by Eric Thomson
**
“You heard about the four new plague ships that came through the Arietis wormhole?” Jonas Morane asked once Sister Gwenneth settled into her usual solarium chair facing Vanquish Bay.
Unlike her visit several weeks earlier, the sky was a bright blue with small puffy clouds marching off into the west, pushed by gentle upper winds. The sun still hung a few hand-spans above the horizon, but the lengthening shadows spoke of a waning afternoon. Morane had retracted the wall of transparent aluminum windows, turning the solarium into a covered veranda filled with the warm scents of the surrounding native vegetation.
She nodded.
“I caught your announcement before leaving the abbey. Whether further proof the Navy is protecting us will help ease the general anxiety about the Barbarian Plague or whether evidence of more infected reivers with eyes on our medical technology will worsen those fears is up for debate.”
Emma Reyes entered with a tray bearing three tall crystal glasses.
“I thought we’d enjoy gin and tonic instead of tea on such a glorious, sunny day.”
“A good thing the Order’s Rule doesn’t forbid spirits before supper.”
“Or the consumption of alcohol in general.” Reyes passed out the drinks and sat. She raised her glass. “I propose we toast the men and women protecting us from the ills of a fallen galaxy.”
PART II - MOONRISE
— 17 —
“Marta! Please come in and sit.” Sister Gwenneth smiled fondly at the abbey’s preeminent teacher. Marta was a daughter of the imperial nobility who came to Lyonesse as a refugee during the old empire’s last days rather than let herself be used as a rival empress in a doomed attempt at creating a new realm centered on the Coalsack Sector. She not only possessed one of the strongest talents Gwenneth ever encountered but also a fully open third eye, rare even among the sisters. Her abilities had only grown in the decades since she first arrived. Many within the Order also believed Marta was prescient.
“Thank you for seeing me, Gwenneth.” Marta, a pale, slender, sixty-something who wore her short, ash-blond hair in the same practical cut as almost everyone else, entered the abbess’ office and took one of the chairs in front of her desk.
“You’re always welcome.” An amused look crossed Gwenneth’s face. “Let me guess. You would like to witness Standfast’s launch with me tomorrow.”
“Stefan will be aboard as first officer.”
Gwenneth heard quiet pride in Marta’s voice. She’d thought her twin children, Stefan and Sigrid, gone forever when the late Grand Duke Custis made her prisoner. Yet by the grace of the Almighty and the tireless work of Void Ships on rescue missions throughout the Coalsack Sector, they were reunited on Lyonesse. Her son was now a career Navy officer while her daughter Sigrid was one of the engineers working for Hecht Aerospace. Tomorrow, Stefan would lift off in the starship his sister helped design and build.
“Of course you can come with me, Marta.”
The latter inclined her head in gratitude. “Thank you. I’m also here to discuss Stearn.”
Gwenneth gestured at her to go ahead.
“By now, he can keep his mind from disturbing others and do so instinctively using the discipline developed through meditation exercises. Stearn is no longer a source of turmoil who’ll disturb those in his immediate vicinity. But I will confess a talent that powerful was difficult to tame, and I’m sure he’ll backslide every so often until his new habits become ingrained. I usually develop a normal postulant by stimulating her native talent and making it flower, a much easier proposition than reining in a psychic hurricane.”
Marta let out a soft sigh.
“There is still much work ahead. But Stearn must leave the abbey and encounter minds other than those of the Brethren. His development is only half-finished, and this environment is too well controlled. It doesn’t offer the sort of challenge he needs so he can build defenses capable of blocking the mental turmoil of others. Since he has not yet decided whether to join the Order and is not ready for normal society, I recommend he spends the next few months at the Windy Isles Priory and continue his training under Sister Mirjam. Because of her work with the disturbed psyches of sociopaths, I’m sure her insights will be valuable.”
Gwenneth tapped an extended finger against her chin. “An intriguing proposition.”
“I’ve reached the limits of what I can do for him since he won’t take vows.”
Gwenneth’s eyebrows rose at the admission. “Really?”
Marta lowered her eyes for a few seconds.
“Stearn often confounds me. If I thought he exercised the same level of self-control as any of the sisters, I might almost suspect he was toying with his teachers, myself included.”
“I see. That’s interesting. When should we send him to the Windies?”
“Any time. I will supervise his self-study while he remains here, but I can no longer train him unless he enters the Order. He knows everything we may teach a layperson.”
“Then warn him of his impending departure. Landry will book the next available seat on one of the Phoenix Clippers.”
“Thank you.”
“Is there anything else on your mind?”
“At what time will you leave for the launch tomorrow?”
“Thirteen-hundred hours. And I believe it’s customary to wear one’s best attire for such an occasion.”
**
“Even though I’ve seen it many times before, I remain impressed.” Marta’s soft voice was tinged with awe as the abbey’s aircar came within sight of the sprawling shipyard complex on the shores of a deep bay south of Lannion, where the Haven River joined the Middle Sea. “Especially now they’ve removed the scaffolding around Standfast. What a beautiful vessel. And so much larger than the Void Ships.”
“Way better armed too,” Friar Landry said from the control station. “That is a warship, through and through. And look how far they’ve progressed on Prevail.”
“Indeed.” Three pairs of eyes turned toward the large scaffolding assembly partially hiding what looked like an almost completed ship.
As they got closer, they could make out markings on Standfast’s dull gray hull: her name, the Navy’s double-headed condor and anchor symbol, and a letter and number combination which Gwenneth assumed was the registration number. She seemed menacingly sleek from this distance as if one of the shark-like apex predators prowling Lyonesse’s oceans had come ashore. Hyperdrive nacelles hanging from short swept back, wing-like extrusions framed a hull studded with weapon emplacements while huge sublight drive nozzles festooned her stern.
A makeshift parade ground was laid out on the ship’s landward side, with reviewing stand, seating for spectators, flags flapping the breeze, and row upon row of military personnel in dress uniform preparing for the launch ceremonies.
Landry, under orders from traffic control, veered to the left and aimed the aircar’s nose at a section of tarmac beside the cavernous ship assembly building turned into a parking lot. Mere minutes later, he brought them down with barely a bump and switched off the power plant. Around them, other cars were either landing or coming up the road from Lannion. Watchful Lyonesse Defense Force troopers wearing battle dress and carrying carbines stood at regular intervals or patrolled in pairs, to make sure no spectators went astray, let alone wandered off so they could examine Standfast from up close.
Gwenneth, with Marta and Landry on her heels, headed for the spectator seats, nodding politely at those who acknowledged her. A Lyonesse Rifle Regiment sergeant intercepted them and pointed at the VIP section, reserved for leading figures in the community and family members of Standfast’s crew. Landry left the sisters and looked for acquaintances among the many off-duty Defense Force members who were present to witness a momentous day in Lyonesse history — the liftoff of her first domestically built faster-than-light warship.
As they settled into their seats, Gwenneth and Marta saw former President Elenia Yakin, her partner, Brigadier Gener
al (retired) Matti Kayne, and the entirety of President Morane’s cabinet arrive, along with every member of the Lyonesse Senate. Then, battalion-sized Defense Force contingents marched on by element: Ground Forces, Navy, and Support Command, under the colonel commanding the Ground Forces’ 1st Brigade.
Once they were in place, the service chiefs climbed the reviewing stand one-by-one to receive the general salute, first Major General Hamm, then Rear Admiral Sirak, and finally Rear Admiral Au. Lieutenant General Barca, driven to the reviewing stand in a sleek, black staff car bearing small red plates adorned with three silver stars, followed them less than a minute later.
No sooner had Barca taken the salute that another staff car, this one with a small Republic of Lyonesse flag flying from a short pole on the roof, crossed the makeshift parade ground and stopped in front of the reviewing stand. Everyone in attendance stood while those in the military and police services came to attention.
The president’s naval aide, a commander with gold aiguillettes on his right shoulder, jumped out, opened the back door, and saluted as Morane, wearing an admiral’s uniform, emerged from the car. He climbed onto the dais for a presidential salute from the Defense Force contingent while aide and car cleared the area.
Moments after the salute’s last drum roll faded away, a distant voice called out indistinct orders and to the onlooker’s surprise and delight, Standfast’s crew, led by her captain, marched down the ship’s belly ramp as the band struck up the Navy march. In contrast to their comrades already on parade, they wore dark blue battledress uniforms with their ship’s crest, an armored gauntlet holding a sword, on the sleeves.
The fifty-two men and women who would take the corvette on her maiden patrol made their way around the battalions. They came to a halt in front of the reviewing stand where the captain, Lieutenant Commander Laurent Lisiecki, ordered a presidential salute. He then led Morane, Barca, and Sirak through the ranks on an inspection tour. Every member of Standfast’s crew glowed with pride, though both Gwenneth and Marta could sense an undercurrent of apprehension at the upcoming liftoff.
After the inspection, Morane climbed back onto the dais, and his amplified voice rang out.
“Citizens of Lyonesse, in the next minutes, we will witness a momentous event which will live on in the republic’s history for as long as Lyonesse exists. The first Lyonesse-designed and built faster-than-light warship, Standfast, will lift off and join the fleet. She is, without a doubt, the newest, most modern, most advanced vessel in human space, capable of defending our republic against any comer. But before she can slip the surly bonds of Lyonesse and trod the high untrespassed sanctity of space, we must launch her in the time-honored manner. Our republic’s first president, Elenia Yakin, has graciously accepted to become Standfast’s sponsor and will become a permanent honorary member of her crew.”
Morane turned to Yakin, and with a gesture, invited her to rise. “Madame President.”
The naval aide stepped forward with a bottle of champagne in hand. As if on cue, Lieutenant General Barca, Rear Admiral Sirak, and the Defense Force Sergeant Major formed an orderly group that followed Morane and Yakin as they made their way to the corvette.
Once they were on the other side of the battalions, the parade commander ordered his troops to make an about-face so they could witness the christening while the announcer asked the spectators to stand.
Yakin and the launch party, dwarfed by the corvette’s hull, stopped at one her massive landing struts where Morane’s aide offered Yakin the champagne bottle. She held it up by the neck so everyone could see and said in a voice that echoed across the parade ground,
“They that go up to the stars in ships;
That do business in the great galaxy;
These see the works of the Almighty, and the Almighty’s wonders in the Void.”
Yakin smashed the bottle against the strut.
“I name this ship Standfast. May the Almighty bless her and those who sail in her.”
A roar of approval erupted from the massed troops while cheers and applause filled the air behind them. When it died away, Lieutenant General Barca turned to face the parade.
“Standfast will join the fleet.”
“Sir!” Lieutenant Commander Lisiecki snapped off a crisp salute. “Ship’s company will go to liftoff stations. In column of route, right turn. Ship’s company, MARCH.”
Morane and his party returned to the reviewing stand as the crew, heads held high, arms swinging, headed for the belly ramp.
“While we would no doubt rather watch Standfast’s departure from where we sit,” the announcer said, “security concerns demand that we clear the tarmac once the president departs. I would, therefore, ask you to head for the parking area at that time.”
After a final salute, Morane climbed into his staff car and left for a vantage point near the ship assembly building, where Hecht Aerospace had laid on drinks and canapés for the VIPs and the families of crew members who would head there on foot. Gwenneth and Marta fell in with Admiral Sirak while the troops marched off.
“I’ve been wondering how Standfast will receive its first injection of antimatter fuel,” Gwenneth said. “She can’t sail to the refueling station at sublight speed without going relativistic.”
“Narwhal,” he replied, naming the replenishment ship that accompanied Vanquish and Sirak’s former command, the frigate Myrtale, to Lyonesse after the remnants of the 197th defected. “We don’t use her in a refueling capacity that often. But the crew practiced. She’ll give Standfast enough to light up the hyperdrives and see she reaches the refueling station with a good reserve.”
“Ah.” Gwenneth nodded. “Of course. I should have guessed.”
While they walked across the tarmac, the reviewing stand, chairs, flagpoles, and every other bit of parade finery vanished, leaving a cleared space of several hundred meters around Standfast, whose belly ramp had retracted into the hull. Speakers came to life behind them, surprising the guests.
“Lannion Traffic Control, this is the Republic of Lyonesse Starship Standfast, corvette, Laurent Lisiecki commanding.”
“Welcome to the network, Standfast,” a female voice replied. Gwenneth recognized it as belonging to the chief controller, taking a turn at the console for the occasion. “May your service to the republic be long and honorable.”
“Our identification beacon is active.”
“Beacon confirmed,” the chief traffic controller replied. “We have registered you.”
“Standfast requests permission to lift off on a vertical vector to ten thousand meters. At ten thousand meters, she will change her angle of attack to twenty degrees from the vertical until entering orbit at an altitude of two thousand kilometers.”
“Your flight path is empty of all air and spacecraft up to two thousand kilometers. You are cleared for departure.”
Gwenneth and Marta exchanged amused glances. The back and forth between starship and traffic control was obviously rehearsed even though it would sound natural to anyone else’s ears.
“It’ll be okay, Mom,” a soft woman’s voice said, startling Marta.
She was so focused on pushing away the anxiety at her son riding a new and unproven starship straight up into the sky that she didn’t sense Sigrid’s arrival.
“I helped build Standfast. If I didn’t think she was perfectly safe for our people, I wouldn’t let Stefan aboard.” The young woman, a close copy of her mother when she was that age, smiled confidently.
A rapidly growing whine reached their ears as the corvette’s thrusters spooled up, making any further conversation fruitless. Marta reached out and grasped her daughter’s hand instead. Bright streams of light appeared under Standfast’s hull, and as she rose, her landing gear broke contact with the tarmac.
“We are feet up, Traffic Control.”
“Acknowledged. Godspeed, Standfast.”
When she was ten meters above the ground, her landing gear vanished, retracted into the hull. She kept rising on
bright pillars of light, straight up into a sky so blue it almost broke Marta’s heart.
“Passing through ten thousand meters. All systems nominal.”
Standfast gradually turned into a speck that soon vanished from view, though everyone at the shipyard, and indeed across the settlement area, kept their eyes glued to the heavens. Captain Lisiecki reported each increment of ten kilometers until reaching one hundred, then each increment of one hundred kilometers.
With the ship no longer visible to the naked eye, the guests in the VIP section mingled while Marta let Sigrid take her around so she could meet her daughter’s colleagues, the people responsible for Standfast’s design and construction. Finally, the report she’d been waiting for came through the hidden speakers.
“Standfast is in orbit around Lyonesse at an altitude of two thousand kilometers and preparing to take on fuel for the hyperdrives.”
The enthusiastic round of applause told Marta she wasn’t the only one who’d been tense during the corvette’s ascent.
“Acknowledged. Lannion Traffic Control is turning you over to the Navy. Fair winds and following seas, Standfast. Lannion, out.”
— 18 —
Stearn Roget, wearing the Order’s loose, black garment and carrying a small valise, stepped off the Phoenix Clipper City of Lannion and took a deep breath of the warm, salt-tinged tropical air. The setting sun’s harsh rays stung his eyes, and he snorted with amusement at his momentary feeling of displacement. When the Clipper lifted off from Lannion Spaceport an hour earlier, it had been in the fresh pre-dawn air. Here, in the Windy Isles, the day was already over. But when the sleek, white shuttle returned to Lannion, it would go back in time and arrive just after breakfast, while he was eating his supper.
Roget suddenly became conscious of a tall, silver-haired man with a narrow, ascetic face and a prominent nose framed by intense brown eyes watching him intently from the shade of a tiny landing field hut. He also wore the Order’s garment. When their eyes met, the man pushed himself away from the wall and walked toward Roget with long, deliberate strides.
