Wild Sun

by Ehsan Ahmad

  “So how are we doing?”

  “As you requested, sir. Four plus one spare—the five with optimal performance records.”

  “Remember what I said about reliability—that’s the key. Those engines and systems will be running for three, maybe four hours.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the fuel?”

  “Apart from the reserve pods, we will have another ten barrels transported onto the Viceroy’s ship along with the spare shell. If necessary, you will be able to refuel at one of the mines.”

  “Did you work out the overall distance?”

  “If the schedule remains as is, you will cover almost nine hundred kilometers.”

  Vellerik took a moment to absorb this. They had never used the shells over such a distance.

  “I’m sure they’ll perform well, sir. The engineers are on top of it.”

  “What’s the cruising speed of the Viceroy’s ship?”

  Triantaa moved a finger across the data-pad screen. “It’s a Mark 6 Conveyor—somewhere around two hundred fifty.”

  “Those shells are going to get very hot.”

  “The engineers will recreate those conditions in the tests, sir. Have you thought about armament yet?”

  “If I had my way, it would just be disruptors, but apparently the Count would prefer something that can be seen. We’ll go with the assault cannon—just be sure to keep the ammo packs light. “

  “And the missile module, sir?”

  “Then we won’t have weight for the deflector fields.”

  “Are you likely to need those, sir?”

  Vellerik conceded with a grin. “The biggest danger is either an in-flight malfunction or one of us getting sucked into that conveyor’s air intakes.”

  “Sir, I think the best configuration might be two on either side, parallel with the rear of the ship. A minimum proximity of one hundred meters is recommended.”

  “Make it one-fifty.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “A little sore, sir. Not too bad. The surgeon says I can start proper exercise in a week or so.”

  “Good.” Vellerik watched the men congregate around one combat shell to detach a leg. Once they had laid it down, the engineers opened an access panel.

  “Have you met the Viceroy before, sir?” asked Triantaa.

  “No, but I remember hearing him speak once at some function. He was just a regional governor back then.”

  “Of the Tennaren Plains, sir?”

  “I think so, yes. You seem to know more about him than me.”

  “I’ve not had time to do anything much but read, sir.”

  “Wasn’t he sent there to get the place in order after some… incident?”

  “Yes, sir. That was eight years ago. The weapons testing facility. There was a communication breakdown—seventy infantry out testing masking tech got caught by a stray gas capsule. One of them was a distant relation of the Emperor.”

  “Ah yes.”

  “Viceroy Mennander ran the facility for four years—some major advances were made and not a single life lost.”

  “Family?”

  “He is a member of the Duss-Viskar clan, sir.”

  Of the twelve clans that controlled the Domain, the Duss-Viskar were known for their interest in exploration and trade.

  “Well, they seldom miss an opportunity for advancement. I wonder what he has his eye on next.”

  “Perhaps a more central quadrant.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Sir—” Triantaa hesitated.

  “What is it?”

  The lieutenant glanced warily at the nearest troops and lowered his voice. “Sir, I overheard a few conversations while I was in the infirmary. The surgeon seemed to think you might be leaving.”

  Though he had not wanted to tell the men until the last possible moment, Vellerik knew Triantaa could be trusted.

  “That’s right.” He liked the young lieutenant, and he felt he owed him an explanation. “I suppose… I’ve had enough.”

  Triantaa seemed surprised, and Vellerik saw disappointment in his eyes. He did not want to be pitied.

  “Captain, it has been an absolute privilege to serve under your command.”

  “Thank you. I trust you will not mention this again until I tell the men.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Can you walk for a bit?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s have a look at these shells, then.”

  The garden was housed in a disused cargo bay toward the rear of the Galtaryax. Vellerik had only been there once before; he usually preferred his quarters if he craved peace and quiet. But on this day, something made him walk past his own door.

  Just inside the entrance, two engineers were dispatching maintenance drones in various directions. Before they noticed him, Vellerik heard one moaning that the Viceroy probably wouldn’t even come near the place.

  He wasn’t generally one for artificial re-creations of the natural world, but this was actually done rather well. Danysaan had insisted on it, having read some research about how it boosted staff morale and productivity. Vellerik was surprised the Count hadn’t had it stripped out—surely another unnecessary expense.

  Upon the walls were convincing vistas of a lakeside scene. Under-foot were earthen paths that followed circuitous routes through banks of grass and beds of plants and flowers. There was even an audio track of appropriate sounds. Vellerik was most interested in the water: the circular pool of clear, fresh-smelling water.

  Pushing aside a particularly expansive frond of grass, he discovered Marl standing over the pool, utterly motionless, as ever almost entirely covered by his cloak. The head didn’t move as the yellow eye turned.

  Vellerik couldn’t resist. “Feel like jumping in?”

  Marl did not reply.

  “I suppose that doesn’t really merit a response.” Vellerik had little desire for a conversation with him, but—having walked all that way—he didn’t want to leave either.

  He sat down on a bench apparently made of archaic-looking stone. Touching the surface, he realized it was in fact some kind of moulded plastic.

  Marl continued to face the water while he spoke. “It helps you, Captain, I suppose—to think of all those you conquer as primitive—savages, animals.”

  “Perhaps. Can’t say it ever particularly occurred to me.”

  “Do you know how far back Drellen history goes?”

  “I must confess I don’t.”

  “In some of the most ancient caves, there is evidence of language dating from two hundred thousand years ago. We were writing while the Vitaari were still walking on all fours.”

  “I suppose one might argue that we rather overtook you.”

  “I suppose.”

  “And if the Drellen had moved off their own world first—would they have left other peoples alone? Acted peacefully?”

  “Who knows?” said Marl.

  “I am not entirely ignorant of history. One of the reasons your people lost was infighting.”

  “The Vitaari had a long time to learn how to conquer. You turned us against each other.”

  “That’s politics,” said Vellerik.

  “And you are just a soldier—who does as he is bid.”

  “Exactly. Like you.”

  As he turned, Marl ran a scaly hand across his head. Vellerik noted how long his fingers were, how dark the nails.

  “What will you do, Captain? When you leave.”

  “I will go somewhere a little like this—except it will be real.”

  “Alone?”

  “No. Don’t expect any more detail than that.”

  The display of triangular teeth on the rare occasions the Drellen smiled was always alarming.

  “How old are you, Marl?”

  “Thirty-one of your years.”

  “Is that young or old?”
>
  “Males generally live to around fifty.”

  “Then—like me—you are over the hill and coming down the other side. What will you do? Remain with the Count?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope he pays you well.”

  “Well enough.”

  “I have a strong suspicion that you hate him.”

  “You are wrong. I have good reason to hate every Vitaari, but the Count has shown me kindness. And loyalty.”

  “I haven’t seen much evidence he is capable of demonstrating either of those traits. Surely, you must see that he keeps you only for what you can do for him?”

  “I do not have to explain myself to you, Captain.”

  “True.” Vellerik watched a cleaning drone suck dust from the ceil-ing. “Where is the Count? I’ve hardly seen him these last few days.”

  “Preparing for the Viceroy’s visit.”

  “Ah yes. Menus, drinks, his outfit. That type of thing.”

  “I think it is you who hates him, Captain.”

  “Soon he will be nothing more than a memory.”

  “I am sure there are other memories you will find less easy to forget. From what I have observed of you, you are rather more prone to guilt and regret than most Vitaari.”

  After a long moment of silence, the Drellen walked away along the edge of the pool. Vellerik had to credit him with landing that one, but he could not allow him the last word.

  “Oh, Marl—about the Viceroy’s visit.”

  “Yes?”

  “Try to keep that blade of yours sheathed. We wouldn’t want any mutilation or disemboweling that might put our esteemed guest off his dinner.”

  “You do your job, Captain. I shall do mine.”

  Feeling the need for physical activity, Vellerik took an elevator down to the practice range.

  Thankfully, it was empty. Sensing his ID card, the system screen flickered into life. Vellerik selected his preferred program, then used the same card to access the weapons rack. As the transparent cover retracted, he picked up the Mark 8 Assaulter. Apart from the fact that it contained no live ammunition, this version was identical to his own weapon, currently housed with scores of others in the loading bay.

  Vellerik waited for the door to open, then walked into the large cubic chamber. It was a rudimentary version of the ranges found in Colonial Guard facilities and Fleet ships but would suffice for his purposes.

  “Start.”

  The two target drones detached from the wall, then each projected a black, humanoid figure. The figures began to move: circling around him, darting left and right, shifting up and down, swooping closer or pulling away.

  The system spoke. “Sequence F, program 2. Sixty targets sixty seconds. Three, two, one... begin.”

  The weapon even sounded and jolted like the real thing. Every hit registered as an orange flash. If it was in a vital area, the black figure would explode, then reappear. Vellerik made no attempt to keep track of his score. He just moved and aimed and fired.

  He had been running drills on this type of range for more than four decades; he reckoned he must have totted up thousands of hours. Thirty years ago, he would regularly score ninety percent or above: that was for one-shot kills; anything else was considered a mistake. Ten years previous, he was still at over eighty percent—more than what most of the young men in the troop could manage.

  He only just got his last shot away before the sixty seconds elapsed. Standing there, fingers aching, slightly dizzy, he waited for the bad news.

  “Score: one-shot kill percentage—sixty-five.”

  Vellerik cursed. It had to be because of the drug, even though he hadn’t ingested a thing since destroying the box.

  “Restart sequence.”

  He lifted the weapon again, then realized he wasn’t ready.

  “Pause.”

  Vellerik went and leaned on the wall and took some deep breaths. On the other side of the room, the targets hovered side by side, ready to start.

  “Continue.”

  Now reacquainted with the movement and rhythm of the sequence, he did a little better. But the final score still appalled him; he couldn’t believe he had fallen so far so fast. He took a longer break and went to drink some water before returning.

  Once back at the range, he completed three more sequences. Not one score exceeded seventy percent.

  When he heard the last one—sixty-eight—he felt like swinging the gun into the wall and smashing it to pieces. But his anger faded as he returned the weapon to the rack. He glanced at the scores again, then deactivated the display. He stood there in silence for what seemed like a long time.

  By the time the door of the range shut behind him, he realized it didn’t matter anymore. He did not intend to ever fire a weapon again.

  26

  After four nights of digging, they had covered fifty feet. It was not easy going: there was more stone in this area and the soil was loose—the tunnel therefore more liable to collapse. They also had no material left to bolster the structure with.

  But their spirits could not have been higher, and the prospect of actually reaching the surface spurred every one of them on. Erras and the hulking Trantis outperformed everyone to such a degree that when Cerrin and Sadi took their turn after them, they knew theirs would be the last session of work.

  Cerrin was first down, and she steadied the rope while Sadi lowered herself from the original tunnel. The line was anchored inside and could be withdrawn out of sight when they didn’t need it. Though she’d said nothing, Cerrin knew this was largely pointless: any significant search would have revealed their presence. Though they’d tried to cover their tracks on the near side of the old machine, on the far side was a volume of waste earth that would betray the operation in an instant. Yet it seemed they were safe. The Vitaari never came this way, and Cerrin prayed that would continue for just a few more days.

  Once Sadi was down, they hurried to the new second tunnel.

  The pair clambered over the rusty machine and trudged through the waste soil. Cerrin took the trowel and bucket from inside, handing the bucket to Sadi. She then turned on the flashlight—which was now mounted on a head strap—and dived straight in. The best way to ascend was a rhythmic crawl, during which the diggers would inevitably encounter crawling insects, awkwardly placed stones and increasingly stale, bitter air.

  After a few minutes, she reached a key marker. Two days previous, Kannalin had clanged his trowel against the foundations of the mine wall. He—and the others—had feared it might set off some kind of alarm, but nothing happened. Other than an enforced horizontal detour, the structure caused them no further problems: in fact, negotiating it provided another boost to morale.

  Having checked that Sadi was behind her, Cerrin ploughed on until she reached the end. After a quick swig of water from the bottle in the pocket of her overalls, she jabbed the trowel in and tore out a clump of earth.

  To her disappointment, it was Sadi who made the final break-through. Cerrin had just returned with an empty bucket when the Palanian turned and threw something back at her. Cerrin’s flashlight illuminated a handful of fine white roots and green stems: grass.

  Employing the usual technique, Sadi was pressed up against the left side of the tunnel. Cerrin crouched below her, watching as more and more grass appeared. Sadi hauled herself further up, then dropped the trowel so she could tear the vegetation away. After a time, she stopped and whispered.

  “By the Maker. Stars.”

  Cerrin crawled up beside her.

  There they were. Two tiny bright dots visible through the small hole.

  “Flashlights,” warned Cerrin.

  They both turned them off and lay there together in silence. After a while, Cerrin realized Sadi was crying. She said nothing but used the time to keep working until they could see more sky and there was enough space for her to poke her head out.

  The clean, fresh scent of the air was almost o
verpowering. She could hear some kind of animal moving about close by. She turned and looked up. The dark wall of Mine Three looked impossibly high, lights blinking on top. She looked back down the slope. Cloud was currently obscuring the moon so she couldn’t make out the river. But she could hear it, or at least she thought she could.

  I could go now. I could go right now.

  The thought came out of nowhere. The river lilies would be past their best, but with this much of a start she could swim across. By the time the Vitaari got moving, she would be in the forest and safe.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Sadi.

  Cerrin cast the notion aside, almost ashamed by it. She lowered herself back down into the tunnel. “Let’s get finished.”

  Sonus needed one more piece of information. He’d spent some time up on the surface working on the maintenance drones and had picked up certain facts from Arkus, Kadessis, and the guards. He knew the Viceroy was visiting in three days’ time and he would attend Mine Fourteen in early morning. This was fortunate; it meant he could infiltrate the armory in darkness, then make his escape.

  He would have to do so before the guards entered to ready the combat shells; they invariably put on a show of force for a prestigious visitor. He could then disable the other vehicles and hopefully be in the air before the guards could stop him. But where would the Viceroy be then? Could he get to him before the element of surprise was lost and more Vitaari were sent to hunt him down?

  Despite his best efforts, Sonus still did not know the visitor’s precise movements. What he did know was there was an itinerary and he needed to see it. With midday approaching and only one more cleaning drone left to service, time was once again running out. For all he knew, there would be no more opportunities.

  He closed the access panel of the penultimate drone, wiped coolant off his hands and looked at the tower. While waiting for Kadessis there, he’d observed that the guards kept a single data-pad on a rack just inside the doorway. He imagined it provided orders or updates. (His damaged data-pad seemed incapable of receiving such information.)

  Though in previous times, the tower guard—or guards—would occasionally wander off, under Talazeer’s regime they did not stray far. Seeing the single man was still in position, Sonus grimaced. He couldn’t think of any other way to access a data-pad: there were no engineers in the yard today and the building was locked up.