Chapter Six
Eight-hundred years ago, long before humanity had reached the stars, the Nomari Nebula had been the site of one of the most pivotal battles in galactic history. Here the mighty fleets of the Tarreen Empire and the Elari Collective had clashed for the first time, and their ongoing struggle had ultimately defined the first two centuries of interstellar politics. Eventually the Empire had triumphed conquered the bulk of the inhabited galaxy.
It wasn’t until many centuries later in this same spot that the Seraph, ostensibly the first human psychic, had led a small force of psionically-powered ships against a vast imperial armada. Her resulting victory had sparked a galaxy-wide rebellion that culminated in the end of the old Empire and the near genocide of the Tarreen race. Predictably, however, the humans had enjoyed their taste of power, and after thirty more years of brutal and bloody conflict, the Sarafan Dominion had been born.
Standing here staring out the forward viewport at the swirling orange and red tendrils of the distant great nebula, Tsarl Drathir, Minister of Convectorate Intelligence, couldn’t help but wonder how differently history would have played out if his people had never developed the Pandrophage. As much as it pained him to admit it, the Tarreen would probably still be trapped on their distant home world of Exodus, licking their wounds and dreaming of the day when they would finally be able to strike back at the humans and reclaim what was rightfully theirs. Instead the modern Tarreen ruled over an interstellar government every bit as large and powerful as the Dominion or the old Empire had ever been, all while the human dregs rotted away in ghettos or backwater colonies on the fringes of civilization.
It was sometimes hard to believe that in a galaxy filled with hundreds of sentient species and thousands of technological marvels, a microscopic pathogen had changed the course of the future so dramatically. Some of the other ministers firmly believed that the Tarreen would have found another way to ascend back to power eventually, but Drathir wasn’t so naïve. Despite his people’s superior strength and intellect, they’d proven no match for humanity’s telepathic abilities and psionic technology, and there was no reason to think that would have ever changed.
All of which made his mission here today that much more imperative. For decades the Hierarchy had allowed the Spider Program to operate more or less in isolation, capturing the few human children born immune to the Pandrophage and then either eliminating them or transforming them into new psychic agents. He could appreciate the necessity of rounding up psionic adepts before they could pose a threat, but the thought of leaving an operation of this magnitude in the hands of humans was…well, “sickening” didn’t do it justice. And evidently his predecessor, the late Minister Kirask, had actually given the Spiders more leeway during his ten-year term at the Ministry.
That was about to change.
“We have arrived at the designated coordinates, Minister,” the shuttle’s pilot reported. “Sensors show no com traffic of any kind. In fact, we’re not detecting any power signatures whatsoever.”
“As expected,” Drathir said, his glowing yellow eyes narrowing into thin slits as he studied the mottled gray moon in front of them. By all appearances, this was just one of dozens of useless dead rocks lurking inside the nebula, but beneath the surface was one of the most important covert bases in the entire Convectorate. “Broadcast the appropriate authorization codes.”
“That won’t be necessary,” a human voice said from behind him. “The Widow already knows we’re here.”
Drathir twisted his head back to face the black-armored man standing behind him. He was Ralon Sisk, and he’d been the Spider Program’s official liaison to the Intelligence Ministry for almost three months now. He was also one of the primary reasons Drathir had insisted on making this visit in person.
“Then perhaps she would care to open the door for us,” the Minister grumbled. “I don’t appreciate having my time wasted.”
“The hangar will open momentarily. You can begin your approach.”
“Confirmed, Minister,” the pilot said with mild surprise. “A hangar is opening in one of the mountains directly below our position, and we’re getting some impressive power readings. They must have some serious sensor shielding tech.”
Along with probably a hundred other things the Ministry should be aware of, Drathir thought grimly to himself. This entire trip was going to be a constant test of his patience. When he’d first read the reports about his predecessor’s complete hands-off approach to this operation, he’d been so livid that he’d torn his office apart. He dreaded to imagine how badly the Widow and her servants had exploited that freedom in the years since.
Still, he had to remember that his primary purpose here was to gather evidence for the Minister’s Conclave. Once he could prove to them how dangerous the Spider Program was, the Hierarchy would have to listen to his pleas and shut the whole operation down. Really, he should have almost been hoping the Widow had abused her privileges; it would only make his job that much easier.
“Take us in,” Drathir said. “And instruct my honor guard to meet me at the landing ramp.”
“Yes, Minister.”
He pivoted back to Sisk and thrashed his long, purple tail towards the door. “Follow.”
It took their shuttle ten minutes to slice through the weak atmosphere and enter the mountain hangar, and as they drifted inside Drathir couldn’t shake the mental image of an insect returning to its hive. The Widow referred to this base simply as “the Nidus,” and on the surface the thematic imagery was certainly appropriate. Interestingly enough, however, she supposedly had very few official servants despite having an entire moon base at her command. Outside of the actual Spiders, the vast majority of which were deployed far and wide across Convectorate space at any given time, the base only housed a few dozen other inhabitants.
The landing ramp slowly extended once the shuttle had powered down, and his honor guard—two massive, red-scaled Baalir-caste Tarreen warriors, walked down in front of him. He normally traveled with as many as a dozen of them on the rare occasions when he went out in public, but he’d decided on a lighter complement for this trip. If the Widow wanted to turn on him, then it would only prove her disloyalty. Besides, psychogenetic augmentations or not, no feeble human was a match for a Tarreen, especially not with the Ministry’s specially-designed psionic disruptors shielding their minds from the Widow and her servants.
He followed his men down the ramp with Sisk in tow, and a single, hairless human male waited at the center of the docking bay to greet them.
“Greetings, Minister Drathir,” the man said in a flat, emotionless voice. “We are honored by your visit.”
“No doubt,” Drathir murmured. If he didn’t know better, he would have assumed he was speaking to a para-sentient android or particularly detailed holo-assistant. This must have been one of the Widow’s so-called “Drones,” human psychics who had failed to become Spiders but were still useful as catatonic servants. “Take me to your mistress.”
“At once, Your Excellency. Please, follow me.”
The Drone started walking, and Drathir signaled for his entourage to follow. They passed through empty corridor after empty corridor, and it quickly became clear that the reports about the Widow’s lack of servants were spot-on. This base wasn’t a hive; it was more like a tomb. The booted footfalls of his honor guards echoed off the walls like they were stomping through an empty canyon, and the small hairs on Drathir’s tail reflexively pricked up in warning. For whatever reason, the emptiness was more disconcerting than if the halls had been packed wall-to-wall with these mindless Drones.
Eventually they passed into a large spherical chamber that must have been the installation’s primary command center. Two massive holo-projectors dominated the center of the room, one of which was currently displaying a detailed map of Convectorate space. The other was a standard communications relay, though Drathir wondered distantly how often it was used in a base full of telepaths. He got his
answer when they passed right through the room without pausing.
“Did we catch her taking a shower?” Drathir asked. “Or does she usually leave her command center unattended?”
“This area has been prepared for your benefit, in the event you need access to advanced equipment,” the Drone said. “The Mistress waits within her parlor.”
Drathir snorted. “So she’s taking a nap, then?”
“The Mistress rarely sleeps,” the Drone replied matter-of-factly as he led them into another stretch of long, empty corridors.
“It isn’t much further, Minister,” Sisk assured him.
Drathir managed to suppress a growl at the egregious breach of protocol. He was a Convectorate Minister, not a wandering tourist. Fleet admirals, system overseers, even sector prefects would all drop to their knees at the mere mention of his name. Perhaps the Widow’s long years of near isolation had eroded her social graces…or, much more likely, this was her petty little way of exerting power over one of the mighty Tarreen.
Either way it was unacceptable, but for now he would keep his fangs locked in place. After all, it was just one more piece of evidence he could bring before the Conclave when the time came.
Two turns later they finally approached their destination, and the moment he caught a glimpse of the room his tail hairs stood straight up and froze. The base might not have been a literal hive, but the chamber in front of him was the closest thing to one that he’d ever seen.
The Widow’s “parlor,” as it were, was essentially a giant half-sphere whose ceiling was covered in various cables, conduits, and crystalline beams that locked together into a dizzying latticework worthy of a true spider web. In eight roughly equidistant locations a tube broke off from the wall and connected to a pod-like structure that he could only describe as mechanical cocoons. Inside each of them was another hairless human Drone, their eyes fastened wide as they stared out into apparent nothingness. Another thinner, glowing set of tubes stretched out from the cocoons and wound across the floor until they reached a central dais elevated about a meter in the air.
And standing on top of that dais, almost like an afterthought, was a short, dark-haired human woman.
“Welcome, Minister,” the Widow said without turning. “I am honored that you have decided to pay us a visit.”
“Yes,” Drathir whispered, his eyes still flicking about the chamber. “I’m sure you are.”
“You’re timing couldn’t be better, in fact.”
“Is that so?”
The Widow nodded and finally spun around to face him. Based on the vague reports from Kirask’s former aides and guards, Drathir had expected to find a withered crone with sallow, leathery skin and hair like a listless lump of dead grass, but instead he found himself staring at a completely unassuming middle-aged woman. She could have easily been a street-side fruit vendor on Pragia or even a local midwife on Zultar rather than the most powerful human being in the galaxy. Compared to the rest of this nightmarish installation, the Widow herself was a paragon of normalcy.
And yet for some reason he couldn’t quite press his claw against, that sharp juxtaposition might have been even more disturbing.
“One of my agents recently embarked upon a vital operation,” the Widow said, “and it will be a pleasure to discuss the details with you in person.”
Drathir forcibly shook himself out of stasis and pointed back towards the door with his tail. After an awkward pause, his bodyguards took up position. He didn’t have to be a telepath to sense their discomfort. “By all means, then,” he said, “indulge me.”
“As you may recall, two days ago one of my agents was on Briton Chalo. Her mission was to find and eliminate a Claggoth arms dealer named Qel Pasek who had been supplying resistance groups across five different sectors.”
“Yes, Agent Sisk showed me the preliminary report,” Drathir said. “He also said the mission was a success.”
“It was. Pasek and his chief lieutenant are dead, and his entire operation has been seriously compromised. But while our agent was on the surface, she found something potentially much more important: a renegade Fly.”
Drathir grunted. “Some urchin child abandoned on that cesspool by its parents?”
“Not a child,” the Widow corrected. “A fully grown man and a name I’m sure you’ll recognize: Markus Coveri.”
Drathir hissed between his fangs. Yes, he knew the name, all right. So did everyone in the Intelligence Ministry, the military, the criminal underworld, and anyone else who’d ever accessed the Holosphere. At the time, Coveri’s defection to the Mire, a vicious terrorist organization full of human supremacists, had been considered the greatest intelligence leak in Convectorate history. The Ministry had done everything it could to bury the reports, but eventually the story had slipped out—and once it had, the news spread across the Holosphere like a case of the Talamegian flu.
Needless to say, the Minister’s Conclave had panicked. The Convectorate relied upon the Spider’s menacing reputation as much as their actual ability to keep order, particularly in outlying systems, and the news that one of the Hierarchy’s “invincible” agents had defected had the potential to be a deadly catalyst for rebellion. Eventually, Drathir had managed to convince then-Minister Kirask that they weren’t going to be able to stuff the gazack back in its hole, and instead they launched a massive disinformation campaign across every news outlet and holocast. Soon the populace was so inundated in conflicting reports they could no longer separate fact from fiction, and within a few months the scandal had disappeared completely. At this point most people still believed the story had been a concoction of anti-government extremists rather than anything legitimate.
Some in the Intelligence Ministry considered the ordeal a victory. People feared the Spiders more than ever, after all, and that terror kept them in line. Drathir seemed alone in realizing that anything that gave these humans more power was a grievous mistake. And the fact that one of their precious agents had actually defected—complete with all his vaunted telepathic powers and psychogenetic enhancements—meant that this was still an absolute disaster for the Convectorate as a whole.
“Did your agent recapture him?” Drathir asked into the stillness.
“Agent Vale has him in custody now,” the Widow confirmed. “She was on her way to rendezvous with us to begin a full-scale interrogation.”
Drathir’s tail thrashed to the side. “What do you mean, ‘was?’”
“During her brief initial interrogation, Vale discovered something potentially more valuable than Coveri’s knowledge of the Mire.”
He glanced to Sisk then back to the Widow. “And what would that be?”
“As you’re undoubtedly aware, the Mire has been receiving a steady stream of fully charged psionic capacitors over the last month. We knew that Pasek was their supplier, but we couldn’t figure out where he was getting them from. Until now.”
“Did he find another forgotten Dominion weapons cache somewhere? It’s been a hundred years and it still feels like we’ll never burn them all out.”
“That was my first thought as well, but no, he didn’t just find another cache—he found a ship.”
“A Dominion ship? Still intact?”
“Yes, but not just any ship,” the Widow said. “He found the Damadus.”
Drathir froze. For a long moment the name rattled around his brain, knocking everything else aside like a mental wrecking ball. The Damadus, the Sarafan ship allegedly carrying the cure for the Pandrophage, lost for a century in deep space…
His tail thrashed as he forced his mind out of stasis. “Did he also found the Seraph’s Blade? Or perhaps the Tears of Elaris? Do you have any idea how many fortune hunters claim to find that ship on a weekly basis?”
“I understand how it sounds, believe me. We’ve followed up on hundreds if not thousands of similar leads over the years, and all of them were a waste. But this one is different.”
He locked his claws together in d
oubt. “And what makes you say that?”
“Because Agent Vale has already recovered the coordinates.”
He froze again, and this time it took all thirty years of Ministry training and experience to regain his composure. “What? Where?”
The Widow smiled. Most Tarreen probably wouldn’t have read anything into the gesture; few cared enough to even learn the basics of alien body language, especially from a culture that was generally seen as irrelevant. But Drathir had spent a lifetime mastering the subtle nuances of xeno-psychology, and this woman’s smile was as dead as the moon outside the compound.
He might have been a three hundred kilo Tarreen capable of spitting fire hot enough to melt a zabrium wall, and she might have been a sixty kilo human whose bones would shatter beneath a stiff gale, but that didn’t stop a cold, dark shiver from racing its way down his spine.
She gestured to her left, and a holo projection flashed into existence in the air above one of the pods. It was a map not unlike the one in the main command chamber, but it was focused on a specific cluster of systems. It only took Drathir a moment to place the location: the Tartarus Expanse, a volatile region of space well outside Convectorate borders. An indicator lit up inside one of the systems showing the exact coordinates.
“As you can see, it’s located well outside any of the major jump corridors,” the Widow said. “A perfect place for a derelict ship to hide.”
Drathir’s tail twirled absently as he tried desperately to get his stomach to settle. Finding a derelict Sarafan ship at this point was unlikely enough—the last confirmed case had been nearly a decade ago. But finding the Damadus? That had to be impossible…
“It’s still conceivable that Rodani identified it incorrectly,” she went on as if echoing his thoughts. “It could be a different Dominion ship, but even so that would still be worth recovering. I’ve already ordered Vale to move in and investigate.”
Drathir scowled at her. “Explain.”
“The closest military ship was the Argaz, and it was still almost six days away at top speed. Vale’s ship is considerably faster.”
“She’s also carrying a fugitive with time-sensitive information,” Drathir growled. “Once the Mire realizes that Coveri has been captured, they’ll—”
“I’m aware of the situation, Minister,” the Widow interrupted coolly. “The problem is that we’re not the only player in this chase. The Dowd have also gotten involved.”
Drathir hissed again. The Dowd, a psychotic race of butchers every bit as xenophobic as the Norgon and twice as vicious. Their one redeeming quality was that they despised humans even more than the Tarreen, and they were obsessive about eradicating any Dominion technology they could find.
“How do you know this?” he asked.
“They reached Pasek’s lieutenant before Vale did. Fortunately, it seems that all they were able to get out of him was the name of the system, not the precise coordinates. Vale should be able to beat them to the prize.”
“I’m not sure how it matters,” Drathir said. “The Dowd will just destroy the Damadus and save us the effort. The Argaz can handle the cleanup—your agent should be here, delivering us Coveri.”
“The Hierarchy doesn’t want the ship destroyed, Minister. In fact, they gave me specific orders to capture it intact.”
The Tarreen’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “They contacted you directly? Without informing me?”
“I contacted them, actually. I knew they would want to monitor this situation directly.”
“You did what?” he snarled.
“I did what was necessary to save time,” she said plainly. “And their orders were quite clear.”
Sisk stepped forward from the shadows of the room and held out a datapad. “The orders, Your Excellency. You can read them yourself if you like.”
Drathir snatched the pad and glared down at the screen. The orders were there, all right, fully stamped and approved by the Hierarchy without even consulting the Minister of Intelligence. That by itself should have been enough to enrage his peers—their vaunted leaders were now willing to bypass the ministers and give their orders directly to humans. And they’d apparently even given her a private channel to contact them, another privilege ostensibly reserved only for the Conclave.
“It’s not my intention to subvert your authority, Minister,” the Widow soothed. “I contacted the Hierarchy directly because I knew how important it was for us to act quickly, but I still believe the two of us will be able to accomplish far more working together than we would apart.”
A dozen responses flashed through Drathir’s head, most of which involved him lunging across the room and tearing her arms off with his claws. But once again he had to remind himself that his purpose here wasn’t to win a battle of egos; it was to gather evidence for the Conclave. And a human bypassing a Minister’s authority would send them into a fully justified frenzy.
“How long until your agent reaches the Damadus?” he asked softly.
“Thirty-seven hours, give or take. The Argaz should arrive in about forty-four. With luck, the Dowd won’t locate her before then.”
“I certainly hope not. We can’t afford to lose Coveri completely, not before we’ve had a chance to interrogate him.”
“Agent Vale will succeed,” the Widow assured him. “She is our best asset.”
“I’m sure,” Drathir murmured.
“I have taken the liberty of preparing accommodations for you and your men, assuming you wish to stay and supervise this operation personally. The command center is at your disposal, and your quarters have a secure link to the Holosphere should you need it.”
He grunted. “Very well. I shall make arrangements to stay for the time being.”
“My servant shall show you the way.” She nodded towards the Drone, and he stepped forward and bowed before the Minister again.
“This way, Your Excellency.”
Drathir flicked his tail towards his guards, and they immediately detached themselves from their posts and swept up behind him. Together they followed the Drone through the compound, and once again he couldn’t help but notice its emptiness. They passed probably twenty different living quarters along the way, all of which seemed empty. Later on he would have to ask her where she kept the rest of her agents and all the Flies they’d captured.
But right now he had more important things on his mind. He ordered the guards to wait outside his door as he examined his new quarters. They were spacious enough, and the Widow had enough foresight to decorate the room with furniture appropriate for Tarreen physiology. It was still the equivalent of living in a grotto compared to what he was used to, but that was all right. Unlike much of the rest of the ruling Asraad caste, Drathir hadn’t grown up in opulence, and as a result he wasn’t nearly as dependent upon it.
What he did need was a secure line back to the Ministry, however, and so after a quick visual appraisal of the room he flicked on the optical implant behind his left eye and let it run a more thorough scan of the area. The reports scrolled across his vision, and it didn’t appear that the Widow had planted any surveillance devices inside. That was good for her—doing so would have been treasonous and yet another bit of damning evidence he could bring before the ministers. Considering how easily he could have removed any such bugs, though, he almost wished she would crossed that line, too.
Once the scan was finished he turned to the room’s sole desk and computer terminal. He couldn’t imagine the Widow was naïve enough to think he’d actually use any equipment she provided, but it was probably worth playing into that fantasy regardless. He reached into his satchel and pulled out one of his datacards, then slid it into the terminal. It was filled with completely useless information, but he could set the computer to run a few equally useless analysis routines just to make it appear as if it were doing something. If the Widow and her cronies chose to ignore it, that was fine; if they chose to waste their time plugging around to see what he was up to, that was also fine.
He reached back into his pouch and pulled out his holopad. Using her computer would be bad enough, but there was no way in Exodus he was going to use her com station. He keyed for the Ministry and waited for the signal to synchronize with the hidden relay stations just outside the nebula. Piggybacking on the general Holosphere relays would have been faster and easier, but as good as the Ministry’s encryption schemes were, he still didn’t trust them with anything this sensitive. Instead he’d just have to deal with the small time delay from using their private relay grid.
After a few more seconds the small screen flickered with the image of another Tarreen, this one part of the green-skinned Maarid administrator caste.
“Your Excellency,” Gral Visek said with a subtle nod of his head. “I’m honored and privileged to speak—”
“Stow the sycophancy, Gral,” Drathir snapped. “We may have a very serious problem in our claws.”
The other man’s glowing yellow eyes flickered. “Sir?”
Drathir quickly laid it out for him—Coveri’s capture, the Damadus, and even the Widow’s direct pipeline to the Hierarchy. Visek absorbed it all with his typical poise, and Drathir was once again thankful he’d spent the extra time and effort to surround himself with competent servants.
“It sounds like nearly all of your fears have been validated, sir,” Visek said gravely. “She’s operating with almost complete autonomy.”
“Yes, and I suspect I’ve just scraped the surface. But right now we need to focus on recovering this ship. If Vale really has found the Damadus, then it could change everything.”
“I find it difficult to believe that the humans ever really discovered a cure. Though I suppose that once we can prove their legend a fluke, it will demoralize them even further.”
Drathir grunted. “I wouldn’t count on that. Humans are nothing if not deluded—facts rarely get in the way of their perceptions. But if there is even a small chance that they did find the cure, then we have to destroy the ship.”
“Even though the Hierarchy wishes it captured? Their orders seemed quite clear.”
“Far be it for me to dispute the wisdom of the almighty Hierarchs, but we can’t afford to take the risk of the Mire getting ahold of any Sarafan research,” Drathir said. “I’d rather we simply destroy the whole thing.”
The other man’s green face twitched. “Are you certain that’s wise, Your Excellency? If they were to find out—”
“Let me worry about that. You need to focus on the task at hand. Do we have any agents anywhere near the Tartarus Expanse?”
Visek glanced to something off the screen. “Unfortunately, no. Our closest operative is almost fifty light-years away, well out of range to assist in time.”
“Prepare a squad anyway,” Drathir ordered. “Have them standing by in case Vale succeeds. I’ll want them to intercept her before she can return here. We’ll take Coveri into custody and interrogate him ourselves.”
“The Widow may not react kindly to that.”
“Her opinions on the matter are irrelevant, and she needs to learn this lesson sooner rather than later. In the meantime, I want you to dig up everything you can find on Spider operatives Jenavian Vale and Markus Coveri. I’d like to know exactly who we’re dealing with here.”
“As you wish, sir. Anything else?”
Drathir idly rapped his claws across the metal desk. “Just stay alert. There’s much more going on here than we realized—perhaps even more than the Hierarchy realizes.”
“If they were so willing to respond to the Widow’s requests, they might not appreciate you meddling in her affairs.”
“If they don’t wish one of their ministers meddling in the affairs of a human, then we have bigger problems,” Drathir said. “And either way the Conclave will need to know about it. The Hierarchs aren’t invincible, Gral. No one is.”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied, though it didn’t sound like he believed it. “I will contact you the moment I learn anything.”
The connection closed, and Drathir leaned back in the chair. Complacency, the old saying went, was the bane of every empire. It had toppled governments on nearly every planet in the galaxy at one time or another, and it had ultimately doomed the greatest civilizations in history from the original Tarreen Empire to the Sarafan Dominion. And if men like his predecessor were left in charge, a similar fate would soon befall the Convectorate—especially if the disease had spread all the way to the Hierarchy.
He prayed that it hadn’t. Most of his people, particularly in the lower castes, believed that the Hierarchs were infallible. They were supposed to represent the best qualities of the species, from their Asraad caste blood and purple skin to their proven intellect and ambition. They were meant to be an untouchable, incorruptible shadow government who stood apart from the transitory issues of the day and focused exclusively on the future of the Convectorate.
Drathir knew differently, of course. He might never have met one of them in person, but he had seen the folly of their decisions numerous times over his three decades at the Intelligence Ministry…and he couldn’t help but think that they were making their greatest blunder yet with the Spider Program.
But perhaps they had more control over the Widow than it seemed, or perhaps she was merely part of a grander scheme Drathir had yet to unravel. Because if not—if the Hierarchy really was keeping secrets from the Conclave and working that closely with a human—then mere complacency was the least of the Convectorate’s concerns.
Growling softly to himself, Drathir picked up his holopad and got to work.
The Spider and the Fly Page 10
