A Prospect of War (An Age of Discord Novel Book 1)

by Ian Sales

  He saw… a huge warship lurking in the vicinity of a ringed gas giant. Its hull was an elongated torpedo-shape with a complex superstructure festooned with aerials and close-defence weaponry.

  He saw… a tall, stern woman with a shaved head, wearing a black, insignia-less uniform of coveralls and reefer-jacket. It was not an OPI uniform, despite the colour.

  He concentrated in an effort to probe deeper.

  The fountain of black light abruptly whipped away from him. He jerked in surprise, and looked down. It had rejoined the star as if it had never been.

  A figure appeared before him. It was human, slim and well-formed, but devoid of features. Pale blue, it glowed with faint light. The head was a hairless faceless ovoid, the body smooth and sexless.

  Ormuz recoiled in shock. The colour and featurelessness were alien. Who are you? he demanded.

  The figure ignored his question. It lifted its arms above its head, raised its chin, and then brought its arms down in an encompassing gesture. Someone like you, it said.

  A clone of my father?

  A clone, yes. Of your… “father”, no. Our DNA is far older than a single generation.

  Ormuz could not judge the size of the blue figure. It seemed an arm’s length away and no taller than himself. He reached out but could not touch it. Its skin had the lustrous texture of an expensive fabric. He saw the play of muscles beneath the glowing blue flesh. But it had no nipples, no sex, no finger- or toenails, no ears, no bumps or indentations to mar the oval perfection of its face.

  What is this place? he asked.

  The figure danced, holding out its arms, its gaze—if it had eyes—fixed on him. The nomosphere, the wellspring of all physical laws, it replied.

  Why am I here? Why is it I can come here?

  The figure brought its hands together, and held them out, cupped, before it. A spinning helix suddenly appeared, hovering inches above its palms. It is written in… this. The hands closed, and the coil of DNA vanished as magically as it had appeared.

  Why can I see things here? Ormuz asked. Know things?

  The figure was silent.

  Why? Tell me, Ormuz demanded.

  I cannot help you. Not now. Perhaps later. The figure began to slowly revolve. The speed of its revolutions increased. Its gleaming blue flesh blurred and stretched. Its form ran like water, losing its humanoid shape, became a column, a ribbon of blue flesh. It twisted and turned, warped into strange topologies, folded and knotted in complex, baffling paths—

  As abruptly as it had appeared, it… vanished.

  Ormuz found his own presence in the nomosphere slipping from him, as if prompted by the mysterious figure’s departure.

  He awoke. He scrambled from his bunk, and found himself standing before the mirror on his closet door. Clad only in the crumpled night-shirt he wore to bed, he stared at himself. He remembered his dream with a clarity which argued it was not the random outpourings of the subconscious given narrative cohesion by authorial wish-fulfilment. Other dreams had not been so clear on awakening. This one had been very much different. He had felt, and exerted, more… control. There had been a greater perception of his surroundings. The nomosphere…

  That blue faceless and featureless figure, as smooth and unidentifiable as a weather-worn statue. The revolving helix. It was written in his DNA. Engineered into it. Had the figure been his father? No, “father” was even more inaccurate a description now: whoever it had been, they had implied his clone-father, the person who had unwilling donated the tissue culture which had become Casimir Ormuz, was himself a clone. Ormuz tried to imagine a line of identical men stretching back through the Empire’s history. Had each been hungry for more power, scheming and plotting in dark corners?

  How old, he wondered, was the Serpent? More than twenty years Ormuz’s senior. The events described by Captain Plessant implied the Serpent had been adult when Ormuz was born. Was the Serpent old and infirm, his distinctive red hair now grey, his face a disguising map of wrinkles and lines? Perhaps age had rendered the likeness a moot point. Or perhaps rich living had fleshed him out, rounded his face and bulked out his build?

  Ormuz had no way of knowing, nor any way of finding out. It was all supposition. He could try to picture himself twice, three times, his current age. He imagined himself double his present weight. But the exercise was meaningless.

  He paused. He had entered his dream with a particular task in mind. The appearance of the blue figure had almost caused him to overlook what he had discovered. He had not learnt Riz Gotovach’s real name but he now knew she was connected with a warship. And a woman with a shaved head. Gotovach’s uniform and the starship argued she was certainly Imperial Navy. Finesz had said as much but he found it hard to believe. Surely Gotovach did not have the backing of the Empire’s senior service?

  And the man with dark hair: Niwashi. In a green jacket… Ormuz tried to remember what little he knew of the Imperial Regiments. Yes, the Imperial Commando wore green. As did the Imperial Skirmishers. And probably many more regiments. So too did the Imperial Marines.

  Ormuz resolved to tell Inspector Finesz what he had learnt when he next saw her on Kapuluan. Or perhaps he would tell Gotovach if he saw her first.

  He had a feeling he had not seen the last of the Navy officer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Careful analysis of Divine Providence’s departure from the Ophold system into the toposphere revealed that the data-freighter was travelling to a minor world called Bato. Clues could be read in the angle of entry into the toposphere, the vector of the departing spaceship, and the time taken for the vessel to wholly disappear from normal space. Extrapolating a starship’s destination from the pattern of its departure was a well-understood science.

  Lieutenant-Commander Voyna delivered a report to the Admiral outlining these conclusions. She was in her day cabin and accepted it with a terse nod of thanks. She watched the lieutenant of battle order exit before gazing down at the paper he had placed on her desk. Bato. She did not know the name. This was hardly surprising. The Empire claimed over 14,000 worlds within its ever-changing borders. Not all those worlds, of course, accepted the claim. But if the Imperial Navy could not dispel their mistaken belief, the bounty brought by the sutlers soon changed their minds. Where the armoured fist of a warship failed, the invisible hand of economic invasion usually succeeded.

  Voyna had provided a briefing on the Bato system in his report. The Admiral read it with vague interest. She was well-versed in history: of the 1,268 years of the Empire and of the three thousand years of the Old Empire which had preceded it. Broad brush-strokes only, however. She could not know the history of every world.

  Bato had been an accidental conquest. No, not even that: it had been uninhabited. The second wave of sons of the nobility of Geneza sweeping through this region during the second century of the Old Empire, they had passed it by. But someone had stopped, had bundled up a community of proles from their home-fief, plonked them down on Bato and instructed them to make fruitful and render all to their liege.

  Little had changed since then. Small numbers of yeomen had come, seeking opportunity and profit. When Edkar I toppled the Old Empire and siezed the Throne, his Pacification fleet passed through the system. Bato capitulated without a shot fired. A minor yeoman was made baron of a barren world.

  And history detoured about Bato.

  A small rocky world, it boasted several unusual landscape features. Its population was concentrated in half a dozen townships. It had no significant industries or exports. If anything, the world was a drain on Imperial resources. Such was true of many worlds in the Empire. Bato was not even a popular stopping-off place on the route from Ophold to Kapuluan, the two nearest industrial centres. Most vessels travelled via Maliako, a more prosperous planetary system.

  The Admiral sat back in her chair. Her gaze drifted about the bare walls of her day cabin and came to rest on the discoloured patch where the ship’s crest had
once hung. More and more she had come to regret what that blank space signified. Yet what could she have done when at the beck and call of her superior officers? A battlecruiser was designed to operate independent of a flotilla or squadron but not independent of the chain of command. Not that the chain of command always knew how to use a battlecruiser. Vengeful’s years attached to the Boundary Fleet—under the warship’s original name, of course—had proven that much. Commerce raiding, pickets, escort duties… Vice-Admiral Fisc had been a fool, was still a fool. He had a highly-decorated battlecruiser at his disposal and wasted her on tasks fit for a frigate.

  Perhaps it had been the Admiral’s fault. Few fleet-rank officers had known how to deal with her, given her background. Their politics would interfere with their military judgement.

  It had come as no surprise to learn Vengeful’s crew were unanimously behind the Admiral when she chose to forge her own destiny.

  The Admiral did not rue what she had left behind but what she had chosen to forget. History… Vengeful should be proud of her history; not suffering selective amnesia because it was expedient to do so. The crew still maintained Navy traditions aboard, they still wore Navy uniforms. All but the Admiral, of course. She had been on the List as a post-captain but did not now own to that rank. She had taken Vengeful outside the chain of command and could no longer claim its legitimacy. She wore black because black was the colour of order, the colour of authority, the colour of Chian, whose history was that of His various Avatars. Black represented His ascendancy over His evil twin, Konran, who ruled the night. Chian personified order, constancy and obedience. Konran represented chaos and anarchy, and his colour was gold, the colour of his defeat.

  The Admiral held her religion dear. She had been raised and coddled in its sureties and absolutes. She recognised that Chian and Konran depicted human archetypes, their struggle romanticised to that of the battle between Good and Evil, Night and Day. Perhaps the various Avatars, and the assorted Mysteries they had performed, owed more to the requirements of their times than they did to theophany. But there were lessons to be learned in their lives. And Chian did exist. Signs of His existence were there to be seen throughout Creation.

  There was a chaplain aboard Vengeful. All ships of the line carried one in their complement. He had been as supportive of the Admiral’s decision to turn renegade as the lowest rated. Perhaps the Admiral should call on him. Chaplains were trained psychiatrists and she would not allow herself to be crippled by doubts. Yes, she decided, she would speak with Lieutenant Reverend Ieza mar Sorio. She leaned forward and reached to open the ship’s pipe.

  It buzzed before her finger could connect.

  “Yes?” she demanded, annoyed at having been pre-empted.

  “Ma’am?” It was Commander Mubariz.

  “Yes?”

  “The jolly boat has docked, ma’am. Lieutenant-Commander Rinharte and Marine-Lieutenant Kordelasz are aboard.”

  “Send them straight up.” The discussion with Sorio would have to wait. “And you will join us, Mr Mubariz.”

  “Ma’am, they’re undergoing medical treatment.”

  The Admiral angered. “They were harmed by the knights stalwart?”

  Mubariz paused momentarily before replying. “No, ma’am, apparently not. Their injuries were sustained during their escape from the frigate.”

  “Send them up as soon as they’re fit,” the Admiral ordered. She closed the connection.

  Finger poised over the ship’s pipe, she paused. Mubariz had said “injuries”. Not “wounds”. She had left the planning and implementation of the rescue to her marine detachment. The details were of no consequence to her. But if Major Skaria had caused harm to come to Lieutenant-Commander Rinharte…

  The Admiral rose to her feet. She turned and perched her rear on the desk, arms crossed, gazing out one of the arched ports. Harab could not be seen from her vantage point, was hanging crippled in space off some other quarter. Faint emerald light leaked from the port’s lower-edge, as though dawn were seconds away from breaking. Ophold. A curious world. The Admiral had once met the Duke of Ophold, Gorm mar Hertug. A curious man. Secretive, aloof. His world was barred to all but those who had been born there. Only his staunch support of the Imperial Throne, and the great distance between Ophold and Shuto, had allowed him to keep his secrets.

  Ophold… Ophavon… Rizbeka. Her Rizbeka was back aboard. Injured. After allowing herself to be captured by knights stalwart. It had always been a risk, sending Rinharte on shore missions. Not just of injury, or—heavens forbid!—death, but of just such a farrago as had taken place in Ophavon. The Admiral did not know whether to be grateful for her lieutenant of intelligence’s safe return or angry at her incompetence.

  She clenched her fists at her sides. Grateful, she decided. She could not lose her Rizbeka. She needed her. There had been few enough times during the Admiral’s life when the loneliness of her position had not been absolute. Her time at the Geneza College Annex on Podboi, she would sooner forget. The Society of Gold, student would-be anarchists of privileged backgrounds, had been fun. Learning she had been used, proved… humiliating.

  And then, Ariman… The man who had abused her respect, her admiration, her love. Who had started her off on this path she now trod. Whose treachery had made him her enemy and the enemy of the Empire.

  The Admiral did not hold Rinharte so close, but she trusted her, valued her company and input. And she was back aboard. Vengeful had rescued her. A boarding-action against a frigate. When had such a thing ever been attempted before by a battlecruiser? It was easier to simply blow a frigate away with torpedoes or main gun.

  No matter. Rizbeka had returned. The Admiral’s good right hand had returned.

  With more news on this data-freighter. Divine Providence—and what a joke that name was proving to be!—had assumed an importance out of all proportion with her actual function. She was their one link to the Admiral’s enemy and yet the link still remained unknown. The Admiral knew little beyond that: she had ignored Rinharte’s reports on the data-freighter. She still felt remorse over the destruction of Divine Wind—which bit all the more keenly because that destruction might have been a mistake—and so refused to know anything more about Divine Providence. She did not want the data-freighter’s crew to have identity, to become people. Not if she had to order them killed. Let them remain faceless agents of her enemy.

  Her footman slid open the door to her day cabin and Rinharte, Kordelasz and Mubariz entered. The Admiral saw their reflections in the port and nodded, acknowledging their presence. The door slid shut.

  Rinharte’s white hair suddenly registered. The Admiral turned. She raised an eyebrow.

  Surprisingly, Rinharte blushed. Kordelasz smirked in an ungentleman-like manner.

  The hair was not the least of the changes to Rinharte’s appearance. Her eyes were bright red and bloodshot. As were the marine-lieutenant’s. White patches of frostbite decorated her cheeks and forehead. Both hands were securely wrapped in gauze. She wore mufti, a smart jacket and trousers. Both were smeared with soot.

  “You are well, Rizbeka?” the Admiral asked. “Garrin?”

  “I’ll recover, ma’am,” Rinharte answered. Her voice was hoarse and faint.

  “Ma’am,” interrupted Mubariz, “they were forced to cross some two hundred yards of open space during their escape.”

  “We, er, imploded a torpedo on Harab’s boat-deck,” added Kordelasz. He too spoke with a voice weakened and husky. “It was the only way, ma’am.”

  “You had four boat-squads of marines, Mr Kordelasz,” snapped the Admiral. “Was that not sufficient?”

  “The knights stalwart fielded serjeants with cannons, ma’am.”

  The Admiral was horrified. “Aboard a starship? Are they mad?”

  “Desperate, ma’am,” put in Rinharte in her scratchy voice.

  “So it seems. Though imploding a torpedo on the boat-deck strikes me as no more desperate a tact
ic. I am… happy it succeeded.” She gestured imperiously. “Sit,” she ordered.

  She watched the trio lower themselves into chairs, Rinharte and Kordelasz both carrying themselves carefully. Rinharte directed a puzzled—and suspicious?—glance at the executive officer. She, the Admiral noticed, seemed pale and worried and not solely as a result of her injuries. Or her hair-colour, which had altered her appearance drastically. What was once familiar now seemed strange, forcing the Admiral to re-assess her lieutenant of intelligence. It was unfair, she reflected, but to the good: complacency was to be avoided, even amongst those closest to her and in her dealings with them.

  “So,” the Admiral said, “Mr Kordelasz. What was your tally this time?”

  Kordelasz had the grace to look embarrassed. The Admiral had heard the stories about the marine-lieutenant’s martial prowess. She was grateful to have a master swordsman in her crew. A warship needed its heroes, and Vengeful had been given precious little opportunity for heroism in the last six years. She was thankful too that the marine-lieutenant and her Rizbeka worked so well together as a team.

  Rinharte answered, “Two knight-lieutenants and a knight-captain, ma’am.” She seemed to disapprove of the Admiral’s pandering to Kordelasz’s exploits.

  The Admiral knew what she was doing. “That makes four in total, does it not, Garrin? A respectable score.”

  Kordelasz nodded warily.

  “I shall have to see about a promotion. It will be brevet only, I’m afraid, but perhaps you may get to keep it.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Kordelasz glanced sidelong at Rinharte and added, “Lieutenant-Commander Rinharte defeated one, ma’am.”

  “To defeat a knight stalwart in single combat is an achievement to be congratulated, Rizbeka. I had not known you to be so skilled with a sword.”

  “I was lucky,” Rinharte rasped.

  The Admiral dismissed the modesty with an expansive gesture. “Tell me what you learned on Ophavon,” she said.