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

by Jo Zebedee

“In a manner of speaking.” The Admiral clicked on the caster by the console and brusquely ordered the launch’s pilot to take them down. She turned off the glass and sat back.

  Ormuz returned to staring out the scuttle and only turned away when the shield slid over the scuttle to protect it during atmospheric re-entry. “Why are you showing me this?” he asked.

  “Perspective,” the Admiral replied. “The history of the Empire is written on the worlds it claims. It can be read and understood but it takes a particular eye. I need to know if you have that eye.” She would not explain more: the onus of learning was on Ormuz and a demonstration of his ability to understand was as much for her own reassurance as his edification.

  The flight back down to the ground was bumpy but uneventful. Rather than the smooth glide to a rolling landing at the aerodrome, however, the launch came to a slow halt in mid-air and pitched queasily on downward-pointing gas-rockets. The Admiral had ordered the scuttle shields kept in place and watched Ormuz glance in puzzlement at the blank view beside him. He gripped the arms of his chair tightly, his features expressionless. Despite millennia of technology, there was something in the human psyche that found air travel—more: the physicality of travelling through the air—disquieting. And vertical landing caused the most unease of all modes. Familiarity did not breed contempt, only a conviction that this time something was likely to go wrong. Fortunately, familiarity did allow a person to overcome this irrational fear—or rather, deign not to show it.

  The launch descended gently but noisily, never quite reaching the ground… until a slight upwards bounce signalled that they were down and the shock-absorbers had taken the craft’s weight. Behind her, kit clattered as the marines scrambled from their seats and made their way to the hatch. She heard it cracked open and cold air, fresh and redolent of sub-arctic flora, filled the cabin.

  “Clear, ma’am,” called the marine-corporal.

  The Admiral unbuckled and approached the hatch. Ormuz followed her. The ladder had been extended, and she descended and stood upon the ground.

  They had landed beside the False Palace but there was little to see: knee-high blocks of red stone laid out in a pattern of rectangles and squares.

  “I don’t understand,” Ormuz said.

  “What do you see?” the Admiral asked.

  “It looks like… a child’s playground or something. An abstract sculpture. I’m not sure.”

  “What did you see?”

  “From orbit? Is this what I saw? This is the palace?”

  The Admiral nodded.

  Once again, Ormuz said, “I don’t understand.”

  “The wall enclosing the estate is circular. Where would you expect to find the palace?”

  “At the centre.”

  “An obvious location, correct? And enemies would also think that.” She pointed south-west. “The actual palace is some sixty miles in that direction, far enough away to survive any fall-out should an enemy bomb the False Palace from orbit.”

  “It’s a trick? To draw fire from someone in orbit?”

  The Admiral nodded. Clasping her hands behind her back, she approached the False Palace. It was a stretch but she managed to step up onto a block of stone without losing her balance. The squares and rectangles of the model stretched out before her. There was even a gold sphere on the spire of the fake chapel in the centre of the False Palace.

  “At the time this was built,” she explained, “sensors were not discriminatory enough to note that the False Palace is less than four feet high. But they would recognise the pattern.”

  “But it’s still here,” Ormuz pointed out behind her.

  “Linna was never attacked. The Yalosukinens were a minor family in the Old Empire and Kunta was among the first to provide ships and troops to Edkar I after he seized the Throne. For all their preparations against military attack, they defended themselves using politics.”

  “How is that relevant?” Ormuz appeared at her side, clambering up onto the “roof” of the False Palace beside her. “Politics will not defeat the Serpent.”

  “If the Empire is the Yalosukinen estate—”

  “Then Shuto is the False Palace,” finished Ormuz.

  The Admiral turned to the youth and smiled. “Yes,” she said, “The Serpent may destroy the False Palace but that does not mean he will win the war.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  The stars in the night sky blurred, faded from view and reappeared in new constellations. Ormuz lowered his gaze, following the line of one of the white stone columns which supported the domed roof of the underground ballroom. Above, the pinpricks of light shifted to mimic the heavens of yet another world. Twenty feet below them, a gallery ringed the room, overlooking a dance-floor. Lush cloth, patterned with a Yalosukinen coat of arms motif, draped the walls. Muted lighting shone up from ornate fixtures on each pillar.

  One of the footmen standing at the entrance—located on the gallery—called out a name. The Duke of Kunta waited just inside the doors for his guests. His wife Vetlina stood at his left, her hands clasped before her bosom, a welcoming smile on her face. Since the assembly was being held to introduce Ormuz to Linni society, he too stood at the duke’s side. The Marquess of Varä kept him company.

  Varä wore his ridiculous doublet and hose but had been warned to avoid the Yalosukinen colours. Ormuz wanted to be taken seriously and had opted for long straight trousers fastened under the shoe, a frock-coat and high-collared shirt—all in shades of grey, black and silver. Despite the sombre colours and style, he felt over-dressed, a mannequin to be gawped over. At least, he had done, until he saw the outfits sported by some of the guests Kunta had invited to his assembly.

  Ormuz heard the Duchess of Kunta greet a new guest. She had been noticeably absent during the twenty days since his arrival on Linna. And when she had appeared, she had proven a surprise: handsome, matronly and at least twenty years younger than the duke. Finesz had told him she had a foul temper. Good breeding material had been the OPI officer’s acerbic judgement. Nevertheless, Vetlina had been pleasant to Ormuz, greeting him graciously when they had met for the first time.

  He turned back to face front, tugged at the cut-away front of his coat and wished he could unbutton it. He wouldn’t for two reasons: the coat fitted better buttoned up and he was embarrassed by the waistcoat Varä had picked out for him to wear.

  Another set of nobles entered. Ormuz fixed a smile on his face. There were over two hundred people already present. How many more to come?

  A footman sang out the newcomers’ names, they directed puzzled smiles at Ormuz and Varä when introduced, and effused gratitude for the invite to the duke and duchess.

  These, thought Ormuz, were to be his allies: the yeomanry and nobility of the planetary systems within a week’s travel of Linna. Kunta had spoken of popular support without actually saying what form that support would take.

  Another trio of guests entered, these in Navy dress uniforms: a commodore and two lieutenants. The commodore stopped before Kunta, performed a precise bow, kissed the duchess’s proffered hand and declared himself honoured to be present. Kunta said, “Permit me to introduce my Lords Varä and Ormuz.

  “Commodore Livasto,” the duke continued, “is commanding officer of a flotilla based in the system.”

  “Not a flotilla, your grace,” Livasto corrected. “A squadron of destroyers.” He seemed not at all offended by the mistake, merely determined to have the true facts known. He introduced his flag-lieutenants, Lipu and Korangev, and added that some of his captains would also be attending the assembly.

  Once the Navy officers had left them and descended the stairs to the floor below, Kunta told Ormuz, “Introduce him to the Admiral. His ships will prove useful.”

  A tall blonde in a lustrous black ball gown swept into the room and across to the welcoming party before she could be named by the footman. She curtsied smoothly to the duke and duchess and then beamed at Ormuz. It was a momen
t before he recognised Finesz. She had pinned up her hair and it seemed longer, a thick chignon with tresses artfully loose to frame her face.

  Ormuz grinned back. “Sliva,” he said.

  She swung her hips from side to side, setting her skirt swaying. “Like it? Vetlina and I had a long talk.”

  “Vetlina and I had a longer talk,” muttered Kunta.

  Vetlina smiled sweetly.

  “You look ravishing,” put in Varä. He took her hand, bent and delivered a gentlemanly kiss. “You must vouchsafe me a dance, my lady.”

  “Casimir first, I think,” Finesz replied airily. “But perhaps after that.”

  Ormuz paled. Dance? Varä had tried teaching him, but he knew he’d never remember all the convoluted steps. He was hoping he’d be too busy mingling to actually dance.

  Finesz laughed in delight. “I’m teasing, Casimir.” She winked, lifted one bare shoulder and swept away.

  “How long do we have to do this?” Ormuz asked Varä, sotto voce.

  “Not long. Another fifteen minutes or so.” Varä smiled. “Grin and bear it, Casimir. It’s all part of the rich heritage that awaits you.”

  Ormuz grunted. He wanted his birthright but he could live without all the pomp and circumstance.

  “When does the Admiral arrive?” Varä asked a moment later.

  “Late,” Ormuz replied. “After the doors have closed.”

  “For security reasons?”

  “No. She wants to make an entrance.”

  Varä laughed. “You have the repartee down, Casimir. We’ll make a peer of you yet.”

  Ormuz scowled at the marquess.

  More nobles and yeomen paraded past, greeted the duke and duchess and were introduced to the two young lords. Aged couples with sons and daughters, young couples, single men, young women in groups, lords and ladies, baronets, barons and baronesses, viscounts and viscountesses, officers of various regiments, militia and the Imperial Navy. Ormuz sighed, driven to distraction by names and noble finery.

  The footmen stepped out into the corridor and swung the doors shut behind them. The assembly had now officially begun. Ormuz took his leave from Kunta and his wife, and went in search of a friendly face, Varä on his heels. They found Finesz further along the gallery, glass of punch in hand, swaying on the spot in time to the music and watching the dancers below.

  “My lords,” she said and toasted them with her glass. She grinned. “I haven’t been to a bash like this for years. Nowhere near Shuto standards but a better turn-out than I’d expected.”

  “Everybody who’s anybody, the duke said,” replied Ormuz. “Not that I know who anybody is. Or remembered their names after they were introduced.” He surveyed the crowd below glumly.

  Although the assembly was far from a crush, there were too many people present for Ormuz’s comfort. This was his first public appearance in his new guise and he found the prospect terrifying. They would cut him dead in an instant if they thought him guilty of arrogation. Even though he had a duke’s patronage.

  “Don’t worry about it, Casimir,” Finesz said, as if reading his mind. “You’ll do fine. Varä’s done a good job.”

  “They’re going to ask me who I am,” he complained. “I can hardly tell them Ahasz is my father, can I?”

  “Just say you’re from a little-known branch of the family. If they know him, they’ll see the resemblance.”

  “They should do,” he complained. “I’m a bloody clone of him.”

  “You’ll have them eating out of your hands inside five minutes,” she assured him.

  “Easy for you to say.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Me? I’m a nobody yeoman from some minor little world near Podboi.”

  “With a powerful patron.”

  “A powerful patron who is currently languishing in the Electorate’s House of Rectitude. Actually, he’s probably out by now: I can’t see Gyome spending longer than he has to in there, and the news was a few weeks old when Rizbeka passed it on.”

  “Here,” interrupted Varä, holding out a glass of punch. He had been to the drinks table. “I think you need one, Casimir.”

  Ormuz accepted the glass and sipped at the opaque yellow liquid it contained—vaguely fruity but with a strong tang of alcohol. A beer would have been more welcome but such parties did not serve ales.

  “Speaking of Rizbeka…” Finesz rose up on her toes and scanned the room below and the gallery opposite. “I don’t see her.”

  “She’s coming with the Admiral.”

  “Ah.”

  “So is the marine-captain,” added Varä wickedly.

  Finesz snorted. “Silly boy.” She sipped her punch. “Fancy a dance?”

  Ormuz quickly changed the subject: “Do you know Commodore Livasto?”

  “The stiff-looking gent with the two dashing lieutenants?”

  “They are rather dashing, aren’t they?” remarked Varä.

  “I don’t think so,” continued Finesz, ignoring the marquess. “Why?”

  Shrugging, Ormuz said, “I need to speak to him.”

  “Wait for the Admiral,” Varä counselled.

  “And for the booze to do its work,” added Finesz.

  “On who?” muttered Ormuz. “Them or me?”

  “On both, dear boy,” the marquess answered.

  Ormuz turned and put his glass down on a nearby occasional table. His stomach was too unsettled. He glared at Varä when the marquess made a moue. It would not do his cause any good to come across as half-drunk. He needed his wits about him. This was foreign territory and he was an interloper, destiny notwithstanding.

  Everyone present was in their best finery: women in lush ball gowns and hung with jewellery; men in coats and jackets, trousers or pantaloons, in a variety of formal cuts, some in knee-breeches and stockings, and, of course, the odd popinjay in doublet and hose. And the uniforms: greens, reds, yellows, whites, greys, browns, blues of all hues. Ormuz spotted a man in a grey uniform, in conversation with Captain Vartoi, who wore a dress uniform of pale blue with pale green facings. His clothing struck Ormuz as almost insipid beside the bright colours… over there, a quartet of regimental officers, flirting with a pair of young ladies. Two wore the colours of the Duke of Kunta’s Imperial Winter Rangers, but the yellow jackets of the other two were unfamiliar.

  “Do you know anybody here?” he asked Finesz.

  “No.”

  “How good are you at military uniforms?”

  She frowned. “Reasonably good. I’ve, ah, known my fair share of regimentals. Why?”

  “The yellow-coats over there with the two Winter Rangers: what regiment are they from?”

  “Where? Ah. I see them. Yellow? They could be… Ah: black frogging. Provincial Foot.”

  “The grey uniform over there with Captain Vartoi?”

  Finesz immediately said, “Chief constable from Sur Kapunki. Name of Tärkin.” She smiled. “And the man behind him with the glower is the provost constable for the local OPI bureau. No love lost between those two I see.” The OPI officer, a privilege of rank, was not in uniform.

  “We’ll avoid the regimental officers,” Ormuz said.

  “Why?” asked Varä, leaning close and eager for a secret.

  “Because we don’t know which regiments the Serpent has suborned.”

  “I thought you did,” Finesz said, frowning. “The ones being transferred back from the Imperial Army Abroad.”

  Ormuz looked at her, surprised. “He could have others on his side,” he pointed out. “I can’t know for sure.”

  “And there I was thinking you were omniscient…” Finesz turned away and placed her empty glass on the table beside Ormuz’s barely-touched drink. Facing him once again, she smiled and added, “It’s nice to know you have feet of clay after all, Casimir.”

  “And you haven’t even seen him dance…,” remarked Varä.

  There was little Ormuz could do until the Admiral’s arriva
l. She had the influence to press their cause and make people listen. Ormuz possessed no such advantage. Yet, to hide in Finesz’s company until the Admiral’s arrival… Much as he wanted to remain among friends, he knew he could not do so. This assembly was partly for him and he should allow himself to be seen.

  He left the OPI officer and Varä, and started around the gallery. As he passed by groups of partygoers, he nodded shyly at those who caught his eye. All too soon, the moment he had dreaded arrived: a florid and corpulent noble reached out and hauled Ormuz towards him. Squeezed into a silver frock-coat festooned with frills and a shirt that was all flounces and lace, the noble grinned familiarly at him and named himself Baron Epalulo of Sirtoma. With an arm proprietorially draped across Ormuz’s shoulders, the baron introduced him to his wife and daughter: “My Lord Ormuz… My wife, Magrithe, and my daughter, Aszabella.”

  Mother and daughter were a study in opposites. The baroness, a thin-faced shrewish woman with pursed lips and narrow eyes, wore a voluminous ball gown that hid whatever curves she might have possessed. The daughter, wide-eyed and pretty, curtsied charmingly. The full skirts of her golden ball gown spread as she bobbed and bowed her head shyly.

  The baron beamed at his daughter proudly and pushed Ormuz with an embarrassing lack of subtlety towards her. Meeting Aszabella was the purpose of the introduction: Ormuz’s exact rank might be a mystery but a duke’s patronage was not to be ignored.

  Ormuz shrugged off the baron’s arm and carefully chose to bow as to a social inferior. Let the baron draw whatever conclusions he wished.

  The daughter eyed Ormuz speculatively. He smiled faintly at her. “My lord,” she husked.

  “My lady,” he returned, a little embarrassed. Her high-necked ball gown, he noticed with some embarrassment, fit tightly, accentuating her waist and bust.

  “Don’t know the Ormuz name,” the baron remarked, “but the face looks familiar. Not a relative of the duke, eh?”

  “Of Kunta, no,” Ormuz admitted.

  “But ducal, eh?” the baron pressed.

  “Of a sort,” Ormuz replied, wanting to extricate himself from these grasping nobles. “A distant relation.”