by Eric Thomson
“Probably. Loxias has become, if anything, an even greater annoyance in recent times. If he weren’t such an effective chief administrator, I’d send him as far from here as I could.”
“Will you inaugurate the Orb?”
“Do I have a choice? Loxias is hardly alone in wanting to enhance our profile.” Gwenneth stroked the screen to activate its voice pickup. “Please enter, Friar Loxias.”
The door slid aside silently, admitting a tall, heavyset man with short silver hair and a beard framing a square face that was all angles. Hooded dark eyes on either side of a boxer’s flattened nose briefly rested on Mirjam before they met Gwenneth’s. He bowed his head and said in a basso profundo voice, “Abbess, the Void Orb is ready for your blessing and dedication.”
“Very well.” Gwenneth stood, imitated by Mirjam. She glanced at the younger woman. “You’re welcome to join me.”
“Yes, please do. I’m sure the Brethren of the Windy Isles Priory will enjoy a description of this blessed event from your lips, Prioress Mirjam.” There was more than a hint of unseemly pride in Loxias’ tone, at least to the latter’s finely-tuned ears.
“I wouldn’t dare miss it,” she replied with a straight face.
— 5 —
Lieutenant Koris Leloup stopped within earshot of the solitary figure standing in the shadow of the wrecked sloop. He saw a man who seemed prematurely aged by privation and injury. Tall and whipcord thin, raggedly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair and a short dark beard framed a craggy, worn-out face. It was bisected, on the left side, by an angry red slash running from the bridge of his nose to his ear. Sunken eyes lit by a feverish glint studied him intently.
The man’s posture and involuntary twitching hinted at as-yet-unseen injuries, perhaps from the crash. He held an ancient-looking plasma carbine loosely in his hands — although its muzzle was pointing away from Leloup — and wore a spacer’s overalls, stained and torn in many spots. A dull metal disk, about the size of an adult man’s palm, hung from a chain around his neck — the beacon.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” The man asked in a raspy voice that, to Leloup’s ears, seemed distorted by chronic pain.
“My name is Koris Leloup. I’m a lieutenant in the Republic of Lyonesse Navy and second officer of the Void Ship Dawn Hunter.”
“Republic of Lyonesse Navy? Void Ship?” He sounded incredulous. “Are you kidding me? I’ve never heard of Lyonesse, let alone seen an organized naval force in the last twenty years that wasn’t just a robber baron’s pirate squadron.”
“Believe it or not, I’m glad you never heard of Lyonesse. We prefer keeping a low profile. It reduces the chances of attracting barbarians intent on stripping us of advanced technology.”
A tortured bark of laughter escaped the man’s throat.
“No one has advanced tech anymore, at least not outside what’s left of the empire’s core. The mad empress blew everything away.”
Leloup gestured at the shuttle.
“My ride, built on Lyonesse two years ago, says differently. In any case, we’re here to pick you up and bring you with us to Lyonesse.”
The man’s eyes widened.
“Why?”
“That amulet around your neck is a beacon. We picked up its signal as we were crossing the Yotai system on our way home.”
“Bullshit.” The man wrapped a hand around the disk and held it up to his eyes. “This is just a hunk of stamped metal.”
Leloup spread out his arms, palms facing upward. “And yet, here we are.”
“Why should I come with you?”
“Because it’s a chance at life on a world the mad empress didn’t ravage. A place where things are more or less as they were fifty or a hundred years ago, except we’ve been a republic, independent of the empire, since the days of the Retribution Fleet. There’s nothing for you on Yotai. If you came down in that ship, you’ll surely have noticed the absence of lights visible from orbit on the night side. The few humans left here live in pre-industrial tribes and practice subsistence agriculture. They never finished terraforming Yotai, which means survivors will die out when the native fauna and flora reclaim everything.”
The man didn’t immediately reply as he digested Leloup’s words.
“I still don’t understand why you landed to offer a stranger sanctuary on a planet I never heard of. You don’t know who I am or what I am.” He tapped the beacon. “And I still can’t believe this thing brought you here.”
Leloup hesitated, searching for words. Then, he figured telling the truth, or at least some of it would be best.
“Do you know about the Order of the Void?”
“Sure. Religious types who specialize in good works — teachers, healers, spiritual counselors, that sort of thing. Some folks think they’re mind-meddlers, but I figure that’s garbage. There was a minor abbey on my homeworld before the mad empress torched everything. Or maybe it was a priory. I never found out. They abandoned it years ago.”
“That amulet is a Void beacon. The Lyonesse Navy uses Void Sisters aboard starships. Because you unwittingly activated it, our chaplain, Sister Katarin, believes you’re someone who could join the Brethren.”
Another incredulous bark of laughter erupted. It quickly turned into a coughing fit. When the man finally recovered, he said, “You’re saying the Order of the Void wants to adopt me sight unseen? Doesn’t that beat everything? But what the hell. I won’t live long in this wilderness, not with my injuries.”
“You were aboard that ship when it crashed?” Leloup indicated the wreck with his left hand.
“Antelope? Sure. A piece of garbage held together with wire and tape. She shouldn’t even be here in the first place, but Barnett — Captain Euclid Barnett, the damn thing’s late owner — wouldn’t surrender when we came across one of those robber barons I mentioned. Since our crappy guns were no match for theirs, we ran instead. Unfortunately, Barnett’s chosen course took us further away from home, and we ended up in this star system aboard a ship low on antimatter fuel and with dying hyperdrives. I’m the only one who came through the crash alive, though most days I wish I’d died too. You could say I’m the last of Barnett’s privateers; the Almighty damn him. Give me a moment to fetch my dunnage.”
“What’s your name?”
“Stearn Roget,” the man tossed over his shoulder as he limped toward the gaping airlock.
He reappeared a few minutes later with a duffel bag dangling from his right hand. His left still held the battered plasma carbine.
“Lead me to the promised land, Mister Lyonesse Navy.”
“You can leave that gun here, Stearn. Our armory is well equipped and with much newer weapons.”
Roget stared at the weapon as if seeing it for the first time.
“No doubt. This thing is as cracked as our main guns were. Nothing worked properly on that damn ship, not even the bloody landing thrusters at the end, which is why we pancaked on the tarmac.”
He tossed the carbine to one side and stepped off with grim determination and a visible limp.
“I look forward to hearing your story.” Leloup fell into step beside him.
“It’s a sad tale, Lieutenant.” Roget pulled a palm-sized, gray plastic case approximately one centimeter thick from an inner pocket and offered it to Leloup. “Here, I made a copy of Antelope’s database and log before the batteries ran out, just in case.”
Leloup accepted the memory card and tucked it in his combat harness pocket.
“Thanks. I’m sure our intelligence folks back home will find that useful. And what about you?”
“Me?” Roget scoffed. “I spent most of the cruise wishing I were back in Shearbrook. That’s my hometown, on Scotia Colony, a crappy, barely habitable place out in the ass-end of the Aeolus Sector. It’s about as far from Yotai as you can travel and not leave the empire’s old sphere. Last I was there, it boasted exactly one barely working spaceport, a place called Haligon.”
“Sorry, no idea where that is. I was
born on Lyonesse and didn’t venture out into the galaxy until well after the empire collapsed. The Navy’s pushed out into neighboring sectors on salvage and reconnaissance runs since the mad empress’ last strike, but we’ve pretty much remained in our little galactic neighborhood.”
“Then, we share something in common. Neither of us knows about our respective birthplaces. Though yours isn’t as screwed up as mine if you have a proper Navy. I suppose I should thank your chaplain for picking up a signal I wasn’t aware of transmitting.”
“She’s aboard the shuttle, watching us from the flight deck and listening in on our conversation, along with her understudy, Sister Amelia.”
“Two of them. You must feel blessed.”
“Four, actually. Our crew also includes a pair of healers from the Order. The Navy’s Void Ships go out on lengthy cruises, many as long as a year, and we need their special abilities for our health and sanity.”
Roget glanced at Leloup. “Why do you call them Void Ships?”
“Because the ships that carry out these reconnaissance and salvage missions belonged to the Order before the mad empress’ last rampage. Once every surviving sister and friar they could find settled on Lyonesse, the Order turned its fleet over to the Navy. We use the ships to monitor the galaxy while our cruisers and frigates protect the little dead-end wormhole branch we call home. I can’t remember when the name Void Ships first came into use, but it was before my time.”
As they neared the armored bosun’s mates surrounding the shuttle, Roget examined them silently, his eyes moving from one to the next. Leloup led him around to the aft ramp and found both sisters standing just inside the passenger compartment, waiting for them.
“Say hi to Sister Katarin, and her understudy, Sister Amelia. Katarin was part of the first Brethren contingent to settle on Lyonesse.”
Roget politely inclined his head.
“Sisters. I understand I should thank you for my improbable rescue. My name is Stearn Roget, of Scotia Colony and the ill-fated sloop Antelope.”
“I know. We were listening. I’m sure you’re extremely curious about why you attracted our attention, and we will answer your questions in good time, but right now, we should leave this place. The sun will drop behind the horizon in a few minutes.”
“Excellent idea. We probably don’t want to meet the things wandering around in the dark. I barricaded myself inside the wreck every night, but that didn’t prevent me from finding signs someone or something tried to break in come morning.”
“When did you land?” Leloup gestured at Roget to walk up the ramp.
“Twelve days ago.”
“Which explains why the good sisters didn’t pick up your beacon on our way through this system when we were outbound.”
Sister Katarin pointed at three seats near the door leading to the flight deck. “We will sit there for the return trip since our presence up front is no longer required.”
Leloup made a gesture of acknowledgment.
“Sure thing.”
At his signal, the landing party climbed aboard with commendable speed, and the aft ramp rose, sealing them in. Moments later, the gentle whine of spooling thrusters reached their ears as Leloup took the gunner’s station. Then, they felt the shuttle rise vertically.
“If I never see this place again,” Roget said, “it won’t be too soon.”
“An understandable sentiment,” Katarin replied. “What is the extent of your injuries?”
“You name it, I got it — torn ligaments, bruises everywhere, concussion, cracked ribs. My internal organs took a beating if the blood in my piss is any indication. And still, I’m the lucky one.”
“How did you alone survive?”
“I was Antelope’s second engineer, which means I knew every nook and cranny of that blasted tub inside out. When we were on final approach, something told me things were going pear-shaped. I raced for the most heavily armored part of the ship, a compartment that held both our computer core and served as an auxiliary bridge. I was operating on pure instinct, you understand. I just had time to vent our remaining antimatter fuel and strap into a crash seat when the thrusters seized up. Then everything happened at once, and I lost consciousness. When I woke up, Antelope was on the ground, and everyone else aboard was dead.”
Katarin and Amelia exchanged a glance before the latter asked, “How many?”
“There were twenty-one of us, from Scotia, all recruited by Euclid Barnett with his damned promise of getting rich as salvagers while helping our planet repair the damage left by the war. Now he and the others are dead, and I’m hundreds of wormhole transits from home.” Roget fell silent for a few seconds before continuing in a hushed tone. “They took such a beating during the crash that most were barely recognizable as human. I buried them at the edge of the tarmac as best I could.”
Katarin laid a soothing hand on his forearm.
“The Almighty is caring for their souls now. And we shall care for you in the Almighty’s name.”
“I’m not a man of faith, Sister.”
“And yet you are destined to become one of the Brethren.”
“Yeah. Lieutenant Leloup mentioned that, but if it’s the same to you, I’d rather find a way home. Scotia might not be much, but it’s where I was born and where my family lives. I don’t care if it takes me years.”
Katarin gave him a sad look.
“You won’t find one. Even our Void Ships, arguably the best, fastest, and most enduring human starships navigating the wormhole network nowadays, can’t make it that far. Besides, the empress ravaged most star systems between Scotia and Yotai, as you might have noticed. The chances of finding someone headed for a no-account minor wormhole junction at the edge of human space are almost nil.”
“Sure, but that doesn’t help me stop wishing I could see Shearbrook again. So, tell me, why will I become one of the Brethren? You know nothing about me.”
“As I said earlier, in good time.”
Katarin, trained by the Order to block the emotions of others instinctively, so she didn’t go mad, opened her defenses momentarily, and touched Roget’s mind. She almost recoiled at the strength of his emotions, at the turmoil he felt, but saw nothing reflected in his eyes. He wasn’t aware of himself yet.
A sigh escaped Roget’s lips, and he seemed to deflate. “Fine. In good time. Who am I to argue with my saviors?”
She patted his arm. “That’s the spirit. First, we will heal your body. Then we can discuss the future.”
— 6 —
“Might I be henceforth known as Erasmus, Sister Mirjam?” A deep voice asked in a respectful tone.
She stopped and turned to face the three gaunt, almost ascetic looking men in their late fifties who were following her into the twilight of the priory’s entry hall, a refreshing oasis from the humid, tropical air. They wore gray prisoner coveralls with identifiers stamped on the left breast and carried small bags containing the sum of their worldly possessions.
After delivering Gwenneth’s release to Governor Parsons upon landing on Changu Island, the atoll’s principal landmass, Mirjam fetched the criminals whose antisocial personalities she and her assistants had successfully realigned and led them to the Windy Isles Priory. A simple, yet sprawling stone structure, the priory was nestled among tree-like fern analogs and isolated from the main facilities in its private garden at the far western end of Changu.
The priory was part of the penal colony and within its security perimeter like every one of the inhabited islands straddling Lyonesse’s equator at the heart of the World Ocean, almost one hundred and eighty degrees longitude away from Lannion. Those living here were always twelve hours ahead of most humans on the planet. When the sun rose on Changu Monday morning, it was setting over the capital on Sunday evening.
The man who spoke, the eldest of the three, wore what Mirjam thought of as a fresh convert’s glow on his narrow face, the sort that smoothed out the deep lines around his prominent nose. Even his silver hair seemed t
o shine preternaturally, but it was merely an optical illusion caused by the stained glass windows on either side of the wide door. Although he appeared as serene as any of the Order’s friars, the frequent bobbing of his prominent Adam’s apple betrayed a remnant of unconscious inner agitation. Bright brown eyes deeply set beneath heavy brows watched her intently.
The man had been, until recently, the most dangerous criminal on Lyonesse, someone condemned to exile for life on the imperial prison planet Parth because of his family connections instead of being executed for his crimes. He’d been saved from a slow and agonizing death because a twist of fate put him in a stasis pod aboard the Imperial Correction Service Ship Tanith, along with hundreds of political prisoners who’d fallen victim to Empress Dendera’s rampant paranoia.
President Morane, at the time captain of the former imperial cruiser Vanquish and commander of the 197th Imperial Battle Group’s remains, had salvaged Tanith after Grand Duke Custis’ adherents ambushed and abandoned it. Morane brought her to Lyonesse, where the authorities separated the real criminals from the politicals and ensured the former served out their original sentences.
The man who wanted to call himself Erasmus, along with his two companions, were the most dangerous humans carried in Tanith and, therefore, the most dangerous on Lyonesse. But since the empire hadn’t ordered their execution, Lyonesse’s high court declined to change the original sentence of exile for life. So, they were transported, along with others, to the newly independent republic’s version of Desolation Island, from which escape was impossible due to distance, deadly storms, and insanely aggressive aquatic megafauna.
“You may — Erasmus. Why that name?”
He shrugged.
“I can’t rightly tell you. It came to me in my dreams last night and feels right. A suitable name for someone who will henceforth be an unselfish person, a servant of the Almighty. It celebrates my rebirth.”
“Fair enough.” She looked at the other two men. “And you?”
