by Eric Thomson
“Open a link.” Moments later, Rinne’s craggy features materialized on the main display. Morane gave him a genial smile. “In the nick of time, Captain. We’re minutes from having to accelerate if we wish to make the wormhole on this heading. I gather you’ve opted to join us?”
“It was a debate for the ages, and before you ask, I can’t share what happens in chapter with outsiders,” Rinne replied. “But in the end, more than two-thirds of the Brethren agreed to follow you to your sanctuary instead of facing an uncertain and potentially impassable road to Lindisfarne. That network map you sent me was rather convincing for many.”
“And what will happen with those who voted against this decision? The reason I ask is that I released the ones in the 197th Battle Group unwilling to come with us and let them leave aboard our second surviving frigate to a fate we’ll likely never know.”
“They will follow willingly, fear not. Obedience is one of the vows we take when we join the Order of the Void.”
“May I ask what your opinion was?”
Rinne grinned. “You may, but since I expressed my views in chapter, I cannot divulge them. However, I am placing my ship and myself under your command. We are ready to receive and execute navigation orders.”
“Welcome to the 197th, Captain, though I never figured we’d recruit a religious auxiliary. Fleet command wouldn’t be amused if they knew. Please take station between Narwhal and Myrtale and match our velocity. Then we can synchronize you with the others and accelerate toward the wormhole together.”
“Certainly. What is our destination?”
“Ever heard of a little wormhole cul-de-sac system called Lyonesse?”
Rinne squinted as if searching his memory. “I can’t recall having visited the place, but this is not the first time I hear that name. Wormhole dead-end, eh? Not a bad idea. It’ll mean less unwanted guests passing through.”
“Would you believe it’s supposed to host a Fleet supply depot?”
The friar-captain laughed uproariously. “Trust the imperial government to set up a logistics base in a cul-de-sac, where it’s convenient to no one. The bribes must have been enormous.”
“But it could be very convenient for us.”
“Indeed. So long as the locals didn’t help themselves or the depot staff hasn’t sold off the stock for fun and profit.”
— 24 —
“All ships made a successful transit and are in silent running mode,” Chief Lettis reported after their third wormhole crossing since Dawn Trader joined Vanquish and her consorts. Coraline and the Shield Sector were now dozens of light years away.
“I still can’t believe how good our friendly neighborhood clerics are at this,” Creswell commented. “Their ship is once again as undetectable as the others. Are we sure the Void Congregation doesn’t have a military arm we never heard of?”
Morane shrugged. “Anything is possible. I’m just happy they’re able to follow along almost as well as any naval transport.”
“History is replete with military orders, Annalise,” DeCarde said. “Templars, Teutonic Knights, Hospitallers, and the list goes on.”
“A good subject for discussion during the wardroom’s next dining-in, I should think.”
“Yes, sir.” The Marine now knew enough about Morane’s mannerisms to understand his tone and choice of words were meant to forestall any further discussion of historical trivia. With the ship at battle stations, minds needed to focus on potential threats. And this system, named after the sole habitable planet, Palmyra, was their first with a known human presence since leaving Coraline.
The minutes passed in silence while sensors reached out into the night, looking for non-natural energy emissions that might betray the presence of starships. Then, the signals petty officer raised a hand.
“Sir, nothing on any of the subspace bands, which isn’t surprising, since Palmyra doesn’t have a system subspace relay, but the normal sublight radio frequencies are being flooded by a distress signal.”
Morane glanced over his shoulder at DeCarde. “Another Pathfinder battalion facing a last stand against enraged rebels?”
She grimaced. “Doubtful, since I’ve never even heard of this system before you mentioned it.”
“Palmyra, despite the sumptuous name, is only marginally habitable,” Creswell said. “The latest entry in our database lists just under a thousand colonists, members of a fringe political movement that settled there eighteen years ago after its members were expelled from Mykonos because of alleged subversive activities. There are no further details.”
Morane turned to the signals console. “What’s the nature of the distress signal?”
“Text only. They claim to be under sustained attack by reivers.”
“It didn’t take long for vermin to come out and sniff at the outer systems now that the Navy is busy fighting itself instead of patrolling. How old is the broadcast?”
“According to the universal date stamp, it started forty-one hours ago, sir.”
“Any evidence of ships around Palmyra, Chief?”
Lettis shook his head. “None we can pick up right now, but the time lag is over twenty hours.”
Morane studied the navigation plot, a three-dimensional projection of the Palmyra system with its three wormholes clearly marked.
“I recognize that look,” Mikkel, once again present in the CIC via hologram, said. “You’re wondering whether to investigate instead of simply jumping across the system for Wormhole Palmyra One. We’re no longer part of the Imperial Navy, or did you forget?”
“But we are still part of humanity and owe a duty of care to others, no? Diverting to Palmyra for a peek won’t lengthen our crossing of this system by more than a day. Besides the reiver who can take on a warship like Vanquish hasn’t been built yet.”
Mikkel sighed. “I’ll ask Lieutenant Hak to recalculate our course. May I suggest we think how to best protect the two non-combatants in our little fleet should this mission of mercy involve shooting?”
“That consideration was high in my mind, Iona. Which is why I intend to send Myrtale ahead of the rest, to be our screen. Her hyperlimit is closer to Palmyra than ours or Narwhal’s. She can approach the planet and see what, if anything, we can do to help.”
Mikkel seemed to consider the idea, then nodded. “The difference between our hyperlimit and hers would be a sufficient buffer, in case something is going on that might threaten Narwhal or Dawn Trader.”
“Done. Signals, set up a conference call with the other captains.”
**
“Comments or questions?”
Ryzkov of Narwhal shook her head, as did Sirak of Myrtale.
The latter said, “My sensors will get a clear picture the moment we emerge, and after what happened around Toboso, you can be damn sure I won’t take any chances.”
“And you, Captain Rinne? Any qualms about sailing into potential danger with us?”
“I would be a poor servant of the Almighty if I showed any hesitation at offering those poor colonists succor against heathen reivers, no matter the risks. I’ve seen what that ugly lot can do to defenseless people. I’ll trust in Him and your guns to keep the Brethren safe, Captain.”
Morane inclined his head. “Thank you. In that case, Lieutenant Hak has prepared the new navigation plan, which he will transmit shortly. Vanquish, Narwhal and Dawn Trader will synchronize and jump as one. Myrtale will jump on her own. The countdown timer is set and running. We will speak again after the jump. Carry on.” The images of the three captains faded.
“Feeling better now, skipper?” Mikkel asked.
“Simply passing by was never an option, Iona. I’d not forgive myself. Until Vanquish is in Lyonesse orbit, we stay on call to protect the innocent.”
“I know. Let’s hope we reach Palmyra in time to save lives, but if the reivers started their attack almost two days ago...”
The signals petty officer raised a hand. “Myrtale reports ready to leave. She requests permission
to go ‘up systems,’ sir.”
Mikkel’s right eyebrow shot up. “That was quick.”
“Indeed. Sirak runs a tight ship. Permission granted. The sooner she gets there, the better.”
The first officer’s holographic head turned to one side. Then, she said, “Hak reports Vanquish, Narwhal and Dawn Trader linked and synced. We can also leave whenever you give the word, sir.”
“As soon as Myrtale goes FTL, we can change course and accelerate.”
**
“Subspace link with Myrtale is live,” Chief Lettis announced shortly after Vanquish and the rest of the 197th dropped out of FTL. “No contacts to report. No satellites in orbit. Myrtale is three hundred thousand kilometers out and closing.”
A visual feed of the planet shimmered to life on a side display.
“Lovely name, but it doesn’t seem pretty, does it?”
Morane glanced at the Marine. “A hard-scrabble sort of place, according to the Encyclopedia Galactica. Atmospheric pressure at sea level — what little seas there are — is half of the standard one hundred and one kilopascal. Oxygen levels are lower as well. And if the planetologists are right, its best days are long past, as in billions of years ago, hence the rather unlovely, worn-out looks.”
“I prefer my planets with a bit of vibrant color rather than unrelieved gray and beige. Is anything native still living there?”
“Some. It boasts hardy plant and animal life that adapted to a declining ecosystem, but no one’s ever found traces that sentient life evolved on Palmyra.”
DeCarde grunted. “Not a place I’d choose to raise my kids.”
“Desperate people will take whatever they can and adapt to the most marginal environments. The first human colonies beyond Earth’s moon were on Mars, which was much less hospitable than Palmyra by several orders of magnitude.”
Chief Lettis forestalled DeCarde’s reply. “Myrtale found the source of the distress beacon. She’s scanning the area now.”
Several more minutes went by in silence before the image of Palmyra from high altitude was replaced by that of a small settlement on the shores of an inland sea.
DeCarde winced. “Ouch. Whoever hit them left nothing but ruins. Unless they built their village to appear pre-distressed, or they weren’t much good as builders to begin with.”
“Standard instant colony, it looks like,” Creswell said. “Containers dropped from orbit and once emptied of their contents, turned into housing, storage and the like.”
“And now turned into smoking wreckage.”
“Myrtale is picking up life signs in the settlement’s vicinity, but only three dozen.”
“Three dozen out of almost a thousand?” The Marine sounded incredulous. “That’s not a reiver attack, it’s a damned massacre.”
“Or a slaver’s raid,” Morane replied in a soft voice. “Or most of the original colonists died from natural causes before this. I’ll let Myrtale finish her reconnaissance, but we will send one of your squadrons to the settlement, Colonel. Nate Sirak just doesn’t have enough crew members left to form a useful landing party.”
“Of course. If you’d rather only bring Vanquish into Palmyra orbit, it’ll be one of the squadrons here. Probably D Squadron since B Squadron enjoyed most of the action when we evacuated Klim Castle.”
“I would. As soon as Myrtale is done, we will switch places with her, so that Narwhal and Dawn Trader aren’t unprotected.”
“In that case, I’ll brief Cosimo Ossott and his command team. With your permission?” DeCarde stood.
“Go ahead, Colonel.”
— 25 —
A scene of utter devastation greeted Major Ossott’s Pathfinders as they cautiously climbed out of Vanquish’s shuttles on the outskirts of the settlement. Corpses, most of them mutilated in one way or the other, were strewn haphazardly everywhere. The officer commanding D Squadron, a stocky, middle-aged veteran who climbed up the ranks from private, cursed without caring that the live audio and video link to the cruiser’s CIC made his sharp words audible to everyone, including his commanding officer.
“I second the sentiment,” DeCarde said. “Those who did this are inhuman. Clever but vicious animals.”
“Do you want us to tally up the corpses?”
“No. Send out search parties to recover the living and record everything. We can analyze the recordings later if we want to do a head count. Find the distress beacon as well. I’d like to understand how it survived this rampage.”
“Roger that.”
The armored Pathfinders spread out by troops and teams, each intent on its mission, each one of them feeding raw video and telemetry data to the ship above. DeCarde, Morane, and the others saw what the Marines on the ground saw. And what they witnessed was a story of merciless brutality perpetrated by beings without a shred of conscience or compassion.
The close-up view of the first corpse showed a woman barely in her twenties. Someone had beaten her to death with a hard object, perhaps the butt of a plasma rifle, after she suffered unspeakable violations. Near her lay the body of a child, vaguely recognizable as having once been human. More heartfelt curses erupted from Ossott’s mouth, and DeCarde could only imagine what the troopers were saying among themselves, off the battalion radio net. She stopped counting after fifty murdered colonists and instead fought to restrain her rising fury.
It must have shown on her face because Morane turned to her and said, “I’m afraid this scenario is already being repeated on the empire’s crumbling fringes, Brigid. Those unfortunate colonists are merely among the first to die at the hands of scavengers sniffing around the corpse of Dendera’s rapidly shrinking realm. All we can do is rescue the survivors and move on. But it gives us an idea against what we’ll be defending our sanctuary.”
“A shame we can’t go after the assholes who did this,” she replied through clenched teeth. “Before they hit another colony left defenseless because admirals want to play warlord and overthrow the empress.”
“Even if they left a trail we could follow, our purpose in making this journey must come first.”
Major Ossott’s voice came over the live link once more. “We found two of the survivors. Kids only twelve years old. They’ve been hiding in native thickets, terrified out of their minds. At least the poor bairns can still recognize Marines when they see them. Otherwise, they’d be running even deeper into the woods. They’ll need medical care and a good psychologist. I know they watched those fucking animals rape and murder their own parents. If you’re not following any of the video feeds from my troopers, then my recommendation is don’t. You’ll not be able to sleep soundly for a while. There’s not a single body that hasn’t been grievously abused in some way. More than one of mine lost their breakfasts already.”
“Any idea yet how many colonists lived in the settlement?”
“No. But I’ll wager the dead represent only a fraction of the total, judging by the number of houses that appear occupied versus the body count.”
“Slavers.”
“Aye.” Ossott sounded like a man losing his fight against an outbreak of murderous rage. “There’s a pattern to the dead. My guess is they either resisted during the initial attack or were considered unfit to serve as human chattel and became flesh dolls, to be abused and killed for sport. Judging by the condition of the bodies, they’ve been dead for almost two days, which means the bastards wasted no time. Should we figure out a way to bury them? It seems obscene to leave these poor folks lying around like this. And Palmyra being an alien ecosystem, they might take forever to decay.”
“Find the survivors and come home, Cosimo. I’m sure Captain Morane won’t mind using his ship’s weaponry to cremate the entire site from orbit.” She glanced at Morane, who nodded.
“Will do.”
DeCarde sighed. “I think it won’t just be the survivors who’ll need counseling. Where will we put them?”
Morane held up a finger. “I believe I know the answer. Signals, connect us with Dawn T
rader.”
**
“Of course we’ll take the survivors,” a grim-faced Rinne said after Morane apprised him of the situation. “Our sickbay is well equipped, and we’ll do our best to help them overcome what they experienced. It will take time. Some might never recover, but we’ll try. A few of the sisters aboard are specialists and worked with children before.”
“Do you have sufficient food for additional passengers? If not, we can shift a few crates of the hard rations Colonel DeCarde’s Marines brought with them from Coraline.”
“Don’t worry, there’s more than enough to go around. Dawn Trader has her own hydroponics farm.”
“Thank you, Captain. It means a lot. We’re not equipped to deal with this situation. At least not beyond immediate aid.”
“As I said before, I’d be a piss-poor servant of the Almighty if I didn’t extend a helping hand to those in dire need. Send your shuttles directly to Dawn Trader. I’ll join you in Palmyra orbit and make sure our hangar deck is ready to receive them.”
“Major Ossett will split the survivors up between two shuttles, Captain Rinne,” DeCarde said.
The friar nodded. “Duly noted. Please let us know when they’re on final approach. Dawn Trader, out.”
“My folks just said they found the distress beacon. It was sitting out in the open, inside what might be the town hall.” DeCarde pointed at the feed from Major Ossett’s helmet video pickup.
“Strange. You’d think a transmitter that powerful would interest reivers.”
“Only if they knew how to disarm that very obvious booby trap Cosimo is pointing at. I’m sure they weren’t inclined to linger around trying to figure it out, in case a Navy ship showed up unexpectedly.”
“Aye. But those savages will soon learn they can rape, pillage and plunder at their leisure.”
“Until local militias spring up to fight back.”
“Which is why I’m glad I stumbled across a battalion of Marine Pathfinders looking to escape certain death.”