by Jo Zebedee
The gangways beyond the hatch were as deserted as the barrack-blocks. Rinharte could feel power thrumming through the deck but the lights were off, the air-circulation system was inaudible and the various telltales studding consoles and casters along the route they took were dark.
“Wait!”
Rinharte halted and looked back. Kordelasz stood by a door. He had slid it open and was peering within.
“What is it, Mr Kordelasz?” she asked.
“Wardroom. Everything’s been left ship-shape but it’s been used recently.” He stepped inside.
Rinharte hurried back to the doorway. Kordelasz was standing by a tantalus affixed to one bulkhead. He lifted up a bottle of grog and turned to inspect it in the light shining from helmet-lamps in the gangway.
“Now is not the time to—” began Rinharte.
“Half-full,” interrupted the marine-captain. He grinned. “Who’s been drinking my rum?”
She took his point. If Tempest were truly deserted, the bottle would have been empty. But someone had broken open a fresh bottle and drunk half. There had been crew aboard. She turned from Kordelasz and peered at the marines bunched in the gangway, trying to find Alus. In air-hoods, all giants looked alike. Two at the back seemed large enough to be the boat-sergeant and his corporal. She directed them to the nearest door across the gangway with a pointed finger. “Look in there,” she ordered.
The marines about her shifted position, cordoning her off from whatever might be beyond the door. She could see nothing but wide green backs.
“Blood and corruption…” breathed Alus.
“What is it?” Rinharte demanded. She pushed at a marine and reluctantly those surrounding her parted to allow her through. She found the boat-sergeant standing just inside a stateroom, Valka by his side. Instead of the expected hammocks or cots, the chamber was filled with two large sarcophagi festooned with pipes, stopcocks and dials. Stepping past the two marines, she approached the nearest sarcophagus. Glass panes on its top surface revealed a shape within. A light swung across the stateroom and settled on the glass: Alus’s shoulder-lamp. Rinharte saw a man, asleep inside the strange contraption. Intravenous feeds punctured his arms, an oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth and his eyes were closed.
“What in heavens is that?”
Rinharte had not heard Kordelasz enter. She turned to him and said simply, “I don’t know.”
“Bloody strange-looking cot,” muttered Valka.
“This is no sickberth,” said Kordelasz, voicing the same thought that had occurred to Rinharte.
The sarcophagi looked like life science equipment but there was nothing else in the stateroom to suggest that this was the vessel’s sickberth.
“Are they asleep?”
“Let’s find out.”
Before she could stop him, Kordelasz undogged the clasps on the sarcophagus and lifted the lid. Frigid air blew out and Rinharte shivered. They could, she thought belatedly, be isolation units of some description. And Kordelasz had just released whatever it was they had been keeping isolated.
The sleeping figure was wearing Navy uniform and looked to be in his early twenties. Kordelasz pulled off the oxygen mask. Beneath it, the man’s mouth drooled slackly in a round face—
“Dear Lords.”
“What?” asked Kordelasz.
Rinharte stared in shock at the young lieutenant stretched out in the sarcophagus. “Lady Aszabella…” She turned to Kordelasz. “Does he look familiar, Garrin?” she demanded. Was it just her? Or did…
The marine-captain bent closer to the sleeping figure.
“This one’s the same,” growled Valka. He had lifted up the lid of the other sarcophagus.
Kordelasz prodded the clone but there was no reaction. “He’s not asleep,” he said unnecessarily. “A coma?”
“No.” Rinharte shook her head. She had seen similar expressions on patients during a visit to a naval sanatorium once. On the faces of those who had suffered severe brain trauma. “His mind is a blank. There’s nothing there.”
“A vegetable?” Kordelasz asked crudely. “Then it is a sickberth.”
“Of course it is, Mr Kordelasz,” returned Rinharte sarcastically. “A pair of brain-dead clones. Just what you expect to find on a powered-down troop-transport.” She spun about and issued clipped orders: “Try the other doors. I want to know how many of the crew are like… this.”
All of them.
It took twenty minutes before every marine reported back but all had found the same thing: sarcophagi throughout the quarterdeck and poop, in cabins and gunrooms, each containing a brain-dead crew-member hooked up to life-support machinery. Although Rinharte could understand what it was they had found, she could not fathom the why. Had something struck down every one of the crew, rendered them all insensate? She did not believe that… Which was just as well, or the cause might well have been released by Kordelasz’s thoughtless opening of that first sarcophagus. No, there was something deliberate about the situation they had stumbled across, something planned.
There was a side-benefit to their discovery and, while acknowledging its bizarre nature, Rinharte felt the foray aboard Tempest had not proven fruitless. The crew of a Storm class troop-transport comprised six officers, thirty-eight crewmen and twenty-four boat crew. Twenty clones had been found. Sharing four faces. There was the first they had found, whose features matched those of the six assassins on Kapuluan and Lady Aszabella. And three others. Each repeated many times.
“Memorise those faces, Garrin,” Rinharte instructed the marine-captain. “They may be clones but they’re not clones of one man. And we now know what others will look like.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Inspector Finesz turned to Troop-Sergeant Assaun, put a finger to her lips and lowered her brows conspiratorially. The gesture was wasted: Assaun’s expression changed not one whit. His gaze was criticism enough of her foolishness. Finesz let out a low sigh: the man was no fun at all. Straightening, she pushed open the entrance to Rusko Palace and stepped into the entrance hall—
Only to be brought up short by a liveried servant waiting patiently before her.
“Ah,” said Finesz sheepishly. “Is his grace available?”
“I shall have to check, ma’am,” the servant replied, unfazed by Finesz’s behaviour. He did not move until Finesz indicated with a gesture he had her permission to leave. At a stately pace, he crossed the entrance hall and disappeared through a door to belowstairs.
“Well,” Finesz said to Assaun.
Vacant, the entrance hall appeared more imposing than it had done when filled with people: the smooth-faced trunks of red stone lining each wall, the various banners hanging listlessly from the eaves, the high groined roof, the funereal silence. It was the first time Finesz had found herself alone in it. She walked to one side and then back again, comforted by the click of her boot-heels on the stone flags.
Ten minutes later, the Duke of Kunta appeared on the staircase and descended to where Finesz and Assaun waited.
“I thought you’d left,” he said, frowning.
“I came back,” Finesz replied blithely.
“But the Admiral has definitely left?”
“Off to— Well, perhaps I’d better not say: who knows who’s listening?”
“The youth is with her?”
“Casimir? Yes, he is.”
“Good. My reputation has suffered enough as it is.” He peered sharply at Finesz. “So what is it that brings you back?”
Finesz took Kunta’s arm and drew him to the side of the entrance hall. Leaning close, she lowered her voice and explained, “I’ve brought a guest, Afi. He needs to be looked after. Securely.”
The duke’s brow furrowed. “Who is it? Not another of your damn conspirators?”
“Not ours, no. It’s Baron Mateen.” She held up a hand to forestall Kunta’s question. “No, you don’t know him. He was Vengeful’s commander. The Admiral would
sooner not have him aboard at this stage in her plans.”
“Humph. What did he do? Tell her she was being foolish?”
“He was reporting on the Admiral’s movements to the knights signet.”
Kunta grimaced, not at all shocked by her revelation: “Someone had to, Sliva. The woman is a damn menace. You bamboozled me into throwing an assembly for her and by lunch-time the following day half of my guests had been slaughtered. It’s an ill wind, Sliva, an ill wind.”
Finesz ignored his cheerlessness. “For better or for worse, Afi, you’re involved.” She straightened, was all business. “Now. I’m not asking you to wine and dine the baron or—heavens forbid!—throw an assembly for him. Just keep him safe in relative comfort somewhere, some place a little off the beaten path.” She held up a finger and wagged it sternly. “And no telling anyone, if you please.”
Kunta glanced across at Assaun, standing patiently by the doors to the entrance hall. He harrumphed. “Where is he?” he asked. “This baron of yours?”
“At the aerodrome.”
“Keep him there. The fighter wing has a mess behind the hangars. You can hide him away there. I’ll tell Vartoi—” He blinked and the corners of his mouth turned down. “Ah, no. Not Vartoi. Damn him. Sotamis is captain now. I’ll tell him to detail a squad to guard him.”
“Fine.” Finesz smiled brightly. “They can spell the marines Major Skaria has lent me.”
He grimaced. “I’m sure I remember liking you, Sliva. It’s becoming hard to be certain.”
“You loved me, Afi,” replied Finesz, eyes wide in mock surprise. “That’s why Vetlina hates me. Remember?”
“We were younger then—”
Finesz laughed. “Not you, Afi. You were always older than your years.”
“I do apologise for the accommodations,” Finesz told Commander Abad mar Mubariz, Baron Mateen, “but Afi can be a prickly bugger and at this moment he has every reason to be awkward. I’d hoped to get you an apartment in the palace but he wants to keep you at arm’s length.” She chattered on brightly as she led Vengeful’s erstwhile executive officer and his marine escort through the aerodrome terminal. “You’ll be well looked after, and Marine-Corporal Witan and his men will keep you safe—”
“From whom?” growled the baron.
“Our enemies, of course. No doubt you heard about the fracas on the apron a couple of days ago.”
Mubariz nodded, a gesture that acknowledged he had indeed heard about the skirmish and also his sorrow over the deaths caused.
“We’re not expecting a repeat but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
“The Provincial Foot, I’m given to understand.”
The group exited the terminal via a side-entrance and found themselves in an open square walled by the blank-faced rears of buildings. A light mist blanketed the sky and the sun shone gauzily through it.
Turning a corner, they saw the fighter wing’s mess. Unlike the utilitarian hangars and workshops, it was constructed of wood in the style of an ancient meeting-hall. It had a steeply-pitched roof and overhanging eaves. Carvings decorated the end-gables, and the doorway bore a heavy lintel adorned with the same motif.
Entering the mess, they found themselves at the end of a corridor which stretched the building’s entire length. The floor was wooden but that was as far as the external meeting-hall motif extended. The interior walls were painted an institutional beige; the false ceiling was low and constructed of standard acoustic tiling. A servant had told Finesz the officers resided at the far end of the building. She led the way forwards. Over her shoulder, she answered Mubariz’s last remark: “Yes, it was the Provincial Foot. Which makes it the second regiment we know about to have gone over to the Serpent. Lords know how many more he’s suborned.”
“If I knew, I would certainly tell you,” the baron said. “Unfortunately, I only reported on the Admiral’s actions. It was entirely one-way.”
Finesz decided Mubariz was being honest. After being confined to his quarters, he had patiently sat out his imprisonment without attempting an escape. Despite the lack of guards watching over him. He had, after all, given his word. She risked a quick sidelong glance at the man. There was much to like about him. He possessed a bluff stolidity, an essential solidity, and an assurance in his position and the tradition which maintained it, which reminded her of Afveni mar Yalosukinen in his younger days. She had heard he’d made an excellent commander. It did not surprise her.
The floor beneath their feet changed from wood to lush carpet and the walls were hung with subtly-striped material: they were in officer country.
The mess was deserted as Captain Sotamis had cleared it beforehand. The pilot-officers would learn of their “guest” sooner or later, but for the time-being it had been deemed prudent to keep knowledge of Mubariz’s presence to a select few.
Assaun said, “Ma’am,” and indicated a door to their left with a brusque nod.
Finesz thanked the troop-sergeant. She had lost count of the doors—distracted by the baron—and had not been entirely sure which room had been assigned. She stopped and pushed the indicated door open. Revealed was a three-room suite. It was perhaps somewhat cramped, but no more so than the quarters aboard an Imperial Navy warship. A small living-room gave onto a bed-chamber and a bathroom. The furnishings were comfortable, without being ostentatious. Finesz eyed an armchair and recognised quality work. “Well,” she said.
Mubariz stepped into the room and slowly turned about, inspecting his new prison.
“Do I have your word you won’t try to escape?” Finesz asked him.
“You have my word,” Mubariz replied. He crossed to the armchair and sank into it.
“Marine-Corporal Witan and his squad are here for your protection. Try not think of them as your gaolers.” She smiled, in what she hoped was a disarming manner. “It only offends them, you know.”
“I shall rely on their steadfastness,” Mubariz said.
“Yes, well, it is a war, isn’t it?”
“Apparently.”
She could detect no sarcasm in his reply. “You never know if someone will do something foolish, so it’s best to be prepared,” she added.
“You have been very gracious.”
Finesz swung out an arm in a gesture that was a poor substitute for freedom. “I’m told the mess has access to the ducal library. For obvious reasons, we can’t allow you to actually leave this suite but you should have everything you could want within its four walls. A servant has been detailed to attend to you.”
“Thank you,” the baron said gruffly. “I shall be quite comfortable.”
“A, ah, pleasure, my lord.”
Finesz and Assaun crossed the concourse of the aerodrome’s terminal building, heading towards the exit. This section was for the use of yeomen and nobility and was furnished in a suitable, and locally-inspired, style. The floor was a mosaic, depicting jagged mountains, preternaturally blue skies and verdant meadows. Finesz had yet to see any such scenery since her arrival. The walls were also tiled, a pattern of blue and white stripes, broken at intervals by the Yalosukinen device in blue and green. Interesting objects were placed at strategic locations about the place. There were exotic plants in intricately-worked holders, artefacts pertaining to Linna’s history in glass-fronted cabinets, and sculptures—none valuable, of course—set atop waist-high plinths. The Duke of Kunta was determined his guests should have a good first impression of his world.
Three figures blocked the exit from the concourse. Finesz stumbled to a halt. There was an air about the trio that brooked ill. All three were clad entirely in black but it was no OPI uniform: black trousers, black shirt and black sleeveless jerkin. “Assaun,” warned Finesz quietly.
They were alone in the concourse. The ever-present servants seemed to have vanished. Finesz put her hand to her sword hilt. She was not in uniform but she felt more comfortable armed here at the aerodrome. Especially after the skirmish of the da
y before.
“That won’t be necessary, my lady,” the man in the forefront of the trio said loudly.
Finesz feigned ignorance. It seemed safest. “What won’t be necessary?” she asked. Since the man had addressed her formally, she added belatedly, “My lord.”
“We only wish to talk.”
“Make an appointment.”
“I can’t seem to find the direction of your social secretary,” he replied dryly. “Is that him standing beside you? He looks remarkably like the troop-sergeant I was informed accompanied you.”
So the man knew who she was. Not that she had kept her identity a secret. But her presence on Linna was unlikely to be common knowledge. Those who had met her at the assembly knew her to be linked to the Admiral and had been encouraged to assume she had left aboard Vengeful.
“To whom,” she asked, “do I have the dubious pleasure of speaking?”
The man stepped forward a pace. His features had been silhouetted in the light, but now that she could see them Finesz was no nearer knowing his identity.
“My name,” he said, “is not important.”
Finesz couldn’t help herself: she laughed. It was a bad line from a bad melodrama. “On the contrary,” she returned, “I have to put something down on the charge sheet.”
He was surprised. “You intend to arrest me? I’ve committed no felonies.”
“Obstructing an officer of the OPI in the performance of her duties. That should do for a start.”
The stranger smiled knowingly. “Ah, but you’re not performing your duties, are you Inspector Finesz? If my information is correct you are, in fact, deliberately contravening your orders.”
Finesz’s face fell. “You’re from Gyome?” she asked, shocked.
“Baron Kaban? No, I’m afraid not. But it is a baron we would like to discuss.”
