Silent Order: Wraith Hand

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Captain Jack March of the Tiger,” said Horgan. His deep, croaking voice sounded as if it came from the bottom of a pond.

  “Lord Prince,” said March.

  “And in the company of three Marines and an officer of the Royal Calaskaran Navy,” said Horgan. “You are a long way from home, men of Calaskar.”

  “So are you,” said March.

  “Mmm. True.” He held out a hand, and the woman with the goblet passed it to him. “But profit drives me ever farther from the glorious swamps of Lithobatar. I assume some other motive than profit has driven you to Monastery Station and the watchful eye of the Custodian?”

  “I imagine you have learned the whole story by now,” said March.

  “A version of it, anyway,” said Horgan. “But the details are always interesting and potentially lucrative.” He took a drink from his goblet and passed it back to the collared woman. “The naval officer, for instance, is Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Caird.”

  Caird raised his eyebrows, and Elizabeth smiled. “I wasn’t aware my fame had spread this far.”

  “To informed individuals,” said Horgan. “The hero of Martel’s World himself.”

  “If I had been a hero, I would have gotten the fleet to Martel’s World in time to stop the bombing,” said Caird

  “That bombing was a waste,” said Horgan. “Why kill your enemies? Better instead to turn them into paying customers. But the Machinists think of themselves as revolutionaries, and revolutionaries are always fools. And it seems that some of the revolutionaries have followed you to Monastery Station. The Custodian does not often need to shoot capital ships out of the sky.”

  “Yes,” said March. “Here is our side of the story. I was passing through the Tamlin system when I came across a Calaskaran heavy cruiser under attack by a Machinist task force. Since I am a Calaskaran privateer, I managed to grab one of the lifeboats before the Machinist starfighters caught up to me. During the escape, my ship took a missile hit and cracked my dark matter reaction chamber. The hyperdrive had enough charge left for one jump, and I came here to find repair.”

  “A bold rescue, Captain March,” said Horgan.

  “Before we escaped,” said March, “several Ninevehk ships arrived and started attacking the Machinists. The Machinists followed us here, and the Ninevehk followed the Machinists. Now they’re all sitting outside the station waiting for us to leave.”

  “An interesting account,” said Horgan, “but the Machinists would not have pursued you simply over the matter of one lifeboat. You have left out details.”

  March smiled. “Giving away everything at once wouldn’t be good business, would it?”

  “Ha! No,” said Horgan. His tongue darted out to consume more dead insects. “But, then, I’m sure this isn’t a social call.”

  “No,” said March. “I know the Consortium has supercontainer freighters coming in and out of Monastery Station on a regular basis. One of them must be headed in the direction of the Kingdom of Calaskar, or at least away from the Machinist-controlled worlds. I simply want to load my ship on one of the freighters.”

  “A shipping request?” said Horgan. “That’s all?”

  “I’m a simple man,” said March.

  “A clear lie, that,” said Horgan with a rumbled laugh. He snapped his fingers, and the woman massaging his feet straightened up. She produced a tablet from somewhere (God only knew where she had been hiding it) and passed it to Horgan. The merchant prince tapped it a few times, rumbling to himself in the Lithobati tongue, and then gave the tablet back to the woman. “It seems you are already contracted with a reliable mechanic. He is on his way to your ship with a new reaction chamber even now.”

  “Yeah,” said March. “But I need to get the men I rescued back to Calaskaran space. The Machinists want them dead for some reason…”

  “Yes,” said Horgan with a chuckle. “Some mysterious, completely unknowable reason that will elude us until the end of our days, I’m sure.”

  “And if we fly out from Monastery Station with a repaired dark matter reactor,” continued March, “they might shoot us down.”

  “The Custodian will take exception with them if they do that,” said Horgan. “Violent exception.”

  “It is possible,” said March, “they might consider the loss of the capital ships out there an acceptable exchange for our deaths.”

  “Revolutionaries,” said Horgan with disdain. “They cannot do math properly. A simple profit/loss calculation eludes them. They’ll kill us all so their absurd vision of utopia can come to pass.” He sighed, and the woman who had given him the tablet dropped to her haunches and began massaging his feet again. “Really, we in the Stromboli Consortium take a more reasonable view of such matters.”

  “It is my hope we both can take a reasonable view,” said March. “The next time one of your supercontainer freighters leaves Monastery Station, I would like to load the Tiger onto the ship at the next hyperspace stop. I very much doubt the Machinists would try to take your freighter. A Stromboli Consortium supercontainer ship has enough firepower to match the entire Machinist task force out there. They wouldn’t dare to attack until we returned to Calaskaran space.”

  “Mmm,” said Horgan. “You ask for a substantial risk. The Machinists would undoubtedly take offense.”

  “The Machinists do not trade with the Consortium anyway,” said March. “In fact, I happen to know that they have recently seized several supercontainer freighters that ventured into their systems, claimed the cargoes, and joined the crews to the Final Consciousness.”

  Horgan’s enormous eyes narrowed. “That is not general knowledge.”

  “I am very well informed,” said March, glad that Censor had shared that information with him.

  “Plainly,” said Horgan. “Well, the Final Consciousness is no friend of the Consortium. We are much too bourgeoisie for the Machinists.” He spat the archaic word with contempt. “Much too profit-minded. Sapients like us will be swept aside in the glorious dawn of the Final Consciousness’s righteous new order. Once the Final Consciousness has conquered the cosmos, there will be no further need for merchants, blah blah blah.”

  “Then I am pleased to present you with an opportunity to repay the Machinists for the loss of your freighters,” said March. “Let the Tiger ride with one of your supercontainer ships back to Calaskaran space. The Final Consciousness wants these rescued crewers dead, so let us return them to the Kingdom of Calaskar. If the Machinists protest, you can remind them of your lost ships.”

  “Heh,” said Horgan. “Heh!” His tongue darted out and claimed more dead insects. “Yes, I like your thinking, Captain March. Very reasonable.” He held out a hand, and the woman who had been massaging his feet produced the tablet again. March still could not figure out where she had been hiding it. Horgan took the tablet and spent a few moments tapping it. “Yes, it can be done. The Honest Profit is departing Monastery Station tomorrow, and its course will take it through the Constantinople system, which is under the control of the Kingdom of Calaskar.”

  “Very well,” said March. “I agree to your terms.”

  “Agree?” said Horgan with a rumbling grunt. “We have not yet to discuss price.”

  “But we have,” said March. “I’m giving you the opportunity to put a thumb in the eye of the Machinists, and at absolutely no cost to yourself. The Honest Profit can carry millions more tons of weight than the Tiger’s mass will add. We’ll even stay on board the Tiger if you like, and we won’t breathe your air or drink your water.”

  Horgan laughed. “A fine bargain, Captain March. On behalf of the Stromboli Consortium, I accept your proposal. The Honest Profit leaves the system at 0800 tomorrow, and her next stop is NB0099C, an uninhabited system on the way to the Constantinople system. Our transit to the next hyperjump point will take three hours if you wish to join us there.”

  “We might at that,” said March. “Thank you, lord prince.”

  “Do you wish to join me for some refresh
ment?” said Horgan. “Mr. Tanner is something of an unpleasant fellow, I do concede, but his establishment is excellent. Nearly any manner of vice can be sated here.”

  As if on cue, all three of his women looked at March.

  “Thank you, but the mechanic will be coming to my ship soon,” said March. “I wish to supervise the work. A pity, isn’t it, that business must always come before pleasure?”

  “My very motto,” said Horgan with a rubbery smile. “Good luck, Captain. I do hope you live long enough for us to speak again.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” said March. He looked at Caird and Vasquez and the others. “Let’s go.”

  They left Horgan’s private dining room and stepped back onto the balcony overlooking the main floor. The music had changed, as had the color of the laser beams sweeping through the establishment, from green to purple. March walked to one of the waitresses and stopped her.

  “Yes, sapient?” she said, giving him a cheerful smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

  “Cup of coffee for each of us,” he said. “Black, no sugar, no sweetener. Strong as the house can make it. Can you do that?”

  “Certainly, sapient,” said the waitress.

  March handed her a credit chip. “Keep the change.”

  This time the smile did touch her eyes, albeit briefly, and she glided off, swaying atop her spiked heels.

  “Coffee?” said Vasquez.

  “Let me sit down for a minute,” said March. He sat at a table, and the other four men followed suit, the chairs creaking a little beneath the weight of the Marines’ armor. “I think there was a mild drug in the smoke in there. Need a minute and some coffee to clear my head.” His head felt a little off as if he had drunk too much without the enjoyment of actually drinking the alcohol.

  “I dislike the necessity of dealing with that alien,” said Vasquez. “Especially one who keeps human women as slaves.”

  “What? No, they weren’t slaves,” said March. The waitress returned with their coffee, and March thanked her. The Marines opened their faceplates to drink. “The Custodian doesn't allow slavery here. For that matter, Horgan wouldn’t permit slaves to touch him like that. And Lithobati males find human females about as attractive as you would find Lithobati females.”

  Ulm snorted at that and hid it by taking a sip of the coffee.

  “So, if they weren’t slaves, and they weren’t his…concubines,” said Vasquez, settling on a suitable word, “then what were they?”

  “Employees,” said March. “Probably his assistants, and he likely paid for cosmetic surgery to make them more attractive to human males. The point is to distract and confuse any human men who negotiate with him. Hard to pay attention to a fat old Lithobati when a pretty young thing is hanging over all him. They’re a good distraction, too. Bet none of you spotted all the weapons the musicians were pointing at us.”

  “Ah,” said Elizabeth, standing behind Caird. “He is clever, isn’t he?”

  Vasquez blinked several times and then said a bad word.

  “Don’t worry, Captain,” said March. “It’s an old trick, and Horgan does it a lot. If we had been Ninevehk, he would have had Ninevehk females draped over him, shaking their…whatever it is Ninevehk females have to shake.”

  “Pheromone glands, mostly,” said Caird.

  “So, we have a backup plan,” said March. “If we can’t get away from the Machinists, we’ll head for NB0099C and meet up with the Honest Profit. One Consortium supercontainer ship will have enough firepower to keep the Machinists at bay, and we can ride with them back to Calaskaran space.” He finished off his coffee and put down the cup. “Let’s get back to the Tiger. I want to supervise the reactor repair, and the more guns we have around the ship, the better off we’ll be if the Machinists try to make trouble.”

  “Agreed,” said Caird. “Gentlemen?”

  March got to his feet, and the Marines finished their coffee and followed suit, their armored faceplates clanging back into place. March led the way down the stairs and back to the main floor, the lasers sweeping across the walls, the low rumble of the music filling his ears.

  “Trouble,” said Elizabeth.

  March came to a sudden stop and looked at Caird.

  “What is it?” said Vasquez.

  “I think,” said March, “that the Machinists are waiting for us.” He checked that his pistol was ready in its holster, and looked to see three security drones drifting through the crowds, their midsections pulsing with green light. “Follow me, and whatever you do, don’t fire the first shot.”

  He left Tanner’s Tavern and stepped back onto Commercial Concourse Seven, the others spread out around him.

  The Machinists were waiting for them.

  There were twenty Machinists. Ten of them were naval officers, stark in their black uniforms. Their faces were corpse-gray, their veins turned black from the nanobots that had replaced their blood, and each naval officer’s left eye had been replaced with a cybernetic eyepiece, the crystal lens glowing a dull red. The dark mass of a hive implant jutted from each officer’s neck and lower head, linking them to the Final Consciousness. Some of them had various machine tools or weapons in place of their left hands, though they all had pistols belted at their waists.

  The other ten of the Machinists were naked, but since their bodies had been covered in armor plating, it hardly mattered. They were assault troops, and they looked as if their flesh had been replaced with carapaces of dull, lusterless black metal.

  With the Machinists was an unmodified human man that March recognized at once.

  He wore a simple black business suit. The man had the lean, tight build of a competent fighter, and a thick scar went down the left side of his face, turning his lip into a permanent sneer. The last time March had seen the man, he had arranged to lure Lady Roanna Vindex to Rustbelt Station, intending to use the mysterious machine in the Tiger’s hold on her.

  It seemed that Simon Lorre had indeed escaped Rustbelt Station.

  He gave March a tight smile but said nothing.

  One of the naval officers stepped forward. This one was female, though since none of the Machinists had hair and none of them wore makeup or jewelry, March was only able to guess that by the shape of the body beneath the black uniform. Not that such things mattered to those joined to the Final Consciousness. Her right eye was a dead black, while the left one glowed with the ocular implant.

  “Steady,” murmured Vasquez.

  “Captain Jack March?” said the Machinist officer in a cold voice, her words colored with the harsh buzz of machine modification.

  “I am,” said March.

  “I am Overseer Carnow,” said the woman. “You are in possession of the property of the Final Consciousness. You will hand it over to us, or you will be destroyed.”

  Chapter 5: Overseer

  March said nothing. He put his hands into the pockets of his leather coat, rocked back on his heels, and made a show of looking around the concourse.

  Four security drones traced a lazy pattern overhead. That was good. If there was shooting, the drones would respond in a hurry. The Machinist soldiers in their cybernetic armor would not be as fast or as strong as the Marines in their power suits, but they were still deadly, and they had greater numbers. If they could kill March and the others before the security drones responded, then it would make it all the easier to take the Tiger by force. The Custodian forbade the use of weapons on its station, but the ancient AI was less concerned about unarmed violence and coercion.

  It all depended on how badly the Machinists wanted that device in the Tiger’s hold. How much they were willing to sacrifice to get it back.

  To judge from the fact that they had sent a small task force of capital starships to get the machine back, they were willing to sacrifice quite a lot.

  On the other hand, why was Lorre here? The man was a spy, a secret agent, an intelligence operative. Much like March himself, but only for the other side. Open violence like this was not his s
tyle. He would be more likely to shoot March in the back of the head, arrange a riot on the concourse, and then grab the machine in the chaos. Lorre wasn’t even holding a weapon. He did have a small handheld scanning unit, and alternating between looking at its screen and looking at March and his companions.

  He was scanning for something. But what?

  “I repeat,” said Carnow. “You are in possession of the property of the Final Consciousness. You will hand it over to us, or you will be destroyed. Captain March, you will respond now.”

  March looked at her for a moment and then offered her a bland smile.

  “Odd weather today,” he said.

  Carnow blinked, taken aback. “What?”

  “Odd weather,” said March. “It never rains here, but it feels like it is going to, doesn’t it? We should really report that to the Custodian, don’t you think? Might be a fault in the environmental systems. Seems like the sort of thing someone should look into.” He sighed and shook his head. “Sloppy, these days. People kept up with their maintenance in the old days.”

  “You are discussing topics of no relevance to matters at hand,” said Carnow, irritation coming into her machine-modulated voice.

  Lorre smirked once, briefly, but said nothing and did not look up from his scanner.

  “Not relevant?” said March. “I think it’s very relevant. What if the environmental systems break down? We’ll all asphyxiate or freeze to death or do both at the same time. Nasty way to go. Even Machinists need to breathe.” He waved a hand at the naval officers. “Is she your commanding officer? I would complain to her CO if I were you. She’s very cavalier with your safety.”

  “You are attempting to delay through obfuscation,” said Carnow. Despite her ghastly appearance and the machine-modulated voice, she suddenly reminded March of an irritated teacher rebuking unruly pupils. “You will cease discussing irrelevancies and turn to the matter at hand.”

  “No, I’m not,” said March. “It’s very relevant. It’s hard to discuss things without air.”