The Coming Storm_A Pax Aeterna Novel

by Trevor Wyatt

“Display,” I command.

  “Working…”

  A series of data begins to run across the holographic screen before me, which I read word for word. First thing I realize is that the nanites were able to get a lot of information across to me in a short period of time before I lost contact with Gresh.

  A lot of the information being displayed are Temple logs, which piques my curiosity. I notice that the owner of the Office, High Cleric Szaad, had been getting a lot of visits from the late Noble Marshal over the course of a few weeks.

  I retreat back to a couch and sit down. The holographic follows me but maintains a distance of two yards from me.

  “What is going on here,” I ask myself, looking over the logs. For over three weeks, the High Cleric had met with the Noble Marshal. Now the High Cleric is meeting with the person who assassinated the Noble Marshal? It can’t be a coincidence, yet I don’t want to rush into any premature conclusion.

  Maybe she was there to get some spiritual advice, I mean she did just kill someone. She could be there to seek redemption. Maybe the Temple was the only place she could seek asylum from the one who would want to do her harm—for example: yours truly.

  When I took my gaze off the hologram, the information spill stopped. As I return my focus, the information continues to reel out.

  The High Cleric also had scheduled meetings with a high ranking member of the Merchant caste.

  “Computer, do we have any information about this meeting?” I say.

  “Checking…”

  “Negative.” The computer says two seconds later.

  I heave a deep sigh. I wonder if we didn’t get the information—or if the information even exists.

  “Computer, what can you tell me about High Cleric Szaad?”

  “Checking…”

  I swear, these moments feel like the longest time of my life.

  “There is limited public information about the Sacred Temple leaders,” the computer replies.

  I smile.

  Maybe, I think. “Can you hack into the private files?” I say.

  “Yes.”

  “How long would it take you to get the information I need?” I ask.

  “Approximately three days, five hours, forty minutes and three point five seven seconds,” comes the reply.

  “Okay, forget I asked that,” I say.

  Who is this guy? And what does he want with the Merchant Caste?

  I glance back at the hologram and it continues to spew out information. Now I’m reading through some more of clerical information. Staff rotation. Financial audit. Queries. Staff dossiers.

  “Computer, check if we got a dossier on the High Cleric.”

  “Working…negative.”

  “Computer, I want you to begin a search protocol on the information we got from the office.”

  “What are you parameters?” the computer asks.

  “I want any relevant information on the meetings the High Cleric had with the Noble Marshal, the assassin, and the Merchant.”

  “Working…”

  I stand to my feet and begin to pace. The computer realizes this is a nervous habit and so the holographic projection doesn’t follow me to pace. It returns to its position at the center of the sitting room.

  “There are two recordings of a meeting between High Cleric Szaad and Noble Marshal Yanik,” the computer says. “The audio of the video recording appears to have been corrupted during the termination of the signal. All attempts to restore the audio have failed. Would you still like me to play the video?”

  “Play,” I command.

  The screen morphs into an overhead view of an office. I can only see a portion of the room—the portion where a desk is beside a window. A Sonali in a regal-looking robe sits behind the desk, while a burly-looking one stands on the other side. The view is grainy and the angle of the camera prevents me from getting a good view.

  The High Cleric says something that seems to upset the Noble Marshal, who is now speaking and gesturing wildly. Then Szaad shoots to his feet and appears to yell something. His movements are forceful, showing that he’s all riled up. Yanik, too, begins to rant, yelling as well, I presume. The argument goes on for another thirty minutes before Szaad points at the door and the Noble Marshal storms out. Then the feed dies.

  “Play again,” I say.

  I watch it over again. This time I try to read their lips. I’m not so successful because the angle is just so bad. But I am able to pick up a few words that gives me the impression that the two were arguing about the Pro-Ascension movement. I appears as though something about the direction of the movement wasn’t sitting well with one of the two.

  I also picked up some words that I didn’t really understand. “Greater good” and “sacrifice” were two words I don’t want to hear used in a sentence, especially when a revolution is about to take place. These are trigger words that herald an action that’s probably going to cost lives.

  I watch the short clip for a couple more times before I’m satisfied that I’ve seen all I need to see.

  “Computer, play second recoding,” I say.

  The next thing I hear is a conversation.

  “I don’t want to have any part in this,” one voice say. Its thick, hardline nature suggests that it’s the soldier.

  “No problem, Yanik,” says the other voice, which is thick, but weathered. I assume this is Szaad.

  “At least, speak at the rally,” Szaad says.

  “I don’t think I should,” Yanik replies. “I’m too upset to bring my thoughts together. Perhaps, I need time to think about how you can even conceive this.”

  I hear a sigh, which I assume comes from an exasperated Szaad.

  “Look, you can think all you want, but you need to speak at the rally,” Szaad says. “A lot of people are going to attend. The true believers of our way will get a definite boost if you spoke to them. Perhaps, you can share you ideals for the movement and see what they think. If they stand with you, then I’ll stand with you.”

  There is a slight pause.

  “Okay, Szaad,” Yanik says. “I’ll speak—”

  And the audio ends abruptly.

  No-One

  There is more going on here than we, the Union, had thought. Szaad and Yanik were clearly knee-deep in some scheme of their own, which apparently spiraled out of their control, resulting in Yanik’s assassination. But who, exactly, had him killed? There is no shortage of players on the Sonali side, of course, but it could well be that there is a Terran influence somewhere in the mix.

  I lean back with a groan. What have I gotten myself into?

  More than that, I realize with a stab of guilt: what have I gotten Gresh into? Well, there’s nothing I can do for him now. The sad fact of the matter is that he is on his own. As a Sonali dealing with Sonali, he’ll probably be able to handle his situation.

  That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

  Since I can do nothing for Gresh, I had better do something for myself. This operation seems to be unravelling, which means I am going to have to get myself to a safe house until things cool down. There’s no guarantee that such place will have its own atmospheric conditioning like my apartment does; I don’t have to wear a regulator here, which is a huge relief. But if I must wear one, I will. People on the run can’t afford to be picky about their accommodations.

  I have adopted disguises before, of course. Part of my Intelligence training was a course in disguises given by a master character actor. Contact lenses, wigs, padded clothing to add a bit of weight, a stone in the mouth to garble the voice. But this time, things are different. The fact that I’m a Terran female means that any disguise I adopt amounts to little more than rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. Good for short-term, perhaps, but not for the long haul. There aren’t so many of my species and sex on Sonali Prime, and ID-ing us isn’t a big hit for Sonali security. I must, therefore, go the extra mile.

  With that, I open a secret panel in my kitchen—people always expect them i
n the bathroom and I don’t even know why. I withdraw my kit—well, one of them. One is designed for Terran use, and I haven’t had much occasion to dip into it thus far on this assignment.

  But the other one is designed to make me look like a Sonali post-Ascension female.

  Culturally, Sonali PA females hold a societal niche similar to that held by Terran females, though more Sonali gravitate toward the military and security than do Terrans.

  There is less of a history of sexual repression among the Sonali, equality before the Supreme Spirit being built into The Way—to the benefit of all, as far as I’m concerned.

  The main problem for me is the hair—Sonali women haven’t got any. And the ears; they’re slits, rather than the skin-covered cartilage we have on the sides of our heads. But the kit was designed to handle these inconvenient characteristics.

  I have a short-hair wig I can wear in my Anika/Rosaline personas if needed, so this is not an issue. I’m able to put the fake skin over a few layers and my long tresses that come to my shoulders are put into a bun and hidden. In twenty minutes, I’ve gone from a wavy brunette to being as hairless as a Sonali female.

  The ears are, though. I have to take them off.

  Before I began this assignment I underwent surgery to replace my human pinnae with Sonali-like ear slits. My fake ears are securely fastened—I could even swim with them if I chose to—but easy enough to remove with a couple of good sharp tugs.

  Moments later, bald and earless, I am regarding myself wryly in the bedroom mirror. What a sight. Now there’s just the problem of my skin color. I have an ivory-colored Northern Italian tone, but Sonali are various shades of blue. So I rely to the kit once more, for primer, color mix, and so on. Again, all part of my training. The compounds and colors have all been formulated for use here on Sonali Prime. By the time I’m done, a fairly decent copy of a Sonali female is gazing back at me out of the mirror. Interestingly enough, Sonali do not have blue eyes—the color is unknown among them. So I have had to put in orange contact lenses.

  I put the make-up kit back into its hidey-hole. Then I pick up my breather and slip it into my reticule.

  Thanks to my nanites, I can get by for a while without the breather, but I’ll certainly need it at some point, because although my nanites will allow me to breathe the Sonali atmosphere for a while, they can’t handle it indefinitely. Having accumulated a load of toxic compounds, they need time to neutralize the poisons and break them down into harmless chemicals that I eliminate in my urine. I can go for a couple of hours before I require the breather, although even then I only need to use it for ten minutes or so—coupled with a trip to the bathroom to dump the toxins before I can continue without it once more.

  Technology: It’s a wonderful thing.

  Feeling almost cheerful—almost—I head for my front door. I have my hand on the handle when my comm bleeps a code I recognize.

  Shit-fire. I want to get out of here, but this is a call I can’t ignore: it’s from Ambassador Esteban Asis. What does this twod want? I am about to click on with the usual vid feed, but something—a hunch, maybe, comes into me. We agents don’t disregard hunches, so I limit the call to voice on my end.

  “Ms. Grayson,” he begins; then pauses. “What is wrong with your video?”

  “Dropped the comm,” I lie. “Busted the lens. Look, Ambassador, I need to go home,” I say. It’s a jargon, meaning I may be compromised and need to lie low for a while.

  He shakes his head. “You haven’t been keeping up with current events.” He says this with a detectable vein of malicious amusement.

  “I have been otherwise occupied,” I say as politely as I can manage, which isn’t very. “Things are going sideways here, sir, and I—”

  “Slow down,” he says. “Let me—”

  “Sir, with all due respect, the Temple went on alert after Gresh went in, and that’s got to be either because they made him, maybe from the nanites he dumped, or maybe they ID’d from the assassin’s description, or—” I break off, because he is shaking his head again.

  “What?” I ask stupidly.

  He sighs. “Your cover is safe.”

  “Um...are you sure?”

  “Our intel has no hints of Gresh being compromised, or of you being outed. What has happened, however, is that there’s been an explosion at the merchant port not far away from your current location.”

  “A what, did you say? There was an explosion?”

  “Yes. We don’t know the reason for it, but something happened on a Sonali vessel while it was docked.”

  “Something? Like...what kind of ‘something’?”

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t have used the word,” he says, in an icy tone. Well, I have to grant him that point.

  It’s as rare as tree testicles for a ship to explode in port. I’ve heard of it happening only once, and it was the result of an accident involving a ground car’s driver suffering a stroke at the wheel, losing control and slamming into a maintenance tender that was refueling its steering jet tanks. Somehow I don’t think that’s what happened here on Sonali Prime.

  “The point, Ms. Grayson,” the ambassador goes on, “is not that it happened—but what occurred as a result.” He pauses. “Every ship in port has been grounded while the Sonali conducts an investigation, and no others are being allowed to land.”

  I scoff. “All the other ships? What do they expect to gain by halting traffic in and out of the port?”

  “I’m not sure, but I can tell you this: there’s one ship and one ship only, out of all the fifteen or so parked in the port, that is being torn down from bolts to bulkheads while the Sonali look for...I don’t know, whatever it is they are looking for.”

  “Surprise me,” I say.

  “I don’t think I need to,” he says, and he’s right. For once, we’re on the same page.

  “A Terran craft,” I say, and sigh.

  “That would be correct. It’s an agricultural vessel. Still, that isn’t the main point of interest to this situation.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “That the administrator of trading for the port is Master Merchant Byuren.”

  No-One

  Master Merchant Byuren? I chew on that for a few seconds. Asis is still talking but I’m not listening to him. My instincts are tingling, the same ones that prompted me to “break the lens” on my comm. I have never really liked Byuren, whom I consider to be a skunk; but then, I feel that way about a lot of Sonali. He has been in and out of the embassy for meetings, but I don’t know much more than that. One thing’s for sure: if I want to follow up on Byuren’s doings, I will need embassy resources. I have cultivated no contacts among the merchant class, but of course there are those in the embassy who have.

  “If you want me to look into him,” I say to Asis, who seems to have run down, “I’ll need to come in.”

  “That would be fine, but for one thing,” he says. “My Intel contacts have just informed that there’s a planet-wide alert out for you.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. Apparently, the alleged assassin you beat up has told High Cleric Szaad about you. The Sonali security forces have your description.”

  I have to shrug it off. Cookie was only doing her job, which is to make my job impossible. However, I’m not out of the game just yet.

  “Listen, Grayson, stay where you are. You’ll be safer there. I’ll get someone right away to bring you in.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I say, and he breaks the connection.

  Something about this whole business with Asis doesn’t smell right to me. When is he ever this accommodating? True, I’m in trouble, and any trouble with Terran personnel is going to rebound on him to his detriment. Asis is a man who is obsessed with “face.” I suppose that’s part of a diplomat’s job description, but even so...he’s a vain, self-aggrandizing twod. He’d be happy to get me hidden away in the embassy, all right—but not out of any concern about my well-being.

  “The bastard wan
ts to capture me himself!” I say aloud, knowing immediately that I’m right. Asis is covering his own ass. He’ll snag me, and turn me over to the Sonalis as a rogue operative!

  This realization makes me as sore as a boil. There is supposed to be a code of ethics in play at the embassy, and to my way of thinking, Asis is in the way of violating it for his own benefit. He’d say that he is sacrificing a pawn for the sake of the more important pieces, but I have no sympathy to this point of view, being the pawn in question.

  Therefore, still in my Sonali disguise, I exit my apartment and go down to the building’s lobby, where I take a position to one side half hidden by a bit potted plant, make-up kit in hand, preening as if I am preparing for a big date.

  Mere moments later, or so it seems, an official embassy skimmer, black with acid-green trim, plummets down out of the sky, checks just before it hits, and touches down as carefully as Ambassador Asis checking his appearance in a mirror. That landing couldn’t have been easy on the passengers. The car’s gull-wing doors pop open just as my comm link lights up with a brief 4-word message: Don’t go with them. It’s signed V—Violet, of course: Asis’s secretary and my one sure contact among his people.

  Now I know I’m right: Asis is willing to throw me to the wolves. I don’t know what he’s told this security detachment, but he’s got them all wee-weed up. They’re in armor and are clutching beamers, I see as they climb out of the skimmer. I’ll have a words with Esteban Asis later, but right now I have more pressing concerns—such as, getting my fine white ass out of the crack in which it now finds itself.

  They’re outside, but thanks to my nanites I can hear their conversation.

  “She’s dangerous,” one says. I see a captain’s insignia on his shoulder. Squad leader. “Use extreme caution.”

  “Sir!”

  “Cavanagh, Josko, Whitmorth—stand here with the vehicle. The rest of you, come with me.”

  The captain leads the other three men inside the lobby. They head straight for the elevator, and ring for my floor. They’re so absorbed in their assignment that they don’t see me behind the plant. I huddle down, making myself a bit smaller.