by Eric Thomson
“With your permission?”
“Dismissed.”
When he returned to his office, Torma felt a strange sense of dislocation, as if he’d suddenly lost control over his destiny and was now only a pawn in a power play whose genesis predated his interrogation of Jan Keter. Perhaps by more years than he could imagine. Did that make him a catalyst?
He shrugged off his unease and, seated once more behind the bare desk that served as his barrier against the grubbiness of official corruption, Torma plunged into his unit’s latest investigation reports. Part of him, repressed but still present, hoped he would find nothing that meant more souls on his conscience, individuals he’d send to certain death for defying a regime whose legitimacy seemed more tarnished some days than others. Such as when he faced evidence its commitment to the Oath of Reunification was nothing more than a masque that forced loyal servants of the state into action despite the Ruling Council.
Like most Commission officers, Torma had an almost instinctive ability to compartmentalize his thoughts, and he shoved those he considered quasi-treasonous to the very back of his mind so he could focus on his duties. And so, over the following days and weeks, he forgot about Captain Ewing Saleh, the secret expedition to Hatshepsut, and what it meant for the Hegemony’s future. He and his people had enough corrupt officials lined up for investigation, trial, and in many cases, execution to keep them busy.
Sadly, he hit dead end after dead end in his pursuit of Jan Keter’s backers, meaning they were either among the Hegemony’s quasi-untouchable elite or its secretive, violent criminal underground. Those categories were by no means entirely distinct from each other, as his colleagues in the organized crime units discovered when their investigations were derailed by unnamed senior government officials with enough power and connections to escape their clutches.
It left him with nothing more than speculation about why said backers were interested in both trade and intelligence gathering on human worlds struggling to support a modicum of industrialization, be it ever so primitive. Were those who chartered Keter also straining under the Ruling Council’s inertia?
Equally puzzling and no less frustrating was the lack of progress in identifying the location of an old Order house using an L/L mark on its products. Hatshepsut was home to an abbey and numerous priories before the Great Scouring, but Keter saw no traces of them, nor did he pick up any indications they might still be operating on that world.
What happened to the Brethren, no one knew. They’d lost countless historical records during the ultimate battles between the Retribution Fleet and rebellious admirals, and parts of human history seemed like a patchwork. Torma doubted anyone in the Hegemony could name every single star system colonized by humanity over the millennia, let alone the habitats, stations, and other settlements. If ever the Hegemony sallied forth, they would surely find hundreds of forgotten worlds. If.
When the long-awaited summons finally came, it caught Torma by surprise. One morning, shortly after arriving at Commission HQ, General Robbins summoned him and Sister Ardrix to her office. That alone told Torma something was up. Robbins never called a unit’s Sister along with the commanding officer for whom she worked.
When he and Ardrix were sitting across from Robbins, the latter said, “Colonel, Sister, the Navy requested a senior Commission officer and a Commission Sister to accompany Task Force Kruzenshtern on extended naval maneuvers along the Hegemony’s outer borders. I chose you two for the mission as you are the most experienced team available.”
Torma found his superior’s choice of words interesting. Inter-service requests usually filtered down from the Wyvern Group commander, Commissioner Cabreras, who often chose senior assignments himself rather than let his divisional commanders make the call. Did that mean Cabreras was in on it? Surely Robbins couldn’t hide Torma and Ardrix’s secondment to the Navy for what would likely be several months. He mentally shrugged. Did it matter? Dealing with Cabreras was Robbins’ problem.
“You have forty-eight hours to brief your second-in-command, make the arrangements for an orderly handover, and pack. The abbey will send a temporary replacement for you, Sister. I copied Archimandrite Bolack on the Navy’s request.”
Ardrix inclined her head.
“I will make sure she knows the full extent of her duties.”
“I don’t doubt that. You’re both expected at the Joint Base spaceport terminal the day after tomorrow, at oh-eight-hundred. A shuttle will take you to Task Force Kruzenshtern’s flagship, the light cruiser Repulse, in orbit. There, you will report to Commodore Gatam Watanabe, the flag officer commanding. A list of required and forbidden items will be in your message queue shortly, along with weight and volume limitations.”
“How many ships besides Repulse, General?”
“Four. The light cruiser Reprisal, the frigates Dominator, and Devastation, and the armed transport Terror. Not the Navy’s newest and best ships, by any measure, but their prolonged absence will be less noticeable, especially since the warships were drawn from all four fleets and Terror is freshly out of her latest life-extension refit. She’ll carry a company from the 1st Special Forces Regiment along with an air wing.”
Torma’s heart sank just a bit. He recalled that the youngest of the five, Repulse, was launched before his birth, and even she was built based on an imperial design that was outdated when the empire collapsed, albeit improved. Robbins must have read his thought because she let out a humorless chuckle.
“Task Force Kruzenshtern can deal with anything it might meet, considering we’ve not encountered anyone with more powerful starships since the Hegemony’s founding.”
“Only because we’ve not gone looking, General. But I get the point. Old ships won’t be missed as much as newer ones, though I’d rather we come back in one piece.”
“I share your sentiments, but perhaps a good scare out there might convince the Ruling Council it should place more emphasis on advancing our shipbuilding program rather than let it languish through lack of vision.”
Torma allowed himself a derisive snort.
“With all due respect, General, visions of greatness interfere with the sort of grubby graft that keeps the Hegemony trapped. It’ll take more than running across a mighty interstellar fleet gobbling up star systems to wake the Council from its slumber and consider long-overdue changes.”
“True. But one step at a time. If you have no other questions, you’re dismissed. Good luck. Task Force Kruzenshtern’s expedition may be the catalyst that sets us back on track to reclaim humanity’s heritage.”
— 7 —
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Crevan Torma entered the spaceport terminal’s departure room at the appointed time, a heavy bag in each hand, and found Sister Ardrix already there, staring out the window at an empty tarmac. But instead of the usual monastic robes, she wore a black Guards Corps Navy uniform — hip-length, high-collared tunic over trousers tucked into calf-high black boots and a beret not unlike the one on Torma’s head, minus a branch of service insignia. The uniform was devoid of any adornment other than the Order’s metallic Phoenix Orb on her right breast. Ardrix turned the moment she heard his footsteps and smiled at the obvious air of surprise on his face.
“This is how Brethren serving in naval vessels as healers, chaplains, and counselors dress these days. The Navy prefers we don’t appear overly different from its crews. Besides, when we’re aboard, we come under the same code of discipline as anyone in the Wyvern Hegemony Guard Corps and hold assimilated warrant officer rank.” An air of mischief crossed her face. “I suppose I should salute you, Colonel.”
“Don’t,” Torma growled as he dropped his bags beside hers. “My vanity does not need stroking this morning.”
“No worries. Even though we sometimes wear Guard Corps uniforms, the Brethren stay civilians and are exempt from the usual military protocols. We simply obey military commanders in certain situations,
provided doing so doesn’t contravene our vows or our obligations to the Almighty.”
Momentary discomfort overtook Torma, and he needed a few seconds to realize why. She’d just openly stated, for the first time in their acquaintanceship, that entering the minds of prisoners and making them face their worst fears in preparation for questioning didn’t contravene the Order of the Void Reborn’s vows. Did donning a uniform bring on such honesty, or was she simply making it clear she would do whatever was necessary to ensure their safe return? One thing was sure, said uniform’s close-fitting, severe cut and its accompanying beret turned her narrow, angular face into a more intimidating alabaster sculpture than ever.
“Is something wrong, Crevan?”
He shook his head, banishing the thought, and smiled in return.
“I just find you strangely transformed.”
“Yet I’m still the same person.”
Torma was saved from a response by two Commission noncoms escorting a manacled Jan Keter wearing regular spacer clothes and carrying a backpack into the waiting room. The one who was senior saluted Torma.
“Sergeant Onofri and Corporal Leduc reporting with the prisoner, sir.”
Torma returned the compliment.
“At ease. Our shuttle isn’t here yet.”
“Yes, sir.”
As they adopted the parade rest position, he studied a visibly confused Keter in silence. The latter’s eyes were all over the place while his lips twitched nervously, as if he wanted to ask a question but feared his captors’ reaction. Since Torma couldn’t give a truthful answer within earshot of escorts who were surely just as puzzled about delivering a subversive to the spaceport and whatever surveillance devices monitored the departure room, he turned away and stared out the window. Ardrix imitated him moments later.
“Fear consumes him,” she murmured in a voice pitched for his ears only.
“Now there’s a surprise.”
The minutes ticked by in tense silence until Torma spotted a small, boxy shuttle banking toward Joint Base New Draconis’ landing strip as it shed altitude and speed. When it was near enough to read markings, he knew it was their ride.
The inelegant, rectangular hull, heavily covered in black streaks from too many re-entries and not enough time in drydock, bore the Hegemony sigil, a registration number, and the name Repulse. It deployed landing struts from the four pods festooning its flanks, two per side, and gently settled on the cracked tarmac a few dozen meters from the terminal. A side door dropped, forming a ramp, and two spacers wearing the Guards naval uniform emerged.
Torma glanced over his shoulder at the prisoner escort.
“That would be for us.”
“Sir.” The sergeant snapped to attention and nodded at his colleague.
Torma and Ardrix picked up their bags, and the former led their little procession through the sliding doors. As they neared the shuttle, both spacers straightened and saluted. Torma, hands full, gave them a grave nod.
“I’m Colonel Torma. With me are Sister Ardrix and Detainee Keter. Please take charge of Keter while the Sister and I settle in.”
“Yes, sir. Just drop your luggage on the right at the top of the ramp. We’ll stow it when the detainee is secure.”
The handover was brief since, by design, Keter’s transfer into naval custody wouldn’t be recorded. Within minutes of the shuttle’s arrival, they and the spacers were strapped in, their bags stowed in an aft compartment. The ramp lifted, cutting off their view of the low-slung concrete terminal.
Moments later, Torma felt thrusters come to life. After countless days of wondering and waiting, the moment was finally here. He wouldn’t officially violate the laws against unauthorized travel until Task Force Kruzenshtern left Hegemony space. Still, it seemed as if they were crossing the line by merely leaving Wyvern’s surface.
The notion passed as quickly as it came on when his inner ear told him the shuttle was rising. Without windows in the passenger compartment, or a display mimicking one, they couldn’t tell how fast they were moving. After one glance at Ardrix, who sat still, eyes closed, breathing regulated, he slipped into a similar, light meditative trance.
Torma roused himself when the shuttle switched to artificial gravity, indicating they’d reached orbit and were likely approaching Repulse. He wasn’t a frequent space traveler, although he’d visited each of the Hegemony’s other three star systems at least once during his career. However, he still knew what to expect and understood his behavior aboard Repulse would determine his effectiveness.
The Navy nurtured a deep distrust for members of his branch, one exacerbated by the Chief Commissioner’s so far unsuccessful attempts at stationing political officers aboard each warship. Torma privately disagreed with the idea, as did most experienced Commission members, but couldn’t say so aloud.
A little over ten minutes later, he sensed a slight shift in the artificial gravity field and understood they’d passed through the hangar deck space doors. He received confirmation shortly afterward when he heard the shuttle’s landing struts connect with the metal decking.
The spacers guarding Keter unfastened their seat restraints and stood, stretching. After exchanging silent glances, Torma and Ardrix did the same. Before the latter could ask how long they would wait, the portside door unlatched and transformed into a ramp again. The older of the two spacers gestured at the opening, indicating Torma, the most senior officer aboard, should disembark first.
As he walked down the ramp, Torma saw a compact, black-haired man with a Navy captain’s rank insignia on the collar approach the shuttle while watching him with deep-set, dark, emotionless eyes. Jason Park, Repulse’s commanding officer, coming to greet his no doubt unwanted guests in person. Torma stopped at the ramp’s bottom edge.
“Permission to come aboard, Captain?”
There was a slight but noticeable pause before Park replied, “Granted and welcome.”
Torma took a single step and saluted the ship.
“Colonel Crevan Torma and Sister Ardrix reporting for duty.”
“Commodore Watanabe is expecting you, Colonel. I understand you brought a detainee for my brig?”
“Yes, Captain. A merchant officer who went where this task force is headed and can give helpful advice.”
“I see.” Park glanced over Torma’s shoulder at a manacled Keter, standing behind Ardrix with a spacer on each side. “And you’re sure he won’t cause mischief by lying?”
“Detainee Keter knows better after spending time with Sister Ardrix and me. Anything he says is what he believes to be the truth.”
Torma saw Park’s eyes narrow for a second or two as he processed the implications of his statement. But instead of dwelling on the subject, Park nodded at his men.
“Take him to the brig.” Then he turned his attention back on Torma. “My people will see that your luggage reaches your quarters while I take you to Commodore Watanabe. I’ve given you the spare VIP suite which consists of two sleeping compartments separated by a common day cabin with workstations.”
Torma inclined his head. “Thank you.”
“If you’ll follow me.” Park turned on his heels and led them toward the open inner airlock while hangar deck maintenance personnel swarmed the shuttle.
Though Torma didn’t get a chance to inspect the cruiser’s outer hull during their approach, he somehow sensed Repulse’s advanced age as they walked along clean passageways, each door and intersection clearly labeled. There was something about her atmosphere that spoke of more light-years and wormholes transits than any human could travel in a single lifetime.
Park stopped at a door bearing a dark blue rectangle with a single gold star in the center. He glanced at Torma and Ardrix, then pointed at the door across from it.
“Your quarters are in there.” Then he touched the call panel.
A disembodied voice answered, “Enter.”
The
door slid aside with a tired sigh, and Park waved them through. Torma marched in, stopped a regulation three paces in front of Watanabe’s desk, and snapped off a crisp salute. He sensed, rather than saw Ardrix stop beside him, back straight, head held high.
“Colonel Torma and Sister Ardrix reporting as ordered, sir.”
“At ease and welcome to Task Force Kruzenshtern.”
Torma adopted the parade rest position and looked at Watanabe, a tall, lean man in his late fifties with short, iron-gray hair topping a craggy, olive complexioned face. Brown eyes beneath beetling brows stared back at him for a few seconds, then Watanabe gestured at the chairs in front of his desk.
“Please sit.” A glance told Torma that Park was standing by an inner doorway marked ‘Flag Conference Room,’ instead of taking the third chair. “I won’t dance around the issue, Colonel. You and the Sister are aware of your role on this expedition, correct?”
“Yes, sir. We’re an alibi of sorts, something that gives this task force greater legitimacy if the Ruling Council decides it’s unhappy with our unauthorized voyage.”
“Good. Then you understand I won’t look kindly upon either of you acting as State Security Commission officers looking for crimes and criminals in this command unless I give you specific permission.”
“Yes, sir.” Torma allowed himself a small, albeit ironic smile. “Technically, by volunteering for this mission, Sister Ardrix and I can be credibly accused of crimes against the state, and the Commission does not allow its officers to investigate themselves.”
Torma thought he saw a glint of amusement in Watanabe’s eyes, though the commodore’s expression remained impassive.
“A wise practice, no doubt. Now tell me about those findings of yours that triggered this unprecedented mission and about the man now sitting in Captain Park’s brig.”
When both Torma and Ardrix finished relating what they knew, Watanabe sat back and exhaled.
“Fascinating. I now understand why flag officers of the three services devised such a risky scheme behind the Council’s back. And do you suggest we follow this Keter’s original route to Hatshepsut?”