Space Trek (Three Novels, Three Worlds, Three Journeys Book 1)

by Jo Zebedee

  “You have a man on the train with them?” Finesz asked.

  “Two.”

  “Good. Get over here and bring a couple of troopers with you. Let’s go and meet their train.”

  Once the three troopers were in the van, Sayara spun the vehicle about and directed it along the street at speed. She drove with a wild abandon that owed more to a requirement for haste than it did to the safety of the vehicle’s occupants. Finesz, in the front-passenger seat, hung onto a shoulder-strap, although she was belted in. She could hear mutters and grunts from the rear as the van banked around corners and shot across junctions. They left the city behind. The vehicle’s powerful engine gave out a high-pitched whine as they flew northwards along the highway at a speed far above the legal limit. The flat alluvial plains of the Nahri river spread to either side of the road, a checkerboard of green fields bounded by low hedges. The river itself was only just visible—a blue line over a mile distant and appearing more an optical illusion than the wide waterway it was. There was little traffic on the highway and that was mostly commercial. At intervals, the sleek bullets of trains shot past on the track running alongside the road. No one in the vehicle spoke. Finesz gazed out of the passenger-side window. She still clutched the shoulder-strap although she no longer needed to steady herself. Resolution occupied her mind. Closure. They would arrest this Niwashi and Gotovach, and learn who they truly were.

  The van left the highway at a junction and flew along a narrow road lined with trees. These hid the fields on either side. A couple of miles later, Sayara brought the vehicle to a halt before a beehive-shaped building in ceramic and glass. A train station. A small sign proclaimed “Mazra”, but Finesz could see only a single line of creepered country cottages. Yet more trees, and a bend in the road, hid the rest of the village from her view.

  “What in heavens could they want here?” she asked again.

  Assaun said nothing. He leant forward between the front seats at the approach of a man in nondescript prole clothing. The man stopped beside Finesz’s window. She rolled it down.

  “Went that way,” the man said, pointing deeper into the village. He was one of Finesz’s troopers.

  “They’re meeting someone here,” Finesz said.

  The trooper nodded. “Spent twenty minutes with some prole family, ma’am. Then headed through the village, ma’am. Up-country.”

  “Call for more troopers. I want those proles taken into custody,” Finesz told Sayara. To the trooper standing in the street, she asked, “Who owns this village?”

  “Squire got a big house ‘bout a mile out.”

  “And I want an officer out here to interview him.” That took care of that. “Where are Niwachi and Gotovach now?”

  “Heading for the hills.”

  Finesz blinked. The trooper appeared far too stolid to indulge in metaphor. She abruptly realised he was being literal. “How are we meant to find them if they’ve struck out across country?”

  “Watched them leave the road, ma’am. Saw where they’re headed.” The trooper once again pointed village-wards.

  Finesz followed his outstretched finger with her gaze, and saw a low line of hills on the horizon, gentle undulations where the terrain lifted at the boundary of the Nahri flood-plain. Any figure crossing that landscape would be visible for miles. They would not lose Niwashi and Gotovach.

  “Get in the back,” she ordered. “Show us.”

  “What in heavens is that?” cried Finesz.

  Sayara jammed her foot on the air-brakes. The van’s nose dipped as its speed dropped precipitously. It came to a halt, undulating queasily from the sudden stop.

  The vehicle had halted on the crest of a ridge. In the valley below them sat a slim sharp-prowed spacecraft, stubby wings at the rear with vertical stabilisers. A turret on the vessel’s dorsal surface circled warily. The heads of crew could be seen through the circular scuttles of the pillbox control cupola. A haze of distortion wafted from a line of downward-pointing gas-rockets along the hull’s keel. Four uniformed figures at combat-alert guarded the opened bow.

  Finesz leapt out of the van. She reached into the vehicle and grabbed a telescope from the door’s interior pocket. She brought it to her eye and focused on the boat. A blinking numeral told her it was just over a mile distant. She scanned the scene.

  “Marines,” she said, surprised. She recognised the uniforms—pea-green shell-jackets over tan coveralls. The four sentries were anonymous beneath air-hoods, canvas-like sacks with goggles and breathers—which always put Finesz in mind of hanged men. “They’re Imperial Marines.”

  Two figures marched into view: Gotovach and Niwashi. A man, a marine officer, stepped out from the bow and gestured cheerily at the pair. They passed through the sentries and joined him on the ramp leading into the jolly boat’s interior. All three saluted.

  Finesz passed the telescope along the spacecraft’s hull. It was a jolly boat: standard Imperial Marines issue. The ship’s crest on the vertical stabiliser, however, had been painted over. Finesz turned back to the marines on guard and focused on one. He wore no ship’s crest either; nor a coat of arms.

  “I said they were military,” she said to no one in particular.

  “Ma’am!” yelled Assaun.

  The turret was traversing to aim in their direction—

  Finesz ran several yards to the side and dived to the ground. A beam of directed-energy shot from the turret’s barrel. It hit the van. A wave of intense heat washed over Finesz.

  The van exploded.

  Finesz hugged the ground. Sound and light battered her. Clatters and bangs told of debris falling back to earth. The vehicle hissed and roared as it burnt. She wanted to scream but held it back.

  She rolled over onto her back and saw Assaun bending over a prostrate figure. Heart sinking, Finesz scrambled to her feet and crossed to the trooper. Only the skirt and torn hose on the back of the legs identified the body as Sayara. Her upper back and shoulders resembled tenderised, charred meat; her head was a spilt stew of cooked flesh, bone and brains.

  Damn. Finesz had liked the young clerk.

  Whirling, she put her telescope to her eye and focused once again on the jolly boat. The sentries had disappeared and the bow sealed. Flames burst from the nozzles beneath the boat. A sibilant roar echoed about the valley, clearly audible on the ridge. On eight spears of blue-hot fire, the boat rose ungainly into the air.

  At a height of some twenty yards, more gas-rockets lit at the stern. The jolly boat began to move forwards. There was a percussive boom. The vessel shot up and away.

  “Dear Lords, what have I become involved in?” murmured Finesz.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The jolly boat boosted towards orbit and, despite the acceleration forcing Rinharte sideways in her seat, she felt almost weightless. She heard a sigh of happiness from Kordelasz opposite her. She knew exactly what had prompted it. They were on their way home… if a renegade warship could ever be called “home”. Perhaps more important was the prospect of taking their rightful place in society, albeit the constrained, military society aboard Vengeful.

  The life of a prole was not for Rinharte. The loss of personal freedoms had been hard to bear, even if the lack of obligations had been liberating. Talking with Gallam during the evenings had proven to Rinharte that it was not a life she cared to live.

  But if the Admiral should fail, disenfranchisement might well prove the most lenient sentence Rinharte could expect.

  Major Skaria stumbled down the aisle, his legs braced against the acceleration, and dropped into the empty seat beside Rinharte.

  “Lieutenant-commander,” he acknowledged.

  She gave him a nod.

  “So who were our gatecrashers? Need we worry?”

  “The Office of the Procurator Imperial.”

  Skaria stared at her expressionlessly. “The Office of the Procurator Imperial?” he repeated. “What in heavens did you do to get the Oppies afte
r you?”

  Rinharte smiled tightly. “That’s the most puzzling aspect of it, major. We did nothing.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  She turned to look at him. “No? Then why did you send Marine-Lieutenant Kordelasz to join me?”

  For a moment, Skaria appeared uncomfortable under Rinharte’s scrutiny. He looked forward, although there was nothing to see there. Turning back to Rinharte, he cleared his throat and reached up to smooth his moustache with one hand. He cleared his throat a second time. “I’m rather afraid I can’t say, ma’am.”

  “Can’t or won’t, major? If you have any suspicions whatsoever, I need to know them.”

  “No, no suspicions, ma’am. Nothing… fixed. Of that I’m quite sure. No, I simply felt you had underestimated the inherent danger in your mission. Kordelasz is a good man in a pinch and I felt it better to be safe than sorry.”

  Rinharte sank back in her seat. “You were right in that regard, major. And I’m grateful. But I am suspicious. There were knights stalwart hunting for me on Tanabria Station—”

  “We had guessed as much.”

  Rinharte glanced at him sharply.

  He explained: “We stumbled across the frigate which delivered them to the station. It was clear someone was planning to meet you, although knights stalwart…” He shook his head in wonder. “I take it you bested them?” he asked, with a faint note of admiration.

  “With Marine-Lieutenant Kordelasz’s help.”

  “Ah.” Skaria smiled. “He’ll be insufferable from now on, then.”

  “No more so than usual,” commented Rinharte.

  The major coughed in embarrassment.

  “So tell me what I’ve missed in the last sixteen days. I take it the trip to Ralat was a success?”

  “Indeed, ma’am. I understand the data-freighter was destroyed with a single shot. We also encountered a little excitement on our return to the Darrus system. The frigate I mentioned earlier? She spotted us the moment we left the toposphere.”

  Rinharte grimaced. An engagement in the Darrus system with an Imperial Navy frigate was sure to result in unwelcome attention. Traces of the battle would remain for weeks. With sufficiently sensitive detectors, evidence of Vengeful’s involvement could be found. “It’s as well,” she told Skaria, “we need to leave this system as soon as possible. We seem to have left enough witnesses and evidence behind us.”

  Groans and clangs rang through out the jolly boat’s hull as Vengeful winched the small craft aboard. Rinharte followed Skaria forward and, one hand gripping the weapons rack beside her, waited patiently for the bow to open. The boat settled into its cradle with a final rattling jerk. Behind Rinharte, Kordelasz stumbled and muttered a prole swear word.

  The boat deck was deserted but for winchmen and deckmen, when they disembarked. Rinharte halted and gazed out at space. A slot in the hull, some hundred feet wide and forty feet high, gave a view onto Darrusï orbital space. A section of the planet’s arc occupied the lower left quarter, casting a faint green glow. The small craft had been winched through that slot, through the force-curtain which prevented the boat deck’s atmosphere from escaping.

  Rinharte gave a faint smile: her adventures on the world below had proven more educational than anticipated. Turning her back on Darrus, on her brief life as a prole, she hurried to catch up with Skaria and Kordelasz.

  The route to their debriefing with the Admiral took them along the starboard supply passage, up a ramp to the poop—the chargers beneath its decking giving the slope the sensation of walking on the level—and onto the upper balcony of the ship’s great hall. Carved pillars supported the beamed hall’s mezzanine and roof. Rinharte’s cabin was on this deck—all the officer’s cabins looked onto the hall—but she was not given time to visit it. An enormous circular stained-glass window, currently covered with a canvas—as it had been since Vengeful turned renegade—dominated the hall’s for’ard bulkhead.

  Led by Major Skaria, Rinharte and Kordelasz crowded onto an elevator-platform and rose six levels to the top of the conning tower. Stepping onto the Captain’s Gallery, they approached the entrance to the Admiral’s suite. Skaria followed them into the captain’s lobby, but turned away as a footman ushered Rinharte and Kordelasz into the Admiral’s day cabin. The Admiral gestured for the two to sit but did not turn from the bulkhead. She appeared to be staring at nothing. Rinharte knew that the discoloured spot on the wood panelling had once been the site of the ship’s crest.

  The Admiral’s day cabin was one of a suite of rooms located in the aft section of the conning tower’s topmost level. A narrow arched port occupied one bulkhead. The remaining bulkheads were bare, although they had once been decorated with the ship’s crest, battle honours and naval certificates of excellence. This current lack of adornment was testament to the fact Vengeful had no history. No official history.

  The Admiral turned towards Rinharte and Kordelasz. She raised an eyebrow. “An interesting outfit, Rizbeka.”

  Rinharte flushed and rearranged her coat to cover her green-clad knees. Kordelasz smirked.

  “So,” said the Admiral, “Rizbeka… and Mr Kordelasz.” She turned and fixed the marine-lieutenant with an intimidating look. “Garrin, is it not?”

  Kordelasz straightened in his chair. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Vengeful is grateful for the assistance you rendered Lieutenant-Commander Rinharte during her mission.”

  “Ma’am.”

  The Admiral gave a grim smile. “But there is, I’m afraid, some bad news. With what you now know, I can’t afford to return you to the marine detachment. From this point on, you will be on permanent secondment to Rizbeka. Arrange to have your things moved to her wardroom. Major Skaria is no longer your commanding officer.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Rinharte glanced at Kordelasz. If he was disappointed in his new duties, he did not show it. Perhaps, she would have trusted Kordelasz enough to keep his mouth shut. The Admiral was clearly not prepared to do so. It could be construed as an insult—an officer and gentleman was as good as his word—but Rinharte was grateful for the secondment. Kordelasz was a good man and his recent experiences on Darrus made him a useful addition to her Intelligence Office.

  The Admiral unclasped her hands from behind her back. She strode behind her desk and settled into her chair. Steepling her fingers, she peered at the two officers before her, her dark eyes glittering. “So, Rizbeka, was your time on Darrus spent usefully?”

  “No. Ah. Yes.”

  “So which is it?”

  “Commander Dradzasc tried to take us but we managed to escape. His request for a meeting was a trap. However—” Rinharte smiled grimly— “he did reveal some interesting… ‘gossip’ before we overpowered him.”

  “Indeed?”

  Quickly, Rinharte told the Admiral what she had learnt: Vice-Admiral Fisc had been made a Lord of the Admiralty, the Quota had been increased, the number of keels being laid was at an all-time high, and several battleships had been transferred to the Home Fleet.

  “Which battleships?” asked the Admiral.

  “Tobasz mentioned Empress Glorina and Baalscourge.”

  The Admiral frowned. “Baalscourge? Taksil’s, is it not?”

  “Ma’am,” acknowledged Rinharte.

  “I always thought him a fool for naming his ship so. Perhaps he hopes the Baal will return and he can distinguish himself in battle against them.” An unlikely prospect: the Baal—despite being characterised as a constant threat—had not been seen or heard from since Edkar I defeated them almost 1,300 years ago.

  “And what do you think all this means, Rizbeka?”

  Rinharte glanced at Kordelasz. She had thought about this in the days since her meeting with Dradzasc but had not told the marine-lieutenant of her conclusions.

  “Civil war,” she said.

  Kordelasz made a small noise.

  “You believe the Emperor now considers my enemy a ser
ious threat?” asked the Admiral.

  “I’m not sure, ma’am. The fact the shipyards are stepping up production suggests the Admiralty at least could be. But why make Fisc a Lord?” Although she could not criticise Fisc to the Admiral, she knew her commanding officer shared her own low opinion of the vice-admiral. “As for Baalscourge… Captain Taksil was suspiciously indecisive when we approached him a half-year ago.”

  “You suspect he supports the enemy?”

  “As does Captain Yuragiru of Empress Glorina.”

  “How does this make civil war?” asked Kordelasz.

  “Yes, explain, Rizbeka.”

  Rinharte leaned forward, putting her hands on her knees. “I’ve yet to fully analyse all the data but it seems clear that the various factions are lining up to do battle. The enemy on one side and… who knows who on the other.”

  “Us, for a start,” put in Kordelasz, forgetting his place for a moment.

  The Admiral gave the marine-lieutenant an approving look. He had spoken out of turn but he had said the right thing.

  “Ah, ma’am,” said Rinharte. “I’m afraid we have a problem.”

  “Yes?” asked the Admiral. She smiled sardonically.

  “Ma’am, Major Skaria tells me you destroyed the data-freighter in the Ralat system.”

  The Admiral frowned. “Go on.”

  “Ma’am, it wasn’t Divine Providence.”

  “Explain.”

  Rinharte drew in a breath and said, “It was Divine Wind, ma’am, Divine Providence’s sister-ship. Our intelligence was faulty—”

  “Your department, is it not?”

  “I’m aware of that, ma’am. But there was no reason to question what we were given. The source was unimpeachable. All the same, Vengeful might well have destroyed the wrong ship.”

  There was a moment of silence. “You say, ‘might’. Would you care to clarify that?”

  “Our source mixed up the names of the data-freighters and their routes… but which element was correct? The route or the name? Were we meant to destroy the vessel travelling through Ralat system? Or Divine Providence, which had no route through Ralat logged? We just don’t know.”