by Ian Sales
At the very least, Rinharte should have waited until Maganda had returned and left the young woman in command. But regulations be damned. They were only keeping station. The only possible threat lay in those clones lying brain-dead in their sarcophagi and an officer on the bridge would be no protection against that.
A gangway led aft straight from the bridge hatch to a ramp. The deck below, the poop, contained the officers’ cabins, offices and wardroom. Rinharte marched down the ramp from the fo’c’sle and along the gangway. She met the first of the marine guards and nodded in acknowledgement of his salute. The second marine she recognised as Marine-Corporal Valka and asked him, “Have you seen Marine-Captain Kordelasz?”
“Wardroom, ma’am. With the boat-sergeant.”
“Thank you, corporal.”
Kordelasz and Alus were bent over a schematic of the troop-transport when Rinharte found them. There was only one place they could have found the ship’s plans. She was annoyed they had raided the ship’s carpenter’s office without first asking her permission. Tempest was her ship now, after all.
“What are you plotting?” she demanded. There was an air of scheming to the way the pair were poring over the drawing.
Kordelasz looked up and grinned. “We’re trying to figure out a way to break into the armoury,” he explained.
“That is not a priority,” Rinharte returned stiffly.
“It might contain something we can use.”
“Such as? The marines have their boarding-axes and I’m not endorsing any order to have cannons stationed about the troop-deck.”
“What about pikes or lances?”
Rinharte answered the marine-captain’s question with one of her own: “Who do you imagine you would be defending this ship against?”
“The Serpent could send troops to recapture her,” Kordelasz insisted. “To rescue the clones.”
“It won’t happen.” Rinharte shook her head. “He didn’t send two full battalions to kill Casimir at the aerodrome and he could have done. It’s unlikely he even knows they failed.” Unless, she added silently, Ormuz has already managed to penetrate the nomosphere and has met the Serpent there once again. “Anyway,” she continued, “we will soon have a destroyer escort. Forget the armoury.”
Kordelasz straightened. His hand dropped to his sword and he grasped it about the handle. “I’m not a gaoler, Rizbeka.”
“I am your captain,” she snapped in return. She turned to Alus. “Boat-sergeant, see to your section, if you will.”
The huge marine nodded and lumbered from the wardroom. Rinharte turned and closed the door behind him with a savage flick of the switch. Once it was sealed, she rounded on the marine-captain. “We have our instructions, Garrin, and I won’t have you jeopardising them. I don’t care if you don’t like your orders but you will not ignore them. If the Admiral calls you a gaoler, you will start counting the heads of your prisoners. And you will ensure all are accounted for.”
Kordelasz gestured dismissively. “They’re going nowhere. They’re mindless.”
“They’re the enemy, Garrin.”
“Some enemy,” he scoffed. “Where’s the threat in a group of people without a thought between them?”
“They brought this ship here. How do you imagine they did that if they’re incapable of thought?”
“Something struck them down after they’d arrived.”
“And they just happened to be lying in those sarcophagi when it happened? Think, Garrin.”
“Perhaps the Provincial Foot put them in those, before they disembarked.”
Rinharte snorted. “You don’t believe that, so why expect me to? Clearly, the clones were thinking beings when they crewed Tempest to this system.”
“And they just let their minds go?” scoffed Kordelasz. “That’s even more fanciful than… than…” He trailed off, lost for a comparison.
“Garrin, I don’t know what happened. But what can be done can often be undone. And I plan to be prepared should that happen. I have my hands full commanding this ship and preparing for the arrival of whomever answers the Admiral’s call to arms. I need to be able to rely on you to keep the clones secure. Can I rely on you, Garrin?”
The marine-captain scowled. “I’ll not let anything happen.” He narrowed his eyes. “You have Gogos to handle those flocking to the Admiral’s banner, anyway.”
“I don’t trust him.”
This elicited a snort of derision from Kordelasz. “And you don’t know whether to trust Midshipman Maganda. Your first command… and the Admiral has stacked the odds firmly against you.”
“Romi will suit.” She said it in deliberate contradiction but found herself oddly believing it. Yes, the young woman would suit. Whatever the truth to the rumours about her inability to perform—and that was being charitable about what she had heard—Rinharte had a feeling the midshipman would prove herself capable. Her use of the young woman’s first name without thought only testified to the strength of her conviction.
“We will do,” she said, “what is expected of us. I will not give cause to disappoint the Admiral or disgrace myself. See to your marines, Garrin. Delegate what you will to Boat-Sergeant Alus but don’t delegate your responsibility to the security of this vessel.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Four pinnaces sat side by side on the aerodrome’s apron. Finesz, well-wrapped in a fur coat, dug her hands deeper into her pockets and stamped her feet. A white carpet of snow lay undisturbed over most of the aerodrome, churned to a dirty slush only beneath the booted feet of the seven platoons of the Duke of Kunta’s Imperial Winter Rangers lined up before the terminal. Jewel-like encrustations of ice decorated the buildings’ eaves, glittered on pitched roofs beneath the midday sun. For the first time since leaving Imperial Court, Finesz felt herself to be inhabiting a fairy-tale. The troopers, smart in their pale blue jackets, silent and wreathed in breath, stamped and shuffled in the creaking snow…
It wasn’t, however, merely her surroundings that put Finesz in mind of a fantasy. She felt warm deep inside and smiled secretively into the collar of her fur coat. After a week of enchanting Commander Mubariz… Of course, she had not been charming that entire period: at times, their conversations had often slid into heated discussions, on topics as widespread as politics, history and religion. Mubariz could be uncomfortably prickly at times. Conversation with him was filled with traps and pitfalls. And yet still she persevered. She liked Baron Mateen, she could not deny that. She found his stolidity, his deeply-centred sense of worth, appealing, attractive. Very attractive.
Was it just nostalgia, a mid-life craving for her carefree youth and the lovers that had populated it?
No matter. Mubariz had surrendered to her advances on the seventh day. The OPI, she told herself with a smile, always get their man…
The bow of one of the pinnaces opened and three figures stepped down into the snow. A gust of wind whipped to and fro the white hair of the figure in the lead: Captain Rinharte. Beside her stood a stocky man with leathery features, also in Navy blues. Finesz did not recognise him. Looming behind the pair of them hulked an enormous marine in green and dun. He wore a double knot on one prodigious biceps and so must be Boat-Sergeant Alus.
Finesz crossed the apron towards the trio, skirting the platoons of Imperial Winter Rangers. “Rizbeka!” she called.
Rinharte turned at her approach and put a hand to the crown of her kepi as the wind gusted fiercer. A fine powder of snow swirled about their boots.
Once Finesz was within earshot, Rinharte introduced her companion: “Captain Okrent of Coriaceous. This is Inspector Sliva Finesz of the OPI. So, Sliva, how have you been?”
“Fine, fine,” Finesz assured her. “The baron and I have been getting along… famously.” She grinned at her private joke.
“The baron? Ah, Commander Mubariz. He’s been no trouble?”
“None at all. A fascinating man.”
Rinharte grunted in
mild disbelief and turned to the Imperial Winter Rangers. Abruptly, she was all business. “This is their entire strength on Linna?”
“There’s the wounded too, of course, but they’ll be staying. Afi has also promised a company of his household troops.”
“Where’s their regimental-lieutenant?” Okrent demanded gruffly. Only a company sergeant major and two sergeants fronted the platoons on the apron.
“Saying goodbye to his casualties. He asked to let his men settle in first.”
“He didn’t ask me,” remarked Rinharte flatly. She clasped her hands behind her back, ducked her head to present the crown of her kepi to the blow of the wind and frowned.
All that was missing, thought Finesz with some amusement, was the bridge of a warship about her. Who could have known that Rinharte would take to command with such gravity? Her disappointment at the regimental-lieutenant’s absence was palpable.
Rinharte abruptly ruined the illusion: she sighed, lifted her head and clapped a hand to her kepi as a suddenly fierce gust threatened to remove it. “I will put Romi on it,” she said resignedly.
“Romi?”
“The captain’s executive officer,” explained Okrent. “Midshipman Maganda.”
Finesz gazed at the destroyer captain blankly. Midshipman? Executive officer?
“Don’t ask,” Rinharte said.
“Well,” said Finesz. But she did not ask. She changed the subject and asked brightly, “So what does this bring our strength to?”
“With the household troops? Three under-strength companies.”
“Three companies? That’s a battalion, isn’t it?” Finesz was no military enthusiast but she knew that Tempest’s complement was two battalions.
“Almost. But for the wounded, we’d have a full-strength battalion.” She shrugged. “More will come.”
“What about warships?” Finesz asked.
Another shrug. “Livasto’s squadron. Once the Admiral’s signal has gone out, more will come.”
“So how’s it going up there?”
“Fits and starts,” Rinharte replied.
Okrent grunted sceptically. “Captain Rinharte is mostly succeeding in an impossible task,” he allowed grudgingly.
“Been bashing heads, eh?” Finesz grinned.
“His—” Rinharte jerked her thumb at Okrent— “was the first.”
“Ah.” An uneasy alliance then. If Okrent had balked at joining the Admiral’s fleet, his presence here at the aerodrome could only mean he still had reservations. He wanted to inspect every element of the Admiral’s forces before fully throwing in his lot. Or… Finesz peered at the stocky captain. Perhaps she was doing him a disservice. Perhaps he was a more honourable man than that.
“The commodore?” asked Finesz.
“Still smarting,” Rinharte admitted. “He’ll bow to the Admiral readily enough but it irks him to have do the same to me.” She smiled grimly. “He’ll learn,” she added flatly.
Finesz grinned. Rinharte would soon have the various captains in orbit toeing the line. Finesz did not doubt that. And the thought of the white-haired lieutenant-commander browbeating them could not help but be amusing.
“CSM!” called Rinharte, turning away from Finesz. “Get your men aboard.”
The company sergeant major saluted smartly, spun about and began barking out orders.
“How long until the Admiral is back?” Finesz asked.
Okrent answered, “Another week. Perhaps longer. It depends on how long she tarried at her destination.”
“You’ve met her before?” Finesz asked him.
He shook his head and scowled. “No. Our paths never crossed. But I’m fully aware of her reputation.”
“You didn’t attend the assembly?”
“No. I was on duty.”
“So you’ve not met Casimir either.”
“The Admiral’s lordling mascot?” Okrent asked.
The remark surprised a laugh from Finesz. “Mascot?” she scoffed. “Don’t let Casimir hear you say that. Varä told me he has the makings of a master swordsman.”
The captain’s opinion was written on his face: he considered Ormuz little more than a dilettante who could behave prettily with a blade. Finesz grinned at him. Okrent would learn his mistake soon enough.
Rinharte spoke up as she watched the platoons trot towards the pinnaces: “We’ll come back down for the household troops.”
As if to an inaudible drum-beat, the Imperial Winter Rangers smartly boarded the boats, disappearing up ramps into the open bows one by one until the apron was empty of troops. Rinharte, Okrent, Alus and Finesz were alone. Finesz turned and gazed at the pinnaces, saw their crews busy at their stations through the control cupola scuttles. She looked up, following in her mind the path the vessels would take. The sky was too bright to see the tiny specks of light that were the ships that had accompanied Rinharte’s Tempest to Linna.
“When the Admiral returns,” Rinharte said, “you will join us in orbit, Sliva.”
“And the baron?”
“Commander Mubariz? He remains here, I suppose. Your duke will look after him.”
“He’s not my duke,” Finesz protested—but not too strongly. “Besides, leaving him here might not be such a good idea…”
Rinharte gazed searchingly at Finesz. “No?”
“I, ah, had a visit from an acquaintance of yours,” Finesz answered sheepishly. “A Sir Bluret mar Sudnik. Of the Order of the Left Hand.”
“A knight sinister? Here?”
“Indeed, Rizbeka.”
“Dear Lords.”
“My sentiments exactly.” Finesz pursed her lips and blew out. The cloud of breath dissipated quickly in the chill breeze. “He wanted the baron.”
“What in heavens for?” demanded Rinharte, surprised further.
“He neglected to mention his reason.” Finesz winced: she was being sarcastic. Whenever she reported to superiors, she turned sarcastic. It had maddened Norioko.
“I take it he left empty-handed. You fought him off?”
Finesz pulled her hands out of her pockets and peeled back the cuff on her right glove, revealing the bandage wrapping her hand. “Wounded in the line of duty, in fact.”
Okrent snorted dismissively.
“He scratched you?” asked Rinharte, leaning forwards and peering at the dressing.
“Scratched me? He stabbed me. It hurt, Rizbeka. It still does.” She gave a lopsided grin. “I’ll never be able to write a report again.” Pulling back the glove’s cuff, she shrugged. “He also owes me a rather expensive sweater.”
“I’m not having Mubariz aboard Tempest. I can’t afford to put more marines on guard duty.”
“He’s given his parole,” Finesz replied, a little too earnestly perhaps. “You needn’t guard him.”
“I can’t risk it,” Rinharte replied flatly.
“He’s an honourable man,” Finesz insisted.
“He stays, Sliva.”
“And what if Sudnik returns? He promised he would. And he struck me as the sort that would stand by his promises. Especially ones of that sort.”
“They won’t harm him.”
Finesz turned her back on Rinharte and Okrent. “Then I’ll make my own arrangements for his safety.”
“Why?” demanded Rinharte.
But Finesz refused to answer.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
For three nights, Ormuz tried to visit the nomosphere and failed. As if the act of wanting to be there disqualified him from admittance. It had seemed so easy before, although no act of will on his part had been involved. But even such reverse psychology proved unsuccessful. Not wanting to visit the nomosphere was as fruitless as wanting to visit the nomosphere. Ormuz’s frustration grew nightly.
Sleep, when it eventually came, was a relief. But drained by his attempts to access the nomosphere he sank too deep into a dreamless state, and woke the following morning with the night hou
rs a complete blank.
But on the fourth night, after an afternoon spent practicing with swords in the sports salon, Ormuz lay languid and satisfied in his cot. Somewhere beyond the edge of his thoughts lay the barrier of sleep, tantalisingly close, bulking large and yet unseen. As he sank deeper into drowsiness, he watched in wonder as his cabin dissolved about him. Light bled from the bulkheads, grew brighter, eye-searing bright, until all detail, all form, vanished. A shift of perspective and he was there. Black points swirled together into galaxies, the dark diffuseness of nebulae, ebon stars all about, above, below and beyond.
He had a task: he hunted through the nomosphere for the intelligence he had promised the Admiral. His quest went unopposed: he met neither his mysterious blue ally nor the gold figure of the Serpent. He intercepted and deciphered data, gathered information, building up a picture of the movements of the forces at the Serpent’s command.
The night before Vengeful arrived in the Urkia planetary system, Ormuz finally had his answer. He did not tell the Admiral because he wanted to be sure. It was hard to be certain about anything learnt in the nomosphere: interpretation was everything, and he did not yet trust his own proficiency in that area. With practice perhaps might come certainty. It was not only a matter of finding the desired data but also the intended meaning of the data he intercepted.
By day, Ormuz and Varä battled it out in the sports salon or Ormuz alone would closet himself with the Admiral to further discuss their plans. The more time he spent in the Admiral’s presence, the more Ormuz came to appreciate her. He drew strength from her. When his doubts overwhelmed him and the struggled seemed too much, he need only marvel at the Admiral’s resolve and determine to be like her.
Neither Finesz nor Rinharte were aboard Vengeful, and Ormuz’s other friends—the crew of Divine Providence—had made it plain where their loyalties lay. It raised a barrier between them and their ex-cabin boy. Even Varä, close as he was, not could not be entirely trusted: he was a knight sinister, after all; although he had yet to confess as much. Perhaps the marquess’s loyalties were wavering. Certainly he seemed more and more inclined to abandon whatever hidden agenda he followed. Ormuz watched him carefully, somewhat embarrassed at the misinterpretation put on his surveillance by Varä but unwilling to cease. Perversely, his observation hastened Varä’s inexorable slide to his side.
