Silent Order: Axiom Hand

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Hello, Captain March,” came Censor’s dry voice. “You did quite well on Constantinople II. Whitefish spoke most highly of your efforts against Philip Reimer.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said March, glancing around the restaurant. Most of the breakfast crowd had died away, and there was no one close enough to overhear him. Given the number of calls that went on in a spaceport, most of the booths in the restaurants had excellent sound dampening anyway.

  “However,” said Censor, “the reward for work well done is more work, as the ancient proverb goes. The examination of Reimer’s corpse revealed some mysteries.”

  “So soon?” said March. “There couldn’t have been time to examine him properly yet.”

  “There wasn’t,” said Censor, “and the scientists are still continuing their work. However, it appears that Mr. Reimer was a new type of Machinist cyborg drone linked to the Final Consciousness. A preliminary analysis shows DNA alterations and cybernetic enhancements that we’ve never seen before.”

  “That’s disturbing, sir,” said March, “but not unexpected. The Machinists incorporate new technology into their designs whenever they can steal it.”

  “Agreed,” said Censor, “but there are three unexpected and disturbing elements to Reimer. First, it appears that he regularly transformed between a human appearance and the more spider-like form that you fought.”

  March frowned. “Then he was a new kind of infiltrator drone? One able to disguise itself and then transform at will?”

  “Yes,” said Censor. “That is why Reimer went for so long without getting captured on Constantinople II. Additionally, it seems that Reimer himself had no memory of his transformations or when they happened.”

  March’s frown deepened. “Then he was a Machinist drone without even realizing it. Almost like the Wraith devices.”

  “That is correct,” said Censor again. “Which leads to the second disturbing element. Several of Reimer’s implants appeared to be in a quantum state, changing configuration based upon their circumstances. Much like the quantum inducers you brought back from Monastery Station.”

  March said nothing for a moment.

  That was not good.

  He had already seen the havoc the Machinists could wreak with a Wraith device and the quantum inducers at their heart. If they had found more technology of the Great Elder Ones and figured out how to use it…

  “What was the third disturbing element?” said March at last.

  “Whitefish tracked down Reimer’s passport,” said Censor, “and we cross-checked the DNA record with our analysis. The Machinist implants did considerable damage to his genetic structure, but the match is unmistakable. Philip Reimer was a Citizen of the world of Rustaril.”

  March let out a long breath. “That is a problem, sir.”

  “It is. Rustaril has played at neutrality between the Kingdom of Calaskar and the Final Consciousness for decades. Nevertheless, the natural sympathy of Renarchist politics lends itself to the philosophy of the Machinists.” Censor paused. “If the Rustari are preparing to ally with the Machinists, that would be a grave blow against the Kingdom.”

  “It may not be as dire as that, sir,” said March. “Rustaril is…well, it is not a rising power. The last time I was there, it seemed like a civilization entering its final decline.”

  “The inevitable consequence of Renarchist policies, I am afraid,” said Censor. “Rustaril will not have improved since your last visit.”

  “My point is that the government of Rustaril might not be able to control its own planet any longer,” said March. “If not for the orbital railguns, Rustaril would have fallen to invaders centuries ago. If the Machinists have decided to take Rustaril for themselves, they might have seeded these new drones there.”

  “We simply do not have enough information,” said Censor. “Which is why, Captain March, as soon as we finish this conversation you are heading to Rustaril.”

  A sinking feeling went through March. He hadn’t enjoyed his first visit to Rustaril, and he doubted he would enjoy the second.

  “Am I the right man for this assignment, sir?” said March. “I think I would stand out rather noticeably on Rustaril.”

  “Like a sore thumb, to quote the ancient cliché,” said Censor, his voice drier than normal. “Fortunately, we have some advantages. Reimer’s passport says he comes from Rykov City on Rustaril. Rykov City is the chief spaceport on Rustaril, and most of the commercial traffic to and from the planet is routed through there. Additionally, the Silent Order branch chief is one of our more effective Sigma Operatives, and has maintained a strong organization in Rykov City.”

  “I don’t think I’ve met him, sir,” said March.

  “In this case, her,” said Censor. “The branch chief in Rykov City is a woman named Jacqueline Tolox. As you already know, the native-born population on Rustaril is divided into two social classes – the Citizens and the Administrators. Tolox’s father was framed for crimes he didn’t commit and driven out of his position as an Administrator and committed suicide. Tolox came to us for help, and has been an effective member of our Order ever since.”

  “As you say, sir,” said March, though he would form his own opinion of Tolox once he met her.

  “Your mission, Captain March,” said Censor, “is to proceed to Rustaril and contact Ms. Tolox in Rykov City. From there, you are to investigate Philip Reimer and discover how he went from an apparently unremarkable Citizen of Rustaril to the Machinist cyborg you fought on Constantinople II. All the necessary data is being downloaded to your ship as we speak. Do you have any questions?”

  “If I discover what happened to Reimer,” said March, “how far should I proceed in stopping it?”

  “You are an Alpha Operative of the Silent Order,” said Censor. “That would not have happened if we did not have faith in your judgment. Nevertheless, proceed with caution. The Kingdom maintains a policy of neutrality with the Renarchist Republic of Rustaril, a policy that is at least officially answered in turn. Under no circumstances should Rustaril be driven any closer to the Machinists.”

  “I understand, sir,” said March. That meant he had to keep whatever he did quiet.

  “Good,” said Censor. “I have already sent word to Tolox, and the message should arrive a day or so ahead of you. God go with you, Captain March. Given the nature of our foes, I need not remind you that we must have an answer to the riddle of Philip Reimer.”

  “I will find it, sir,” said March.

  “I am certain that you shall,” said Censor, and the call ended.

  March put away his phone, finished his coffee, and paid his bill.

  He had a lot of work to do.

  Chapter 2: Sundered Cousins

  March’s first task was to find a legitimate reason to visit Rustaril as a cover story for his mission.

  Fortunately, this was not hard.

  Rustaril’s government called itself the Renarchist Republic, and believed itself the embodied of the Renarchist ideal, that modern technology could, at last, achieve the dream of a collectivist society where all were equal, none were inferior, and Rustaril’s own factories and farms (under the benevolent and expert guidance of Rustaril’s government) could provide everything that the population needed.

  That was the theory.

  In practice, Rustaril imported tremendous quantities of food and other goods. A vast river of cargo flowed constantly towards Rustaril, paid for by the Renarchist Republic’s lucrative protein algae farms on the moons of their solar system’s only gas giant. March had no trouble filling the Tiger’s hold with paying cargo.

  Even if he failed his mission, he could at least turn a profit on this trip, though March had no intention of failing his mission.

  It took the rest of the day to load the cargo onto the Tiger, and the next morning, March received his clearance to depart from Constantinople Station.

  He sat in the pilot’s acceleration chair in the flight cabin as Vigil calculated out the course to Rustari
l. In theory, it was possible to open a hyperspace tunnel that would take the Tiger from Constantinople to Rustaril with a single jump. In practice, that was suicidal. Rustaril was thousands of light years away, and if Vigil made a single error, or if March made a mistake, the tiniest flaw in his vector would cause the Tiger to miss Rustaril by thousands of light years. March might find himself stranded somewhere in interstellar space and reckless captains who tried to cut costs by jumping directly to their destination systems sooner or later disappeared without a trace.

  No, the wiser course was to leapfrog from solar system to solar system, like a man stepping from stone to stone to cross a stream. (Albeit in three dimensions with the stones separated by unfathomable distances.) March grimaced as Vigil finished her calculations for the hyperjump. It would take seventy-nine hyperjumps to get from Constantinople to Rustaril. Coupled with sublight transit time between the jump points, it would take about five and a half days.

  Though perhaps he ought not to complain. Thousands of years ago, the idea of traveling such a vast distance in less than a week would have seemed unimaginable. Now it was commonplace. March supposed that if he tallied up the distances he had traveled in his adult life, it would have taken hundreds of thousands of years to travel at the speed of light.

  Once the Tiger entered its first hyperjump, March put aside all such musings and turned his attention to the information Censor had sent about the late Philip Reimer.

  The more he knew about the man, the better chance March had of discovering what had happened to him.

  March read through the files in the flight cabin as he navigated, in the engine room as he did maintenance, and in the gym as he lifted weights. Some of the files held background information, history he already knew. The world of Rustaril had been founded by exiled Calaskaran dissidents. Centuries ago, a man named Paul Renarch had created a new political philosophy on Calaskar. Renarch argued that the collectivist philosophies of primeval Earth, communism and socialism and all the others, had all failed because humanity had not yet possessed the necessary technological prowess to create a truly classless society. But with modern technology, it was time to cast aside the obsolete structures of the past, abolish the Church and all other religions, abolish the monarchy, abolish private property and money, and use modern science to create the ancient dream of “from each according to his ability, to each according to his need.”

  Renarch and his followers tried to win victories in Calaskar’s Congress, but after that failed, they had turned instead to terrorism, triggering Calaskar’s first and largest civil war. After three years of bloody fighting, Renarch was dead and his followers beaten. Throughout the tens of thousands of years of recorded human history, such ideological civil wars almost always resulted in the mass slaughter of the vanquished. Instead, the King had allowed the Renarchists to leave. Their colony ships fled Calaskar, seeking a new world to remake in the Renarchist image.

  The Renarchist Republic of Rustaril had been the result.

  Once, the Republic had been filled with expansionary zeal, seeking to expand and export the truth of Renarchist philosophy to all human worlds. After a crushing military defeat at the hands of the Ninevehk and two more from the Calaskaran Royal Navy, the Rustari had remained in their home system, focusing on selling algae protein from their ocean farms to sustain their Renarchist utopia. The Rustari military had fallen into disrepair, and they had not seriously threatened anyone for decades.

  March tended towards cynicism about all forms of political philosophy, but he had to admit to a special contempt for the Renarchists. Their philosophy reminded him of a weaker, far feebler version of the vision of the Machinists and the Final Consciousness. The Machinists, too, wished to sweep aside the past and forge all of mankind into a single unified state. They were simply better at it.

  He skimmed through the background data and turned his attention to the files Censor had found on Philip Reimer.

  There was precious little. Reimer had been a full Citizen of Rustaril, which meant the government had provided him a guaranteed income for life. He had been a software developer, the job assigned to him by the government, and he had saved up enough to take up tourism. Of course, Reimer could have quit his job at any time and lived off his guaranteed basic income from the Republic, but evidently, he had possessed enough ambition to keep him at work.

  Beyond that, there was little enough information about Reimer. Hopefully, March could learn more from Jacqueline Tolox.

  Censor had also included a file about Tolox. Her mother and father had both been Administrators in the Republic but had been framed for the crimes of their supervisors, and her parents had killed themselves in shame. Tolox had reverted to Citizen status, and had both joined the Silent Order and had somehow become one of the richest citizens in Rykov City. Given the labyrinthine laws and regulations that governed commerce on Rustaril, that was an impressive feat. The image attached to the file showed a gaunt-faced woman with a shock of blond hair and hard blue eyes, frown lines deep around her mouth and eyes. The file noted both her intense work ethic and her extreme ruthlessness, remarkable even for a Sigma Operative of the Silent Order.

  Hopefully, she would prove useful to March’s mission.

  March passed the trip with his usual combination of maintenance, training, and exercise.

  On the sixth day, the Tiger exited its hyperspace tunnel and arrived at the Rustaril star system.

  March sat in the flight cabin, watching the displays as the Tiger’s sensors updated with information. He kept the ship’s weapons powered down, though he was ready to activate them at a moment’s notice. The solar system had nine planets, and his sensors detected thousands of active ships moving through the system, most of them freighters. The Renarchist Republic’s wealth came from the moons orbiting the first gas giant, Rustaril VII. The moons were covered in oceans, and the Republic made vast profits harvesting crop after crop of protein algae from the waters.

  The second planet was Rustaril itself, home to the Renarchist Republic and the Rustari nation itself. March watched as the sensor data scrolled across his displays. Rustaril had nine continents, six of them in habitable zones. The planet’s population was eleven and a half billion people, heavily concentrated in urban areas, unlike Calaskar, which awarded small farms to veterans on completing a tour of duty with the Royal Calaskaran Navy, Army, or Marines. Rustaril’s military had gone into decline, but twelve huge battlestations, each one a metal cylinder twelve kilometers long, orbited the planet. Each battlestation had a railgun capable of firing a massive tungsten slug at a significant percentage of the speed of light. They were not as deadly as the railguns that the Custodian had maintained near Monastery Station, but they were nonetheless powerful weapons and the reason that Rustaril had not fallen to invaders.

  March steered the Tiger towards Rustaril Station, which looked like a smaller, slightly more dilapidated version of Constantinople Station. Hundreds of ships moved around the station, and a steady stream of passenger and cargo shuttles departed and docked. One of March’s displays started flashing.

  “Incoming transmission from Rustaril Station,” announced Vigil.

  “Put it on,” said March.

  One of the screens flickered and lit up with a young man’s face. Like most of the Administrators, he looked emaciated, almost underfed, his lips tight with disapproval. A uniformity of appearance was prized among the bureaucrats of the Republic, and March had noted that the Administrators preferred an androgynous appearance – the male Administrators never grew beards, and the female Administrators usually cut their hair short and disdained makeup.

  “Calaskaran vessel,” said the Administrator with a sneer. “You have entered the territory of the Renarchist Republic of Rustaril. State your identity and business.”

  March had expected some official harassment. Rustaril and Calaskar had not gone to war for a long time, but the neutrality was not a friendly one.

  “Captain Jack March of the freighter
Tiger,” he said. “I am carrying cargoes to be delivered to Rykov City. Now transmitting identity documents and cargo manifests.”

  The Administrator’s sneer intensified. “Do you intend to drop off the cargoes at Rustaril Station for transfer to the surface, or will you be accompanying your cargoes to Rykov City?”

  “I’m afraid my contract requires me to oversee delivery,” said March. It wasn’t a lie. He had made sure to take cargoes that required it.

  The Administrator let out an aggravated sigh. “Fine. You had best make sure you follow all Rustari laws on Rustaril, Captain March. You Calaskarans are nothing but trouble. We Rustari have an evolved and enlightened society, free of the prejudices and irrational superstitions of the past that plague Calaskar.”

  “I assure you that I intend to follow the law scrupulously,” said March.

  Which he supposed was mostly true. If he did need to break Rustari law, he certainly didn’t intend to get caught.

  “No proselytizing for your Royal Church,” continued the Administrator, “and any criticism of the Renarchist Republic or Renarchist thought is regressive speech, and might bring you to the attention of the Securitate. Additionally, you will not be allowed to bring any weapons to the surface of the planet. Is that understood?”

  “Perfectly,” said March. Tolox would be able to help him with that.

  “Good.” The Administrator glared at something off-camera for a moment, his hands moving through a holographic interface. “You’re cleared to dock at Bay 13, Ring 2. Your ship will be unloaded at once, and an autocab will take you to the cargo shuttle.”

  “Acknowledged,” said March, and the transmission cut off.

  He grimaced and rubbed his jaw with his right hand.

  Likely the truculent Administrator was one of the more pleasant people he would encounter on Rustaril.

  March steered the Tiger towards the docking bay.

  He suspected this next part might take a while

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