by J. L. Doty
An instant later the door opened and Security Director Ninda stepped into the small room. “Well,” Ninda said, taking control immediately and sitting down. “Let’s get started.”
Zort leaned forward. “Where’s Theara?”
Ninda smiled. “Our esteemed Director of State is nowhere to be found. She has apparently disappeared, and not been heard from for more than a month. My people are this moment investigating the possibility of foul play.”
Zort’s ears perked up. “Is that why we’re meeting?”
Ninda dismissed Zort with a wave of his hand. “Of course not. If she’s been assassinated, then we’ll make some effort to identify and execute the assassins, and we’ll find another Director of State. If not . . . well events are proceeding without her.”
That was an invitation for someone to ask the obvious. “What events?” Zort demanded.
Kaffair spoke for the first time. “Obviously, this thing on Trinivan.”
“Exactly,” Ninda said.
“What thing on Trinivan?” Zort pleaded, looking nervously from one to the other, foolishly unable to see the battle lines being drawn between Kaffair and Ninda.
Ninda gave a fairly concise account of the events surrounding the evacuation of the embassy on Trinivan. From what Add’kas’adanna could tell he injected only a few inaccuracies. He finished with “. . . We have yet to identify the Imperial warship involved.”
Add’kas’adanna shrugged, tossed out, “Invaradin—one of their heavy cruisers.”
Ninda and Kaffair both looked at her sidelong. It would have been wiser to keep her mouth shut. These politicians wanted an obedient Fleet Director, one who kept her thoughts limited to executing their policies. They really didn’t trust a Kinathin breed warrior, and Ninda, in particular, didn’t like her to think for herself.
Zort saved her. “So what are we going to do about it?”
Ninda leaned forward. “We have an opportunity to capture a princess of the royal blood, the emperor’s only daughter.”
“And what would that buy us?” Kaffair asked. “I doubt she can provide us with any real information . . .”
Add’kas’adanna tuned Kaffair’s words out, reached inside for the old training. She concentrated on the disciplines of thought construct, built the logical sub-mind carefully, then released it and experienced the odd sense of schizophrenia that accompanied the existence of a separate consciousness within her. It would view the proceedings distantly, allowing her to participate without the need to focus elsewhere, tallying subtle observations of breathing and gesture without the distractions inherent in being a participant.
The sub-mind focused on Ninda and Kaffair, on their eyes, their hands, listened to the tenor of their voices, the tempo, the rhythm. The two men argued back and forth, but there was a dispute here that had nothing to do with their words, a struggle between two old enemies concerning something neither was yet willing to reveal. Kaffair knew something—No! He was up to something, and Ninda was trying to block him. The imperial princess meant nothing, Invaradin meant nothing, but somehow they were keys in a power struggle between these two men. And until Add’kas’adanna knew more, she would be foolish to get involved.
“That’s a waste,” Kaffair argued.
“Not if we are successful,” Ninda shot back. “I call for a vote.”
That brought Add’kas’adanna back to the moment. “This is a military matter,” Ninda continued. “And I propose we proceed as such.”
“And I propose we let it alone,” Kaffair said coldly.
They both looked at Zort, who, as always, immediately sided with Ninda. “We proceed,” he said.
And then the three of them looked to Add’kas’adanna. Her vote was a foregone conclusion. In their eyes she would not dare oppose Ninda, for she was part of his power block, and a Kinathin dare not think for herself. But in fact it was none of that; it was kith’ain, which none of them understood.
She didn’t yet know enough to oppose Ninda, and in any case, with Theara absent, it would only bring about a tie in the vote, a stalemate. And since the question was a military one, the decision would fall to her, and she would have to declare herself, and she didn’t know enough yet to do that. She nodded, did what was expected. “We proceed.”
“It’s done then,” Ninda said, standing triumphantly. He looked at Add’kas’adanna. “You’ll see to the details.”
She nodded.
“Good. Then we are adjourned.”
Captain Jewel Thaaline, commanding officer of the Pride of Altalane, stared at one of her screens and swore silently to herself. She was a loyal officer with more than thirty-two years of service in the Federal Directorate of the Republic of Syndon, and she’d be damned if she would obey such orders without one hell of a good reason. Not now. Not ever.
“Captain,” her first officer Ducan Soe said. “I’ve got Subsector Operations on line. The CO there is Illcall Terman and he’s—”
“I know,” she growled. “Just give me the damn line.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Soe said coldly.
She’d hurt his feelings, she knew. She’d have to make it up to him later, but for the moment Terman was on her screen. “Jewel,” he said happily. “What’s the occasion? We haven’t spoken in—”
“Cut the crap, Ill,” she snapped. “You know goddamn well why I’m calling. I want to know what-the-hell kind of orders you’re sending me?”
“Now calm down Jewel—”
“Don’t tell me to calm down. I’m damn mad and I’m going to stay mad—”
Terman interrupted her angrily. “Well don’t start barking at me. I was told to send in the nearest hunter-killer and you’re it.”
“Send someone else.”
“Damn it, Jewel! I’m sending everyone else. The only ships I haven’t sent in yet are the ships I can’t communicate with because they’re still in transition, but as soon as they down-transit they get the same orders as you. I’ve got my orders straight from Directorate Central Operations, and they say to divert every available warship into this. That means you and a lot of others.”
Jewel’s anger dissipated. “Why’s DCO getting involved in Subsector Operations?”
Terman shrugged. “Hell if I know. Maybe something big. Late yesterday an imperial cruiser burned one of our destroyers off Trinivan and DCO wants that cruiser bad. They don’t have a positive ID but they think it was H.M.S. Invaradin. They’d like to take her intact, but they know that’s impossible so they’ll be happy if you just put a torpedo in her; a big one.”
“But damn it, Ill,” Jewel pleaded. “We’ve just spent a whole month drifting into position. We’re right in the middle of the Cathan-Dumark shipping lane and the damn impers don’t even know we’re here. There’s likely to be a big convoy along any day now. We could take out ten, maybe twenty million tonnes of shipping.”
“I’m sorry, Jewel.” Terman looked none too happy himself. “DCO didn’t leave anything up to me. They think Invaradin’s headed for Dumark and they want you there.”
“Two days,” she pleaded. “Just give me two days.”
Terman shook his head. “DCO’s orders are quite specific. You move out now.”
“Damn it! The Pride’s just a fifty-man hunter-killer. We can’t take on an imperial cruiser.”
Terman shook his head. “Now you’re the one that’s full of crap, Jewel. You’ve done it before. But in any case you’re the closest ship we’ve got to Dumark; you’re behind their lines and well hidden. Just try to sneak into the Dumark system quietly and observe. See if you can be there before that cruiser arrives and get a positive ID on her. Then wait for some of our heavy stuff to show up.”
“Why all the fuss over this damn cruiser?” she asked. “One of them burned one of us. So what? Happens every day. We’ll burn one of them tomorrow.”
Terman shook his head. “There’s more to it than that, Jewel. But DCO’s not talking so your guess is as good as mine.”
“Captain,” S
oe said urgently. “I’ve got a transition wake at about one light-year. Imperial patrol, I’d guess. Probably spotted some of our transmitter splash.”
“Shit!” Jewel swore. “Are you sure they’re coming this way?”
“No,” Soe snapped angrily. “I’m not sure of anything.”
“How much time have we got?”
“No more than half an hour.”
She looked at Terman. “Looks like the game’s up anyway. We’d better not be here when that patrol shows up.”
Terman shrugged. “Sorry, Jewel. It was really out of my hands from the beginning.”
“I know, Ill. I know. It’s just a shame; a whole month of setting up this shot, wasted.”
He smiled. “Good hunting, Jewel.”
She smiled back. “Thanks, Ill. Pride of Altalane out.”
CHAPTER 6: DREAMS
“Lieutenant Colonel Juessik.”
Torrin Juessik looked at the young yeoman. She smiled pleasantly at him and said, “His Grace will see you now.”
Juessik smiled back at her, stood, said, “Thank you,” then crossed the small room and stepped into the office of Admiral of the Fleet, Lord Bargan Abraxa.
The old man sat behind his desk, so Juessik crossed the room smartly and came to attention in front of it. He saluted and Abraxa returned the salute casually, “At ease, Mister Juessik.”
Abraxa looked him over carefully, then tapped the folder sitting on the desk in front of him. “So. Rochefort personally intervened in the standing orders of a ship-of-the-line. He’s done that before and he’ll do it again. And he did it for a good reason: a member of the royal family. So why does a young lieutenant colonel of Admiralty Intelligence consider it a matter of such urgency that he’d bring it to my personal attention?”
Juessik spoke carefully. “When Invaradin was deflected to Trinivan, Your Grace, Directorate agents there broke cover almost simultaneously and began agitating openly for a riot, their purpose, apparently, to delay Her Royal Highness’ exit until heavier forces could arrive. In so doing they revealed their entire Trinivanian organization. The capture or death alone of the princess would not have warranted such costly action.”
Abraxa looked at him narrowly, and after a few seconds nodded. “Go on.”
“Invaradin successfully rescued Her Royal Highness and her entourage, as well as our embassy staff on Trinivan. Rochefort again intervened in Fleet Operations to order Invaradin to Dumark.”
It took a moment, but comprehension slowly appeared in Abraxa’s eyes. “The Empress Cassandra is on Dumark, is she not?”
“Yes she is,” Juessik said. “Traveling incognito. And so is the queen mother. Rochefort sent them a message after he left Fleet-Op.”
“Very curious!” Abraxa said. “But why Trinivan? And why Aeya? She’s nothing but a stupid, young girl, with obvious, but naïve, peacer sympathies. Not even Edvard is foolish enough to entrust her with something important.”
“No,” Juessik agreed. “But among Aeya’s entourage is Sylissa d’Hart, and Edvard and Cassandra trust her implicitly.”
Abraxa considered that for a long moment, then slowly began nodding his head. “Yes! They’re up to something, aren’t they? Do you have anyone in Aeya’s entourage?”
“Yes,” Juessik said. “But he’s been rather ineffectual. Not his fault, actually. Whatever Edvard is up to, he’s been exceedingly careful about leaks.”
“We must have information,” Abraxa demanded. “What’s your next move?”
Juessik spoke carefully, for this was the key moment. “I had not intended to make a next move, Your Grace. My superior will not allow me to act on the matter.”
Abraxa’s face remained expressionless. “And your superior chose not to inform me at all of the matter.”
Juessik shrugged. “Perhaps he feels it’s unimportant.”
“Or perhaps . . .” Abraxa added, “. . . he’s withholding the information for his own purposes.”
Juessik knew he had to speak carefully now. “I wouldn’t know, Your Grace.”
“Then why did you circumvent him? Why come directly to me? Are you not doing so for your own purposes?”
Juessik shrugged. “I would hope to be of some service, Your Grace.”
“Of course,” Abraxa said. He leaned back in his chair and smiled in a way that told Torrin Juessik his future was brightening. “Let us assume, Lieutenant Colonel Juessik, that I allowed you a free hand in this. What then would be your next move?”
“We need to let them play their hand, so I would go personally to Dumark, under cover as an AI major, observe events and be ready to move at the right moment. And I have an extremely reliable agent in Cassandra’s entourage who’ll be forewarned and on hand when it does happen.”
“And if that fails?” Abraxa asked.
Juessik wanted to keep Abraxa as uninformed as possible, but he had to impress the fat old fart with something. “I have an option I would prefer not to exercise unless it’s absolutely necessary, a certain leverage with the d’Hart woman, though she’s not yet aware of that. If necessary I can induce her to aid us, albeit reluctantly.”
Abraxa considered the matter carefully for some seconds, then nodded slowly. “Very well. I’ll take care of your superior, and you may proceed without his interference.”
Abraxa sat for a moment without moving. There was something he should remember about Invaradin, but nothing would come to mind.
He turned to a small console built into the ornate desk, activated it, pulled up a description of Invaradin: an ordinary heavy cruiser. The ship and her captain had a distinguished record. Abraxa had even met him a few times: the youngest son of the Earl of Seegat. Perhaps that was it. But no, there was something he should remember, and it bothered him that he couldn’t. But he was a patient man, and he was confident it would come to mind eventually.
York slammed awake, sat up in bed, ignored the sideways tug of the gravity field of his cabin deck as it interfered with that of his grav bunk. He hesitated for an instant, wondering how he’d gotten back to his cabin, wondering why everything seemed so normal. Then he tore frantically at his shirt, exposing his bare chest. The skin there was pink and healthy.
He threw back the covers, found to his great relief that his right leg was still whole, with no indication it had ever been missing. He wiggled his toes and they felt fine.
It had all been a dream, an insane dream. Trinivan . . . the embassy . . . the chaos on Hangar Deck. It had all been just a dream.
He reached for the controls next to his bunk, cut the gravity field back to a few inches, and with years of practiced ease pivoted and landed on his feet as he dropped to the deck of his cabin. The field of the grav bunk held the covers pressed tightly against the wall.
He pressed a senor on the opposite wall and a sink folded down out of the bulkhead. That was one of his few perks, a small fresher in his cabin—not much to show for twenty odd years of service. No toilet—he had to make command rank for that—but it was more than a typical junior officer’s quarters. As a lifer he was more than a junior officer, less than a senior officer, and never to be promoted.
The sink settled into place with a soft click. York touched a sensor over the tap, and as the water flowed he touched another sensor to adjust the temperature to near scalding. He started to bend toward the sink, but before he got there he caught a momentary glimpse of his face in the mirror, and he froze half bent over the sink.
His left eye was a chrome-plated metal ball that reflected his own image back to the mirror, with a featureless black spot in the center that served as a pupil. On the skin surrounding the eye socket a starburst of bright, pink scars radiated outward in jagged lines; up his forehead, back along his temple, down his cheek.
He straightened up and looked again at his chest, still could find no trace of any scars there. He folded a chair down out of the wall, sat down and reexamined his right leg, discovered that if he looked closely he could just detect the last residues of sc
ar tissue around his knee where his own skin joined that of the prosthetic. He wiggled his toes again; they felt like real toes.
It all came back to him now, though it seemed hidden behind a mist of confusion and drugs and fear. He had awakened in sickbay the day before, brought slowly out of electro-sedation by the technicians there. He had to struggle to remember what Alsa Yan had told him. “. . . accelerated-healing . . . rapid regrowth . . .”
York closed his eyes, leaned back in the chair, listened to the water running in the sink. “You almost bought it, York. Your leg’s gone just below the knee. Your knee was a mess too but I managed to reconstruct most of it and regrow what I couldn’t. Below that, however, the leg’s a cyber-prosthetic, and I don’t have the facilities to clone you another so you’ll have wear it until we get to Dumark. But don’t forget, the skin on that thing is as real as your own; it’ll bleed if you cut it and it’ll hurt, and it’ll get infected.”
“Dumark,” York said aloud into the emptiness of his cabin. That would please the crew; they could get in some good R’n’R.
What else had Alsa said? “. . . That rotary shattered your chest plate and your visor, filled your head and chest with splinters and fragments of the rotary shells. I pulled your lungs and heart, stuck ‘em in regrowth for a couple of days. They’re pretty well healed now so I stuffed them back into you yesterday. I pulled the eye too and put it in regrowth, but it’s scarring up on me. I think I’ll be able to repair it, but it’s going to take some time, so you’ll have to be happy with the cyb I installed.”
York looked in the mirror above the sink: the scars, the chrome-plated eye. “. . . I didn’t have time for the cosmetic work. We can color match the eye and clear up the scars in a couple of hours. But I can’t do it today, or tomorrow either. Talk to my floor nurse, see when she can schedule you in. And in any case, for the next few days you take it easy. It’ll be at least that long before you’re fully healed. Incidentally, Sergeant Notay scheduled you for therapy with the rest of the marines.”
