Arkship Prophecy

by Niel Bushnell

  RESOLUTIONS

  Halstead scrutinized the holograph, waiting until the arkship Prophecy had blipped away. Satisfied, he let out a long sigh, knowing his problems were just beginning. He surveyed the flight deck, finding Commander Watson talking to one of her lieutenants.

  ‘The Evanine and the Tanis report they’re ready to depart,’ Watson said formally. ‘Are we to resume our mining expedition to the Belt?’

  Halstead tensed, knowing he was committing himself to a difficult course of action. ‘No. We have a new mission.’

  Commander Watson tilted her head. ‘A new mission? To where?’

  Before Halstead could respond, the doors to the flight deck opened and Valine entered. He watched her circle the flight deck then, almost as an afterthought, she approached Halstead and Watson.

  She smiled tersely. ‘Any news on the investigation?’

  ‘Constable Fabien will report his findings in due course.’ Halstead replied.

  Valine nodded. ‘I’d like your permission to interrogate the family of the bomber personally. I believe my methods will be more effective than Fabien’s.’

  ‘There is no need.’

  ‘Surely there is every need. We have traitors in our midst. We must make every effort to stamp out this heresy.’ She spoke quickly, and Halstead had the sense that she had lost some of her typical control.

  Halstead watched her, trying to fathom her motives. ‘The investigation is already underway. Your input is not necessary.’

  Valine paused, as if she was debating the value of further protest, then she smiled. ‘As you wish. Unless you have need of me here, I’ll return to the Haukr and oversee the mining operation from there.’

  ‘Yes,’ Halstead said. ‘Do that. The Caerleon will join you there soon.’

  Her eyes bore into him. ‘You’re not coming?’

  ‘The Chief of the Engine Deck wants to run some tests first.’

  If Valine had questions, her face gave nothing away.

  ‘Anything you need assistance with?’ she asked.

  Halstead avoided her stare, turning to Commander Watson.

  ‘No,’ Watson said, staring at Valine. ‘Thank you.’

  There was an icy stalemate, a palpable air of tension, then Valine acknowledged the commander and Halstead, and turned to leave without another word.

  Commander Watson waited until the elevator doors had closed before speaking to the prince. ‘We’re running engine tests now?’

  ‘No,’ Halstead said in a whisper, as if Valine might somehow hear him. ‘I don’t want anyone to know where we’re going, not yet.’

  Watson nodded. ‘I’ll get the engine deck to run some tests anyway, be good to keep them on their toes. Once we know Valine is back on board the Haukr we can get underway.’

  Halstead smiled gratefully. Watson understood him and she didn’t need to pry further. She left his side, keen to break the bad news to the engine deck. Alone, Halstead watched the swirling clouds of dust out of the viewport window. Somewhere out there was Bara, hiding from the Church. He tried to picture her, wondering how the years had changed her face since the last time they had spoken. What would she think of him? Halstead tried to imagine how he had changed as well. The beard was new since she had seen him last. The first lines of middle age had cut into his face at the edge of his eyes. His hair line was raised at the temples, the first flecks of gray above his ears. He was still the prince she had once married, but he knew what she would think of him now. She would say he was a puppet of the Church, willing to do whatever they asked of him. And she’d be right. He had let himself be used in the name of peace. His people had suffered so much. He couldn’t put them through another war. Bara would say he had stopped fighting, and maybe she was right, but at least the House of Kenric and the House of Draig had lived in relative harmony for over a decade. He had fought for that instead. But now, as the drift of the stars hypnotized him, he wondered if he had picked the right side. He was the Church’s pawn, a man touched by the Infinite Gods, and it was too late to change sides, wasn’t it?

  There was only one course of action for him now: he would have to find Bara, persuade her to stop her battle with the Church, or risk losing both her and their son. He pushed the dark thoughts aside and contacted Constable Fabien, summoning him to the flight deck.

  Within five minutes the Constable arrived, bowing efficiently.

  ‘I have interviewed the suspect’s mother,’ Fabien said in his quite voice. ‘Her testimony has proven to be very insightful.’ There was something about his speech that drew Halstead closer to him.

  ‘How so?’ he asked.

  ‘Two years ago, Hinden was on board the Avonis Four . . .’

  As soon as Fabien mentioned the name of that fateful ship, the pieces began to fall into place. It was a small argo farm, one of the Kenric fleet’s food production ships. It had a crew of no more than fifty people. Families of farmers lived there for years at a time, tending the crops that helped to keep the rest of the fleet alive. There was nothing memorable about those little ships, but the Avonis Four was difficult to forget.

  ‘You will recall their Cube drive failure?’ Fabien asked the prince.

  Halstead nodded grimly. The Avonis Four had drifted off course, dropping straight into the middle of a fleet of Church arkships. The ship had been boarded and searched, the crew suffering at the hands of the Church’s Inquisitors.

  Fabien continued, checking off information from his pad. ‘Eight people were killed, including Hinden’s wife.’

  ‘That’s enough motivation to hate the Church,’ Halstead said, feeling frustrated.

  Fabien nodded his agreement. ‘The Church apologized for the incident, blaming the heightened tensions across the Cluster, but the damage was done. It seems that Hinden has struggled to come to terms with the loss of his wife. His anti-Church sentiment has grown in recent months.’

  ‘He shouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near the Scribe. Didn’t his psych report pick it up?’

  ‘It did. Low level post-traumatic stress. He’d been medicated, not thought to be a major concern.’

  Halstead frowned. ‘Still, he shouldn’t have been put on duty during the visit.’

  ‘I agree.’ Fabien drew out the last word, letting it linger.

  ‘So, was he acting alone? Seeking revenge for the death of his wife? Or is there more to this?’

  Fabien inhaled sharply, pondering the prince’s question. ‘On the surface, it looks to be the work of a lone suicide bomber, unable to deal with the Avonis Four incident. All the evidence points to a satisfactory conclusion.’

  Halstead sensed the Constable was far from satisfied.

  Fabien tapped on his pad. ‘But this man should not have been on duty. And his mother insists he would never kill another, not even in this extreme case, but she mentions changes in his behavior in recent months, more extreme views . . .’

  ‘Manipulation?’

  ‘There was no trace of drugs or stimulants in his remains but given the lack of a complete body to test, I must conclude that the pathology report could be misleading.’

  ‘I sense you wish to continue with your investigation?’ Halstead said.

  Fabien put down the pad and focused on the prince. ‘Yes. There are unanswered questions.’

  Halstead nodded, checking that no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. ‘I’d like you to look into any contact between Hinden and Valine.’

  Constable Fabien’s eyes narrowed. ‘The Admiral-of-the-fleet?’

  Halstead waited, his face like stone.

  ‘Very well,’ Fabien said.

  ‘Discreetly,’ Halstead added. ‘You will discuss this with me alone. No data records. Understand?’

  ‘Completely.’ He bowed, placing his pad into his jacket pocket, and turned to leave the flight deck.

  THE CHAIR

  Valine walked into the State Room on board the arkship Haukr. It was an imposing space, befitting of her predecessor, Orcades Drai
g, but it had fallen out of use since his death. Those days of grandeur and ceremony seemed like a fantasy, a fairytale told by old people to make children smile. The curtains and fittings were all gone now, even the statues of the Draig lineage had been quietly removed, making the room hollow and sterile. Just an empty space, nothing more.

  She walked across the floor, each footfall becoming a chorus of sad echoes that made her feel small and insignificant, towards the raised stage with its towering windows looking out to space. It was as if they had tamed that unforgiving wilderness and placed it in a tank, a curiosity for people to stare at in awe. Everything about this room was designed to make its occupants feel tiny and powerless, everything except the chair.

  It sat in the middle of the stage, atop a pyramid of steps that placed the feet of the chair at the same height as the congregations’ eyes. It was made of stone, gilded in precious metals with dazzling jewels set into its design. The back of the chair was elongated, reaching up to the distant ceiling, its broken surface designed to represent the very tendrils of the Infinite, as if the sitter was an offering from the Gods themselves. The long line of Draig leaders had their names carved into the back of the chair, ending with Orcades Draig. There was space above his name for more . . .

  Valine stopped at the base of the chair, marveling at the craftwork, letting her eyes trace the contours of its surface. She reached out and touched the cold stone and . . . nothing. She half expected it to sing, to resonate with some ethereal tone. But it was just a chair after all. Its power was in the beholders’ mind, generated by the telling of stories, by the legends of those who sat in it. She had forgotten the power of legends, she realized.

  Her feet found the first step, then the next and the next. She rose, closer and closer to the chair. Finally, she stood in front of it, equal to it, and turned to face her invisible audience. She could hear the roar, the cheers, the applause. She could see their rapturous faces, smiling at her, full of love and gratitude, and the lonely child inside her was finally at peace. She was their leader, their god, their mother, all in one. Valine smiled back at the throng, but she could no longer hear them, their faces harder to picture. She was alone.

  Her hands touched the arms of the chair and she lowered herself into it. It was hard and unyielding, making her its image. Her spine was fixed, her neck upright, her eyes raised above the forgotten crowd, towards the distant wall.

  ‘I am your Valtais,’ she muttered, her lips barely parting. ‘I am your leader.’

  She closed her eyes and felt her pain and grief and despair. She let the emotion pass, knowing she would be stronger in its aftermath, then she stood, leaving the chair behind. Her mind was clearer now, and she could see what needed to be done. The long patient game she had been playing would never work. The opportunity to ascend would never present itself to her; she would have to make that opportunity for herself. Just as she had always done.

  Halstead lived, and his suspicions endured. It would take more than a knife or a bomb to completely remove the prince and allow her to take his place. He was loved by his people. He was a legend, more than a man. If she wanted to kill the man, she would have to kill the legend first. Only disgrace could do that.

  Valine touched her wrist com and sent the message that had been forming in her mind for the last ten minutes. She waited, quietly pacing the room, until her com resonated with an incoming call. She smiled, waited, then answered. ‘Infinite blessings, Scribe.’

  ‘We are secure?’ the tiny face on the screen asked.

  ‘Triple locked,’ Valine replied. ‘We are secure.’

  The Scribe inhaled, smiling. ‘Very good. I am pleased that you have called me.’

  ‘Thank you for your time. I have a theological question that I hope you can answer.’ She paused, studying his face to make sure he understood.

  ‘I am here to help. Go on.’

  ‘I have prayed to the Infinite Gods for guidance,’ Valine said, ‘but they have not enlightened me. I wish to be of service to the Gods. I wish to do their work, but I see blasphemy at every turn. I see lies and deceit at the highest level, Scribe . . .’ She waited, her eyes down.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I am your faithful servant, Scribe. I wish the same was true of others . . .’

  The Scribe smiled paternally. ‘If others stand in the way of the Church, they must be cast aside.’

  ‘Then I have your blessing?’

  The Scribe’s eyebrows furrowed. ‘To do what?’

  Valine hesitated. ‘The Houses of Kenric and Draig deserve a righteous leader, one who embraces the teachings of the Church.’

  ‘True. Is that not Halstead?’ Mori asked. Was he testing her?

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘He has lost his way.’

  ‘He is the chosen one of the Infinite Gods,’ Scribe Mori replied, his voice raised. ‘Is your judgement keener than that of the Gods?’

  ‘No . . . no, of course not. Forgive me.’ Valine cursed inwardly, realizing she had misread the Scribe’s loyalties. Her hand was exposed now.

  ‘The Infinite Gods know all. However . . .’ the Scribe said quietly. ‘I am concerned for Halstead’s welfare. I have requested that citizens loyal to the Church be registered, but I feel that he does not have the appetite to fully commit to this. So long as Halstead follows the will of the Church, he should remain as leader. But . . . if he strays from our guidance, he would be no better than the heretics who oppose us. If that were to happen . . . well, we’d need a new leader, wouldn’t we?’ The Scribe stroked his chin, watching her through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ Valine replied, her heart thumping in her chest.

  ‘Good. I hope you will keep me informed?’

  Valine nodded.

  ‘Infinite blessings, child,’ the Scribe said, his hand already moving to break the link.

  ‘And upon you,’ Valine replied, but the screen was blank. She cursed her lack of planning. She had been lucky this time, but Valine knew better than to rely on luck. She had to regain control. She contacted the hanger deck and ordered her shuttle to prepare for immediate launch.

  TRADE

  ‘There they are. Three Merred arkships docked at a mining station,’ Captain Beric explained.

  Bara stepped closer to the holograph, turning the image with her hand. The drone’s ident stamp told her this image was four hours old, taken from a distance of twelve thousand kilometers.

  ‘They’re beasts!’ Galen gasped.

  ‘I think the boy means they’re large,’ Beric said impatiently.

  Lieutenant Thomas leaned into the glare of the holograph, fracturing the image into a cloud of pixels. As it reformed, she said. ‘We don’t know much about Merred vessels, but these are over two thousand meters long with a fleet of defensive gunships patrolling in groups of six. They outgun us, three to one.’

  ‘I’m interested in their engines,’ Bara said, isolating one of the arkships, adjusting the holograph image so that its drive section filled the air.

  ‘They’re Boswell-HQL engine stacks, mark nine manifolds arranged in tandem,’ Thomas said.

  ‘No . . .’ Bara pushed closer to the scan, studying it with professional interest. ‘They’re not mark nines. Look, they have M9 casings, but the feed inducers are completely different. These are mark twelves disguised to look like mark nines.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’ Galen asked.

  ‘To fool anyone like us. The mark twelves’ fuel conversion ratio is twice that of the mark nines. They’re much more efficient, more maneuverable . . .’

  ‘Faster?’ Galen checked.

  Bara smiled. ‘Yes, faster. Much faster. And it might explain why they’re having problems. That sort of configuration will be overstressing the engine stacks.’

  ‘So, you know how to help them?’ Galen asked.

  ‘I know what the problem is, that’s all. I’d have to go over there and see for myself before I can figure out how to fix it.’ Bara glanced from the holograph to
Captain Beric. ‘How long till we’re in scanner range?’

  Beric checked his console. ‘Another eighteen minutes. We’ll be on com range–’

  ‘Incoming!’ Lieutenant Thomas cried as an alarm sounded.

  The flight deck came alive with activity as warning alarms began to overlap. ‘Six gunships just dropped out of Cube space.’ Beric shouted. ‘They have us surrounded.’

  ‘Take no action,’ Bara demanded. ‘Put me on com.’

  The lieutenant activated the communication system and passed a handset to Bara.

  ‘This is Bara Delaterre of the House of Dulac on board the arkship Benwick. We bring you peaceful greetings.’

  A voice thundered out of the speakers. ‘You are in Merred territory. You will leave immediately.’

  ‘Acknowledged, Merred vessel, but we can offer assistance with your engine problem. We have a lot of experience with the mark twelves.’

  Bara switched off the com. ‘Begin a slow retreat.’

  ‘You’re not confident?’ Beric asked.

  ‘Cautious.’

  The arkship began to turn, the view shifting in a languid arc.

  ‘. . . Hold position, Benwick,’ the hard voice ordered.

  Bara grinned, nodding to the captain to kill their motion. ‘We’ve got their attention.’

  ‘Is that good?’ Galen asked, chewing on his thumbnail.

  ‘Be positive,’ Bara grinned. She was playing a dangerous game but there was little point in worrying her son further. She returned her focus on the holograph, waiting.

  ‘We’re station-keeping,’ Thomas said quietly.

  Several minutes passed in silence, then the com system cracked with static.