by Eric Thomson
Ossett’s voice came over the CIC speakers. “We rounded up thirteen survivors so far, children. Their parents sent them to hide the moment alien ships landed. Not all did.”
“Sadly. Otherwise, more would have survived.”
“Indeed. We found over thirty slaughtered kids, from babies to teens. The stuff of nightmares, Colonel. I’ve never seen the like, nor have my troopers. May I suggest we borrow a few counselors from the Order? I know you don’t trust them, but some of those here with me will need a sympathetic ear, one that can help them shake the worst off. If we can avoid an outbreak of post-traumatic stress...”
“I’ll make the necessary arrangements, Cosimo. They can shift to Vanquish after you’ve delivered the children.”
“Thank you, Colonel. I don’t think there’s enough booze in our little fleet to help us forget what we’ve seen today.” A pause. “The kid who spoke with us is helping draw the others out of hiding. It won’t be long now. Thank Heavens.”
When Morane gave DeCarde a questioning glance at Ossett’s tone, one of man on the verge of breaking, she said, “It must be terrible. I’ve not known Cosimo to react so strongly at seeing dead bodies. The sight of butchered children must be breaking through his hardened shell. Could you please see whether Captain Rinne might send us a few counselors by return of shuttle, sir? If Cosimo is asking, they’re most assuredly needed, no matter what I think of the Void. He’s the longest-serving in the 6th of the 21st and has seen things most of us would never encounter in our worst nightmares.”
Morane, no stranger to the ugliness of war, courtesy of Empress Dendera’s destructive reign, merely nodded.
“Of course. I’ll do so right away. I’m sure it will please them to help.”
— 26 —
DeCarde watched the last of her Pathfinders silently exit the shuttles, helmet visors open. As with the first group which landed on Vanquish’s hangar deck earlier while two shuttles stopped off at Dawn Trader, the usual post-mission banter was noticeable for its absence. Instead, she greeted another column of grim-faced men and women who were itching for a chance to kill as many reivers as possible.
Two women exited on their heels. One was tall and dark-haired, her hatchet face dominated by intense lilac eyes framing an aquiline nose. Though the sister’s features were still smooth, DeCarde easily gave her sixty or sixty-five years of age. The other, shorter and younger, seemed soft, almost sensual where her companion was ascetic. Long, dark red hair crowned a round face noticeable for its full lips, green eyes, and a snub nose.
Instead of the robes DeCarde expected, both wore unadorned black, loose-fitting one-piece garments like the coveralls preferred by starship engineers, the legs tucked into sturdy work boots. Each carried a small bag slung over one shoulder, and neither wore the slightest bit of jewelry, not even discreet religious symbols.
The Marine inclined her head in a polite greeting. “Sisters Gwenneth and Katarin, I presume? I’m Lieutenant Colonel Brigid DeCarde, commanding officer of the 6th Battalion, 21st Pathfinder Regiment, formerly of the Imperial Marine Corps. On behalf of Captain Morane, his crew and my unit, welcome aboard. Captain Morane would be pleased to offer you tea in his day cabin once I’ve shown you to your quarters.”
“Thank you for your courtesy, Colonel, and we’d be honored to share a cup with Captain Morane. I’m Gwenneth,” the older one said. “Rinne told us of your need for counselors. Katarin and I are both experienced psychologists and worked with military personnel before.”
The younger sister, who’d been watching DeCarde intently since emerging from the shuttle, smiled, revealing bright white teeth that seemed almost too perfect for a product of nature. “I think the good colonel isn’t a fan of our Order, Gwenneth.”
“Oh?” The elder tilted her head to one side and studied DeCarde. “I suppose she isn’t. But calling on our aid shows commendable self-awareness.”
DeCarde bit back the first reply that came to mind and merely shrugged instead.
Gwenneth chuckled. “No, Colonel, we’re not mind readers, but we are well versed in interpreting the smallest bits of body language and hearing the most subtle intonations. I think my colleague noticed a change in your demeanor when we exited the shuttle. A reaction you might think well-hidden, but not to eyes that see what others can’t, or don’t want to. It’s part of our professional arsenal when treating people.”
“Speaking of which,” Katarin added, “the orphans your Marines rescued from Palmyra will be well cared for by the Brethren. Several pediatric psychologists from the Yotai Abbey survived Zahar’s purge and made it aboard Dawn Trader. Rest assured there will be no religious indoctrination involved. We help anyone, regardless of faith or creed, and only discuss our beliefs if a patient asks.”
“Good of you to say so, Sister, but I wasn’t worried. The Order of the Void is known for not proselytizing.” DeCarde gestured toward the inner door. “If you’ll follow me. We prepared a two bunk cabin near the Marine barracks.”
“Thank you for not putting us with the ship’s officers, Colonel,” Gwenneth said as she fell into step beside DeCarde. “It’s important that we live among your troops, just like any chaplain would, so that those in need of counseling can approach us without hesitation. Many would rather not broadcast they’re seeking help. I gather you no longer have chaplains in the Marine Corps?”
A bitter laugh escaped DeCarde’s throat. “Emperor Karlus, Dendera’s father, discontinued the practice, Sister. He didn’t like clerics infecting troops with the belief there is a higher power than the Crown.”
“Might we also impose on you for another compartment, so that both of us can counsel simultaneously? A cubbyhole with two chairs would be sufficient.”
“I’ll see to it, Sister.”
“Once again, my thanks. And Colonel, you’re most welcome to bend our ears if you feel the need to chat with someone not in your chain of command.” Gwenneth’s tone was almost hypnotically soft. “We’re remarkably non-judgmental, even toward those who don’t much like our Order,” she added in a voice that seemed to ring with gentle laughter.
**
DeCarde ushered her, for want of better words, new battalion chaplains into Morane’s day cabin and said, “Captain Jonas Morane, may I introduce Sister Gwenneth and Sister Katarin.”
He stepped out from behind his desk, smiling and stretched out his hand. “Welcome aboard, Sisters. I trust you found the accommodations to your satisfaction.”
Gwenneth nodded by way of greeting. “The cabin you’ve given us is luxurious compared to our accommodations aboard Dawn Trader. She was never designed to carry two hundred of us, and now another thirty-six children, but needs must when the devil drives.”
The customary handshakes over, he gestured toward the chairs. “Please sit. Would you like a cup of tea? There’s black in the samovar, but if you’d like something else, I can ask the wardroom to bring a tray.”
“Black is fine. No need for additives.”
“Sister Katarin?”
“The same please, Captain.”
Both women examined the day cabin with inquisitive eyes while Morane served, and DeCarde knew right away they were taking the measure of their host. He distributed steaming mugs and sat.
“We’ll be breaking out of orbit soon to resume our trek. But you arrived in time to witness our incinerating the settlement, and thereby the mortal remains since we could hardly ask Major Ossott’s Marines to bury hundreds of bodies.” He pointed at the main display. “If you like, I can ask the CIC give us a live feed.”
“Please do, Captain. Katarin and I will say a prayer for the dead.”
“Captain to the CIC.”
“Creswell, sir.”
“Are we ready to incinerate the settlement?”
“Yes, sir. Our window of opportunity is opening in one minute.”
“Please feed the visual to my day cabin.”
“Right away.”
“And then you may open fire as soon as
you wish.”
Both sisters put their teas down and composed themselves. An aerial view of the tiny colonial village appeared on the primary display, clear enough to see the wrack and ruin left by the reivers. And to see the small smudges of bodies lying in the streets. Sister Katarin gasped at the sight, then joined her colleague in a softly spoken prayer, imploring the Almighty to receive the souls of those who so cruelly died in this faraway place.
Moments after they fell silent, a bright light washed out the details, followed by an ever-expanding cloud with a hellish glow at its center. When it, in turn, faded away, nothing remained, but a crater surrounded by cinders.
Morane cleared his throat. “May they rest in peace. In a year or two, once the native flora grows over the scar in the landscape, there will be no sign humans ever inhabited Palmyra.” He exhaled. “We likely witnessed the first of many human worlds to be entirely depopulated. Captain to the bridge.”
“Officer of the watch here, sir.”
“We’re leaving. Reassemble the 197th and put us on a heading to the wormhole.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
He picked up his tea and took a sip. “The next system is uninhabited, but the one after that also has a small colony. Bigger than Palmyra’s to be sure, but still relatively defenseless. I shudder to think what we might find there.”
“Hopefully nothing,” DeCarde replied. “But wishing we could save everyone we meet is a short path to madness, Jonas.”
Morane gave her a rueful shrug. “In that case, it’s good two specialists on the subject joined us.”
Gwenneth tilted her head to one side and smiled. “We would be more than happy to help any of your crew, Captain, you included, of course. A man in your position faces added stresses, not least thanks to his isolation at the top of the military pyramid. More so now you’ve broken away from the Navy.”
“Brigid is kind enough to endure my occasional rants at the universe, Sister.”
DeCarde grinned at him. “As any good friend would, even though we haven’t known each other for long. My unit was his first rescue project, so to speak. Without his fortuitous arrival and willingness to brave rebel guns, we’d likely be dead by now.”
Katarin nodded. “As would we, I should think. And that can become a burden, Captain, even though you might not realize it.”
“Another cup of tea?” He asked, as a way to change the subject.
Both sisters nodded, but this time DeCarde did the honors.
After the Marine served them, Morane settled back in his chair. “Would you be willing to discuss the events on Yotai that led to your abbey’s destruction?”
Gwenneth hesitated before replying. “I suppose so, even though it is a painful memory for us. What would you like to know?”
“We’ve heard almost nothing about Admiral Zahar’s revolt because we were part of the 19th Fleet out in the Shield Sector. And even there we know little of how Admiral Loren overthrew the viceroy and started this fetid mess. How did the rebellion start on Yotai?”
“In the most prosaic manner possible, Captain. We understand Zahar refused to carry out Dendera’s orders. What they were, I don’t know. Viceroy Joback tried to dismiss Zahar, but the admiral, backed by his immediate subordinates, at least those on Yotai, refused. Once news of Admiral Loren’s rebellion reached this sector, Zahar imitated him and removed Joback, who died under uncertain circumstances shortly afterward. Then, Zahar set about to consolidate his power in the Yotai system even as he dealt with more junior admirals in other parts of the sector either declaring for the Crown or themselves.
“Part of that consolidation was to proscribe anyone who might show the slightest bit of loyalty to the empire, or who might not wholeheartedly embrace the new reality. Since we monastics try to stay out of temporal matters, the rebels deemed our support for Zahar lacking, and so he tried to make us vanish.” Gwenneth gave a fatalistic shrug. “Our Order wasn’t the only entity targeted by him and our Brethren weren’t the only humans on Yotai to die violently at the hands of Zahar’s troops. Katarin and I found hiding places until Rinne sent out the call to assemble survivors. Most weren’t so lucky.
“The Yotai Abbey is now nothing more than ruins. In my entire life, I’ve never seen such a display of hatred. I suppose if we were worldlier, we might have seen the social fractures long before they starting oozing blood because this eruption of violence can only stem from long-simmering resentments.” She paused, eyes averted. Then, she said, “And now, if you’ll excuse us, Katarin and I would like to rest.”
Morane stood. “Certainly. Let me summon a guide.”
Both sisters imitated him. “No need, Captain. We can find our way back to the Marine barracks without difficulties. A good memory is something we also cultivate.”
“Enjoy your rest, Sisters. And once again, welcome aboard Vanquish.”
— 27 —
“All ships made a clean wormhole transit, sir,” Chief Lettis said a few minutes after Vanquish emerged from Wormhole Parth Two. “And came through the terminus in silent running mode.”
“As did we,” Mikkel added. “But chances are the wormhole traffic control buoy saw us anyway. Or at least noted something came through.”
“Thank you.” Morane, a worried frown creasing his forehead, studied the tactical projection of the empire’s notorious prison star system. It would be the first tricky crossing since they left Coraline.
Unlike Palmyra, and the Yawin system they just left, it was not only inhabited, but it boasted a permanently stationed Navy task force. Yawin was, to his relief, unharmed, as proved by a message exchange between the small colony and his cruiser during that system’s crossing. Unable to do more than warn them about Palmyra’s fate, he tried to push Yawin’s bleak future from his thoughts, although it remained a struggle.
“No subspace relay carrier wave,” the signals petty officer said. “And no subspace traces from Parth itself.”
“Radio waves?”
“Plenty, sir. I’m running them through the AI filter.”
Lettis raised his hand. “Captain, sensors are picking up a mass of debris approximately one million kilometers from our current position. The debris field’s velocity approximates that of ships approaching Wormhole Parth Two for a transit.”
Morane sat up in his command chair. “Beacons?”
“Aye,” the signals petty officer replied. “Five distinct beacon signals, each reporting the complete destruction of a naval unit belonging to the 12th Battle Group.”
“Ships from the 1st Fleet?” Mikkel’s ever-present hologram asked. “They’re far from home. What are they doing in this sector?”
“Escorting a prisoner ship, perhaps,” DeCarde proposed.
Morane nodded slowly. “Could be. If we’re talking about political prisoners, having their transport watched by ships from the most loyal part of the Navy would fit with Dendera’s paranoid modus operandi.” He turned to the signals station. “Any non-naval beacons, PO?”
“No.”
“Maybe the 12th fell afoul of a rebel strike force after delivering a prison ship.”
“Could be, though Wormhole Parth Two isn’t where I would enter the network if I were heading for the Wyvern Sector, Colonel. Traveling through the Yawin junction means an extra two or three transits before reaching a junction that connects to the heart of the empire. Although, if they were fleeing rebels, I suppose taking a less obvious escape route might make sense.” He paused, eyes on the tactical projection before continuing. “Be that as it may, the fate of the 12th Battle Group or any prison ship it escorted to Parth isn’t our concern. Avoiding a similar fate is.”
“That would be nice.” Lettis nodded. “And my sensors are looking, sir. But anything running silent will perforce escape passive scans. Unless you’d like me to go active...”
Morane waved off the suggestion. “Not yet. Let’s give it a few hours and see what we can pick up from further afield. But keep an eye on the debris. I’d like to know wh
at happened to those ships.”
“Aye, Capt—” The sensor chief’s voice faded, then he let out a low grunt. “Huh. The sensors caught something previously masked by the debris field. Looks like a somewhat intact ship. Or at least one that wasn’t blown to smithereens. But no beacon. Merely low-level emissions proving its systems are still running, albeit at a reduced rate.”
“Life signs?”
“We’re too far to pick them up on passive, sir. I’ve taken a visual scan and am running it against the starship database.” More minutes ticked by as they waited for information to trickle in and Morane fought his usual battle to mask any signs of impatience. Then, Lettis said, “That seemingly intact starship is the Imperial Prison Service ship Tanith.”
“Oh?” Morane turned a surprised gaze on DeCarde. “Interesting.”
“It is.”
Mikkel’s hologram shrugged. “Perhaps the 12th was ambushed somewhere between the wormhole they came through and Parth, and they tried to escape via this one rather than retrace their steps. Or someone ambushed them on their way out after delivering prisoners.”
A quizzical expression creased DeCarde’s face. “If Tanith landed any prisoners she carried, I see no reason she wouldn’t share the warships’ fate. If she didn’t land prisoners why abandon her? Wouldn’t the rebels welcome politicals with open arms?”
“I’m afraid we won’t know the answer until we subject her to active scans, Colonel.” Morane’s eyes turned to the side display showing a live video feed of Tanith.
“And right now, you’re wondering if she still carries a load of political prisoners the rebels didn’t want or didn’t have time to rescue,” Mikkel said. “I know you, Skipper. You’re wondering about the wisdom of investigating rather than finding the safest route to our exit wormhole.”
A rueful grin tugged at Morane’s lips. He ran a hand through his short, dark hair, the unmistakable sign of an internal struggle, and nodded. “If there are human beings aboard that ship, not investigating means we — I — condemn them to almost certain death. My conscience won’t allow me to do that.”