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

by Jo Zebedee

  “You concur with this, Mr Kordelasz?” the Admiral asked.

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How did you learn this?”

  For a moment, neither Rinharte nor Kordelasz spoke. She glanced at the marine-lieutenant and nodded imperceptibly.

  “Divine Providence was on Darrus, ma’am,” he said.

  “Ah. And you still cannot categorically state which of the two vessels is the correct target?”

  “We did investigate, ma’am,” continued the marine-lieutenant, “but there was no way of learning for certain given what little we could uncover. No candidate in either data-freighter’s crew was an obvious agent for the enemy.”

  “You have a recommended course of action.” It was not a question, but a statement of fact. Officers who spoke regularly with the Admiral learned not to open their mouths until they had marshalled their thoughts.

  “Ophold, ma’am,” said Kordelasz. “Divine Providence has left Darrus for Ophold. We could meet her there and perhaps discover more.”

  The Admiral nodded. “Consider it done.”

  “There is yet another problem, ma’am,” Rinharte said. “Another two problems, in fact.”

  “Indeed? You have been busy, Rizbeka.”

  Rinharte flushed at the criticism. “I was met on Tanabria Station by a pair of knights stalwart—”

  “Ah. We were aware you were being met but not by whom. Go on.”

  Rinharte met the Admiral’s dark-eyed gaze squarely. “The inference is clear, ma’am: there is a traitor aboard Vengeful.”

  Surprisingly, the Admiral smiled. “This much I knew, Rizbeka. The moment we identified Sabre Horn, her presence told me our traitor had spoken to his masters.”

  “‘His’?” asked Rinharte faintly.

  “His,” affirmed the Admiral. “I set Commander Mubariz to uncover his identity. I expect him to fail.”

  “Why, ma’am?” demanded Kordelasz, once again speaking out of turn.

  He was forgiven: the Admiral’s smile did not waver. “Because he is the traitor, Garrin.”

  “But—” Rinharte snapped her mouth shut. What was there to say? She had failed. Perhaps a traitor aboard Vengeful was more properly the provost-aboard’s responsibility, but it arguably fell within the remit of the lieutenant of intelligence as well. She had failed to both uncover his existence and learn his identity.

  “Do not be too upset, Rizbeka,” said the Admiral. “I’ve known of it for some time. The only question had been to whom Mr Mubariz reports. You’ve now told me the Order of the Emperor’s Shield knew of your arrival on Tanabria Station so perforce our traitor’s master must be the Imperial Household.”

  “And that isn’t cause for worry?” asked Rinharte, shocked.

  “No,” the Admiral said slowly. “No, I do not believe it is. They are being discreet and such discretion we can easily avoid.”

  “What about the Office of the Procurator Imperial?” blurted Kordelasz.

  The Admiral’s expression immediately chilled. “Explain… or is this the second problem you mentioned?”

  Rinharte nodded. “There was an OPI inspector trailing us on Darrus—”

  “You committed some felony?” demanded the Admiral coldly.

  “No, ma’am! We were very careful. We committed no crimes, not even a misdemeanour—”

  Kordelasz coughed lightly into one fist. Rinharte had, after all, assaulted a pair of constables.

  “—We were investigating Divine Providence and that’s where we came across the inspector. She somehow tracked us from there.”

  “It seems you weren’t careful enough.”

  The Admiral sat back and drew a hand across her shaved scalp. “It is a complication, Rizbeka,” she said. “And not one I welcome. The OPI is mostly useless but some of its members can be tenacious and effective. I remember a baron—” She broke off. “It’s not important.” She straightened in her chair and fixed her gaze on Rinharte. “You can identify this inspector?”

  “I have a copy of their personnel data in the Intelligence Office, ma’am.”

  “Find her, Rizbeka. Her identity alone will tell us how much of a threat she poses. We will make for Ophold to learn about this data-freighter of yours. Commander Mubariz, I will handle. And Rizbeka—” The Admiral’s expression was stern. “—look to this ‘unimpeachable source’ of yours. I cannot afford to credit their intelligence if they make such mistakes and I know nothing of them.” She rose to her feet. “That is all. Dismissed.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A vast plain of cobalt and umber filled the ports in Divine Providence’s control cupola. Geographical features and textures appeared briefly, shocking in their clarity, and then blurred beneath a swirling fuzzy blanket of airborne dust. Before the data-freighter, a metal wall stretched from side to side, guarding the face of the world of Ophold. This was Ophavon, an orbital ring-city.

  In an uncharacteristic move, Plessant had allowed Ormuz to witness the data-freighter’s approach to Ophavon from the control cupola. He occupied a jump-seat against the rear bulkhead, securely strapped in—as much to prevent him touching anything as for his safety. Not that he minded the restraints. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. The view forward was amazing, a sharpness and lucidity to the scene that held him entranced. This was not the dull featureless grey of the toposphere, but a universe of vibrant colours and rainbow-tinted halos.

  From his vantage point, he could also see the three circular glasses on the captain’s console. Each showed the view from a different suite of sensors: phased-array electromagnetic, gravity, and optical. Each told the same story: Divine Providence was forty miles from Ophavon.

  Plessant turned to Lotsman at the pilot’s station beside her. “Start shedding velocity,” she ordered. “We’re approaching too fast.”

  “Nonsense,” returned Lotsman. “We’re well within the approach parameters.”

  Plessant uttered a low growl. “That wasn’t a bloody request. It was an order. We’re pushing the upper edge of the parameters, and I’ve no desire to tangle with the Tolpoliti.”

  “We’re fine,” Lotsman assured her.

  “You forget your place,” she snapped.

  For a moment or two, the pilot was silent. He said, “Shedding velocity now, captain.”

  Divine Providence powered closer to Ophavon. A sensor-image on a glass showed that the orbital city was two miles high. The data-freighter was near enough for details to become apparent. Directly before them, a slit appeared in Ophavon’s side. It was a vast archway, half a mile in width and one and a half miles in height. Its lintel featured a sharp-edged, three-lobed arch. A slim golden pillar stood to each side. The archway was one of many around the circumference of Ophavon.

  Lotsman muttered into his headset, communicating with the Tolpoliti. Dealing with Ophavon’s traffic police was the pilot’s responsibility.

  The archway expanded as the data-freighter neared, as if it were opening wide to swallow the starship. The pillars—vast rounded cylinders of gold this close—receded to either side. Darkness settled over the view forward.

  A passage, fully as large as the opening, stretched before the starship. It was a mile in length. Its four walls were featureless but for scattered scorch marks and damage caused by crashes.

  Divine Providence entered a brobdinagian, cathedral-like hangar. The far wall, a mile away, was an enormous expanse of panes of glass and looked down on the planet below. From floor to ceiling, the hangar was the height of the passage. From side to side, it measured some five miles. Shelf upon shelf of landing berths lined three walls, most containing starships. Ormuz gazed out through the ports in awe.

  The Tolpoliti had assigned Divine Providence a berth. The data-freighter vectored right, keeping to the centre of the hangar. Lotsman brought her to a halt some 800 yards from the entry. He touched the throttles and the starship began to drift gently downwards. Through the ports, Ormuz watched l
anding berths rise past, as though Divine Providence were an elevator heading downwards.

  Docking at Ophavon was a complicated procedure. Lotsman had told Ormuz the Tolpoliti were strict in their demands. A certain course must be followed, a specific set of co-ordinates must be approached on a particular vector.

  Divine Providence came to a halt and hovered some three hundred yards above the floor. Lotsman switched control over to the Anker, the organisation responsible for administering Ophavon’s berths. There was brief rocking motion as the Anker computational engines checked the data-freighter’s manoeuvre-rockets and calibrated their remote control. Divine Providence slid smoothly sideways. The lip of a berth passed beneath the hull and the data-freighter swung about until she faced back into the cavernous hangar. Gently, she sank until her bogies touched the berth-pad and began to take her weight. Ormuz felt a brief nauseous motion as the shock-absorbers bounced upwards. The control cupola was abruptly silent. The drive-tubes had been shut down.

  Lotsman set about closing down the remainder of the ship’s control-mechanisms. Ormuz unbuckled, rose to his feet and moved forward to stand behind Plessant’s chair. He watched a heavy door slide downwards over the berth’s entry. He was locked in; the starship was locked in. The door was there to allow the berth to be raised to atmosphere, but nothing short of a frigate’s main gun could breach it.

  The pilot spoke up. “We have clearance to open the ‘lock,” he said, “soon as there’s air outside.”

  Plessant glanced at a glass to her left. “Point five atmospheres and rising,” she said. A faint wind could now be heard whistling across the hull. Plessant pushed a button on her chair’s arm and the chair slid back. Ormuz moved out of the way.

  “I’m going down to the main ‘lock,” she told Lotsman. “Let me know when we can crack it. Tell Adril to meet me there. He can shepherd the Tolpoliti round the ship. Cas, you come with me.”

  Local law allowed a starship to leave naming its destination world until a day before departure, but custom dictated that all incoming vessels post the information on their arrival. The Tolpoliti asked, Plessant refused. They were polite but firm, she was adamant. She told them she would post her destination in four days’ time. The day after that, she would leave Ophavon. The Tolpoliti claimed her behaviour was irregular and they would investigate. Plessant responded that her behaviour was within the letter of the law. She had no desire to publish her next stop until it was absolutely necessary. Divine Providence was only laying-over in Ophavon to refuel and re-provision.

  Tovar gave Plessant a contrite look as he escorted a team of four Tolpoliti officers aboard the data-freighter. They would have their revenge for her stubbornness and he would suffer the brunt of it as they poked and prodded into every nook and cranny. Plessant was clearly not worried: Divine Providence appeared in poor condition but her mechanisms and equipment were in excellent working order. The dirt and tattiness were merely cosmetic.

  This was a side of Plessant which Ormuz had not seen before. He knew her as blunt and unforgiving of fools but in the past she had always been careful to do as the authorities requested. No matter how idiotic their demands, she would obey them… or negotiate to a compromise. But now, thought Ormuz, it was as if she no longer cared. Five minutes after the Tolpoliti officers had arrived at Divine Providence’s lock, Ormuz had identified them as officious and bureaucratic. He had met such functionaries before. And he could not understand why Plessant had chosen to antagonise them.

  No matter. The captain was leaving the berth. Ormuz, Lotsman and Dai hurried after her, leaving the cargo-master to oversee the inspection. They tramped along the miles of corridors honeycombing the bulkheads of the hangars and connecting the ship-berths. Exiting the final stretch of corridor, they found themselves in a huge air-well. Ormuz stumbled to a halt, his mouth open in shock.

  The air-well stretched the full height of Ophavon, two miles from top to bottom. It was some five hundred yards wide and a mile long, and its floor was a vast plain of polished metal. Harsh lighting threw the four crew-members’ shadows across the flooring. A nimbus of light surrounded each shadow, caused by light reflected from minute irregularities in the smoothness of the metal floor. All four walls of the air-well were balconied. The lower balconies were closed off with picture-windows, but the balconies above them had only railings. Ormuz could not see the highest balconies: the distance was too great. Wide, flat elevator shelves carrying people zipped up and down on each side of the air-well.

  This, explained Lotsman quietly, was Havon Sector. It was the only part of Ophavon’s ring in which non-Opholden were tolerated. It catered entirely to visitors and the crews of starships.

  “Where are we going, captain?” asked Ormuz.

  “For a drink. I need one after bashing heads with the Tolpoliti.”

  Plessant obviously knew her way around Havon Sector. Ormuz knew little of her history, only what was available in Divine Providence’s data-pool. According to that, prior to accepting the captaincy of the data-freighter, Plessant had frequently travelled between Sakop and Makarta provinces, passing through Kapuluan and Ophold. Although she appeared to be in her mid-forties, she’d spent so much time travelling between worlds she had actually been born over fifty-five years ago. She probably remembered the coronation of the emperor, Willim IX, and that of his brother before him, Mikul III.

  She led the way to an elevator and stepped aboard. Her crew followed her. Along the outer edge of the platform, just inside the two-foot-wide yellow shaded lip, numbers from thirty-one to forty were printed. Plessant worked her way across the platform and slid a foot across ‘32’.

  She had chosen an express elevator. Even so, it was a twenty-minute ride up from the bottom to the 32nd floor from the top. Ormuz gazed about him in wonder as they hurtled upwards. Not even Lotsman’s tight grip on his arm distracted him from staring at the rapidly-receding floor. He was, however, grateful for the pilot’s hold: the elevator had no railing and people could easily fall to their deaths.

  One hundred floors up and climbing, the bottom of the air-well was a bright mirror. Height reduced the crowds crossing the floor to dark kaleidoscopic patterns shifting and swirling across the brightness. Balconied floors shot past as the elevator ascended. Each was identical, an open space some thirty feet high punctuated with pillars at regular intervals. Only the floor-layouts and people changed. Streaming people, café-clumped tables and open markets jerked from one frozen tableau to the next in the blink of an eye.

  The elevator reached level forty, and drew to a halt to allow the first of the passengers to disembark. It stopped and started a number of times before reaching the thirty-second floor. People stepped on, people stepped off. The elevator never became dangerously crowded. If it was so busy passengers were forced onto the two-foot-wide band of yellow which outlined the edge, those waiting for a ride would seek another elevator.

  At level thirty-two, Plessant left the platform. Ormuz, Lotsman and Dai followed. The captain stopped a moment, surveying the area before her as if lost.

  “There’s a bar over there,” said Ormuz, pointing off to the left.

  “No, not that one. I want Min Ven… but it seems to have moved.”

  Ormuz turned to Lotsman and quietly asked, “Moved?”

  The open nature of the levels meant their layouts were ephemeral. Businesses moved and markets set up hundreds of yards from their previous sites. Plessant may have remembered a bar on level 32, located near the elevator, but it had been many years since she had last visited. This, said Lotsman, was why she appeared to be lost.

  Plessant grunted and started forward. Ormuz prodded Lotsman, who was also trying to spot Min Ven. “Come on. She’s found it.”

  Min Ven appeared typical of Havon Sector’s bars. Waist-high movable partitions blocked off sixty square feet of floor, and carved posts held a trellis-work ceiling above the area. Louvres within the false ceiling could be angled to raise or lower the level of illu
mination in the bar, since the lights in the level’s roof remained always on. Across one corner of Min Ven slanted a chest-high bar. Before this sat a line of stools. The area behind the bar was curtained off. A tall pole bearing an illuminated sign rose from a corner of the establishment. Min Ven looked impermanent and could be packed up and moved in hours.

  Plessant passed through the wood archway which led into the partitioned-off bar. The arch was as ornately-carved as the posts supporting the false-ceiling. Spotting a free table, she crossed to it and pulled out a chair. As the others joined her, Plessant waved a hand and caught a waiter’s attention.

  The waiter, clad in a knee-length green apron, approached and took their orders. Five minutes later, he returned with four beers and recorded four tally-marks on a notepad built into the table-top with a plug-in switch hanging from a chain on his belt.

  “This place is weird,” Ormuz said. “It’s like everyone’s living in a huge warehouse.” Everything in Ophavon seemed as temporary as a camp-site. Only the vast open levels themselves remained unchanged.

  “Is it like this on the planet?” he asked.

  “No idea,” Plessant replied absently. “Only the Opholdish are allowed down there.”

  Lotsman leant across the table. “According to Old Empire records,” he told Ormuz, “Ophold used to be called Oprindelig. When they arrived here— oh, three thousand, three and a half thousand years ago, they discovered the system had been conquered by reavers centuries before. If you look in the gazetteer, you’ll see that all the other bodies in the system still have their original Oprindelig names: Smelteovn, Drivhus, Stor, and the star, Solskin.”

  “What happened to the original inhabitants of Ophold?” asked Ormuz.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. I’ve heard it said they’ve found ruins of their cities on the planet. The Hertugs—that’s the ducal family—won’t let anyone study them, though.”