They told him his name.
Southwark. It still doesn’t feel right. It was only a single name—a surname, as far as he could tell. No given name.
But, he reasoned with himself, there wasn’t any other name in the universe that felt more right. And why would there be? Elite operatives could have hundreds of names, or none at all. Whether it was the one he was born to or merely an artificial designation—it didn’t matter.
He was Commander Southwark, servant of the Empire, agent of the Lord High Admiral Karsath.
That was enough. Or it should have been.
As far as he could tell he had been well-cared for, his body healed and whole, as the admiral had promised. He had no scars. The men who brought him meals assured him that he would be free to go, soon. As soon as the procedures were complete.
The medics said very little to him through the entire re-conditioning process. They linked him up to the machines, the ones that flooded his consciousness with facts and knowledge. A needle would pierce each temple, and his body stayed paralyzed for days on end as the transfer took place. It was painful, but it was a small sacrifice for the knowledge that poured into his mind. He took it all as if he was a man dying of thirst.
At first, it was an overwhelming jumble of words and names. Then the images came, visions of planets and solar systems and constellations, visions of walking through military installations and places that he had never been to—as far as he knew. They were memories harvested from someone else—or more likely, from multiple people.
Slowly, his mind knit together the names and images, and he could imagine—almost—that these memories and knowledge were his own.
The final piece of the puzzle was high level conceptual knowledge. This was far more complex than simple names and places. These were ideas. This was understanding what the Empire was; what the Federation was. The finer points of military protocol. The history of the Empire.
After endless days of conditioning—he’d estimated afterwards that it had taken forty-six full standard cycles—he took up a position onboard the Arbiter, serving onboard the bridge under the supervision of the captain and first officer. In time, he’d been given more responsibility and freedom, and authority over the Arbiter’s crew. It was a way of testing the conditioning, to see if it had taken, and if he was functional.
He disappointed no one, throwing himself into the work and the rhythms of ship life. He spent every waking hour learning, burying himself in the data stores when off-duty.
Occasionally, he’d wondered what his life had been like before the conditioning, before the fatal mission that had wiped his mind clean. Karsath had declined to elaborate, and when he looked up his own dossier, it simply listed his name, his birthplace—Senorat—and his physical profile. There was nothing more.
It made some sense; Karsath had told him that he had served as an undercover operative. There may have been reasons that the records were so sparse.
Still, his understanding was incomplete. There still remained the question of his own purpose. And the admiral was coming aboard the Arbiter to remedy this final deficiency.
His hands were sweaty. He rested them on his knees, waiting.
I’m nervous, he realized. I feel—empty. The amnesia had done something unexpected to his consciousness, in that he was now aware of his emotions and sensations, as if he was observing himself from outside his own body.
He stood up and began to pace. He recited the Dictates silently. It was one of the first things that had surfaced in his mind after the procedures were complete, and his mind began to make sense of all the facts that had been injected into his brain matter. Every soldier in the service of the Empire was required to memorize the Dictates of the Founders; officers were expected to recite them daily at meditation.
It was as calming. But he still felt empty. He paused midway through the recitation as he saw Albion Secundus through the viewport. The white and gray planet was surrounded by its famous shipyards. He cocked his head as the ship drew closer. It was strange to see the planet for himself; his memories of Albion Secundus from his implanted memories were almost too perfect, as if recorded by machine rather than by a human mind.
His heart beat a little slower. An unfamiliar thrill coursed through him at the sight of Secundus.
This must be home, he decided.
“Coriss tells me that you’ve done quite well, commander,” said Karsath. “And that he’s impressed with your performance under his tutelage. I think he’d offer you a permanent place onboard the Arbiter if he could.”
He reacted by bowing at the neck, showing gratitude. The gesture was automatic, although he couldn’t remember when he’d learned it.
Probably learned it thirty cycles ago, he thought distantly. Another borrowed memory.
Karsath gave a nod. “High praise indeed, given your recent conditioning. Regrettably, it’s not always a smooth process, and the results can be ... uneven. Fortunately, that appears to not have been the case for you. Tell me, have you had any irregular thoughts, or memories? Any difficulty processing the data we’ve given you?”
He shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Good. It must have something to do with your youth—children and young people always do better with conditioning. More malleable gray matter, I suspect.”
He wondered briefly how long he had been one of Karsath’s operatives. Perhaps even since childhood ...?
“In any case, I’m pleased that you have had a chance to re-acclimate yourself to active duty. However, as you know, the Arbiter is only a temporary assignment.” The admiral leaned forward, his hands folded on the desk before him.
“Sir ... while I haven’t experienced any negative effects from the conditioning, I need more time. There’s a lot I don’t understand—”
“Understanding comes with time,” the admiral said. “And you will do as I command, will you not?”
“Yes, sir.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop to think.
This seemed to please Karsath. He regarded the commander before him thoughtfully. “Commander,” he said. “You may be aware of a certain ... compulsion to obey me. Is that so?”
He nodded.
“It seems only fair that I’ll keep no secrets from you, given that you can keep no secrets from me. It was part of your conditioning. Consider it a fail-safe in case the conditioning did not fully take. You are obliged to obey me, but this should not affect your ability to fulfill your next mission.”
He clasped his hands behind his back, waiting.
“I am sending you to a planet called Arkona. Don’t bother looking it up on any navcharts,” he said with a wave of his hand. “The existence of this planet is highly confidential. It is the exclusive domain of the Imperial household, is that clear?”
“Understood,” he affirmed.
“You are being sent there not only at my behest, but that of the Emperor as well.”
His eyes widened at this. “Sir—the Emperor?”
Karsath gave a single nod. “Yes. So—you understand its importance.”
He shifted his stance. The Lords-damned Emperor?
“You will not fail, Commander Southwark,” said Karsath. “It is success, or death. And you will not be permitted to die.”
Chapter 21
The storm raged outside, sand crashing against the hulls of the ship, but Jira was beyond caring.
She slammed a fist down on the manual controls and ran into the storm, sand and wind lashing into the exposed flesh of her head and throat.
There amidst the maelstrom, Jira emptied her stomach with a sick, retching sound. The wind howled in her ears as she fell backwards into the sand into a kneeling position, acid burning in her throat.
She was grateful for the turmoil of the tempest. For a few moments, it obliterated every last conscious thought in her mind. She could only feel the storm whipping against her, abrading her flesh. It was an elemental kind of sensation, drowning out all other things.
She felt a h
and on her shoulder. It was Apta. Jira looked up, barely able to make out the dark outline of the Nu’s form in the punishing weather. Apta stood straight and tall, as if she was incapable of being buffeted by the same forces that thrashed Jira.
The Nu leaned over. “Back inside,” she said, her voice clear and firm. “Before it kills you.”
Her hand clenched hard around Jira’s upper arm. Jira stood up, shielding her face against the sand. Apta guided her back into the ship, following close behind, her grip never loosening. It wasn’t until the ramp clang shut that she was released, her body trembling and weak as the Nu rounded in front of her, wearing an enigmatic look.
“Do not let it defeat you,” she said, leading Jira to a bench. As she sat down, Jira wondered if she was referring to the storm or the reality of their situation.
Jira coughed, sand in her mouth, eyes, and nose. Apta waited patiently as she slowly collected herself, drawing herself up.
“I won’t,” she said weakly, wishing she could say that with true conviction.
Apta was as calm as ever. “I know,” she said matter-of-factly. “I have seen you.”
Jira gave her a bleary look. “My apologies,” she rasped out. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
Apta folded her arms, looking away from Jira to scan the ship, her eyes skimming over every millimeter of the hold. “Since Xee said you asked ... this ship’s name is the Garra.”
Jira couldn’t help but to laugh, her voice husky from exposure.
“The Garra?”
It was the name of an ancient Caderan goddess—the goddess of lost causes. People at death’s door prayed to the Garra, and so did soldiers ordered to fight in hopeless wars. Her own parents had given her a small pendant of the Garra when they sent her away. General Ilm had adopted the Garra as his own patroness after learning about her from the Caderan refugees that flooded the Federation forces—one of them being a very young Jira Tai.
“I see you are familiar with the origins of the name.”
Jira leaned back against the bulkhead, feeling spent. “If you’re really all that’s left of the Federation ... I suppose that’s apt.”
“Have you finished mourning?” Apta abruptly changed the subject.
“I wasn’t mourning,” Jira said, knowing the words to be a lie the moment they left her lips.
Apta regarded her with a skeptical look.
“Is there really nothing left?” Jira asked. “Really—nothing?” The words tasted like ash on her tongue.
“The Empire was more thorough than anyone ever imagined,” said Apta. “It was as if they had been waiting. As if they’d known their targets for decades and could have cut down the Federation ages ago. They want the Federation incapacitated. Utterly crippled and unable to oppose them for the next century—or more.”
“They’ve always wanted that,” Jira muttered. “Let’s not fool ourselves.”
“They went after the data stores first. There were attacks on the more exposed ones—on Oladis and the worlds closest to Albion. It was no surprise that they went quickly. But then the ones on the fringes began to disappear—ones that should have been the most secure. It was done with surgical precision. Ilm sent a few agents into the frontier with pieces of the last data stores, hoping that they would escape notice. But they were all confirmed dead within a year.”
Apta reached out a hand, the tips of her fingertips grazing Jira’s forehead. “And here is all that is left,” she murmured. Her touch was like electricity, as if she were tracing the data stored in Jira’s mind.
She roughly grabbed the Nu’s wrist. “Don’t,” she warned.
Apta dropped her hand. “You are more precious than you can imagine. The last message I received from the Locc was to find a boy. To put my partner in his path. But perhaps I misunderstood. Maybe I was meant to rescue you, instead.” There was a current of pity in her voice.
“I can’t be the last one,” said Jira, more to herself than to Apta. The consequences and the responsibilities of being a survivor were staggering. “I can’t.”
“Perhaps not the last Federation soldier, scattered as they all are. But the last data store—yes.”
Jira closed her eyes. “Then all is lost,” she said softly.
Apta knelt before her, the look in her eyes soft and compassionate. “Not yet,” she said. “After all—you’re under the protection of the Garra.”
All desert planets are alike, Jira decided, the dunes giving beneath her feet as she walked out across the sands. A full cycle had passed. It was early dusk on Thypso, the distant sun only beginning to fade. All traces of the storm had disappeared, with the exception of the eddies of sand gathered around the Garra.
Caderans were superstitious by nature. The fact that she had encountered the goddess of lost hope in the desert—she should have said a prayer and shed blood in gratitude already. The Garra demanded blood tribute for her favors.
I’m past that infantile kind of worship now, Jira assured herself. I have been for years.
But as the edge of the burning sun dipped below the horizon, Jira paused. She thought about the past—about Asmafor, the planet that reminded her so much of Thypso. She’d been so naive then, flush with childish faith in the Federation. Surely, the forces of good would win. Surely, nothing would happen to all the kind men and women who protected her and treated her like their younger sister, the ones who sneaked her crystallized shiroppu in the canteen. Surely, the fight would be won in her lifetime.
It dawned on her that she had been in the thick of it since she could remember anything. Her eidetic memory meant that she remembered every last scrap of data she had ever seen. Ilm had practically adopted her, and under the general’s guardianship she’d been exposed to more Federation secrets than anyone except Ilm himself. And she’d purposefully memorized the data she’d stolen from the palace—navcharts that encompassed the entire Empire, with all its tactical datacharts. She’d scanned the data quickly, over the course of weeks—but she could recall every image at an instant.
I can’t forget anything, even if I wanted to.
She thought back to childhood again. As a girl, she’d run wild on Asmafor, like a filly finding her legs. She was afraid of nothing and no one. Ilm tried to stop her at first—but gave up. She learned how to skim an aircar two feet above the dunes, the sun beating down on her head and the wind blowing through her hair. After two crashes, she’d promised Ilm she’d never do it again—only to take another aircar out the next morning, lasguns loaded in the back seat for target practice.
The sense of invincibility stayed with her for a decade after they left the planet. It was probably what made her so stupidly confident about accepting the assignment to go to Albion Prime as a concubine to infiltrate the palace.
That, and there was no one else who could have done it. She would have done anything for the Federation.
The question was: would she still?
What would she sacrifice for the Federation when it had practically been annihilated?
Oh, Lords. I’d be a fool to do anything other than to find some way to crawl back to Sanctuary space, right back into Hogarth’s waiting arms, and spend the rest of my life hauling contraband furs around deep space.
But ... if I’m all that’s left of the Federation, then how can I abandon it now? What happens when the Empire comes for Sanctuary?
It was a matter of when, not if. Conrad had known that, even as she’d tried to ignore the inevitability of war back in Sanctuary space.
She had been walking for an hour now, losing herself in the monotony of the dunes passing by. The light of Thypso’s sun was fading, but it was still intense. She closed her eyes against the brightness but the light still shone through. There was no avoiding it.
Finally, she turned to look behind her.
The Garra was a dark dot on the landscape.
She turned, the sun at her back, and began the long walk back to the ship.
There was the hard thing to do, and
there was the right thing to do. This time, they happened to be the same thing.
Night had fallen by the time she returned to the Garra.
“You came back,” said Apta. She was leaning against the outside of the ship, her posture casual but her expression was anything but.
“‘Course I did,” said Jira. “Where else was I going to go?”
“You’re free to go anywhere you wish,” said Apta.
“No, I’m not,” said Jira. “I’m not the kind to run from a fight. And I think it’s time to stop pretending like I have much of a choice about anything. As if any of us do.”
“There’s always a choice,” Apta insisted.
Jira cocked her head. “Not the way I see it. If I’m the last datastore of the Federation, as you say.”
Apta nodded. “So you’ll leave the Empire,” she said, as if it was a foregone conclusion.
“Where would I go?” asked Jira cautiously.
“I don’t know yet. Far away, indeed. Perhaps a Nu still connected to a living Locc would know instantly, but I’m a bit different than my cousins, you see. My Locc is dead. I’m cut off from other Nu, as are my identical sisters.”
“I know where I would go,” Jira said instantly. “Straight back to Sanctuary. Earth.” She remembered the old name for Sanctuary, and turned a piercing gaze to Apta. “There’s a portal out on the fringe that will get us back into Sanctuary deep space. What do the Nu know of Earth?”
Apta stepped closer to her. “A great deal,” she said. “But to what end?”
“They’re the only ones who could use this information now. Tactical information about the Empire. Ways to defend the Federation from the Empire—ways to attack it. They’re the only force in the galaxy now who have the ability to take on the Empire. Maybe.”
Even then, she knew that they were unevenly matched. Federation ships were inferior to generations of Caderan-honed Imperial engineering, and as far as firepower went—Jira doubted that any force was better equipped than the Satori fleet.
Yet there was no one else on this side of the galaxy who even had a functional military. As soon as a world or system was annexed its military would be stripped of all functional parts and technologies and its leadership executed immediately. The Empire went for the throat.
Sanctuary's Gambit: The Darkspace Saga Book 2 Page 13