Graveyard of Empires

by Lincoln Cole

“Are we going into space?”

  “We are already in space,” Vivian replied.

  Traq looked up in surprise. “I didn’t feel anything…”

  “It’s a decent ship.”

  Traq closed his eyes and tried to see if anything felt different. The floor was vibrating more, but everything else seemed the same.

  “I can’t leave?”

  Vivian shook her head.

  “Is my mom coming?”

  Again, Vivian only shook her head.

  Traq couldn’t help it. He started crying. She was silent for a moment, and then said, “The restroom is through the cockpit to the left. Stay out of the engine room.” When she saw he didn’t understand, she stepped back and pointed to the ladder. “Don’t go down there. At least not until I can show you what is safe.”

  “Is this my room?”

  A slight smirk curled the edges of her lips. “This is the cargo hold. You’ll use the room on the left once I clean it out. It’s where I store medical supplies. Go and shower, and when you come back I’ll have your room ready. You can sleep. We’ll be arriving on Mali soon, so get plenty of rest. Any last questions?”

  Traq rubbed his eyes and looked up. “Why am I here?”

  Vivian didn’t respond. She just stared, those dark gray eyes studying him. He tried to stare back but couldn’t. He ended up looking down at his hands, wondering if he had made her mad. When he looked up, she was gone.

  Chapter 10

  Sector 1 – Axis

  Abdullah Al Hakir

  1

  “What we waitin’ for?”

  “The new Captain,” Abdullah replied quietly, waving his hand for his companion to lower his voice. “She’s supposed to arrive today and assume command of the Fist.”

  He glanced around the conference hall, making sure none of the well-dressed and bored looking officers were listening in on their conversation. No one was. Good.

  The Bridge Officers were all engaged in their own conversations or milling about with annoyed expressions on their faces. It didn’t seem anyone was interested in what he or Mikael had to say. And why would they be?

  Abdullah ran a hand across his short stubble of hair and blinked, trying to ignore the hum of overhead lights and hushed conversations. He was miserable, but he didn’t dare show it.

  So what the hell am I doing here?

  Most of the officers in the conference hall were taller than he was, built thinner and more athletic. But that didn’t bother him. He could take any two of them in a fight. What did bother him was their professional standing onboard Denigen’s Fist. To say they outranked him would be a monumental understatement, which was what had him on edge and sweating. These were the Fist’s highest ranking officers, the kind that never left the Command Deck, and he was little more than an enlisted man.

  For him to be rubbing elbows with the elite seemed unreasonable. No, it didn’t just seem unreasonable, it was unreasonable. They knew it too. They gave him and his friend Mikael—another enlisted man not usually invited to important ceremonies like this—a wide berth and cruel glares, refusing even casual association.

  They seemed to take Abdullah being invited as a slight on their honor. Maybe it was. But when Abdullah received that personal invitation from the new Captain two days ago, he didn’t dare refuse.

  “Are we s’posed to eat the food?” Mikael asked. With his thick Daer accent, the word food sounded more like fudd, but Abdullah had no trouble understanding him. They’d been casual friends for a few months now.

  He would have preferred to have Eddie with him—Eddie grew up in this lifestyle, so he wouldn’t be out of sorts—but he would take what he could get. At least, he had Mikael to watch his back.

  “What?” Abdullah asked, distracted.

  “The food. Do ya think they’d be offended if…?”

  Abdullah chuckled. “Why would they set out food if we weren’t supposed to eat it?”

  “Iono, I was just thinkin’…”

  He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Abdullah understood completely. It felt like they were being watched, their every movement sized up and judged. The feeling came from the officers, sure, but it was more than that. The opinions of these men didn’t bother Abdullah much. They were several classes above him on the social and military ladder, sure, but after today, he would probably never see them again.

  But the Captain…

  These Bridge Officers could have Abdullah kicked out the fleet, possibly with a dishonorable discharge, if he pissed them off. But Captain Kristi Grove could have Abdullah killed. And if she did, no one would speak a word of objection.

  “I’m sure it’s fine to eat,” Abdullah mumbled, gesturing toward a group milling near the table. “See? They’re eating. I doubt anyone would even notice if we tried the finger foods.”

  A long moment passed.

  “I’m not hungry,” Mikael decided.

  Abdullah almost laughed, but in his current state of anxiety-bordering-on-terror he thought he might sound hysterical. He kept his mouth shut, focusing on the other officers instead. Some he recognized—Rodriguez Montes, the Lieutenant Commander, Patrick Dalent, Master of Gunnery—but many more he didn’t know at all.

  Even in his awe of the circumstances Abdullah had to admit a lump of bile and disdain at the back of his throat. These gathered men and women all had two things in common. First they all came from well-to-do families in the Core that bought their way through school, training, and into their current ranks.

  The second was that they had too high an opinion of themselves. They avoided enlisted crewman as if they were plague carriers. A good leader, Abdullah knew, would seek out those under his charge and develop a relationship. These officers kept to themselves with pretentious dignity. It was as though God himself had given them their station on board Denigen’s Fist.

  But the worst part was that, in a certain way, Abdullah had to admit it felt that way. They had the First Citizen backing their every move, and the First Citizen represented the opinion—loosely as only a dictator can—of trillions of people. The haughtiness of such spoiled nobility was fully justified and proudly displayed.

  “Who’s the new Captain?” Mikael asked, clipping the word Captain to become Cap’n.

  “A woman named Kristi,” Abdullah answered. He’d heard a lot about her in the last few weeks, but the reports were nothing more than conflicting rumors. Those rumors quickly became folk tales, and already the new Captain was eight feet tall and a butcher.

  Some claimed she was beautiful and generous. Others said that she was horribly scarred from long years fighting and terrible to look upon. Laser bolts out of her ass when she farted had even come up on occasion. Other people thought she was just a normal woman, maybe a mother and probably a good leader. Abdullah knew the power of prejudice and how it could affect relationships, so he reserved judgment until he met her personally.

  Something he never really expected to do.

  “Why ain’t she ‘ere?”

  “Her ship hasn’t arrived.”

  “But then why’d she call this meetin’ already? Why not wait ‘til she gets ‘ere?”

  “We aren’t going to question our Commanding Officer,” Abdullah said roughly, scanning the conference hall again to make sure no one overheard the last bit. He took Mikael roughly by the arm and stared the scrawny man in the eyes. “And if you say another word like that, I’ll have no choice but to report you for misconduct.”

  Mikael was taller than Abdullah and had creamy blond hair and blue eyes. His skin was pockmarked, his eyes sunken and bloodshot. Mikael had a piercing intelligent expression, but it was often vacant from the Limpid White he so enjoyed losing himself in. Abdullah knew that if he rolled Mikael’s sleeves up he’d find dozens of track marks.

  Abdullah had been friends with Mikael for months. The scrawny drug addict was brilliant with technology and had saved Abdullah’s ass more than once with deadlines by fixing his data pads. But if Mikael wasn’t going to ke
ep his rambling mouth shut he would get himself into trouble. And if that happened Abdullah might get in trouble just by proxy.

  The tension and anxiety of waiting around was wearing on the entire group. It had been four hours of waiting on edge in a cramped conference hall. Even seasoned veterans of on-ship politics were struggling to remain patient. More than a few had begun pacing.

  Whoever Kristi was, she was trying to make an impression.

  He eyed Mikael for a long minute and then pointed once more at the table of food. It was piled high with a variety of expensive delicacies. Most of them were local from planets near Axis, but some were rare delicacies from smaller worlds out in Sectors Two and Three.

  “Let’s get some food,” Abdullah said, “and stop worrying about the wait.”

  Mikael itched his arm and seemed about to respond. Instead, he wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and nodded, following Abdullah to the table. They loaded plates up with finger food and nibblers and poured themselves glasses of a blushing sweet wine.

  Their last Captain—Schmidt—would have balked at the idea of anyone drinking on board Denigen’s Fist at all, let alone on duty. But wine was the only offered beverage at the table, the spread lacking even water. Abdullah wondered if that was a test to see who would drink a prohibited beverage, but he shrugged the idea away. It sounded like a rather petty method of judgment, and it was more likely Kristi simply didn’t stigmatize the beverage as much as her predecessor.

  They had just arrived back to their corner of the hall when the green double doors opened. Abdullah quickly set his plate down on a nearby polished table, finishing a cracker smothered with green paste and chasing it with a mouthful of wine before snapping to attention.

  The officers formed two lines facing the door, subconsciously ranking themselves from left to right per actual position on the ship. Abdullah and Mikael were at the far right in the back line.

  Abdullah smelled his breath and cursed, suddenly angry for eating the food. The paste was thick with garlic and hot spices.

  The entourage poured in: first through the door were a pair of uniformed men—standard grey-blue, but without the emblem of the Fist on their sleeves—carrying a heavy wooden pedestal. They placed it in front of the wall.

  Once they were finished they disappeared to a back corner of the room. A stream of important looking individuals came in next.

  They were led by a tall woman in a dark gray uniform with flowing silver hair and a smooth face. She carried herself with impressive dignity. The other people in her congregation seemed timid in comparison. That must be Captain Grove, Abdullah decided.

  She walked to beside the platform but didn’t climb atop. Instead, she folded her hands behind her back and stared at the line of twenty officers gathered before her. Another man with a thick belly and balding head climbed onto the pedestal. He had gold-rimmed glasses and was holding a data pad in hand. He had a baby face and looked to be sweating.

  The other ten members of the procession filtered to the sides.

  The fat man looked bored, waiting for everyone to finish settling down. A floating metal disc hovered in the air nearby, recording everything so that the rest of the crew could watch the ceremony later.

  It was a full minute before he spoke.

  “On behalf of his Esteemed Grace the First Citizen Jozef Benedict, the Third of his name, I declare this vessel to be under the Command of Captain Kristi Harkin Grove. With God as my witness may it be so.”

  The man waited after speaking, holding the data pad against his chest and eyeing the congregation slowly. It was as if he was waiting for someone to question the edict…or to catch his breath. It was hard to tell which.

  Finally, he spoke again, finishing the second half of the well-known declaration, “With the will of the Republican people I hereby welcome Captain Kristi Harkin Grove to Imperial Vessel TX-55219, so-named Denigen’s Fist. May she serve the people of our worlds with the dignity and diligence so deserved.”

  Abdullah ignored the speech—he’d seen it hundreds of times on vid—and focused instead on the woman. Her face was rigid and body tense. She looked to be in incredible athletic shape. Captain Schmidt had spent more time eating than exercising, huffing and puffing from the mild walk from his quarters to the bridge.

  Abdullah didn’t think this Captain would have a similar issue. She seemed relaxed through the declaration, eyeing the crew with only mild curiosity. He doubted she would even say anything today. These transfer of power ceremonies were formality more than anything else.

  And now that it was over he felt the tension slipping away. It was done, nothing had gone awry, and Abdullah could relax. She must have invited Abdullah and Mikael here just to show that she was different. Captain’s always wanted to differentiate themselves from their peers.

  Kristi must want to impress the enlisted men. Having low ranked people in the crowd said she wasn’t only going to cater to her high ranking commanders. She would, of course, cater to them exclusively. But it was always good PR to make it seem like she was shaking up the status quo.

  In a few minutes, the ceremony would be concluded and the group dismissed. Then it would just be waiting for orders to come in.

  Normally Abdullah would hear that speech played over the intercom. It would play three times—once for each rotation of guards—over the next day and that would be the end of it.

  This was the first time he’d actually seen the Pass of Command performed outside a televised recording. They were always so dull on vids, and he was depressed to find out that they were just as dull—

  “Lieutenant Commander Rodriguez Montes, Corporal Mikael Wilson, and Sister Portia Nace step forward,” the announcer on the pedestal said suddenly. His voice cut the silence with a sharp edge, ripping Abdullah from his thoughts. A few of the other officer’s exchanged glances and Abdullah blinked.

  What…?

  He hadn’t been expecting anyone to be singled out during the ceremony. That never, ever happened. He glanced over at his terrified friend: Mikael was wide-eyed with his mouth hanging open.

  Abdullah made a clicking noise at him. Mikael glanced at him, and Abdullah nodded toward the front. Go, he mouthed.

  Mikael nodded, his eyes as big as saucers. He gingerly pushed past the front rank officers and followed Rodriguez and Portia to the front. They stood in a line before the podium at attention. None of them looked comfortable, and no one seemed to know what was going on.

  Abdullah noticed one of the members of Kristi’s entourage step to the side and walk behind the three named guests. He took position between the three and the rest of the officers, facing forward.

  To his credit, Mikael didn’t glance around, staying perfectly still.

  The announcer turned to face the first man in the line, Rodriguez. “Lieutenant Commander Rodriguez Montes, you have been charged with the crime of selling goods and property of his Holy Grace the First Citizen without permission or knowledge. You have been found guilty of said crime, as well as the crime of consorting with disreputable traders on the planets Daer and Vinn. Your punishment, as per Military edict one-fourteen-dash-twelve, is death.”

  The hush that fell over the room was palpable. There was a hesitance in the room as Rodriguez looked up slowly.

  “Wh…what?” he asked, the word barely above a whisper.

  A flash of motion broke the hesitation. The man behind the three officers drew a small pistol from a hip holster and placed it against the back of Rodriguez’s head. The motion was smooth, well-practiced. There was a small pop—the weapon was small caliber—and Rodriguez collapsed to the floor. Blood pooled gently out of the wound.

  His body twitched once, then went still.

  The crowd held its collective breath, stunned. They had no choice but to stare in morbid fascination. They came unarmed, as per instructions, but even if they all had assault rifles at the moment they wouldn’t dare use them. Not against their Commanding Officer.

  Even as she killed on
e of them.

  Mikael didn’t share their hesitation. He turned and tried to flee, but just as fast he was grabbed and held in place by two members of the Captain’s entourage. He was begging and struggling but couldn’t break free.

  Rodriguez’s lifeless body was ignored.

  “No, please! I have children!” Mikael lied. “I have a family…”

  “Corporal Mikael Wilson,” the announcer began, ignoring his pleas, “you are found guilty of the crime of ingesting and injecting illegal substances banned by Military edict seven-dash-four-twenty-six while serving actively in the military for the First Citizen Jozef Benedict the Third of his Name. The punishment for this crime is death.”

  The gun went up, and this time, the pop made Abdullah wince. Mikael was a drug addict, but he was also a friend. Abdullah couldn’t object, though. Not if he wanted to stay alive.

  But it still hurt watching him die. Mikael was the only friendly face in the room, and he’d never done anything wrong to anyone.

  What the hell is happening? Abdullah wondered. This definitely isn’t standard operating procedure. He’d never heard of anyone being killed at a Pass of Command Ceremony. It was unthinkable.

  Only a few minutes had passed since Captain Grove walked on deck, and already Abdullah’s world was turned on its head.

  It felt like he was wandering through a dream. This couldn’t be real. The gathered enforcers and executioner adjusted to box Sister Portia Nace in. She was shivering and moaning but hadn’t tried to flee. She was muttering something, a prayer or chant, too low for Abdullah to hear.

  “Sister Portia Nace,” the announcer said, slower this time. “You have sworn your life to the Holy Ministry on behalf of his Eminent Grace the First Citizen and his Minister Givon Mielo. Your crimes are blaspheming against the Ministry and holding faith in false idols.”

  “I haven’t!” she cried. “I would never stray the faith!”

  Abdullah could only see the woman from behind, but he knew her rather well. Her rank on the ship meant nothing to the overall hierarchy. She answered to no one but the Minister. She was his Envoy, a coveted and well-respected woman, beloved by the crew. She was the spiritual leader of the Fist’s onboard Ministry, often leading in weekly prayers.