THE DARK ASCENT
WALTER H. HUNT
THE DARK ASCENT
Copyright © 2004 by Walter H. Hunt
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010
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Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN 0-765-34982-5 EAN 978-0765-34982-8
eISBN: 978-1-61824-894-7
First edition: August 2004
First mass market edition: August 2005
Printed in the United States of America
0987654321
Digital Edition by Baen Books
http://www.baen.com
This book is dedicated to the following people:
To my wife and best friend, Lisa, who continues to be first in my heart;
To my daughter, Aline, who knows the names of all of Dad's books already;
To my older brother, Raymond, whose interest in my writing career has brought us closer together; and
To my friend and fellow writer Rob Sawyer—thanks for all your help and support.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my editor, Brian Thomsen. His efforts have made my work better in every instance.
Thanks to Fred Iannelli, whose original vision helped me imagine what it looks like within the gyaryu.
And, in particular, thanks to Christine Aebi, who has been copy editor on The Dark Wing, The Dark Path, and now The Dark Ascent. The length of the manuscript has been the least of her problems: She's had to deal with alien languages and speech patterns, military terminology, and more details than I can keep track of. After her stellar work, you can rest assured that any omissions, inaccuracies, or errors in the final manuscript are due to my own oversight.
Author's Note
The Highspeech contains words that are used as modes of address between individuals. These words consist of two or three letters when translated into Standard. These words are called "prenomen" and indicate not only the status of the person being addressed (or referred to), but also the relationship of the speaker to that person.
Prenomen have two forms. One is used when the addressee or subject is alive, and the other when the person is dead. The prenomen used in the series are described below.
se, si. This is the standard mode of address between individuals when they are of equal status or unknown to each other, si is used when referring to or addressing a deceased person, se and si are also used to address a person of lesser status.
ge, gi. This mode is used to describe a lover, usually in a nonaffectionate or pejorative manner. It is also used colloquially to address a person of significantly lower status, such as a servant (or non-zor), though this form is archaic. This usage can often lead to duels and challenges.
ha, ha'i. This mode is used when addressing a person of superior status (other than the High Lord or a person of equivalent status, such as the Solar Emperor). The person thus addressed will usually respond using the se form.
le, li. le is used between intimates as a term of genuine affection. It is permitted only when a relationship is acknowledged by both parties; otherwise it can be cause for challenge, li is only used when referring to or addressing a dead mate.
hi, hi'i. This mode is used when addressing the High Lord of the People. It has also been adopted for use when addressing the Solar Emperor, though the standard usage is with the prenomen and title, e.g., "hi Emperor," rather than the given name, hi'i is used when referring to a deceased High Lord, and is generally accompanied by a wing-position of honor to esLi.
na, ni. This mode refers to a Servant of esGa'u. It is used only rarely, often in literature, ni indicates that the person is deceased.
ra, ri. This mode, similar to the na form, is used to address important servants of esGa'u, usually Shrnu'u HeGa'u. It is similar to the ha form. The ri construction is almost never used, as the notion of such a Servant being considered dead is difficult to encompass.
Prologue
The starship Trebizond had just begun its eighth sweep of the volume near the Orionward jump point when its mass-radar registered something that defied description.
"What the hell—" Captain Richard Abramowicz began, watching the jump-echo resolve itself on his pilot's board. "Rhea, confirm that all systems are functional."
Rhea Salmonson, the watch helm officer, didn't turn around. She gestured over the console and an image of the surroundings appeared above, showing two huge jump-disturbances thirty thousand kilometers downrange. A dozen smaller ones appeared as she watched, mirrored in the board in front of Captain Abramowicz.
She looked at the board in front of her. "All systems are functional, Captain," Salmonson said.
"Beat to Quarters," Abramowicz said instantly, and ordered a course change, aiming the Trebizond for the gravity well.
Several more transponder codes appeared on the pilot's board. They moved in tight formation as they emerged from jump, tracking the Trebizond's course and accelerating to intercept it.
"Commodore, take a look at this."
Jonathan Durant, commander of Adrianople Starbase, looked up from the engineering station. His exec, and the current Officer of the Watch, Arlen Mustafa, was standing beside the pilot's board; he'd focused on a volume near the Orionward jump point that hadn't been updated for several minutes.
The pilot's board for a starbase the size of Adrianople was several times larger than that of a fleet carrier. Instead of just keeping track of squadrons of fighters, a starbase board had to monitor the large amount of traffic transiting a planetary system. Adrianople was busier than most: It was an anchor for the Imperial Grand Survey.
"Have you run a diagnostic?"
"Nothing wrong at this end, sir," Mustafa answered. "The monitor station's deep-radar isn't transmitting at the Orionward jump point."
"Increase the range on adjacent sectors. We'll lose some resolution, but it'll give us coverage until we can get something out there to repair it."
"Aye-aye, sir," Mustafa said. "Switching." He gestured at the console and the volume display went blank and then slowly began to update.
"Let's get a tech crew out there next watch and . . . What the hell are those?"
As Durant watched, the display resolved to show two unidentified transponder codes. The mass-radar, registering the jump-echo and the distortion of local space, showed figures that made no sense. As he watched, the display updated to show at least twenty smaller echoes all moving at high relative velocities and descending into the gravity well.
"Who's on duty out there?" Durant asked, reading the figures. The two large echoes massed more than two million tons and more than three kilometers long.
"Trebizond, sir."
"Find her." Durant called up a display above the engineering station. Adrianople was expecting reinforcements shortly; a task force under the command of Admiral César Hsien was due within the next few Standard days, but there wasn't much on-station right now.
There hadn't been any need. Adrianople was a quiet posting; nothing but Exploration Service ships—certainly enough to fight pirates, but against something like this . . .
Durant had read Laperriere's report. Duke William, the First Lord, hadn't wanted to show it to him at all—"part of the court-martial inquiry," he'd said—but relented, finally, after sending Hsien along with most of what had come back from Cicero to Denneva for refit. Durant had found it just as hard to believe as the First Lord did. Still, it was clear that the High Nest believed it.
Now the High Chamberlain was gone; the First Lord was gone; most of Durant's operational tonnage was outsystem—with orders
to return to base as soon as possible, to be sure, but outsystem nonetheless. The only recent arrivals had been a team of scientists from the Shiell Institute on New Chicago, here to look at the alien gear recovered from Cicero when Laperriere had gotten out of there.
Most of a century of peace had taught commanding officers to be cautious but not indecisive. Durant reviewed his assets, such as they were, and his options.
One thing he knew for sure: He couldn't do what Laperriere had done. Even if he were willing, he wouldn't have the chance.
"Arlen," he said, "set up a comm to every ship in the volume. Trebizond, especially, if you can locate her. Ten minutes. I'll be in my ready-room."
"Still tracking us, Skip," Lieutenant Rhea Salmonson said. "The two big bogeys are still headed insystem." The Trebizond had been under way for twenty minutes; comm hadn't been able to reach Adrianople Starbase . . . some sort of broad-spectrum interference.
They were alone—except for ten unknown vessels following them as they moved across the outermost orbital. The Trebizond could bear on the nearest of its pursuers but probably couldn't hold out against all ten—and they were closing. Still, they hadn't opened fire. Abramowicz considered the possibility that the bogeys didn't have the range. If that were so, then it likely wouldn't be true much longer—and if it was not so, then it didn't make a damn bit of sense.
He looked aside from the pilot's board and saw his WS4 come down the ramp from the lift. Trebizond hadn't had a Sensitive on board until recently; Abramowicz had read the regs on Sensitives but didn't know much past that.
"Reporting as ordered, Captain," the WS4 said, saluting.
"Mr. Trang," Abramowicz said. "You're up-to-date on our tactical situation?" Vo Trang was a Regular Navy man who had turned up with Sensitive abilities. He'd been trained as a gunnery officer, Abramowicz recalled that.
"I am sir."
"Can you, er, feel anything?"
"I have . . . yes sir. Since we changed course, sir, I have been hearing . . ."
"'Hearing'?"
"Yes sir." For the first time, Abramowicz noticed sweat on the other man's forehead. Some of the other officers on the bridge had looked away from their stations, attracted by the conversation between their captain and the Sensitive. The usual chatter had vanished, making the bridge suddenly quiet.
"Helm report," Abramowicz snapped, more to break the tension than anything else.
"Unchanged, Skip," Salmonson answered. "Nearest enemy vessel is twenty-two thousand six hundred kilometers downrange, still accelerating."
"What have you been hearing, Mr. Trang?"
"Voices, sir. I am . . . It—they—want me to listen to them. I can hardly . . ." He rubbed his forehead with the heel of one hand. "As they get closer it becomes harder to ignore them."
"What would happen if you listened?"
"Please don't order me to do so, Captain." Trang's eyes filled with anger—or fear, perhaps? Abramowicz couldn't tell. "No sir, I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why would that be?"
"I'm . . . I'm not sure just why, sir. But I'm not sure they'd let me go."
"You'd best explain yourself, mister."
Trang said nothing. He looked defiantly at the captain for a moment, and then down at the deck.
Abramowicz shrugged. "The voices are coming from the bogeys."
"I believe so, Captain."
"You're saying that whatever is aboard those ships . . ." Abramowicz gestured at the pilot's board in front of him, and the tac display dissolved to a representation of the nearest alien vessel: a big ungainly thing, irregular in shape, with an equally irregular defensive field signature. " . . . whatever it is, can project Sensitive abilities more than twenty thousand kilometers—enough to make you believe that it'd get hold of you and not let go."
"Yes sir."
"What would you estimate to be a safe distance?"
"Captain?" Trang turned partially away to look at the slowly updating image on the pilot's display.
"How far away do we have to be, for you to be safe?"
"I'm not sure, Captain. I think—"
Whatever it was that Vo Trang thought, however, had become immaterial. As the Sensitive turned to face Abramowicz, whatever had been behind those eyes was abruptly replaced.
"Trang?" the captain of the Trebizond asked.
"It is easier for you to pronounce," Trang's voice said, "than the name I actually bear. This vessel resisted our k'th's's for longer than we expected."
"What the hell is a k'th—"
"Irrelevant," said Trang, or whatever was speaking with Trang's voice. "What is relevant, Captain, is that you listen carefully."
"And if I don't?" Abramowicz gestured toward the Marine sergeant near the gunnery station; but he—like everyone else on the bridge other than himself and the Sensitive standing beside the pilot's seat—was immobile and staring off into nowhere.
Trang shrugged. "Then you will die and we will find another. You are not important, Captain Abramowicz. This meat-creature through whom we speak has value. You will merely be food for the k'th's's.
"Nonetheless, we have no orders to terminate you and will not do so if you listen carefully and do as you are told. You have one Standard minute to decide."
More than twenty holo-images hung in the air over Durant's ready-room table. None of them belonged to Rich Abramowicz—though Arlen Mustafa had located the Trebizond as soon as it came within detection range of another monitoring station. It was headed into the gravity well, with a fair number of hounds of hell behind it.
"I want your undivided attention," Durant said to the images. "Your mass-radar should show incoming hostiles. A couple of them are . . . Well, nothing in Adrianople System is a match for them. Nonetheless they're here. I've prepared and sent a comm-squirt to Denneva informing them of our situation and sending our most current data.
"I've already dispatched Eurydice and Aragon toward the gas giant currently at opposition to the Orionward jump point. Their orders are to observe but not engage." Each of the three captains acknowledged with a gesture or a nod.
"What about Trebizond?" asked one of the other captains— Darrin Feng of the Arcadia, Trebizond's sister ship.
"We haven't been able to establish comm contact with Trebizond. There's no indication of weapons fire, but clearly something is preventing her from raising us.
"Based on . . . what we know of the enemy, I am ordering all of you to stand off from Trebizond."
"And let her die?" Feng asked. Others muttered assent.
She may already be dead, Durant thought to himself. And so are we.
As they watched, the mass-radar showed Trebizond changing course and speed as her pursuers closed in. The ship's defensive fields suddenly dispersed, leaving her undefended.
Not a single shot had been fired.
As soon as Abramowicz had nodded his assent, Vo Trang collapsed to the deck. Suddenly everything was in motion; people all over the bridge found themselves doing whatever they'd been doing three minutes earlier, when Vo Trang had been . . . taken over.
"Dr. Ellis to the bridge," Abramowicz said to comm. "Helm, change course," he added, a chill in his voice. He named a new heading and speed. Rhea Salmonson spun to look at him, her eyes full of alarm, but he nodded. "Do it."
"Bridge, this is Hafner," came the voice of his exec. "I'm in Engineering—we're being grappled! Skipper, do you read?"
"Come up topside, Kit," he said. "I know we're being grappled. And we're about to be boarded."
"What the hell?"
"Topside, Commander. On the double—that's a direct order." If you want to live, he thought to himself, crouching down to check on his WS4. Trang was unconscious, but seemed to be breathing normally. Whatever had taken him, seemed to have let him loose.
"Drop your fields," Trang's voice said, though his eyes didn't open.
Abramowicz fell back in alarm, bracing his fall with one hand.
"Captain—"
"Do it," Abr
amowicz said, gritting his teeth. "Drop the fields."
"Captain," Salmonson said, looking toward him, "we're in a hell of a crossfire. If we drop our fields we're dead."
"We're dead if we don't. Tell them," he said, grabbing the unconscious Sensitive by the shoulders and shaking him. "Tell them, damn it!"
Trang's eyes opened, and his lips formed into a half-smile. "Very well. You will be spared if you follow my instructions exactly. Drop your defensive fields and prepare to receive a . . . deputation."
Abramowicz lowered Trang to the deck. Somewhere within Trang's eyes, he could see fear and horror.
"Disperse the fields," Abramowicz repeated. His order was carried out. On the pilot's board, he could see one of the enemy ships closing to dock with his shuttle bay.
"When your deputation is aboard, will you let him go?"
"Since you are being so cooperative," Trang's voice said, "the answer is yes."
Trang's head lolled over onto its side, his eyes rolling up in his head. Abramowicz checked for a pulse—first at his wrist, then his neck—but there was nothing to find.
Eurydice's forward screen showed more detail than its captain truly wanted to see.
Amir Abu Bakr, whose uncle owned a quarter of Imperial Oahu (and rented it to courtiers at outrageous prices), had sought—and found—one of the quietest posts in the Solar Empire: captain of a Grand Survey ship near the Orionward edge. At least, it had been quiet—until the commander of Cicero Base had turned up with what was left of her command, then headed off on a zor starship for who-knew-what errand. Since then it had been drills and inspections, not to mention General Quarters every time the Eurydice was deployed.
Which had been damn near never. At least since Laperriere had come. And gone.
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