by Ian Sales
“I think,” said Rinharte, reaching out and playing idly with a salt dispenser, “we need a guide-book to the system, Garrin.”
“We do if we’re going to be here any length of time and don’t want to poison ourselves.” He shook his head in wonder. “I had no notion this place was so… foreign.”
“There may be a reason for that.”
Kordelasz, hands clasped behind his head, utterly relaxed, raised an eyebrow. Rinharte could understand his ease: she felt a freedom here—as a yeoman away from the ordered society of Vengeful—she had never felt as a prole in Amwadina.
“Surely you’ve noticed that everyone within view is Opholdish?” she asked.
“You can tell?”
Rinharte snorted in amusement. “Come, Garrin, look at their dress. It’s almost a uniform. The men wear loose trousers and short capes, and the women flowing dresses. What few proles I’ve seen are all liveried and wear their coat of arms embroidered on their tunics. They seem positively regal in comparison with the proles in Amwadina.”
“And the reason, Rizbeka?”
“This area isn’t frequented by visitors to Ophavon. We’re off the beaten track. I should imagine that when we reach Havon Sector, where starships dock, we’ll find food more to our liking.” She frowned. “No, more to our… understanding.”
Kordelasz abruptly straightened in his chair and threw a warning look at Rinharte. She froze, not knowing what had attracted the marine-lieutenant’s attention but trusting his judgement.
Two figures, clad in uniforms of grey with white sleeves, stepped up to their table. They wore heavy truncheons on their hips. Sikkerpoliti.
“My lord, my lady,” said one, sketching a brief bow, hand on truncheon-hilt. “Your papers, please.”
Kordelasz played the effete aristocrat. Gesturing airily, he drawled, “Can’t it wait until we’ve eaten, my good man? I’m famished.”
The Sikkerpoliti officer was not amused. “I must insist on seeing your papers, my lord. Visitors are forbidden in this sector.”
The marine-lieutenant sighed heavily and loudly. He slid a hand into an inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out his identification. He proffered it to the Sikkerpoliti officer.
“Sir Garrin demar Huljan. Of Semele,” read out the officer. “You are a long way from your home, my lord. Semele is, I understand, in Craina Province.”
“It is,” admitted Kordelasz.
Rinharte had her papers ready. She handed them across.
“Lady Rizbeka demar Filhan, also of Semele.” The officer handed back the papers. “May I ask what brought you to Ophavon?”
“Well, it isn’t your damn cuisi—” began Kordelasz.
Rinharte interrupted: “A pleasure visit, officer.”
The Sikkerpoliti officer shook his head. “No, my lady, on what vessel did you arrive?” His colleague remained dumb and stiffly at attention throughout the exchange.
Kordelasz slipped lower in his chair and gazed intently at Rinharte across the table, chin on chest.
“Isda Barko, out of Kapuluan,” said Rinharte.
The officer nodded. “Permit me to check.” He unhooked a notepad from his belt and switched it on with a flick of his thumb.
Kordelasz exploded into action.
He leapt from his chair, pulling his sword from its scabbard. Twisting sideways, he straightened his arm. The pommel of his sword caught the Sikkerpoliti officer under the chin. The officer went over backwards. The second officer scrabbled for his truncheon.
Rinharte pushed back her chair and grabbed for her weapon. Kordelasz’s blade was free. He balanced on the balls of his feet, his blade held in line at chest-height. He grinned at the Sikkerpoliti officer. He had the advantage of reach: his sword was a foot longer than the officer’s weapon. A dull thud sounded, followed by a ratchetting noise. The officer had swung. Kordelasz parried it with the ease. His sword hissed down the polished wood of the officer’s truncheon, and whipped back up.
Rinharte unsheathed her sword. She rapidly took in her surroundings. People were looking their way but no one was making an effort to intervene. She raised her sword.
Kordelasz’s blade darted out. The officer moved to parry. He missed. The marine-lieutenant pinked the officer’s shoulder.
The Sikkerpoliti officer grunted and altered his stance. He swung his truncheon in an arc at waist-height. Kordelasz dropped his hand and caught the truncheon on the quillons of his sword. He whipped his sword in a circle. The officer’s truncheon was ripped from his grasp. Kordelasz stepped forward and brought his hand up with force. The pommel of his sword connected with the chin of the officer, who rose up several inches and then collapsed bonelessly.
Rinharte crossed to the first Sikkerpoliti officer. He was coming round. He moved his hand to his truncheon. Rinharte swung a booted foot and caught the officer on the jaw. He fell back. His head bounced against the floor. She had put all her weight behind the kick. Kordelasz turned to her.
Rinharte spun on her heel. “Move!” she yelled. She grabbed her bag and pushed past Kordelasz.
The marine-lieutenant turned to the gaping onlookers. He saluted them with his blade and grinned. He picked up his bag, turned and sprinted after Rinharte.
As she ran, Rinharte muttered, “Damn, damn, damn,” under her breath. She had no plan of escape in mind, only a desire to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible. Rapid footfalls behind her told her Kordelasz was at her heels.
In one corner of the space a three-lobed archway led into a tunnel. The clatter of Rinharte’s boots on the metalled floor echoed within the tunnel as she ran. She still held her sword in one hand, and her scabbard and bag in the other.
Kordelasz drew level. “What now?” he panted.
Rinharte slowed to a jog and shoved her sword back into its scabbard. “Extraction,” she said, between gulps of air, “is out of the question.”
The marine-lieutenant glanced back over his shoulder. “There’s no pursuit.”
They slowed to a walking pace.
Kordelasz barked a laugh. “Damn, and I never got to try Struderkruder, or whatever it was called.”
“It’s far from amusing, Garrin,” snapped Rinharte. “You just compromised us. In the worst possible way.”
“They were about to discover we weren’t on Isda Barko’s passenger manifest,” he protested.
Rinharte shook her head. “But to attack them like that! In front of all those witnesses! Did you learn nothing on Darrus?”
Kordelasz stopped abruptly. “I learnt that running from a fight isn’t always the best option.”
“Dear Lords, Garrin. This isn’t some battlefield.” Rinharte started forward. “Besides,” she threw back over her shoulder, “we never ‘run from a fight’. We effect a strategic withdrawal.”
Words she would come to regret, regretted even now. Although not trained in battlefield tactics, common sense suggested a position to which to retreat when making a “strategic withdrawal”. Not a smart walk to elsewhere, as far away from the Sikkerpoliti patrol as feet would take them. No matter the distance, they were still obvious in their strangeness.
It had all fallen apart. And so quickly. Rinharte was almost ashamed. She had researched the orbital city, its design and layout, but had not considered its society. Ophold was an Imperial world, after all. Local idiosyncrasies might exist—like “Strudeskrude”—but amongst the yeomanry and nobility the culture of one world was the culture of all, of the Empire. Except…
It had not occurred to her that non-Opholden were forbidden outside Havon Sector. She had known the Ophavon constabularies were assiduous in their duties but she had misjudged that level of assiduousness. The point of infiltration had been chosen because it gave access to a sparsely-populated area and seemed the safest point of entry. Except…
“Proles,” said Rinharte sadly. “Again.”
Kordelasz proffered the prole uniform he had stolen for her. He shr
ugged. “What choice do we have? The Sikkerpoliti will be crawling all over the upper levels.”
“You’re enjoying this,” Rinharte accused. If so much as a smirk crossed his face, she would hit him.
“You didn’t seem to mind it in Amwadina.”
She stared at him. What? Why bother to explain it? He had not seen, he had not understood. She had hated it in Amwadina. Having to speak a form of Swovo which felt unnatural. The all-enveloping hood and cloak she wore in public to hide her appearance. The claustrophobic confinement of Gallam’s tiny apartment. Having to do everything for herself.
Kordelasz tried mollification: “It’s only until we reach Havon Sector.”
“Just give me the damn clothes.” She snatched them from his outstretched hand. “Now leave.” With a glare, she directed him from the storeroom in which they had taken refuge.
The uniforms they wore were brightly-coloured: Rinharte’s in olive, jade and white; Kordelasz in azure, ultramarine and silver. The coat of arms on Rinharte’s breast depicted a diminutive man standing on a bench, and that of the marine-lieutenant a snarling beast sprawled on a fleece. Thin disguises at best—the Sikkerpoliti were looking for yeomen, not proles, and so perhaps they would look only amongst the yeomanry.
“My sword,” Kordelasz said, clearly unwilling to leave it behind.
“Proles,” replied Rinharte. The word said it all. She relented. “Put it in your bag. And hope we’re not searched.”
Fortunately, the bags were both long enough to contain a regulation sword, and sufficiently nondescript to pass for yeoman or proletarian. Wrapping her own scabbarded blade in the clothing in her bag, Rinharte scowled at her own ineptitude. She had spent too many years in the Navy, where life was simple and predictable, and a shared background had built an Empire-wide society with its own arcane customs and rules. It had become abundantly plain that the various planetary societies were completely alien to her.
Out in the passageway, Rinharte looked one way then the other. Featureless corridors. They seemed identical.
“So what next?” the marine-lieutenant asked.
“We should split up.” She frowned. “There’s a tube-train to Havon Sector. We can take that, but we’ll board at different stations. We’ll meet at the… third station in Havon Sector. If I’m not there within, say, fifteen hours, assume the Sikkerpoliti have me. I’ll assume the same for you.”
“I’d sooner we stayed together,” Kordelasz said. “We can protect each other.”
Rinharte shook her head. “No, we stand more chance of slipping past the Sikkerpoliti alone.” She smiled. “That’s an order, Mr Kordelasz.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She turned to go, and felt a touch to her arm. She glanced back.
“Rizbeka,” said Kordelasz. “Good luck.”
Kordelasz was late. It had been over fifteen hours since the two had parted. Rinharte had been waiting near Havon 3, the third tube-station within the sector. She had tarried in a bistro for almost an hour and then walked around the area for thirty minutes, before settling at a café.
She sipped her coffee and worried that Kordelasz had been captured. If he did not appear, she would use the tube-train to travel all the way back round the orbital city to her point of entry. She couldn’t leave, however, before discovering Divine Providence’s next port of call. She had checked at a public console during her stroll around the level but the information had not been posted. The departure date was given as three days hence, but no destination had been filed.
Rinharte looked up from her cup. The coffee was strong and not entirely to her taste. Her gaze fell on a group of three data-freighter crew in ship-coveralls. They were arguing amongst themselves, each pointing in different directions, insistent that their destination lay that way. They managed to reach a consensus and strode off to the right. Their departure revealed a fourth figure in powder-blue ship-coveralls inspecting a wall-mounted map of the area and tube-network. He glanced back over his shoulder. Rinharte’s heart lifted. Kordelasz. He held himself in a stoop, his bag perched on one shoulder and partially hiding his face, but she recognised him instantly. He looked harried and weary.
Rinharte signalled for a waiter and paid her tab. Bag in hand, she left the café and crossed to Havon 3. Kordelasz glanced at her, and then looked away to scan the nearby bars and coffee shops. She hesitated before the entrance to the tube-station, and turned to the map, as if to double-check her route. Standing beside Kordelasz, she gazed at the geometrical and colour-coded diagram before her, and said, “Garrin.”
Kordelasz jerked and turned towards her.
“You took your bloody time,” she said in proletarian Swovo. “Did you have trouble?”
“Rizbeka?” asked Kordelasz. He looked her up and down. His eyebrows lifted, and he began to grin. “Good disguise,” he said.
Rinharte blushed and put a hand up to her hair. She had coloured it white after a near run-in with Sikkerpoliti officers. “What took you so long?” she demanded.
“Wasn’t easy. They were everywhere. I had to take out several before I could get away.” He gave a wild grin. “They don’t train them very well.”
“You killed them?”
“Only if I had no choice.”
Rinharte nodded back towards the coffee shop. “Let’s find somewhere to eat and talk.” She was clad in a mix-and-match outfit of pale green top and white trousers. Opholdish did not frequent Havon Sector, and she would have been noticeable in her stolen prole uniform.
“How long have you been waiting?” Kordelasz asked.
They strode between a pair of carved wooden posts into a café.
“Over an hour. I had a look: Divine Providence is here. She arrived two days ago.”
“Did you find out anything else?”
“No.” Rinharte pulled out a chair at an empty table. She dropped her bag at her feet and sat. “They launch in three days.”
“We don’t have much time, then.” Kordelasz took the chair across from Rinharte.
“Even less, if the Sikkerpoliti decide to search for us in Havon Sector. We’re safer here, but we’re far from home-free yet.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ormuz stepped into the bar and stopped just inside the entrance. Plessant, Tovar and Dai were several paces behind him. He scanned the partitioned-off area, looking for Lotsman. Half of the tables were taken and all the stools at the bar were occupied. Ormuz couldn’t see the pilot. The light was dim since the louvres in the false ceiling had been closed and they cast the area into shadow. Ambient background music and the hum of conversation almost drowned out the sounds of life from beyond the partitions. Ormuz was sure Lotsman had said he’d meet them in Min Ven.
The crew had spent the previous afternoon and that morning overseeing the refueling and re-provisioning of Divine Providence. Captain Plessant had been noticeably absent. Ormuz had not even seen her leave the ship. If he had, he’d have asked to accompany her. She would have said no, of course. She always did. Ormuz had heard Dai muttering under her breath about the captain’s disappearance, but the ship’s engineer was needed to open the colloidal-tank valves for the refuelling. Dai also had to sign for the consignment because Plessant wasn’t aboard.
Tovar worked Ormuz hard, cataloguing the new stores, checking and double-checking every item brought onboard by the Havon Sector Supply Company. Once that was done, the cargo-master declared himself unhappy with the placement of the stores and made Ormuz shift everything about.
Plessant returned to Divine Providence late in the afternoon. She grunted her approval of the work done, asked for a few changes to be made, and then gave the crew their liberty. Ormuz and Tovar spent a couple of hours exploring Havon Sector—or rather, Ormuz explored, while Tovar provided a running commentary. Lotsman headed immediately for Min Ven.
A flash of red at the bar caught Ormuz’s attention. It was a woman. As she moved, Ormuz saw a familiar profile on the stool beside her
: shoulder-length shaggy hair and a bushy moustache. Lotsman. He was talking to the woman.
Ormuz grinned, and approached the ship’s pilot. As he neared, his gaze fastened on the woman. She glanced at him and he thought he saw a quickly-hidden flash of surprise in her eyes. There was something oddly familiar about her, yet certain aspects of her appearance jarred with that faint memory. The discrepancies confused him. He gave her a more careful look as he drew closer. Her short red dress hugn in draped folds and shone faintly in the dim light. Her long legs, clad in glossy skin-coloured hose, were crossed one over the other. Her feet were clad in red high-heeled ankle boots. She had fashioned her long white hair into a loose bun on the crown of her head. He thought her outfit completely inappropriate, given the bar’s clientele, and made her stand out. Perhaps, he thought, that was why she had worn it.
He was at Lotsman’s side. He tapped the ship’s pilot on the shoulder. “Hi,” he said.
The pilot turned to him. His moustache formed a ragged ‘W’ as he smiled. “Cas. Where’s the others?”
Ormuz gestured back at the entrance. “They’re coming. They were behind me.” He glanced back but couldn’t see them amongst the crowd milling about outside Min Ven.
Lotsman cleared his throat. Ormuz turned back to him. “This,” said the pilot, “is Riz. She’s an old friend.”
Ormuz turned to the woman. She was staring at him. “Have we met before?” Ormuz blurted. He was sure he knew her face from somewhere.
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Not as far as I’m aware,” she replied. “Have you ever been to Ophavon before?” Her voice was strong and brisk.
Ormuz shook his head.
“Then we can’t have done.” She smiled. “And since we’ve never met…” She held out a hand. “Riz Gotovach.”
Ormuz shook her proffered hand. “Casimir Ormuz. I work on the same ship as Lex.” He shrugged apologetically. “General crew-member.”
“If the others are coming, let’s get a table,” Lotsman said. He slid off his stool and waited for Gotovach to join him. In her heels, she was four or five inches taller than the pilot. Lotsman wove his way across the bar to a table in one corner. Gotovach followed him and Ormuz brought up the rear.
