Branegate

by James C. Glass

  “Welcome to the world of The Immortals,” said Petyr. His fingers moved over a small keyboard. The buzzing became a sing-songy pattern of sound, but otherwise Trae was not aware of anything unusual happening. The sound stopped. “Done. I’ll make copies of this one. Four, I think.”

  The man was talking to himself. “How did you know that had to be done as soon as I woke up?”

  “I had my instructions,” said Petyr. “Anyway, I was sure we’d have to do it after you took that huge dose of whatever it is they gave you. I’ve just had some revelations myself, Trae.”

  “Baloney. You knew exactly what had to be done before I even said anything.”

  “Instinct. I have a lot of experience with this.” Petyr bent over the briefcase, took out four data-cubes and put them into storage boxes on the table.

  “You were told what to do. You know what just happened to me. I think you were there. I think you were still there when I woke up. Maybe you even know what just got stuffed into my head. I’ve never felt so alert in my life.”

  Petyr closed the briefcase after depositing two of the cubes into it. The other two he put into his pocket. “What you just experienced changes a lot of things, and yes, I was there. It’s my privilege as a soldier of The Church.”

  “If you were there then you know what my father thinks of The Church. You’re there for another reason, and I want to know what it is. Why are you so important to my father, other than just protecting his son? And why does my father use your image every time we meet in dreamland? You never give me an answer to this, and I’m tired of being lied to, Petyr. Don’t you care?”

  Trae stood up, glaring at his guardian of sixteen years. Petyr gave a big sigh as Trae turned and stepped back to his bed.

  “Of course I care,” said Petyr, and then there was a long pause.

  “I’m your father, Trae.”

  Trae sat down hard on the bed.

  CHAPTER 11

  This is too sudden,” said Khalid Osman, ruler of all Gan. “I’ve heard no rumors regarding overtures from Galena, and I’ve certainly not had their support on The Council.”

  “I agree, sire,” said Fedor Quraiwan. “My inquires suggest the initiative has been sparked by several prominent businessmen on Gan who wish to have open access to Galena ports.”

  Breakfast had been served in the Emperor’s private quarters: a meal of fruit, fish, eggs and a doughy flatbread laced with honey. Now they sipped a new tea with a flowery scent to begin their day.

  “Ah, the name Azar Khalil comes to mind,” said Khalid.

  “He seems to be pushing the hardest, sire, but there are others.”

  “All of them in munitions industries, of course.” The Emperor smiled. “This could be a subtle way to suggest I reduce port taxes. I might even consider it.”

  “It’s more than that, sire. Our ports haven’t been renovated for over a decade. They can’t handle the new freighters being used for interplanetary transport. It’s not just size; they’re much too close to population centers. The renovation costs are prohibitive, sire. It would be to our advantage to entertain any commercial overtures from Galena, and could also reduce the tensions between us.”

  “I doubt that. We’ll never agree on how to rule an ignorant people. If Azar and his colleagues want better relations with Galena I won’t interfere with their efforts.”

  “Underway, sire. Meetings are being arranged at the Galenan embassy for microwave conversations with their Economic Minister. I’ve been promised an invitation, but that’s weeks away.”

  “You were going to tell me about this, of course,” said Khalil.

  “I just have, sire. I’ve only had reason to consider matters seriously in recent days. They were only rumors, but then Azar himself called to brief me, and my people reported increased traffic at the embassy. Several new people have arrived.”

  “More spies, perhaps. That seems to be the major function of the foreign embassies on our world these days.” Khalil took another sip of tea and wiped his mouth daintily with a napkin.

  “Azar says they are staff members from the economic ministry.”

  “I’ll expect you to verify that soon, my friend. So much seems to be happening without my knowledge. Azar and I used to communicate rather freely when I was more involved in everyday affairs, but that was before I turned things over to people like you.”

  “You know what I know, sire, but I try not to give you information that’s false or misleading. Even this tea we’re drinking has been thoroughly checked. Mountain tea from Galena, a gift from Azar Khalil; he wants to begin importing it. I’ve tasted nothing more flavorful, sire. Do you agree?”

  “A heady aroma,” said Khalid. “Three cups I’ve had before hearing the origin of the product. And just how was it tested for safety?”

  “There was only a single box of it, and I’ve taken the liberty of drinking small samples over the past two days. You trust your tasters more than I do, sire.”

  Khalid smiled. “You have a suspicious nature, Fedor.”

  Fedor gave him a nodding bow. “I’m well rewarded for my suspicions. Tea is the least of them. The Lyraen cells have been unusually quiet lately, and then yesterday my people found the body of a priest floating in a canal. His lower legs were gone, and the front of his head had been blown away by a high caliber weapon. He’d likely been weighted down to submerge him, but it looks like scavenger fish chewed away the legs and set him free.”

  “Your assassins were careless, then,” said Khalid.

  “But it’s not my doing. The priest was one of my moles in a cell headquartered near the palace. He called me a week ago to arrange a meeting, but didn’t show up. He had something important to tell me, and was killed for it. The other moles have heard nothing. This worries me, sire. I’m investigating it further; terrorist activities by the Lyraens might be planned to disturb our talks with Galena. The Lyraens are everywhere, even in the embassies. They’re replaced as fast as I can ferret them out.”

  “When I’m sure you’ve identified all the cells I’ll make my move, Fedor. Their heads will decorate our streets on posts for all to see, and I expect that will be soon.”

  Fedor shook his head. “It’s difficult. There is a central intelligence that coordinates the cells, and not even the Lyraens have a clue to its identity. I fear it’s not within the common people, but highly placed. We must find the head of the snake before striking at its tail. Please be patient with me.”

  “I’m a patient man, Fedor,” said the ruler of all Gan.

  “Of course, sire,” said his servant, and swallowed the rest of his tea in one gulp.

  The Embassy of Galena was three blocks from the palace, the most prominent among its neighbors, a three-storied structure with many windows and a collanaded portico at the front entrance. A ten-foot steel bar fence surrounded the grounds of green grass and manicured flowerbeds and there was a gate with a guardhouse and two armed guards. Two other guards continually patrolled the periphery of the fenced area, their rifles slung casually, but their eyes alert.

  A black limousine pulled up in front of the guardhouse and three men got out of it. Two of the men were young, but wore expensive business suits. The third was older, tall, with snow-white hair. The men presented their papers at the guardhouse, A call was made, and the guard opened the gate for them. They walked directly to the front entrance of the embassy, where another guard met them at the door and again checked their papers before letting them go inside.

  They deposited their coats on a table in a high-ceilinged foyer, a broad, black-marble staircase winding up to the higher floors. An elderly butler appeared on the first landing of the stairs and gestured for them to follow him. They climbed two flights to a long hallway and were ushered into a dimly lit meeting room with a long table in dark polished wood, and a dozen chairs around it. A bottle of spring water and a goblet were at each place.

  They sat down and waited silently for only a moment before another door opened and three ot
her men came in to sit opposite them at the table. Two wore officers’ uniforms of the Galenan Marine Corps, and the third, middle-aged, wore a black suit. The older man spoke first.

  “I hope you gentlemen had a pleasant trip.”

  The two young men opposite him nodded politely without a word.

  “No names are necessary, Azar. I don’t know these people. I’ve never seen them.”

  “I understand, Mister Ambassador,” said Azar Khalil. “I provided their lodging last night, but assume you’ll keep them here until the operation is complete. This is the last of the team members.” He smiled, and ran the long fingers of one hand through his thick, white hair.

  The ambassador made a phone call and a butler appeared. “This man will see you to your quarters, gentlemen.” He waved his hand in dismissal and the two young men went away with the butler. “Military assassins are sometimes necessary, but always disturbing. I’ve seen such cold, cold eyes before.” The ambassador sat down again and faced the man across from him.

  Internally, the Galenan Ambassador to Gan shuddered. There was something predatory about Azar Khalil. Like the young ones who’d arrived with him it was mostly the eyes, so dark brown they were nearly black, and wide-spaced in a gaunt, bloodless face. “The team will be housed here. There will be no further contact between us until after the evacuation of the team. In the meantime, our people will quietly circulate stories verifying your importance in the economic initiatives being made. It should help to cement relations with your colleagues so they’ll back you when the time comes.”

  “They support me now,” said Azar. “They depend on me.”

  The ambassador’s heart skipped a beat. “Dependence can change. An ally one minute can be an enemy the next. We’re depending on you to restore friendship between Gan and Galena, and to run a democratic state here. Don’t think for one minute that what’s about to happen to an hereditary Emperor can’t happen to you.” His face flushed in embarrassment at his own directness, but it was a thing that needed to be said. “Even The Church won’t lift a finger to help you if you fail us.”

  Azar blinked slowly. “Threats are not necessary, Mister Ambassador. I’ll not fail The Church, but enhance it. A democracy cannot function without a spiritual core for its people. The Church could not have existed without my support during increased oppression by the present regime. That oppression was a crime against the human spirit.” His voice raised in pitch with unusual passion for a man of his stature and influence.

  “I agree,” said the ambassador, “but we want stability here, and a stop to the proliferation of weapons of destruction. The Galenan market will give you more profits than you have now, and with only a fifth of your weapons production.”

  “I’ll devote many of my facilities to the reconstruction of Gan. There will be a home for every person. That is my promise. I know you don’t like me, Mister Ambassador. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s the way I’ve made my fortune. I do not crave power or fortune; I already have those things. What I do crave is the opportunity to better the lives of people subjected to the long rule of a selfish ruler, and I will do that if I’m given the chance. That alone is my ambition.”

  The black eyes narrowed, an intense stare the ambassador felt to the core of his soul. There was power in the man, and a will of steel. He would accomplish whatever he set out to do. But could he be controlled?

  “When it comes to the election we can do no more than support a candidate who will make you seem desirable to the common people. We can do nothing obvious to help.”

  “My organization is already in place, and a constitution is being written. We’ll be ready. Is there anything else?”

  “No. My staff has prepared a small lunch for us. The economic ministry has sent along a gift of flowers which grow from seed to maturity in days, and there’s a list of Galenan industries you might consider for the new construction on Gan.”

  Azar smiled. “I appreciate your hospitality, Mister Ambassador. You’re most kind.”

  A butler arrived without a command and led them to a small dining room with linen-covered tables where they had a meal of fish with mustard sauce and accompanied by white rice and delicious tea smelling like flowers. And then there was a gift of real flowers, large, orange blooms shaped like teacups on thick stalks covered with razor-edged thorns covered with thin plastic for safety. Their scent was delicate, with a hint of cinnamon. Azar accepted them graciously, but declined to discuss business, and took with him the documents sent by the Economic Ministry of Galena.

  Parting was friendly, though Azar knew the ambassador still harbored suspicions about him, but his good mood was shaken by what happened as he was getting back into his limousine. He’d been holding his flowery gift carefully, feeling their sharp points through the plastic wrap. As he leaned into the car his hand hit the top of the door, jolting the flowers from his grip. Instinctively he reached to grab them as they fell. His driver also reached for them, and they caught the flowers simultaneously, the driver pulling back as Azar gripped the stalks hard. Pain made him cry out as a thorn penetrated the wrapping and tore a horrible gash in the palm of his hand. Blood went everywhere, his clothes, the door, and the back seat of the car. His driver was near panic, and wanted to seek help in the embassy.

  Azar forbade it. “I’ll not embarrass my host, and you’ll say nothing about this accident. Just clean up the car when I’m home.”

  He wrapped his hand in a handkerchief and squeezed it hard. In a few minutes the handkerchief was soaked red in blood, but the pain was gone. The driver drove him home quickly, kept looking back, but Azar kept his hand down where he couldn’t see it. He ordered the man away and went inside the main house where a servant brought him water, bandages and gauze for his wound. By the time he washed it out the bleeding had stopped, and Azar thought he could see strands of undamaged tendon deep in the cavity. He wrapped it carefully, and retired to his study for work before and after a light dinner.

  Bedtime was early, since he habitually arose before sunrise. He unwrapped his hand, then, and inspected the wound. The cavity was completely filled with new tissue, and the edges of it were sealing before his eyes. There would soon be a scar, but that would be gone by morning.

  As he expected.

  The underground church of the faithful had survived for years by its own wits, and intelligence provided by the external community. Money also arrived regularly to fund their operations, delivered to cell headquarters in neatly packed cardboard boxes filled with used, unmarked currency. Best efforts had failed to locate the source of the funds, or to identify the callers from unlisted numbers who regularly fed them intelligence, particularly on movements and plans of the Emperor’s secret police. They’d been saved by this intelligence on several occasions, and had learned to trust it. They’d also learned not to question the monies they received to keep The Church alive. It was clear their benefactors were wealthy, highly placed citizens who in a clandestine way were expressing their belief and faith in The Source. Pet names had been developed for them over the years, the most active caller a man they called Faith, a man who’d himself suggested the name as a token of his commitment to The Source of All Energies.

  It was Faith who called near midnight only three weeks after Joseph had shot the traitor Abelius in the back of the head and become cell rector in his place. Joseph himself received the call.

  “Ah, Joseph, I have something important for you. For your ears only, as a soldier of The Church.”

  “I’m listening. No one is here with me at the moment.”

  “Another traitor has been found in our midst. His capture offers us the opportunity to strike the first blow for our freedom.”

  “A priest?”

  “No, a worker, a mechanic servicing trucks for another cell in your area. He somehow learned the locations of several garages for our transportation and was caught setting up an information drop with our old friend Fedor Quraiwan. He’s only blocks from your location.”

>   “So why call me? Kill the man, and be done with it.”

  “As you so efficiently did with your late colleague, a bit hastily perhaps. We missed an opportunity then to track down the location of Quraiwan’s intelligence center outside the palace and eliminate the man. Now we have another opportunity. My suggestion is we allow the man to make the drop and follow him or his contact to Quraiwan’s street headquarters. We know he routinely receives information before business hours in the morning. We thought he was using a cleaning establishment, but that has proven to be no longer true. This is a one-man operation, and requires a true Soldier of The Church.”

  “Me,” said Joseph.

  “That is correct. I’ll give you an address. If you leave now you’ll have time to interrogate the prisoner and go with him on the drop. If The Source is with you, Quraiwan will be dead before sunrise.”

  “He’ll only be replaced.”

  “That will not be so simple. The police will be in disarray for weeks. A revolution is coming, Joseph, and soon. You will fire the first shots in the war for our freedom.”

  “A suggestion, or an order?”

  There was a short pause, then, “If you wish, it is an order.”

  Joseph felt the short hairs stir on the back of his neck. “Then give me the address.”

  It was given, along with a signal for identity, and Joseph hung up without a reply. The coldness of the man’s voice was somehow gratifying, the willingness to kill for The Church, something he shared. He went to his room and selected a heavy caliber handgun, bulky, but balanced and vented to minimize recoil of the four-fifty-five caliber projectile.

  It was after midnight when he exited to an alley through a side door of the garage. He dressed in workman’s clothes: heavy overalls, heavy coat and a cap with a bill down to his eyebrows. The garage of the other cell was only blocks away, and he was there in ten minutes, keeping to side streets and alleyways. Next to a baffle, pull-down door was an entrance marked “Office.” He knocked softly on it, put his ear to the door and knocked again.