Revengers

by Alex Kings

  He was looking around for a third Petaur he could summon over when the music back on the ground changed. It was replaced by a voice.

  “This just breaking. The Glaber have refused to allow a neutral investigation team from the Tethyans and Albascene governments into their territory.”

  Mero looked around, his ears suddenly flat against his head. Everyone around him seemed to be enjoying themselves. The Petaurs with him with giggling together. Nobody else around him was listening to the newscast. They could hear it, but the other music was closer, and they were having too much fun.

  The newscast went on: “The leading hives have said an external investigation would be a violation of their sovereignty and an act of invasion. Tethyan diplomats are trying to find a solution. Meanwhile, the Solar Alliance and the Varanid Republic have declared that an investigation must go forward.”

  Mero had been able to avoid thinking about it, about his role in starting it, until now. Now he found himself wondering how bad things could get.

  Until he stopped himself.

  “Hey,” he snapped. “Turn that thing off! Boring crap like that has no place here!”

  One of the drones obligingly silenced the newscast.

  “Good,” said Mero. He took one of the incense cylinders, held it up to his nose, and inhaled deeply. Then he took the hands of the two Petaurs he was with. “Come on,” he said, gliding off. “Let's find you a friend, and we can have that completion.”

  Chapter 4: Mars

  Catherine Chase, who had once gone by the name Olivia Finch, settled down at the long, polished oak table opposite her father. She wore a formal, bespoke skirt and blouse. Long, dove brown hair trailed down her back. A couple of servants – human servants – glided past, putting down plates and pouring wine carefully in the low gravity, as if they were barely there. For all the attention her father, Enoch Chase, paid to them, they weren't there.

  The wine, imported across several million kilometres from France, was deep red. It reminded her briefly of the actual blood that Rurthk used to drink. She held it in her hand for a moment, watching the wine tears, the dance of surface tensions on the sides of the glass.

  When her father had brought on the second course with a small gesture to call the servants, he asked, “How was your day?”

  The dance was becoming familiar to Catherine. “It was okay,” she said softly, and told him about the time she'd spent at the great gardens, where her father had collected the most interesting examples of life from sixty-three ecosystems across nine planets. It held everything from California redwoods to Ionan hydrochloric acid trees.

  Her father nodded thoughtfully and asked a few polite questions. When he was done, she asked him about his day. Like always, it mostly seemed to consist of meeting with various Martian politicians, businessmen, and directors of institutes with bland names.

  “Have you been studying the institutional relationships?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Dworkin of the Neptune Foundation. He has connections with the Atlantis government.”

  “Good, good,” he said. “What about the markets?”

  She nodded, and gave a few examples of what she'd picked up that day.

  At this, her father allowed himself a thin, icy smile. “And I suppose I don't need to ask if you've been following the news,” he said. “It seems we are going to go to war with the Glaber.”

  He paused to take a sip of his wine. He seemed to be ordering his thoughts, and Catherine waited quietly.

  “War presents great challenges,” he said at last, “and great opportunities.” He seemed pleased with himself for this formulation. “We may argue whether it is just or not. But men have been trying to make the world just for more than two and a half millennia, without success. All we can do is ride the tides of history and try to make what profit we can from it.”

  She nodded. She'd heard this justification before.

  “So, profit from war. First of all, what sorts of things do we expect to lose?”

  “Trade with the other side,” she said. “Although … we don't have that at the moment.”

  “Right. What else?”

  “Luxuries?” she suggested.

  “Now that's an interesting one. Well, certainly, some industries will decline. Interstellar tourism. People like to feel safe, after all. Interstellar trading in luxury items too. But most of the populace prefer not to let their minds be troubled by war, so certain distractions and primitive entertainments could well increase.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Now, what else could we gain? Any other markets you think might be on the rise?”

  She watched him. Was he testing her to see if she showed any signs of discomfort from all this talk of profit from war? Or was he so used to the idea that the thought didn't even occur to him? In the end, she went for the obvious answer: “Weapons?”

  “Well, yes. But it's risky. It's often illegal, and if someone finds out, it could be used as leverage. If you can find a safe way of doing it, it's definitely worth considering. But there's something else. War leads to increased industrial output. There's all that support structure behind the ships that go into battle. Now, after all that nasty business with Interstellar Liners, the Alliance Navy builds and maintains its own ships. But there's still the production behind that: Reactors, monopoles, alloys, gravity field generators.”

  “I … see. That makes sense.”

  “Have another look at the markets after dinner,” said her father. “See what you think.”

  *

  Catherine Chase's personal shuttle was a sign of her imprisonment. She never saw the pilot, who was hidden behind a wall of black sapphiroid. She had to ask – and he would take her anywhere so long as it was on her father's compound and not out of bounds. If, by some miracle, she did find a way to pilot it herself, she knew there would be other safeguards. Likely, it was being tracked, with someone watching its every movement. The console would lock up if it detected her DNA. There would be a remote override. It would shut down automatically the moment it left the compound.

  And there was always the possibility there was some other mechanism her father had used that she hadn't thought of.

  She knew it was too much to deal with. So instead she used it as it was meant to be used; For travelling across the thousands of square miles of the compound.

  Now, she peered out the window as the rust-red surface of Mars raced by. Eventually, a building appeared below them. Her father's museum. One of them, anyway. It was in mock venetian gothic – with allowances to make it airtight. A transparent sapphiroid tunnel led from the front of the front gate to a set of shuttle berths a few hundred metres away, so visitors could appreciate the architecture as they approached.

  Of course, Enoch Chase hadn't allowed any visitors into his compound for some time. Catherine was alone as the shuttle settled into its berth and formed an airtight seal. She opened the door, thanked the pilot, and stepped out.

  She did take the time to admire the architecture as she walked down the tunnel, hands buried in her pockets. She ambled casually around the museum, taking the time to peer at the cases of her father's collection, and not looking at all like she as here with a purpose.

  It was scattered and had no theme. There were old Varanid mosaics, the first interstellar craft from the early twenty-second century, the exoskeleton of a dead Tethyan and shards of hull recovered from the Dauntless.

  At last, she came to the weapons section. A small pillar in the middle of the room held a case filled with small trinkets – bullets, shells, and an Albascene stun prod.

  Here, she lingered.

  She circled the pillar cautiously, observing it from every angle. It wasn't a key exhibit or anything particularly valuable. And the museum hadn't been used for some time. So there was no reason to expect high security. Most likely a weight sensor in the case, and there might be a way of turning that off.

  She thought it through. She would need to remove the stun prod and
get it back to the mansion, and have dinner there, before anyone noticed it was missing. That meant it was more than a matter of not tripping an alarm – she also had to avoid leaving a trail. If someone saw a blip in the security systems and came to investigate before she could finish her plan, that was it.

  Still considering that, she checked the pillar. There was nothing there. She checked the rest of the room, and finally found a small access panel in the corner. She popped it off and peered at the computer crystals and wires inside.

  She recognised the layout. Yes … she could work with this. Disable the room's sensors, take the stun prod and replace it with a small weight, then turn the sensors back on.

  She'd need some tools. Asking for them openly might look suspicious, but … there was always the tech workshop. She could easily take a few from there, and nobody would notice them missing.

  With all that settled, she strolled through the museum again to another exhibit. She chose at random: a selection of spaceship models. This, she decided, would be her test run once she'd got the tools. If she tripped an alarm while working, she could just say she wanted a closer look and decided to just take the lid off because, hey, she was heir to all this stuff anyway. Unlike the stun prod, it would look relatively innocent, and she might get the chance to try again.

  Satisfied, she headed back to the shuttle.

  Chapter 5: Sarcophagus

  Using one of Kaivon's fake transponders, the Outsider jumped in over Laikon, the home world of the Albascene.

  A little over half the size of Earth, Laikon was the moon of a gas giant in its star's habitable zone. The host planet was a featureless white globe. Its eleven other moons, ranging from asteroid-scarred rocks to active volcanic held Albascene industrial and military installations. Laikon itself was a marble of blue and green against the white background. It had no continents, no land of any sort except millions of volcanic islands. The green came from its swirling clouds, which held flying plankton and helium-filled blimp-trees.

  Rurthk sat at the console, accelerating slowly towards it. Eloise sat beside him, checking sensor readings. She'd switched to a black dress.

  Satellites hailed the ship. “This is the Laikon Orbital Management Administration,” said a synthesised voice. “Incoming vessel, please give your intended destination.”

  They were familiar with the slightly bureaucratic nature of Albascene administration. From what they had heard, it was better now than it had been during the time of the old Albascene Nation. Eloise gestured at the console. “Hykean Sea,” she said. “For a period of up to six days.”

  There was a brief pause.

  “Thank you,” said the synthesised voice. “Please adhere to the following flight plan.” The satellites gave him a trajectory.

  Rurthk checked it and then put it into the navcom. The Outsider accelerated towards the planet.

  They plunged through the greenish clouds and glided across and endless expanse of sea. It was early morning on this part of the planet. The giant hung in the sky above them, an immense glowing white crescent. Its other moons dotted the sky.

  Their destination turned out to be a small artificial island composed entirely of ship berths. Rurthk carefully lowered the Outsider into the assigned berth. Effector fields gripped the ship.

  Rurthk and Eloise looked at each other.

  “Well, then,” said Eloise. “Let's go and meet the family.”

  Once Eloise had found Kaivon's relatives, Rurthk had spent several hours in front of his tablet, composing letters, re-reading them, and deleting them again. How do you tell someone a family member had died under your watch? Especially if they're a different species. The first attempt seemed too sentimental. The second too cold. The third and fourth were simply badly written. In the end he had spent two hours researching Albascene family bonds, emotional expression, and mourning on Dr. Wolff's copy of the Encyclopaedia Galactica, and then dashed off a quick message and sent it before he could worry about its composition.

  The response, from an Albascene named Euron, came within minutes: “I understand. Thank you for returning the living remains. Please come to the Hykean Sea. We will be ready.”

  And they were. When Rurthk opened the cargo bay door, he saw a well-ordered group of Albascene already waiting for him. None of them seemed like Kaivon. Their suits were all polished, built of standardised components, and displayed none of constant tinkering Kaivon did with his own suit. Some of them had sigils, showing their positions in the New Albascene Nation – the equivalent of officers in the Albascene Navy. At the back, there was a large object, a single dodecahedron about a metre and a half across. The edges were heavily decorated, overlaid with worked gold, and each face held a pentagonal window.

  One at the front of the group glided forward on effector fields up to the lip of the cargo bay ramp.

  “I am Euron, Kaivon's guardian.” he said. “May I come aboard.”

  “By all means,” said Rurthk. “I'm Rurthk. This is Eloise, and this is Doctor Wolff. We have Kaivon's, uh, living remains here.”

  Another Albascene accompanied Euron into the cargo bay and across to where Kaivon's suit lay on its side.

  The voice synthesiser on Kaivon's suit shuddered to life. “Return,” it said. “Together … here.”

  Euron and his companion didn't seem troubled by this. They observed Kaivon's suit for a moment, then Euron's companion extended an effector field into the water. There was a few seconds of silence. Kaivon's suit made a few incoherent noises.

  Euron's companion withdrew the effector field and said, “The components have been well treated.”

  “It is good of you to keep his components in his suit,” Euron told Rurthk. “They are prone to anxiety in a situation like this, and remaining in the suit gives them stability. However, it is now time to move them in preparation.” His voice increased in volume slightly to speak to the other Albascene: “Bring in the sarcophagus.”

  The large dodecahedron floated forward on its own effect fields, apparently being guided by another of the Albascene. They brought it over to Kaivon's suit, and opened a hatch on its top face. A tube of effector fields snaked out of the sarcophagus into Kaivon's suit, and the components, the small, colourful fish that had once been part of Kaivon, began to flow through it.

  “Pardon the question,” said Dr. Wolff, stepping forward and frowning slightly, “but going by what you just said, won't this cause stress to the components?”

  “A little,” admitted Euron. “But the sarcophagus is equipped to deal with that. It supplies ideal food, plus calming pheromones and electrical fields to the remaining components. It is the best place to store them and they can be re-integrated.”

  Wolff looked at the sarcophagus warily. He didn't seem entirely satisfied.

  When the transfer was finished, the sarcophagus glided out of the cargo bay. Kaivon's suit was left empty, expect for a small puddle of water. Two Albascene carried that out too.

  Euron remained. “You may attend the funeral, but you are under no obligation,” he said, in a way that made it seem more like a matter of bureaucratic rules than politeness.

  “We'd love to,” said Eloise.

  “The ceremony will last a full day by Laikon's reckoning,” said Euron.

  Laikon kept one face always pointed towards its gas giant host. One full orbit around the gas giant was one day. “Eighty-one hours,” Dr. Wolff told Eloise when she gave him a questioning look. “Just over three days by Earth's reckoning.”

  Eloise nodded.

  “Come on, then,” said Rurthk, following Euron out of the ship.

  *

  In an old, abandoned prefab apartment building on Cantor, Mr. Hand gestured at his favourite terminal.

  “Of course,” he told the Varanid. “Here you go.” He transmitted some data.

  The Varanid, who had just paid a five-figure sum for the information, checked it. “Thank you,” he said, and cut the line.

  Even now, Mr. Hand liked to be in the field
. The Information Brokers, one of Vihan Yvredi's many fronts, was still a valuable source of intel.

  With that job finished, he put through a high-security call to a couple of other Petaurs: Mr. Soul and Mr. Eye.

  “And how,” said Mr. Hand, “is this dreadful war progressing?”

  “Quite well,” said Mr. Eye. “Everyone in the Varanid government is thinking of nothing else. Those who suspected we existed are dead; and those who saw some evidence have forgotten about it in all the excitement.”

  “Excellent,” said Mr. Hand. “Mr. Soul?”

  “I'm worried about the scientists,” said Mr. Soul. “The Glaber territories have become a lot less secure.”

  “The front is some distance away from Bloodspray, is it not?” said Mr. Hand.

  “At the moment, it is,” said Mr. Soul. “But I have some evidence that might change soon.”

  “The Varanids are considering a deeper attack,” said Mr. Eye. “Nothing concrete yet …”

  “ … but we should be prepared. I agree,” said Mr. Hand.

  “It would be safest to kill them,” said Mr. Soul.

  “A bit drastic,” said Mr. Hand. “Let's keep that idea on the back burner for now. If things go terribly wrong, we can always move them to Blindness. I believe that planet will be safe for the foreseeable future.”

  Mr. Soul stared at him for a few moments. “Okay,” he said.

  Mr. Hand was not the leader of Vihan Yvredi, and would never claim to be, of course. Formally, the group had no single leader – the council ruled together.

  When the Outsider's crew had broken in to the ice base on Cantor, every attempt to stop them had failed – except his. Vihan Yvredi's plans had come within a hair's breadth of being revealed. He had defused the problem, and the plan had gone ahead successfully. He had earned the admiration of every other member of the council, and therefore become its most powerful member. If there were any doubts about him, they went unvoiced. His suggestions became orders in all but name.