by Eric Thomson
“Good morning, Horam. Are you looking at something interesting?” Rianne, who’d emerged from the aft stairs, joined him.
“Good morning to you as well, Sister, and yes, your premonition last night was spot on. See those three tiny dots a hand-span above the horizon?”
A few seconds later, “Seen.”
“I make them as three unidentified shuttles, and I give you one guess where they’re headed.”
“Mazaber, or rather the landing strip south of town.”
“It’s the only plausible explanation. They can’t be ours since ours wouldn’t land anywhere other than Thebes until we set up new houses elsewhere on the planet. Nor can I think of a reason why they might be looking for us, not when we have shortwave radios for contact with the priory.”
Rianne nodded.
“Could they belong to this mysterious Hegemony with the hard-nosed, autocratic regime? I’ll bet the Lyonesse Abbey-manufactured items Keter brought home sent them on the same mission as us. Like us, they’re here to discover who else in the galaxy travels the former imperial wormhole network aboard FTL-capable starships two hundred years after the Retribution Fleet scoured civilization from most human worlds.”
Horam lowered the telescope and carefully slid its tubes back into each other.
“Did we leave in time to avoid complications, or should we have stayed and greeted them as long-lost cousins?” He sounded dubious about the latter option.
“Definitely the first, though if they interrogate Crimple, they’ll know off-worlders are on a ship that left yesterday, headed for an island archipelago where they’ve established a beachhead of sorts.”
The Friar grimaced.
“I suggest you switch on one of the shortwave radio sets and warn Hermina that we have company from who knows where.”
“I’ll do so right away.”
While Horam returned the scope to its place, Rianne hurried below deck. She returned a few minutes later wearing a grim expression.
“I can’t raise the priory.” She glanced at the distant shoreline. “Did they land yet?”
“Probably, or if not, they’re on final approach.”
“Should I keep on with the radio?”
Horam nodded.
“Let’s try every thirty minutes, alternating between the sets. We might get lucky. Otherwise, it’ll have to wait until after sunset when conditions are more favorable.”
“By then, it could be too late.”
“For whom? Us, or the priory?”
“Either? Both? If Crimple talks, he’ll surely describe Aswan Trader and tell them about our last known heading. There can’t be many three-masted ships in this area. We certainly didn’t see any in Mazaber Bay. Let’s warn Fenrir and see if he has any ideas on how we could disappear from view in the next few hours.” Rianne saw movement behind the Friar. “And here he is.”
They quickly brought Fenrir up to date, and when Horam fell silent, he asked, “Why do you automatically assume these visitors present a danger?”
Rianne let a quick grimace flit across her face.
“Gut feeling based on what Crimple told us. Something calling itself a hegemony isn’t interested in anything else than dominating and ruling others. Besides, there’s the description of it from Keter. It doesn’t sound like a nice place.”
Fenrir cocked an eyebrow.
“And your Lyonesse is different? Aren’t you here to pave the way for your own interstellar hegemony?”
“Certainly not. The Republic of Lyonesse is founded on the principle of free association. Each member star system has equal representation on the councils of state and an equal voice in matters affecting them. If a united, rebuilt Hatshepsut declines membership, we will leave her to govern herself freely and without interference from Lyonesse, though we will offer alliances and trade treaties.”
Aswan Trader’s master let out a soft grunt.
“Lofty ideals. The old empire was founded on lofty ideals as well, or so I heard. We know how that turned out. But fine, you think we should avoid contact with whoever is now orbiting this planet,” he pointed a finger at the clear blue sky, “and has sent a landing party to Mazaber. Why would they look for us in particular?”
“Because Crimple will tell them about the Brethren who visited yesterday. Were I in their position, I would search for these other off-worlders traveling in a slow, waterborne ship.”
“Would it be so bad if they found you?”
“That depends on who and what they are. However, I have a bad feeling about this situation, and my instincts tell me we should do everything possible to evade any search.”
Fenrir gestured at the open water surrounding the ship.
“As you can see, hiding a three-masted barquentine from shuttles flying over this sea is rather impossible.”
Horam jerked his chin toward the small bumps rising above the eastern horizon.
“How about a nice little inlet over there?”
“The Saqqara Islands? Are you mad?” When Horam replied with a half shrug, Fenrir said, “Our charts of the islands anywhere other than extensively used passages are dangerously blank. Plus, there’s the minor matter of half-crazed barbarian tribes like those we met in the Central Passage. Besides, hiding a big girl like Aswan Trader can’t be done by simply sailing her into a small inlet and hoping she won’t be noticed.”
“In that case, put us ashore with the launch. If the off-worlders catch up with you, give them false coordinates. We’ll figure things out.”
“The Almighty help me, a mad Friar. That’s the last thing I need.” Fenrir raised his eyes to the heavens and sighed. “If I leave you on one of the Saqqaras, your prioress will turn my guts into banjo strings, and I rather like my digestive system as it is. It may not seem so, but she scares most of us sea captains. Very well. Let me look at my charts and see if I can find a way of assuaging your fears while keeping my hull intact.”
With that, Fenrir vanished below deck, headed for his cabin, where he carried out most of his navigational calculations.
**
Torma watched Major Vinh’s troopers, armed and armored, secure the landing strip before driving a pair of sleek, menacing black combat cars down their dropship ramps. The vehicles, propelled by eight wheels almost Torma’s height, were the Ground Forces’ standard armored personnel carriers and would protect passengers against anything the inhabitants of this planet might throw at them.
Equally, the remote weapons station, inside a low turret on top of the car’s sloped hull, was built around a twenty-five-millimeter plasma gun, which could lay waste to Mazaber in a matter of minutes. And both vehicles, like the Marines, carried nothing but live ammunition.
Moments after the cars vanished from view, Petty Officer Klaasen, at an unheard signal, dropped his craft’s ramp as well. He poked his head through the flight deck door.
“You’re clear to exit, Colonel.”
Ardrix and Torma unfastened their safety harnesses and stood, the latter nodding at Keter and his armored escort.
“Let’s go.”
When they emerged into the morning sunshine, Major Vinh, trailed by his wingman, walked over from where he’d been speaking with his company sergeant major.
“The area is secure, sir. If you climb aboard the combat car on the right, we can head into Mazaber straightaway.” He pointed at the vehicles waiting on the cracked roadway, facing north, partially hidden by long grasses gently swaying in the morning breeze.
“Thank you.”
One of Vinh’s men helped them settle into the troop compartment, aft of the turret shaft, and the remaining seats filled with Marines from the platoon tasked with close protection. Moments later, ramps and hatches slammed shut, and the little convoy moved off, leaving the other platoon to guard their shuttles under the sergeant major’s gimlet eye.
Torma, eyes glued to the displays feeding real-ti
me views of the surroundings to those in the troop compartment, watched the hill country zip by and was impressed with the speed at which they reached the city’s outskirts. There, they slowed to almost a walking pace, in case their approach startled the inhabitants enough to cause an unfortunate road accident. Torma was pleased when he recognized the principal buildings they’d mapped out from Task Force Kruzenshtern’s orbital scans and soon spotted the pier at the end of the central avenue a few hundred meters ahead.
Keter saw it as well, and he pointed at a corner building on the forward display.
“That there is David Crimple’s godown, Colonel.”
“Seen.”
Within moments, the two cars parked in front of the place and disgorged a dozen Marines who formed a security perimeter under the astonished eyes of a dozen or so Mazaberites. Some of them were no doubt wondering whether they were still drunk from the night before and hallucinating. Onlookers kept a healthy distance, instinctively knowing these strange creatures were heavily armed and dangerous.
When Vinh was satisfied there weren’t facing any dangers, he allowed Torma, Ardrix, and Keter with his escort to disembark and sent a pair of Marines through the godown’s front door. Moments later, a loud raspy voice, half-outraged, half-shocked, and speaking easily understood Anglic, reached Torma’s ears, demanding they tell him who they were and what they were playing at.
“Crimple,” Keter murmured. “I’d recognize that snarl anywhere.”
“How about you introduce us.” Torma glanced at Vinh, who gave them the go-ahead with a nod.
A few steps took them into a sizeable musty space with dust motes dancing in the sunbeams coming through high, barred windows.
“What is this?” A wizened man with a surly expression stared at them from behind a counter bisecting the room. “Off-worlder week or something?”
Then he recognized Keter.
“You. How dare you come back here with an armed escort? Will your toughs rob me clean of everything I own this time?”
“Mister Crimple, I presume?” Torma stopped three paces in front of the counter. “We’re here for information, not to steal your possessions.”
A surly look crossed the merchant’s face.
“And another one. This really isn’t my day, week, or month. And what will you offer me for that information?”
“Let me introduce myself. My name is Crevan Torma, and I’m a senior official in the Hegemony government. This is my aide, Sister Ardrix of the Order of the Void. Mister Keter is in my custody and helping us solve a minor mystery. The Marines here and outside are merely there for our safety, nothing more.”
Crimple’s eyes narrowed, and Ardrix knew, without touching his mind, that he’d made the connection.
“You want to know about the provenance of the items I sold to Keter, right?”
Torma nodded. “Indeed.”
“Funny, the last bunch of off-worlders that came through here wanted to know about the provenance of the items I bought from Keter. You folks should get together and compare notes rather than bother honest merchants making a lousy living in a rotten seaport.”
“And these off-worlders were?”
Crimple’s eyes gleamed with cunning, and he smiled.
“People who paid for information, and they did so handsomely, with off-world items that’ll fetch a good price. Make me an offer.”
— 29 —
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The demand caught Torma, with whom no one ever dared negotiate, by surprise and Crimple’s smile widened at his blank expression.
“What I know is obviously of great value to you, Mister Torma, otherwise you wouldn’t have come all the way from your homeworld to speak with me. I’m a trader. I trade items of value for other items of value.”
“What did the others offer you?” Ardrix asked, mental fingers brushing Crimple’s mind with thoughts of trust and friendship.
“That too is information, Sister. But let me tell you this for free. You sure as hell don’t dress like the Brethren who were here yesterday. They didn’t look like soldiers.”
“Brethren? From the old Order of the Void?”
For the first time in as long as he could remember, Torma heard genuine surprise in Ardrix’s voice.
Crimple tapped the side of his nose with an extended index finger and winked at her.
“They didn’t seem old to me. And if your boss makes me a friendly offer, I can tell you more.”
“You might want to back off on that, Crimple,” Keter said in a somewhat strangled tone. “These two know ways of making people talk no one should experience. Tell Colonel Torma what he wants, and he’ll leave without giving you an indelible memory of things that should stay deeply buried.”
“Are you speaking from firsthand knowledge?”
Keter nodded nervously.
“The Colonel’s people arrested and interrogated me not long after I landed back home. They do things to your mind in his organization, terrible things, the sort that make sure you tell him everything.”
Crimple turned his eyes back on Torma and Ardrix, and the latter nodded.
“We’d rather not use those techniques, but if you won’t cooperate...”
After a moment of thought, Torma reached into one of his combat harness pouches, pulled out a pair of compact ration packs, the sort landing parties carry in case, and placed them on the counter.
“Food that will last for years. The only thing you need is water, and not even potable at that. It includes a filter capable of removing any contaminant. They’re convenient in an emergency.” He glanced at Ardrix and eyed her pouch. She retrieved her ration packs and placed them next to Torma’s. “Four packs. That should buy us answers.”
Crimple picked one up and turned it in his hand, studying the markings.
“I guess it’s like what the others gave me, something I need to take on trust. What else can you offer?”
Ardrix reached into his mind and projected an image of Crimple writhing in agony. The man took a step back, fear writ large on his face.
“What the—”
“I suggest you accept our offer, Mister Crimple. This is as good as it gets.”
Her voice was so soft, so gentle, so at odds with her words that Crimple’s confusion grew. She reached in again and smoothed the ripples of his disturbed thoughts, leaving him with nothing but the faint echo of a sensation he might have imagined.
“Besides, you’re giving something intangible, which has no value for anyone other than us, and receiving items you can use or sell. I see no downside for you.”
“Okay, okay. That’s what the other Void Brethren said as well. You must learn the same negotiating techniques in school,” he replied in a querulous tone to cover his confusion and recounted everything he’d told Rianne and Horam the previous day.
When he fell silent, Ardrix said, in a tone of wonder, “So there’s an old Order priory in Thebes, Brethren we’d thought lost these two hundred years. And they come from a world called Lyonesse?”
Crimple nodded. “That’s what the Theban ship captains say.”
She turned to Torma. “The name Lyonesse would explain the second letter L in the abbey mark on the surgical instruments, but I’ve never heard of the planet.”
“I’ll tell you what, though,” Crimple said, “that Order mission in the Thebes archipelago has to be a beachhead. The Brethren are spreading advanced medicines and technology for free, to the point where merchant captains simply sell it off in Aksum ports, knowing they’ll get more. The Sister in charge of yesterday’s delegation gave me antibiotics in exchange for information and several medicines for the merchandise from Keter I couldn’t sell. Anyone with a bit of cunning will tell you that’s what sneaky invaders do. Make you dependent on them. As they say in the back alleys, the first taste is free.”
“And this delegation you saw yesterday, where
did it go?”
He shrugged.
“I presume they went home, back to Thebes. Captain Fenrir didn’t offer trade goods, which means he likely came here in ballast, for the Brethrens’ sake.”
“In an ocean-going ship, I presume?” Torma asked.
“Yes. A three-masted barquentine by the name Aswan Trader. She’s a fine ship, with a Stirling engine to power and propel her as necessary. The damn Thebans will end up owning the planet thanks to those off-world Void people.”
“Can you show us the medication they traded?”
A scowl briefly darkened Crimple’s face.
“You’ll not steal them, will you?”
Ardrix reached into a harness pouch and pulled out a small case.
“These are field tools. I offer the kit for one dose of each medication.”
She placed the case on the counter and waited as Crimple picked it up, figured out the opening mechanism, and examined the contents.
“Done.” He produced the vials, opened them one at a time, and placed a single capsule in front of the Sister. “We’ll make a trader out of you yet. Your colonel, maybe not so much.”
“What direction did their ship take?” Torma asked after Ardrix retrieved the medication samples.
“They were heading north-north-east at sunset, but that doesn’t signify. Theban ships use the Central Passage through the Saqqara Islands, and it’s slightly to the south of here. Using the North Passage adds at least five days. If you’re after Aswan Trader, the Central Passage is your best bet.”
“Can you show us on a map?”
Crimple let out a bark of laughter.
“I can’t read a damn map to save my life. The only thing I know is that you’ll find the Central Passage approximately two days’ sailing from here. More than that, you’ll need to see for yourself.”
Torma turned his head toward Ardrix.
“Anything else we should ask Mister Crimple?”
“No. He told us what we needed. The old Order Brethren should be the subjects of our next investigation.”