by Eric Thomson
Norum squinted through the ruined door, trying to make out the chameleon-armored mercenaries when one of them removed a gauntlet and waved. Watching a disembodied hand float above the ground struck her as nonsensical, but then it was as if a switch flipped in her brain and she could see four out-of-focus shapes that didn’t quite mesh with the background.
“There you go,” Proulx said. “The hand belongs to Hartwood Cahal. He did twenty years in the 77th Imperial Marine Regiment and is now my second in command. Please follow him. I’ll bring up the rear with my remaining troops so that if the soldiers my sentry spotted get too close, I can divert them. We’ll stop for the night when we’re beyond Petras city limits.”
Proulx and Sister Heloise held each other’s eyes for a few seconds, then the latter nodded once before gesturing at her Brethren to form a protective circle around Lady Marta Norum and her children.
“Do you think trusting them is safe?” Marta murmured while Heloise guided them through the ruined building’s gaping doorway.
“Nothing is truly safe in this universe,” she replied in the same tone, “but our choices are limited. If we meet Jorge Danton’s troops or his sympathizers along the way, we’ll find out for sure whether Anders Proulx is telling the truth.”
“At which point, it will be too late, Sister.”
Marta took her children by the hand as they emerged from the half-demolished house.
“True, but only if he lied. If he told the truth, we will thank the Almighty for putting him across our path.”
“I wish I had your faith.”
A tight smile briefly lit up the sister’s face.
“This isn’t a matter of faith. Although I trust the Almighty will not give me more challenges than I can handle, I rely on my intuition and knowledge of human nature as guides.”
“And they tell you we should go with these mercenaries.”
“They tell me we need not fear them right now.”
“That doesn’t sound like a ringing endorsement.”
“Give me enough time to study them, and I’ll tell you whether my opinion changes.”
When they were within a few paces of the waiting troopers, Hartwood Cahal raised his visor so they could see his face clearly and asked, “Do you have a preferred way out of Petras, Sister, or will you let me guide you to Tiryns?”
The overwhelming sorrow Marta Norum saw in Cahal’s tired, blood-shot eyes touched something deep within her, and in that instant, she understood why Sister Heloise accepted Anders Proulx’s offer.
No human could fake the expression of someone who, by a mere twist of fate, escaped a brutal massacre that claimed the lives of almost two hundred comrades.
“Please guide us. I won’t pretend to know the best ways of avoiding Danton’s patrols.”
“As you wish, Sister.” Cahal gestured at two of his troopers, sending them ahead. “They’ll scout the way for us. Just follow me and obey my orders, especially if I tell you to duck or change direction. I’ll let you keep an eye on your charges, but tell me if we’re moving too fast for the wee ones.”
“If need be, we’ll carry them,” Sandor said.
“Good.” He pointed at the remaining mercenary. “Colyn will be right behind you.”
“Do you think we’ll encounter anyone else fleeing Danton’s soldiers?” Norum asked.
“Perhaps. A lot of folks are hiding out in this area, waiting for things to settle before they go home. Or find new homes. If you’re worried about coming across people who might do us harm, remember you got this far on your own with two bairns. I doubt many would challenge armored mercs.”
“It wasn’t without trouble.” Norum produced her husband’s weapon. “I shot a couple of predators during our first night among the ruins.”
“Then keep it handy, Milady. I’m not one to refuse an extra gun in case things go sideways.” He paused, as if listening, then made a sweeping motion toward the west. “The next three blocks are clear. Let’s go.”
Cahal set a swift, but measured pace, as if he knew instinctively how fast a pair of tired, hungry, and scared eight-year-olds could move without needing their mother’s encouragement.
The acrid tang of burned flint filled Marta Norum’s nostrils as they passed a heavily damaged section where loyalist troops made their last stand against the rebels. Hardly any walls remained, never mind roofs. Piles of blackened stone replaced structures in what was once the heart of Petras’ original settlement, built over twelve centuries ago.
Without warning, the nauseating miasma of rotting flesh swamped every other odor. Marta instinctively blocked her nostrils and breathed in through her mouth, but Stefan wasn’t quick enough. A strangled gasp escaped the boy’s throat. His sister was even less fortunate. She skidded to a halt, retching miserably, though nothing came up, not even bile. Marta held the girl until her breathing steadied.
“Sorry about that Milady,” Hartwood Cahal said in a low growl. “We figure there’s a mass grave beneath the old town hall.” He pointed at a large pile of disjointed rubble to their right. “It’s not the only one around here either. Once the 84th Guards went over to the rebellion and defeated their former buddies of the 91st, they lost their ever-loving minds. The bastards killed anyone they suspected of loyalty to the Crown, no questions asked, no quarter given.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”
Cahal grunted.
“We could have pulled out from under Danton’s thumb faster and put ourselves between his goons and the poor sods who thought remaining loyal was a political disagreement, not a death sentence. Not to mention avoid getting most of us killed in our sleep by the evil fucks.”
Heloise and Marta exchanged a knowing glance. Survivor guilt.
“Hindsight is neither perfect nor useful,” Heloise replied in a gentle tone. “The fallen won’t come back, and no matter what we believe, they won’t blame us for living.”
The mercenary didn’t reply right away. When he spoke, it was to apologize.
“Never mind me, Sister. You lost twenty times more good comrades than we did. That gives you a greater right to speak about the dead.”
“We have an equal right, Hartwood Cahal. Grief is not a game of numbers. My burden of remembrance is no greater than yours because the souls of the departed only weigh heavily if we wish them to do so.”
A grunt.
“Fair enough, Sister. I may be a simple warrior, but I know better than to debate one of you on spiritual matters.” His left hand shot up. “One moment. Anders just lit up the company push.”
Cahal listened for a few seconds, then said, “That platoon the sentries spotted are Danton’s troops all right, and they’re definitely on the hunt rather than making a random sweep of the ruins. Looks like guardsmen from the 84th but there’s no way of knowing whether they’re after us, you, or Lady Marta. Anders will try leading them south while we make a run for the west. Better that than try an ambush against two dozen trained soldiers when he has only a third of their strength. He gave me a rendezvous point west of here and says that at worst, we’ll regroup in Tiryns.”
Though Cahal didn’t say so, Marta Norum heard the addendum nonetheless: if he can break clean.
— 6 —
Lyonesse
Morane and DeCarde were inspecting one of the depot’s cavernous warehouses with Lieutenant Grimes when his communicator buzzed softly for attention.
“Morane here.”
“Centurion Haller, sir. An Emma Reyes called. She said you’d remember her from, and I quote, the command performance in the Great Hall of the People, unquote.”
“Is she on the net right now?”
“No, sir. She left her coordinates and invited you to join her for cocktails and dinner at the College Club, along with directions on how to get there. Madame Reyes suggested nineteen hundred hours but left it up to you if that time isn’t convenient.”
Morane raised his eyes only to se
e DeCarde smirk.
“A date already? Nicely done. But then you squids are rumored to find companionship in every port of call.”
He gave her a half-hearted glare, which turned the smirk into delighted laughter.
“Centurion, please inform Chancellor Reyes I would be delighted to join her at nineteen hundred hours.”
“Will do, sir. Haller, out.”
Morane pocketed his communicator.
“What do you know about this College Club, Lieutenant?”
“Not much. I’ve never been there since I don’t know anyone at the university,” Grimes replied. “But the College Club is known as the most exclusive place in Lannion, sir. I hear even Governor Yakin needs a member’s invitation before she can enter, and they’re apparently hard to obtain.”
“Oh, dear.” DeCarde made a face. “One of those places…”
“What do you mean one of those?” He asked, giving her a quizzical glance.
“You know.” She made a dismissive hand gesture. “Filled with stuffy academics drunk on their own importance instead of overpriced rotgut. I’d give a week’s pay to see their faces when an uncouth man of war walks in and soils the sanctity of the place.”
**
That evening, Matti Kayne’s driver dropped Morane off in front of a sprawling two-story stone building that seemed to have begun life as a farmstead before the growing colony established its one and only university around it.
A discrete sign on the wrought-iron fence surrounding the property stated College Club - Members Only. Morane, once more in dress uniform — his few civilian clothes were still in orbit aboard Vanquish — took the short flight of steps two by two and entered through a sliding door designed to resemble the farmhouse’s original.
He found himself in a lobby that was all wood paneling, brass fixtures, and replica paintings. A holographic artificial intelligence cunningly programmed to look like an elderly Victorian porter materialized out of thin air before him.
“Are you perchance Admiral Jonas Morane of the Lyonesse Revolutionary Navy, sir?”
A smile tugged at his lips. Reyes must have fed that line to the AI along with his particulars.
“Merely a captain, I’m afraid, and my current allegiance is neither revolutionary nor to any particular entity, but my name is Morane.”
“Then sir’s promotion is obviously overdue. Chancellor Reyes has asked us to extend you every courtesy. She is running a few minutes late. If you would wait in the lounge, through the door to your left and enjoy a libation of your choice…”
Morane inclined his head.
“Thank you.”
“The Club is always pleased to host Chancellor Reyes’ distinguished guests, sir.”
With those words, the hologram vanished, leaving Morane alone in the lobby. He tucked his beret into a tunic pocket and ran splayed fingers through his stiff dark hair before entering the lounge.
A large room with many nooks, booths, and private corners, it continued the dark wood and brass fixtures theme. A copper-topped circular bar occupied the middle, staffed by what looked like a pair of human beings in crisp white tunics and dark trousers. The curving shelves behind them boasted more exotic bottles than Morane had ever seen in any wardroom or officer’s mess.
If interstellar commerce was indeed fated to break down as he expected, the contents of those bottles would soon turn into some of the most precious substances in the Lyonesse star system.
The background buzz of conversation momentarily died away when more than two dozen pairs of eyes turned toward him as if attracted by a powerful magnet. A few sparkled with curiosity, but many blazed with undisguised annoyance, confirming DeCarde’s prediction. Morane ignored them and made a beeline for the bar where one of the attendants gave him a friendly greeting.
“Good evening, sir. You must be the chancellor’s guest. Can I offer you something from our extensive collection?” He gestured at the shelves. “We also offer several types of beer from the best breweries on Lyonesse.”
Morane’s eyes stopped on a familiar greenish bottle, and he tried to hide a smile.
“Is that an eighteen-year-old Glen Arcturus I see behind you?”
“It is. Would you like it with a splash of water, soda on the side, or neat?”
“A splash, please.”
His answer, which identified him as a connoisseur of fine single malts, seemed to please the attendant who handed him a tulip-shaped glass half full with a dark amber liquid. Drink in hand, Morane wandered around the lounge, nodding pleasantly at those who met his gaze, even if they didn’t bother hiding their disdain, and studied the mementos hanging from walls that gleamed like dark honey. Before he could make a full circuit of the room, a female voice interrupted his meandering.
“Captain Morane. Welcome.”
He turned to see Reyes, now wearing elegant evening clothes, sweep into the lounge as if she owned it. Which, in a way, she probably did as chancellor. Reyes held out her hand, smiling wide enough to reveal even white teeth.
“I’m so glad you could join me. After your performance in the Great Hall of the People, I simply needed to make your acquaintance.”
Morane took her hand and smiled back. Reyes’ grip was stronger than he expected, and up close he realized she was almost his height, though nowhere near as broad across the shoulders.
“Why do you call it the Great Hall of the People, Chancellor?”
“Please call me Emma. I believe you’re a historian at heart. That was clear from the way you spoke to the Estates General. Are you familiar with pre-diaspora totalitarian political movements?”
“Vaguely. Weren’t they responsible for most of the biggest genocides in human history before the Migration Wars that birthed the old Commonwealth? And please call me Jonas.”
“They were. The folks espousing these philosophies often called their countries Peoples’ Democratic Republics though they were neither of, nor for the people, nor democratic, nor republics. Many of them boasted great assembly spaces where they could pretend to be all three. I simply find it amusing that the Lyonesse government spent money adding a massive citizen’s assembly hall to the Colonial Council building when we live in an increasingly despotic monarchy where the opinions of ordinary citizens are deemed worthless. Or at least we used to.”
She waved a slender, long-fingered hand toward the timbered ceiling.
“Considering what’s happening out there, who knows what fresh political horrors will emerge from the nuclear fires? What are you drinking, by the way?”
“Glen Arcturus.”
Reyes’ eyes brightened.
“A fellow worshiper of the finest whiskey ever distilled. Would you believe most of my fellow academics consider its taste in the same category as that of folk medicine?”
Without waiting for an answer, she headed toward the bar.
“Good evening, Klaus. Would you be so kind as to serve me what the captain is having, with just a tiny splash?”
“Sure thing, Chancellor.”
“And then, Jonas, we’ll repair to my private dining room upstairs where we can talk without the entire university reading a transcript tomorrow morning.” Reyes grinned at a scowling, bearded man peering over a wooden partition. “Isn’t that right, Professor Noughtly?”
The man’s face vanished abruptly.
“I fear Rob is not one of my fans, and he’s even less a fan of military uniforms and those who wear them. He would have felt right at home in one of those people’s republics I mentioned, even though he professes to deplore our current regime’s totalitarian tendencies.”
Reyes took the proffered glass and gestured toward the door.
“Come, Jonas.”
She led him into the lobby and up a stately, winding staircase where they found a small dining room with an oval table capable of seating a dozen, but set only for two at one end.
“This comes with the chancellor’s office, though I
try not to abuse the privilege, lest the Rob Noughtlys of the world find more to criticize about me. Heaven knows they’ve already accumulated volumes.” When he gave her a quizzical look, Reyes laughed. “Has someone ever told you why academic disputes can be so bitter?”
“No.”
“Sayre’s law. In any dispute, the intensity of feeling is inversely proportional to the value of the issues at stake.”
“I think the Marines coined a corollary to that law, something Brigid DeCarde told me over tea during a long night watch while we were FTL between wormhole termini. The dumber an officer, the more he or she will focus on useless chickenshit.”
Reyes snickered.
“Priceless. I must invite Colonel DeCarde next time so she can regale us with a Marine’s earthy wisdom.” She gestured at the chairs. “Please sit.”
They studied each other in silence for a few moments.
“Tell me, Jonas, how did you conclude humanity faces a civilizational collapse catastrophic enough to call for a human knowledge vault on a planet lost at the far end of our senescent empire’s wormhole network?”
“That’s a long story and mightily bored you’ll be.”
“Try me. I’m a lifelong academic and hold several degrees in history. What others consider boredom I see as my intellectual lifeblood.”
At that moment, a human waiter came in unannounced with a tray holding two wine glasses, a tall green bottle covered with condensation beads and two plates.
“The appetizers, smoked longfish, and a Pinot Gris from the Dereux Vineyards in Trevena,” he announced in a solemn tone. Then, with a flourish, he put a glass and a plate before each of them.
“Thank you, Horace. I’ll pour.”
“My pleasure, Chancellor.”
