by B. V. Larson
“Maybe here in Calaria.”
“It’s the only place I know. Are the women different in your land?”
“Some are.” Then Straker thought of Tachina. “Some aren’t, I guess.”
Gorben held up a hand. “I will ask the king to forbid her to come, for your health. I do not know how long that shall hold. In the meantime, rest. Ring when you awake again. We must speak further. I would hear your wisdom on many matters.”
“Before I go away, you mean?”
Gorben smiled and turned toward the door. “Until later, Azaltar.”
* * *
For three days Straker stayed in his room. He ate and drank, he bathed in a copper-lined tub the servants brought, he slept—and he talked at length with Gorben. Two young scribes took notes as they spoke, and Straker poured out all he could think of on every topic that occurred to him: military science, medicine, agriculture, engineering, logistics, whatever crossed his mind.
He made sketches which Gorben preserved as if they were holy writ—and Straker supposed they were, in a way, made by the hand of the Azaltar himself.
Straker also used his telescope to spy out his window, staying back from the opening when he could in order not to be seen watching. The Bortoks seemed to have withdrawn several kilometers down the valley, leaving only scouts. He caught no more glimpses of Myrmidon, though somehow he felt like the man was still watching him.
On the fourth day, Drake visited, along with Gorben. “I apologize for not ferreting out who tried to have you killed, Azaltar,” he said stiffly. “I assure you I had nothing to do with it.”
“I believe you. And I apologize for missing our appointment,” Straker replied. “I was looking forward to your instruction with the sword.”
“I as well, but it is not to be. Gorben tells us you will leave as soon as you are fit.”
“That’s true. It’s also true that I have no interest in Roslyn.”
“I know. At your word, the king has forbidden her to see you. That was well done.” Drake cocked his head. “Yet, she does not seem distressed. You were a passing fancy.” He held out his hand. “I have wronged you, Azaltar Straker.”
Straker clasped hands with the knight-Baron. “Yes, you did—but it’s forgotten.”
“I hope you can stay a tenday more—at least for the joining ceremony.”
“Joining ceremony?”
“Roslyn has consented to be my mate for a year and a day, now that the first snows dust the mountain peaks and the Bortoks have fled to their warm lowlands.”
Straker grinned. “Well, hell, congratulations, Drake my man! I hope you make each other happy.”
“As long as there is issue, I shall be content.”
“Yeah, there’s always issues, aren’t there?”
Drake and Gorben exchanged arch glances, and Gorben showed Drake out, claiming Straker was tired. Straker thought the old wizard probably just wanted to keep picking his brains for knowledge.
Over the next ten days, Straker healed and began light exercise. Drake invited him to his sword-hall, where he instructed the other knights and soldiers in the finer points of blade-work. Straker sparred vigorously, losing himself in hard exercise.
When he wasn’t working out, he visited the sawmill and helped put the new trebuchets into place. In the evening, Gorben instructed him in the High Tongue, enough to recognize a few hundred words and speak simple, childish sentences, and they talked long into each night about many things.
Straker saw Roslyn at dinners with the King, and she seemed the model of decorum, attending to Drake and ignoring Straker beyond ordinary courtesies. Yet, Straker always felt her watching him out of the corner of his eye. Despite the attractive, simple life these people led, he’d be happy to move on, if only to get away from the princessa.
* * *
After Drake and Roslyn’s joining ceremony and the inevitable feast and carousing afterward, Gorben and Straker set out with a party of guards and woodsmen. They headed in the opposite direction from the Bortok lowlands, across the plateau and down its reverse side into a great forest.
Roslyn had stood next to Drake atop the castle wall. With one hand she waved a silken scarf. The other rested on her belt buckle. Something about that pose reminded him of Carla, and he felt as if a snatch of memory danced just outside his mind’s eye.
No matter. This chapter of his life was over. He’d done good deeds, and now it was time to claim his payment—a way out.
Karlenus insisted on accompanying them. “You travel through my forests,” the giant said. “I know every tree, every rock, for a hundred leagues.”
Straker thought that might be an exaggeration, but he was happy to have the big man along. In the evenings, after the days’ travels, Straker had the captain of the guards give the woodsmen instruction on man-to-man axe work. “You know best how to chop down a tree,” he said. “You need to learn how best to chop down a Bortok.”
Huntsmen scouted ahead and brought down game—fowl, large rodents, and something like deer—which they roasted over an open bonfire. With their meals, the whole group enjoyed wine mixed with cool sweet water from the mountain streams. They slept soundly on blankets spread upon soft boughs cut from fragrant. bushes, Straker found himself in the best shape of his life, with the exercise and fresh air, so different from his many years lived aboard ships and in mechsuits.
When they reached the wall after nine day’s travel, Straker felt a strong twinge of regret, and an urge to go back with these simple people. Then he remembered Roslyn and the undercurrent of politics at Calaria, and that feeling passed. He realized that this journey had been a vacation, a camping trip, and like all good things, it had come to an end.
“So, let’s take a look at this passage,” Straker said.
“It is here,” said Gorben, walking Straker to the river’s edge, a short cliff that dropped to the surface. The flow met the wall and passed under it, moving at a furious pace.
Straker looked up at the hundred-meter barrier, wishing there were some way over. The ancient Romans had built an earthen ramp up to the top of Masada taller than that, but it had taken them two years and 15,000 people. Straker didn’t have either. What he wouldn’t give for a simple set of jet-boots.
He caught sight of movement atop the wall. Someone was looking down at him. Straker fumbled for his spyglass in the case, but by the time he got it out the target was gone. Myrmidon again? He wished he could get his hands on the man.
“Well, might as well get going,” Straker said, passing the spyglass to Gorben. “Give this back to Roslyn, please.” He stripped off his chainmail and handed it to Karlenus. “Thank the king for the loan of his son’s armor. It saved my life.
Karlenus folded the chainmail and passed it to another, and then seized Straker in a bear hug. He pounded on Straker’s back and wept. “I shall miss you, Derek Straker, my Azaltar.”
Straker held the giant at arm’s length, looking up into his bearded face. “Your friend, Karlenus. I’m not Azaltar anymore. Gorben tells me your scriptures say someday the Azaltar will return to you in your time of need.”
“As the Holy One wills it.”
“Whatever you say, big guy.” Straker turned to Gorben and held out his hand-light. “I want you to have this.”
“Thank you, but I must refuse.”
“Refuse?”
“You may need it where you’re going. It is enough that I now understand its principles. In a few years, we will make our own electricity, our own gunpowder.”
“And your own indoor plumbing, I hope,” Straker said with a grin. He picked up the oiled leather bag he’d prepared, containing a few useful items, slung it across his back, and gave a farewell wave as he readied himself to enter the river.
Suddenly, he heard a shout. Tafar, the young engineer, came running out of the woods and stumbled up to the Calarians. He had little with him but a knife and a shoulder bag, and he looked starved. He leaned over, wheezing, trying to catch his breath. “Water,” he croaked.<
br />
After taking several sips from a canteen, Tafar stood and in a voice of agony said, “Calaria has fallen.”
“What?” Gorben seized Tafar’s shoulders. “Explain!”
“Five days ago. I have run the whole way. The Bortok made a night attack, after we thought they’d all gone to the lowlands. Though we slew thousands, they came in their tens of thousands. The king is dead. Baron Drake and the Sessa fought a valiant rearguard, and many of the people fled to the high mountain pastures, but many more have been enslaved.”
“Calaria is no more,” said Gorben in stunned wonder.
“We must return! We must fight! We will retake what is ours!” said Karlenus.
“We cannot fight so many in open battle,” said Gorben. “But we can survive in the snows as the Bortok cannot. We will prick them a thousand times…”
“And they will bleed until they leave our lands!” cried Karlenus. He turned to Straker. “Azaltar! You will aid us.”
Straker nodded, appalled. “Of course I will.”
Tafar leaned in close to Gorben to speak softly in his ear. Gorben’s eyes widened, and then he turned to Straker. “No. Straker, you have told me of your struggle for the stars. You must go return to the firmament and win your war in the heavens. Then, you can come back to us and right this wrong.”
Straker said truculently, “I’ll do as I damned well please—and I can’t let your people down. I’ll help you—”
Gorben interrupted, stepping closer. “Tafar told me something.”
“What? Something you think will change my mind?”
“No, Azaltar. Something that will ensure your return to us, when your appointed tasks are complete.” He stepped closer still, until he towered over Straker and had to lean down to speak, softly. “Roslyn carries your child.”
With that, Gorben slammed his palm into Straker’s chest and sent him sailing into the river.
Chapter 20
Faslane System, Hundred Worlds
The flagship Victory cast off its last connections and floated free of the Carstairs Corporation’s space-dock above Faslane-2. Billingsworth M. Carstairs VI watched through the giant crystal external window that allowed him to see the spectacle with his own eyes. If he preferred ultra-definition detail, he could turn to look at several holograms projected overhead.
He stood on a VIP platform elevated five meters above the crowd, alongside a gaggle of admirals, ministers, Members of Parliament and other dignitaries. They and the lesser attendees below applauded as the ship, shaped like a giant egg, fired its thrusters and began to move away. Within minutes, it was out of sight of the naked human eye, but the smart-crystal window cleverly deformed its many layers to create a telescopic effect, allowing it to remain visible for almost an hour.
Carstairs sighed. No rational man would complain about his life, but now that he stood atop the corporate mountain, the only way upward was to look for other peaks. Politics, perhaps? He could easily buy a seat in Parliament. Did he want to learn a whole new game, one where his vast wealth had influence, but little real power?
Something to think about.
For now, he had to keep a close eye on the reports from Victory—at least until it left at the head of the Home Fleet. If the ship, the crew, and most importantly the AI failed to perform as advertised, he hoped they had the decency to be destroyed in combat.
Victory’s radical design was a risky one. The core of the ship, the best experimental artificial intelligence ever built by the Hundred Worlds, was intermixed with over one thousand human brains. No, scratch that. They weren’t brains. If they were, Carstairs and everyone involved would be criminals. No, these almost-brains were mere organic computers, each in a self-contained bio-support module, or BSM.
Just tissue, he told himself again.
Each BSM was linked in a network using advanced brainchip technology. The tissues inside had their free wills eliminated with the excision of certain ganglial clusters and structures, but the scientists told him they still had a sort of consciousness. That consciousness was shared with the other BSMs and the machine, forming the totality of the AI.
This AI had been running for over six months, longer than any AI before had gone without the inevitable madness. It seemed stable, self-aware, and childishly happy to fulfill its function of the perfect fleet coordinator, the ultimate expression of a commanding admiral’s will. It could run ultra-fast analyses, provide advice, pass orders and, if given the authority, it could even take direct control of other warships via the new top-secret datalink.
That datalink was another piece of the bleeding-edge technology that enabled Victory. The first faster-than-light communications system ever developed by humans, its range maxed out at about ten million kilometers even under the best conditions, but even far less distance was sufficient to provide instantaneous comlinking to every ship in a task force. This meant no comlink lag—but more importantly, it meant that Victory’s many unmanned drones could reach their true effectiveness.
What’s more, the FTL datalink had no known jamming vulnerabilities. The enemy didn’t even know it existed. Once they did, it should take years to research countermeasures.
Carstairs had been pleased to handsomely reward the scientist who’d invented the system. She was far too plain to sleep with, but no doubt she’d have plenty of suitors now that she was rich. Odd that she’d never showed signs of brilliance before, or, according to her colleagues, not since, either, but Carstairs supposed even a blind squirrel had a chance to find one fat nut.
It hardly mattered. The breakthrough he’d paid millions for would make him tens of billions, perhaps hundreds. It might even win the war against the Hok and their human traitors.
A twinge of worry crossed his mind. What would happen to his megacorp’s military division if the Hundred Worlds won the war? Defense spending might drop precipitously, taking his bottom line with it.
That was a worry for another day. He had plenty of civilian-focused businesses—and hell, he could always get his paid-for MPs working on starting a splendid little war on the borders with the usual false-flag operation. Nothing like a threat from some scary-looking aliens to pump up profits, after all. Those radioactive Thorians, for example, were always good for a little panic.
He watched the holos as they showed the battle module approach for docking with Victory. Within minutes, the module swallowed the rear of the half-armored ship, encasing it in the best defenses ever built by the Hundred Worlds. The module also had military-grade drives to give it better mobility than anything else its size, an extensive roster of defensive weaponry, and of course, copious automated hangar bays to deploy and recover the combat drones.
This was the third cutting-edge development that made Victory unique. The main ship and the battle module, each at the sidespace transit mass limit, would travel separately and quickly link up at any destination, creating a double-sized ship.
Carstairs had heard rumors of the Hok experimenting years ago with something like this to create a super-ship, but they’d apparently never made it work. However, Carstairs Corporation had, and he was proud of what he’d accomplished.
A perfectly ordinary voice at his elbow interrupted his musings. “It’s your big day, Bill.” The voice was attached to a perfectly ordinary man, and Carstairs didn’t even have to look to know who it was.
It was, however, one of only a few men who could use his first name without invitation.
Carstairs turned to the man and extended his hand, accompanied by a practiced smile. “And yours, Grant. None of this would have been possible without your backing.”
Grant Lorden, Undersecretary of Defense, gripped Carstairs’ hand firmly, but not unduly so. His palm was neither dry nor moist. Somehow, the handshake made Carstairs want to please this man. “I do what I can for the greater good.”
“As do we all.”
An involuntary chill ran up Carstairs’ spine. Though Lorden seemed like a mere upper-level functionary and bureaucra
t, everyone he knew whispered that the man wielded more power behind the scenes than anyone but the Prime Minister himself. His purview was rumored to include the Ministry of Defense’s secret “D” Division, responsible for black ops and dirty tricks.
That tidbit, added to the perfectly timed aircar crash that turned the Victory program’s most vocal Parliamentary critic into a vegetable, was what caused Carstair’s guts to twinge with brief, unaccustomed fear. But the Undersecretary was on his side now. He was sure of it.
Lorden stepped closer to murmur, “Bill, you’ve done so well with this, despite the ethical ambiguities, that we’re thinking of allowing you to bid on D Division projects.”
“We?” The shadow within, Carstairs thought. A cabal, a group of hidden movers and shakers, it had no name, but everyone at his level had heard the whispered tales.
“My associates.” Lorden waved in vague directions. “Like-minded people who don’t shrink from their duty to the Hundred Worlds.”
“I’d be honored to provide any service I can.” Carstairs wondered what it took to join the cabal. Whatever it was, he’d do it.
“Of course.” Lorden glanced over at one of his aides and gave a nod. A moment later, two people approached. “Here are a couple of those associates now. John, Talenia, this is Bill Carstairs, of the Carstairs conglomerate.”
Carstairs turned to see a man and a woman. The man was young, with sandy-blonde hair and an infectious smile, but he barely registered on Carstairs’ consciousness against the magnificent creature beside him.
“Good to finally meet you, Bill. I’m John Karst,” said the man in a provincial accent—from one of the frontier worlds, perhaps? He held out his hand to shake. “And this is my sister Talenia.”
Carstairs couldn’t release the clasp fast enough in order take Talenia’s hand and bring it to his lips. As he did, he ran his eyes down from her perfectly sculptured face to her ample breasts straining at an expensive, low-cut dress, to her hourglass waist and long, strong legs that ended at pedicured feet, delightfully bare atop expensive strapless heels.