Last of the Immortals (The Jessica Keller Chronicles Book 3)

by Blaze Ward

  “Excellent, young lady,” the Chief Engineer beamed. “I shall dig out my scarf and flight goggles and be prepared first thing.”

  She watched him spin on a heel and depart with a jaunty stride.

  They were truly off to hunt the great, white whale, weren’t they?

  Now, if she could only know if she were Fedallah, or Ishmael.

  Chapter VII

  Date of the Republic May 29, 394 Fleet HQ, Ladaux System

  There was a serenity to this view, Loncar decided. Probably designed for such things at the beginning.

  Below him, the mighty fleet carrier that had anchored his most recent Task Force: RAN Archon. A faithful steed that had carried him into battle for most of a decade.

  Before that bastard of a First Lord, Nils Kasum, had put him on the beach again. A man like that should understand his worth to the fleet and keep him in constant command of task forces, instead of pushing papers and the occasional mission.

  The dry–dock at fleet headquarters stretched out nearly to infinity, designed to service the biggest vessels flying. Fleet Carriers were second only to the two greatest ships in the fleet, the Star Controllers: Athena and Archimedes, flagships of Home Fleet and First War Fleet, respectively. Still, Archon and her sister Ajax could almost fill one of the mammoth bays. The light cruiser Hualien, close by in bay two, was dwarfed for all her own size.

  That was power there. Glory.

  He turned and took three strides across the hallway, his long legs consuming the space quickly. This porthole showed a view of deep space. If he leaned far to his right, he could see Ladaux below, but it was the ship dominating the sky in front of him that held his attention.

  RAN Auberon.

  Her ship.

  The strike carrier had backed away from her loading dock and was transitioning for a deep space run. Around her, like bright knives in the distance, other vessels prepared to depart as well. Rajput, Stralsund, Brightoak. The escort had already departed, flying like an utter madman devoid of any thought for anyone but himself in his mad haste.

  Her time would come.

  The sound of his comm chirping ruined the tranquility of the scene.

  “Loncar,” he said brusquely. “Go ahead.”

  “First Fleet Lord Loncar,” Brand’s voice oozed out of the speaker. “I have some information you might find interesting. I wonder if we might meet tomorrow in my office down on the surface?”

  Loncar smiled. It must be interesting if Brand wasn’t even willing to offer a hint over the comm.

  “That would be fine, Brand,” he replied. “I will let you know when I can catch a shuttle down.”

  Chapter VIII

  Date of the Republic June 2, 394 Ithome, Ballard

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Sykes,” the customs officer said brightly. “Do you have anything to declare?”

  The man whose paperwork identified him as Sykes smiled back at the young woman before him, knowing that ninety percent of this encounter was designed as social engineering to locate people Up To No Good.

  He wasn’t about to let that show. This trip was too important.

  “No, ma’am,” he replied, letting his voice drift into a soft drawl he had picked up once upon a time, some eight hundred light years spinward. “Expect I’ll be taking things home, so I plan to travel light and buy things here.”

  “Very good,” she replied. “And the purpose of your visit?”

  “Tourism,” he said simply. He pointed vaguely at the invisible sky outside. “I wanna see the sights, smell the ocean, and maybe take a day trip up to Alexandria Station at some point.”

  Sykes watched like a hawk as she slid the little booklet with his latest identity into a scanner and let the galaxy’s most dangerous computer system have a look at him. He was far too professional to actually let this woman see his tension, but everything hinged on the next ten seconds.

  Either they let him in, or saw through the disguise and he’d spend the rest of his short life in a small box, awaiting execution.

  After a moment, the machine beeped happily. The woman pulled out an actual mechanical stamper and marked his tourist documents with it before sliding it back across the counter to him.

  “Welcome to Ballard,” she said with a smile.

  Sykes glanced down at the stamp. It was a stylized image of the planet Ballard, just a slice, with Alexandria Station orbiting overhead. Just like it did now. At least for the next few weeks.

  Less, if he was successful.

  Ξ

  The city of Ithome was a lovely place. It still held the character it had originally developed during the long hiatus in starflight, before Zanzibar came calling, twelve centuries ago, to re–ignite human civilization.

  According to the tourist brochure and his briefings, the city was a maritime capital, located on a fantastically deep and sheltered bay, possibly the caldera of an extinct volcano, or at least the modern remains of one. Zanzibar’s first starships to go exploring again had been designed to land on water, so they had picked an oceanic world with a modicum of steam technology to visit first. And had landed in this very bay.

  Sykes walked casually through the older parts of the city, down near the original wharfs and factories that had processed fish. A few of the buildings still did, for export to other parts of the planet and system, and many parts of the Republic of Aquitaine. The famous mutant tuna of Ballard were probably the second most profitable export from this world, reaching as much as ten meters in length and frequently serving as the apex predator in Ballard’s enormous seas.

  Only the import and export of knowledge and scholars out–weighed the fish, at least in value.

  Sykes checked his local almanac and turned to his left.

  There.

  Approaching zenith in the southern sky, visible as a waxing quarter moon today.

  Alexandria Station.

  Home of The Sentience. The AI who claimed to be the savior of humanity.

  Pandora.

  Nothing on his person would incriminate Sykes, if he were accosted. Everything was in his head, safely tucked away. Plans. Schedules. Contact names. Wiring diagrams.

  The modern assassin’s most effective tool was his mind.

  Especially when stalking the most elusive, the most dangerous creature in the history of mankind.

  The AIs who thought themselves gods.

  Sykes smiled to himself.

  Deicide was such a lovely job title.

  He turned a corner and headed down the little side street into what he would have called the Kasbah on his home world. Narrow streets, not much larger than alleys, running hither and yon at angles and in directions personally intended to insult Euclid and Jefferson.

  Old Ithome. Pre–starflight, or rather, Hiatus–era, since all worlds save one were the result of starflight, and that one was dead.

  A city from the Time of Darkness.

  Sykes imagined he could smell fish oils on the bricks of the streets. That, and sweet burning incense from a strange little boutique he passed that appeared to be a Chinese apothecary.

  Wonders of the modern universe.

  He continued past a noodle shop barely bigger than the cook inside before he found his destination.

  The store dealt in exotic books for the most part. In an era when almost all human knowledge was available at your fingertips, especially on Ballard, some people still preferred the mass and gravity of an actual book. Paper printed with ink and bound in cloth or leather.

  There were books everywhere. In the front window, proudly displayed. Stacked on every shelf on every wall. Piled carefully on any surface flat enough and sturdy enough to handle them.

  Old books had a smell unique to themselves. It had permeated the wooden shelves that lined most of the shop, possibly even worked its way into the old stone of the walls themselves.

  The door had a little brass bell on it that had tinkled when he entered. It seemed to summon a small gray tabby cat from somewhere in back.

&nb
sp; Sykes was inspected and sniffed. The cat suffered to be scratched with a low rumbling purr for a few seconds, before she suddenly scampered off.

  Kitties.

  When he stood up, the shop–keeper had appeared as well.

  In late–night videos, the merchant in a place like this was always played by a middle–aged male actor with a penchant for seediness. Usually pudgy and bald as well. Today was a welcome change.

  A woman had appeared behind the waist–high counter. Sykes was about average height for a man these days, bland and entirely unmemorable of appearance, as was a useful necessity in this line of work.

  This woman looked him in the eye.

  She was rail thin and tall, with skin the color of his first morning mocha and black, curly hair that had been buzzed with the shortest trimmer setting possible, leaving just enough to hint at how rich it might be if she let it get longer.

  The face was merely average, which was a let–down, given the intelligent twinkle in her eyes as she greeted him.

  “Good day, sir,” she said in a low alto voice. “What brings you to Ballard?”

  He studied her for a jarred moment, sure that no part of his disguise had given him away. And yet…

  She smiled at his quiet confusion.

  “Books are a small family,” she continued merrily. “There are only so many bibliophiles around, and all of them are regulars in my shop. Ergo, traveler from off–world.”

  Sykes smiled back. Of course, a careful observer would take note of such things. And the signs had all been correct, according to Imperial Intelligence.

  He flexed his hands to relax and looked carefully at the woman.

  “I was hoping you might have something about the ancient Greeks of the Homeworld. Specifically, I am interested in the woman Clytemnestra. Would you have a modern translation of the Oresteia?”

  For a moment, her eyes got hooded and reserved, although the smile never wavered.

  Probably the last person she had expected to have walk into her shop this morning. Better and better.

  “If I don’t…” she said carefully. She casually moved sideways a step, closer to the counter. To an average person, it probably would have looked normal as her hand disappeared from sight. “…I’m sure I can locate something. What language would you be looking for?”

  Sykes was sure her hand had just caressed something interesting. Whether it was an alarm button or a weapon remained to be seen.

  Seven major trade tongues had been dominant, before the fall of humanity. Ballard was primarily bi–lingual in English and Kiswahili, a result of the refounding, even though Bulgarian was generally dominant in the Republic of Aquitaine and the Fribourg Empire.

  Sykes relaxed another notch. She knew the code sequence necessary for identifying complete strangers that needed to be friends.

  “I had my heart set on Kiswahili,” he replied, volleying the identification set back to her. “And I will be in town for some time, so it is not an emergency.”

  He watched her hand emerge from under the counter again. If this was a trap, she might just shoot him right here and his mission would be over.

  Instead, the hand was empty. She smiled lightly.

  “If you would like to wait, I can make some tea,” she replied, finally completing contact, “or you can leave your contact information and I will call when I know more.”

  Sykes pulled a calling card from an inside pocket and crossed the distance to stand before the counter. He quickly pulled a pen from a jar and scrawled a note on the back.

  “I’m staying at the Stellar Dolphin,” he said, all business now, “although I have not checked in yet. Please feel free to contact me there at any time when you have news.”

  She picked up the card and read it carefully, front and back.

  “Very good, Mr. Sykes,” she replied. “I’m sure I will be able to help you.”

  “Thank you,” he said, turning and exiting the shop quickly.

  He spent the next hour wandering the Kasbah, shopping randomly and buying occasional trinkets he would take with him or leave behind, depending on how the next few weeks went. It was important to be invisible by being exactly what he seemed, a semi–wealthy tourist on a tame little adventure.

  Nothing to arouse suspicion.

  Ξ

  The hotel staff was as obsequious and fawning as the hotel’s reputation promised. Not for him to be in a youth hostel on this mission. No, wealthy enough to stay well and be treated right, not so wealthy as to be memorable.

  Always in character.

  The concierge approached diffidently as Sykes stood in the Grand Foyer and marveled at the lustrous marble walls and floors, covered with mosaics and tapestries celebrating the oceans of Ballard.

  “Mr. Sykes?” the man asked.

  He turned and smiled vacuously. “Yes?”

  The concierge handed him a small envelope that appeared to have been hand–made from a very heavy linen paper.

  “A Miss Krystiana Lemieux left you a message that she had found your book and would you be available to discuss it over dinner, sir?”

  “Very good,” Sykes said, slipping the envelope into an inner pocket of his jacket and pulling out a twenty Lev note to hand to the man. Again, enough to guarantee good service, not so much as to stick in the man’s mind. “Thank you.”

  Upstairs in his room, Sykes inspected the note. There was nothing more to it, except a phone number to call, once he was settled. Her voice was breathy when she answered.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Mistress Lemieux, this is Mister Sykes, returning your call,” he replied. They had passed the stage where everything was of necessity choreographed, so he was free to let the conversation wander where it will. “I would greatly appreciate the opportunity to take you out to dinner to discuss the tome you have located, but I am unfamiliar with Ithome. Perhaps you could recommend a restaurant where we might dine. On me. I have a very nice budget for this quest.”

  “In that case,” she replied, suddenly much brighter, “let me call in a favor and get us reservations at McClaren’s, atop the Sandy Head Tower. Will eight o’clock work for you?”

  “That would be perfect, madam. I look forward to dinner.”

  Step one complete.

  Sykes glanced out the window at the southern sky. Alexandria Station was just about to pass below the horizon.

  You’re next.

  Chapter IX

  Date of the Republic May 30, 394 Ladaux

  The office was small, and completely devoid of character. Just a desk with a hard chair, two slightly more comfortable chairs in front, and a side–board with nothing on it. No art marred the walls, no decoration, nothing.

  Loncar assumed that Brand had requisitioned the room at some point, but had obviously left no personal touch. No fingerprints. And Brand had been a fixture among the fixers of the senate, the men and women in the shadows who smoothed the surface, for decades.

  Nothing the man did left any impressions on anyone, except for his shaved head. That was Brand’s only affectation.

  “Thank you for joining me, First Fleet Lord,” he began. “This won’t take long, and then we can return to our respective needs.”

  Loncar sat in the nearer chair. Brand wouldn’t offer anything to drink. These meetings never lasted. Only the strategy dinners that Loncar hosted in a private room at his clubs ran long enough.

  “Go on,” Loncar said, a low rumbling sound almost a growl. Keller had still left him unsettled.

  Brand opened a drawer in the desk and withdrew a small folder. It had the crimson cover of a fleet intelligence summary, such as the First Lord’s office regularly produced for the politicians, and it was sealed with a white ribbon, as was custom when the document was in public.

  He rested it on the desk without opening it and placed a proprietary hand on the cover.

  “This just came in from my sources this morning,” Brand began. “Jessica Keller is currently en route to the Ballard
system for an expected engagement with Emmerich Wachturm of the Fribourg Empire Navy.”

  “Ballard?” Loncar asked, fuzzy on his cartography. It was an older sector of the Republic where he rarely visited. “College, or something?”

  “Correct,” Brand answered. “The University of Ballard is famous for its pre–hiatus library. According to the report I have skimmed, Keller apparently said or did something to provoke Wachturm and the Fribourg Empire into launching an assault on the university, and the First Lord dispatched her to stop him.”

  “Blackbird?” Loncar asked.

  “I beg your pardon, First Fleet Lord?”

  “Wachturm, you said,” he replied. “Does he have the Blackbird with him? IFV Amsel?”

  “Ah,” Brand smiled tightly. “Of course. Yes sir, he does. The battleship Amsel and the ship’s usual compliment of escorts are expected to accompany it.”

  “Hmph. Keller take anything besides the squadron she left with yesterday?”

  “No,” Brand replied with a slight, evil smile. “Just Auberon, Stralsund, and the two destroyers. Plus the escort and whatever forces are at Ballard when they arrive.”

  “Then it will be a slaughter,” Loncar concluded. “Wait. You said Keller provoked it? How?”

  “Apparently she encountered Wachturm during her diplomatic mission to Lincolnshire and insulted the man,” Brand said with a triumphant tone. “We have not completed digesting Keller’s own briefing report of her mission. It lasted nearly a year, and fills several volumes of material.”

  “Not hard to believe,” Loncar agreed, mentally elsewhere. “The woman is a menace.”

  He shifted gears mentally and studied the bald man behind the desk.

  “Why am I here?”

  Brand smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, for all that the man went out of his way to cultivate suave. He was the kind of person who thought about knives in the dark too much for polite company.

  “The Committee would like to call you as a friendly witness, a character witness,” Brand said. “An expert on fleet affairs who can shed light on the recent activities of Keller and First Lord Kasum. And do so in a very public forum.”