, far more than that. As you know, we are short of weapons—they captured and destroyed a large quantity of our munitions stores and defensive weapons on the first night of their attack. Unfortunately, they have heavy weapons, brought in by both star ships. We need heavy weapons and armor if we are going to make any impact. We’re not going to sacrifice our men needlessly. And the Imperials are holding hostages. They have captured Rakyd. They know he’s the rightful heir.”
“Understood,” acknowledged the First Senior.
“However,” continued the colonel. “We’ve initiated and are continuing with a campaign of harassment. We need to do more.”
“Agreed.” The First Senior was patient. “Our requirements do not run counter to your intentions and tactics. We must be certain of results before we fully commit you and your forces. Homeworld has suffered too much loss of life, already. Potential military gains must always be substantial before we authorize any move against the Imperials. Be devious, be subtle, and win ground at the least cost.”
The major spoke. “First Senior, what other steps are you taking?”
“Yes. You both should know,” agreed the First Senior, nodding his head. He paused for a moment. “Well, in general terms only, for security. We have dispatched some decoys, five in all, to attract the attention of our enemy and to dissipate their efforts. And your friend Steg de Coeur is one of the decoys. We had to use him, a family member, to ensure we got the attention of both friends and enemies. He is a very dangerous young man, perhaps the most dangerous of the five, although we have not realized yet what his full potential will be. He has all the attributes of an Acolyte, without the surgical implants. He is unaware of what we have done—we put memory blocks in place—years ago, as a part of our contingency planning. The Complex ha
s run and re-run the Prognosis suite and every time it has different results, most favorable, some very favorable, to Homeworld. He is a wild card. We have high hopes, not only for his survival, but for the degree of damage he will inflict on our enemy.”
“But what can five decoys, do?” queried the colonel.
“Individually? Almost nothing, is the most realistic answer. Remember, Colonel, these decoys are functioning as extensions of our forces here on Homeworld and will have at their call, all the offworld resources that we can muster. When I say all, gentlemen, I mean just that.” The First Senior almost snapped out his response. He realized he was reacting to non-existent criticism and when he continued, his voice was softer, his tone more subdued. “Those five decoys are each able to wreak substantial damage on the Imperial forces arrayed against us. They are a means of focusing our offworld resources and will do far more than you think possible.”
“Senior, I intended no criticism, I assure you.”
“Yes, I realize that. Please forgive a very tired man. As to your other problems, we are arranging to ship in enough heavy armor to serve your purposes. Landing heavy armor is a problem. We may be receiving a large number of tractors and harvesters. Also, substantial, very substantial, diplomatic pressure is being brought to bear on the Emperor and on his allies. We don’t think the Imperial Court has been informed of the real foundations for this venture and disinformation is circulating in the Court. We are using friends and indeed, enemies, to apply pressure.” The First Senior laughed, an almost jarring sound in this quiet, ascetic room.
He continued. “Our projection is that one of the Imperial destroyers will be moved shortly, in order to reduce adverse publicity. When that destroyer departs we will have opportunities to deliver your tractors. Care will be needed—Alutan mercenaries will still be on-planet.”
Broken Glass (Glass Complex Book 1) Page 5
