by Steve Parker
It was in this very room that Lady Devanon – no, Interrogator Varlan – had saved him from an assassin’s bullet.
His own staff. His own bloody staff!
He glanced over at the wall on his right. In a way, he was glad the painting of the old man was ruined. There had always been an unsettling quality about it, as if the eyes were ever on him, judging him, criticising. Good riddance to it, priceless or not.
The crisis tunnel behind the painting had since been covered with another piece, something far less intrusive, a wonderful oil of the famed fire-trees on Kalhrada.
One day, I shall go there and see them for myself.
He tutted at himself, knowing that such idle thoughts were his attempt to avoid facing the current mess, to shy from the implications of Taje’s report.
Forty Civitas enforcers lost. Seven Viper LAVs. And not a sign or word from anyone in the interrogator’s group. Taje was right to be angry, of course. Sannra, shaken by the assassination attempt on his own life, hadn’t given the High Commissioner ample time to organise a proper response. There hadn’t seemed much need. No one really believed the whole of Chiarite society was at risk, did they? Just a miner’s revolt, he’d thought it. In fact, it was more the interrogator’s fault than his own that Taje’s people had vanished. It was she who had demanded the escort, she who had insisted a fully armed expeditionary force must be formed and deployed at once. Maybe they would show up alive. There hadn’t been any bodies to speak of. Not yet.
‘Vox-comms are notoriously unreliable underground, Sul. Is that not so?’
Sul looked unconvinced, disinclined to pass it off as easily as that, and now Sannra felt his own doubts stealing back over him. He spoke again, keeping his eyes on the bright reds and yellows of the burning trees. ‘I suppose if there were any real hope, the High Commissioner wouldn’t have been in quite such a state. He ought to know better than either of us. The question is what to do about it. That lovely woman. I doubt we shall be seeing her again. Such a waste!’
Sul seemed on the verge of responding to that, but held his tongue.
Sannra looked at him. ‘If you’ve anything to say, Sul…’
The aide looked up.
‘With the greatest respect, m’lord, I feel that this is a matter for law enforcement. Surely our only real priority here is to ensure your personal safety. Whatever the extent of the threat – and it must be significant given that the Inquisition sent an agent at all – I’d say the population of Chiaro and the Imperium in general would be best served by your immediate removal from the area of risk. Forgive me if that sounds small-minded, m’lord, but your wellbeing is always my foremost concern. I can’t abide the thought of these rebels or heretics or whatever striking a blow against the nobility.’ Now he, too, glanced at the painting which had replaced the old portrait. ‘They might not fail a second time.’
Sannra saw his aide shiver at the thought.
Good old Suliman. Such loyalty. I’m lucky to have you.
‘A return to the palace at Najra, then? Have the staff prepare for departure. And have my train car readied.’
Sul leaned forwards in his chair and placed his hands flat on his master’s desk. ‘Forgive me, lord, but Najra is not nearly far enough. Your enemies may already have agents in place there. They may have predicted such a move.’
‘Go on.’
‘The ship on which the interrogator arrived, m’lord. The Macedon. It’s still in orbit. The cargo shuttle has already been refuelled and is scheduled to depart in two days’ time, according to my contact in the Officio Transportarum. I’m sure the captain – a man by the name of Dozois – could be persuaded to leave earlier. With enough coin in his pocket, of course.’
‘Leave Chiaro entirely? Given the crisis, surely I’d face charges of dereliction.’
‘Not so, m’lord. The trip could be officially listed as diplomatic under Section 3. It’s not unknown for planetary governors to visit subsector neighbours in the interests of securing defence or trade agreements and the like. And I can backdate the official papers. I’m thinking either Melnos or Purdell, both of which have day-night cycles. It would be a welcome change, I’m sure you’ll agree.’
Sannra was quiet as he thought about that.
‘It couldn’t be a long trip,’ he told his aide. In his heart, he wanted to leave Chiaro as soon, and for as long, as possible. He enjoyed his position, but he had never loved this planet, just as the planet had no love for humankind. Chiaro seemed to grudge man’s presence here. Those who made mistakes, whether on Dayside or Nightside, did not often live to make them again. Were it not for the Nystarean Gorge, men might never have settled here.
‘Melnos is the nearest of the two, m’lord,’ said Sul. ‘Temperate, if a tad under-populated. It’s mostly given over to automated agriculture, but the capital should entertain you – the City of Duma. And the Imperial Zoological Gardens are a sight to behold if reports read true. House Agiese hold the governorship. The ruling lord is close to your own age and a gregarious man by all accounts.’
‘The gravity, Sul. The gravity.’
‘Point eight, m’lord.’
Sul smiled knowingly.
Ah, thought Sannra, the women will be tall and slender. That settles it.
‘Very well. Make all the necessary preparations. A staff of eight should be enough, yes? And my two best House guards. Blasedale and that other one. The big Hasmiri bruiser, Kaseed. Secure the agreement of this Dozois character. And brief my valet on what to pack for the Melnosi climate.’
Sul rose from his chair with the beginnings of a smile, enthusiastic for his work, glad to have a clear purpose again. He bowed to his master. ‘With your leave, m’lord.’
As he was retreating to the door, Sannra called him to a halt.
‘One last thing, Sul.’
‘M’lord?’
There was a pause. ‘I know I don’t say it often, but a man in my position ought to recognise the value of his people. Know that I do. Recognise your value, I mean.’
Sul was somewhat taken aback, but only for the briefest instant. ‘You need never thank me, m’lord. It’s not necessary. The pleasure I derive from serving House Sannra is, and has always been, my greatest reward.’
Sannra grinned at his aide. ‘Send in my darling swans. I want to share the news of the trip myself.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The little man shuffled away, turning only to close the double doors behind him.
The planetary governor began tapping a runeboard on his desk, calling up hololithic display data. Melnos appeared in miniature, rotating in the space before him.
Yes, thought Sannra. Taje can deal with this mess on his own. That’s his job. I’m sure he and his men don’t need the added pressure of worrying about my safety. Besides, I’m due a vacation.
I may even find another pair of twins.
20
When Ordimas returned, he found the little basement hab in darkness. Part of him had expected Nedra to be awake, awaiting his return from the meeting with White Phoenix. It was very late, however, and the boy had no doubt succumbed to sleep despite his eagerness to see the puppeteer come home safe.
Ordimas let himself in quietly, relying on his augmetic eye to see his way around the hab in the dark.
Sure enough, Nedra lay in his cot, curled up and silent. There was a bowl of salted beans on the table, only half of them eaten. The boy had tried to force himself, but anxiety for Ordimas’s safety had robbed him of his appetite.
When he awakes, thought Ordimas, we will eat well.
In truth, Ordimas had no appetite of his own. It wasn’t just the horrors he had witnessed in the mines – horrors he had been part of, he reminded himself with a sick feeling. He was still enduring some of the after-effects of the nucleocode drug. On leaving the mines, he had sought out a hiding place in the sewers. He would have preferred to weather the effects of the crash in his own cot, of course, but the sight of the miner, Mykal, striding th
rough the hab door would have been too much for poor Nedra. He did not know that Ordimas could take the shape of others. He would have assumed the worst and either attacked what he thought was his one-time abuser, or fled in terror. So Ordimas had endured the crash surrounded by filth and sewer-stink. That was two days ago, and still his head was pounding and his muscles ached incessantly. He didn’t think the interrogator had noticed. Feigning weakness was one thing, but genuine weakness had to be covered. Showing it was never a good idea. During their meeting, he had felt his death all too close at hand. He would not have been overly surprised if the woman had tried to execute him.
Ordimas moved to the small kitchen and poured himself a cup of water.
This damned headache is killing me.
He returned to the table in the main room, drew a chair and sat down, weary beyond anything he could remember.
I don’t want to do this any more. Maybe I’ll just take the boy and leave. No more missions. No more shape-shifting. I’ll become a puppeteer for real. It’s an honest enough living.
The thought amused him. Surely no puppeteer in Imperial history had ever amassed as much wealth as Ordimas Arujo had. His Lordship paid well, though he asked all too much in return.
Ordimas scowled.
If we run, I’ll not be able to access my accounts. Most of that money will be lost to me. Am I really ready to turn my back on it? Throne, I never use it anyway. It just keeps accruing.
Perhaps it was exhaustion. Perhaps it was the long crash of the nucleocode drug. Either way, Ordimas was genuinely caught off-guard when the tall figure dropped heavily from the ceiling and straightened in front of him.
The puppeteer leapt to his feet, his chair crashing to the floor behind him, but, as fast as he was, the intruder was faster. A powerful hand flashed out, catching Ordimas by the throat and lifting him into the air. His feet kicked out uselessly, his legs too short to strike at his attacker.
A strange, sibilant voice hissed from the shadows beneath the figure’s hood.
‘The Master sends his regards, agent of the Imperium. We enjoyed having you attend our little ceremony.’
Ordimas couldn’t speak, couldn’t even draw breath. The hand was tight around his neck, cutting off any hope of air. One of his kicking feet connected with the table. His cup smashed on the hab floor. Ordimas looked over to Nedra’s cot, certain the sound would wake the boy. Maybe Nedra could get out alive if he moved fast enough.
But Nedra didn’t stir, and Ordimas felt his heart sink.
‘The boy died quickly,’ hissed the intruder, noting the direction of the little mutant’s gaze. ‘Do not be sad. His flesh and bone will not be wasted. And neither will yours. The Master hopes to integrate your better genetic qualities into a new generation. You should be honoured.’
Now the intruder drew Ordimas closer, and Ordimas kicked again, connecting with full force. It didn’t matter. It was like kicking concrete. The figure which held him barely shook at all from the impact. The grip tightened. Ordimas’s vision blurred. He felt faint. Dimly, he registered hot breath on his face. He scrabbled for the poisoned blade in his waistband, but his fingers had gone clumsy as he edged towards death. He heard the knife clatter on the floor beneath him – a spirit-crushing sound. With his other hand, he reached up and pulled at the tall intruder’s hood. It fell away.
Beneath was a face almost human. Almost, but clearly not.
The skin was bluish purple, the protruding eyes set too wide apart, the teeth too numerous and sharp. There were no lips to speak of; the mouth was a wide, wet slash in glistening flesh.
Hybrid, Ordimas thought. Hybrid. As my own child will be. And Nedra. Nedra is dead. Throne, I am so tired of all this. Let it end. If death gives me nothing else, at least it will give me peace.
The hand that gripped him flexed hard. There was a muffled snap.
Ordimas went limp.
Minutes later, a tall dark figure in shapeless robes left the door of the hab, keeping to the shadows, a heavy sack carried over one shoulder, two bodies contained within. The sack-carrier made his way to the nearest manhole and descended into the sewers where he could move with greater speed and less caution.
In time, he would go to the Master’s lair, there to cast his kills into the digestion pools. The bodies would be broken down, semi-digested into pungent organic sludge. Their matter would be remade, recast in lethal alien form to serve a higher, purer purpose.
So, too, would all life in the galaxy.
It was inevitable. Nothing could stop that beautiful dark unity.
Eventually, it would devour everything.
21
Sixteen hours after the decision had been made in his office, the Lord High Arbitrator of Chiaro found himself in a well-appointed passenger cabin aboard the Macedon’s cargo shuttle as it hauled itself up towards orbit. On either side of him sat his tall, pale female companions, their long legs crossed beneath dresses of black silk. Sul stood nearby, ready to serve. In the chair across from the High Arbitrator sat Captain Higgan Dozois.
Lord Sannra would have liked a window. It was many years since he had left terra-firma. He had hoped to watch the curve of the planet fall away underneath him, to watch the stars intensify, but it was not to be. The shuttle’s cockpit was built to accommodate a pilot and co-pilot only. Sannra made do with a reasonable amasec from the captain’s personal store, which he sipped from a slender, fluted glass.
Higgan Dozois had not been a difficult man to buy. Though neither Sannra nor Sul knew anything about it, Dozois had managed to sell his entire shipment of narcotics with ease. The Rockheads had sent a senior gang lieutenant to negotiate with him. The meeting was tense, neither side quite trusting the other, but the price eventually agreed upon was fair, and the transfer of the drugs went smoothly. The Rockheads ought to make a tidy profit. Dozois got exactly what he’d expected for the yaga. No more. No less. Now, he was just glad to be off that accursed, egg-shaped world. He hadn’t felt right since the moment he’d set eyes on it. Since he’d landed on it, he’d had the strangest sensation that he was missing something. At least the headaches had finally stopped.
With the sale of the yaga completed, he had quickly turned his thoughts to his outward journey. The Lord High Arbitrator’s sudden and unexpected commission was more than welcome. Melnos wasn’t far, and it was in the general direction he had been planning to take. If he had to put on extra airs and graces for a contract this profitable, so be it.
A week’s warp transit. A quick shuttle drop. Then off to Syclonis in the Gates of Varl for a resupply.
‘I’m confident you’ll find the accommodation to your liking,’ Dozois told his guests. ‘The Macedon is a fine ship, if I say so myself. I’ve certainly never had any complaints. In fact, I believe my last passenger, a lady of House Devanon, was some relation to you. Is that not so? I hope she’s well.’
In truth, he hoped she was anything but. Thoughts of her made him confused and disoriented somehow. He remembered his frustration sharply enough. He hoped he’d soon forget it, and he mentioned her now only in a further attempt to curry favour with his well-heeled passenger.
Sannra and his aide shared a dark look. It was the aide who spoke up.
‘A very distant relation only. Last we heard, Lady Fara was busily engaged in establishing a business venture in the city. I’m sure she found her passage with you most satisfactory.’
How uncomfortable they are at the very mention of her, thought Dozois. Hiding something, both of them. I wonder if she made a fool of this Lord Sannra somehow. Perhaps it’s best I don’t mention her again.
‘I’ve a very fine dining room aboard,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘And the gallery on the upper deck provides quite spectacular views on planetary approach.’ He gestured around the passenger cabin. ‘It will more than make up for the lack of viewports on the shuttle, I assure you.’
Sannra was about to respond when a voice chimed from the speakers in the cabin’s corners. ‘Captain, fo
rgive the intrusion, but I’m getting orders from both GDC and the Naval defence monitors to turn the shuttle around and head back to port. They… They’re telling me the planet has just been placed under quarantine, sir.’
Dozois lost the polite smile he had painted on his face. The voice on the comm belonged to his pilot. He thrust himself forwards in his chair. ‘They’re telling you what?’
‘GDC have us locked, sir, and both of the Navy boats are on intercept headings. If we don’t turn back, they say they’ll have no choice but to fire on us.’
Lord Sannra gaped. ‘Sul?’ he said shakily. ‘Don’t they know I’m on board?’
‘All the relevant authorities were informed, my lord. This must be a mistake. It’s the only possible explanation. Quarantine, indeed. Who ordered it?’
Dozois spoke to his pilot. ‘Barrett, any word on who issued the no-fly order?’
‘They say it’s by order of the Holy Inquisition, sir. That can’t be right, can it?’
Again there was a dark, knowing look that passed between the lord and his aide.
Dozois cursed. ‘Whoever issued the damned order, I’m not about to have my ship fired upon. I think we had better do as they say.’
Lord Sannra looked helplessly at Sul, confusion and desperation both written clearly on his face.
‘How far are we to the Macedon, captain?’ asked the aide.
The captain relayed the question to his pilot. The answer came back. Just a little over three minutes, according to the flight cogitator. Sul asked another question and got an answer for that, too. The Naval defence ships were sixteen minutes away. Any missile launched from groundside would take approximately six minutes to reach them. How long it would actually take GDC personnel to prepare a launch was anyone’s guess. In all the years men had occupied Chiaro, they had never once been forced to defend the planet. The few missile bases that existed were under-funded, undermanned and poorly maintained.
Sannra wouldn’t have gambled much on their not being able to muster a few ground-to-orbit missiles, but Sul seemed ready to play those odds.
