by Dan Abnett
The Allure broke orbit five hours later. It performed a smooth series of mass-velocity transactions and turned out, sliding effortlessly away from the shoal of anonymous rogue trade ships at high anchor above Flint. To all intents, it was just as anonymous as the rest - none of the trade ships chose to identify themselves electronically. But Halstrom's scopes had followed the bulk lifter to it. It was most certainly the Allure.
It powered clear of Flint's gravity trap, bending its course rimward and under the elliptic plane. Cloaked behind extremely non-standard disguise fields, another ship went with it.
The Allure was nine astronomical units from Flint and accelerating towards its encoded translation point when its master finally became aware he had a problem.
Bartol Siskind had taken off his jacket of Vitrian glass and hung it over the back of his command seat. The Allure's bridge was capacious but low ceilinged. Much of the flight deck instrumentation extended down from the ceiling over the raked crew stations. Siskind took a sip of caffeine and leaned back to study his master display.
He had already received a signal to go from his enginarium, and his course had been plotted and laid down by his Navigator. All systems were functioning well within parameters, and he was getting a particularly fine output rhythm from the principal drive. He reached up and touched a few runes on the screen, tuning tiny, expert adjustments into the mass-drive regulators.
"Translation point in eleven minutes, accelerating..." the Navigator intoned calmly from the adamite crypt recessed into the deck in front of him. Siskind nodded and turned to Ornales, his first officer, about to order him to stow for warp space.
Ornales sat at the position next to him, his face down-lit by the massive overhead console that arched down over his raked-back seat.
By the light of the dancing green glow, Siskind could see a perplexed expression on his number one's face.
"What?"
"Are you getting that?" Ornales asked.
Frowning, Siskind looked up at his own master display. A new dialogue box had appeared on top of the scrolling system data. It wasn't especially large. It said: Cut your engines now.
"What the hell...?" Siskind tried to clear it. It wouldn't cancel. "Is this a damn joke?"
"It's external." Ornales replied, his voice tense. His hands were dancing over his mainboard. "External source. Pict-only communication."
"But there's nothing in range...!" Siskind said.
He activated the return mode and typed: Identify?
The box blinked. Cut your engines and heave to now.
Identify now! Siskind wrote angrily.
There was a brief pause. Then the box blinked again and read: Heave to. Depower and drop to coasting. By order of the Inquisition. Do not make me cripple your ship, Siskind.
Once the Allure had coasted down, the outlets of the huge drive assemblies at its stern glowing frosty pink as potential power descaled, the Hinterlight made itself visible. The Allure was a medium-sized sprint trader of non-standard design, heavily modified during its long life. It was long, craggy and bulky, its only concession to elegance the long chevrons of armour ridging its prow like the steel toe-cap of a pointed boot.
The Hinterlight was somewhat smaller and a great deal sleeker, shaped like a blade, with the flared bulk of its drive section at its stern. It flickered menacingly into view, appearing on Siskind's sensor panels a few seconds before it was eye-visible. A combination of xeno-derived technology and Ravenor's own mental strength generated the disguise field. It was a system that Ravenor would be forced to have removed from the Hinterlight if his arrangement with Preest wound up.
As it visibly manifested, the Hinterlight tracked its primary batteries to target the Allure. Preest made damn sure the Allure's systems got a clear indication of multiple target lock. Neither ship was military, neither an outright fighting vessel, but they were both rogue traders, and where rogue traders went, a decent level of firepower was a professional asset.
Siskind's response, just as obvious, was to make sure his batteries were both depowered and stowed, and his targeting system off-line. It was a clear submissive gesture, an indication of compliance. Even out here, just a few days' voyage from Lucky Space, no one fooled around when the Inquisition called the tune.
An armoured transport shuttle, little more than a gig, dropped down out of the Hinterlight's belly hangar, ignited its thrusters in a blaze of blue light, and went flitting across the silent gulf towards the Allure. As it approached the other ship, and became dwarfed by its great, battered bulk, guide-path lights began to pulse sequentially along the Allure's flank. The gig zipped along after them, tracking in close to the merchantman's scarred hull, and arrived at a hangar dock where the outer hatches and blast curtains were slowly gliding open. The gig paused, adjusted its attitude with a tight burst of point-thrusters, and slid inside.
The resealed hangar was thick with swirling exhaust smoke and hydraulic steam. There was a loud, repetitive hazard buzzer sounding, almost drowned out by the huge atmospheric fans under the deck. The echoing buzzer finally cut off and the flashing warning lamps ceased. Overhead floods kicked on and illuminated the gig where it rested on its landing skids in the middle of the primary platform. Several other inter-orbital craft, including the scabby bulk-lifter Nayl had tagged, were berthed in lock-cradles off the platform, connected up to ropes of heavyweight fuel and system-fluid lines.
An internal hatch hissed open and Siskind strode out into the vast hangar flanked by three senior members of his crew. They were all armed, and made no effort to disguise the fact. Siskind was wearing his glass-weave jacket, and a bolt pistol hung in a holster at his hip. Two of his comrades were human - a tall, dark-haired man and a shorter, older, balding fellow - both carrying wire-stocked las-carbines. The third was a nekulli, slender and humanoid, but with long spine-scales flowing back from his scalp. The nekulli's eyes were white slits, his nose virtually absent, his lower jaw thrust forward. Two thin fangs hooked up from this underbite over his top lip. Like all nekulli, he walked with a hunch-shouldered waddle.
The four walked out onto the platform, knee-deep in the repressurisation fog still wreathing the deck, and came to a halt ten metres from the gig.
Siskind cleared his throat. He looked edgy and pissed off.
The cabin hatch on the side of the gig retracted in three, segmented sections. Ravenor's chair hovered out, and sank down to deck level, facing the shipmaster. With a little hiss that made the dark-haired man jump, the chair displayed its hololithic rosette.
"I'm Siskind, master of this vessel," Siskind said carefully. "My papers and my letter of marque as an Imperial free trader are in order. If you wish, you may inspect them. Like all true servants of the Throne."-Siskind stressed that part-"I have every desire to cooperate and assist the Ordos Officio Inquisitorus. May I enquire... is this a random inspection?"
"No," replied Ravenor. "I am Gideon Ravenor, inquisitor, Ordo Xenos Helican. I am hunting a ship called the Oktober Country, a ship that I know has had contact with you in the last week."
Siskind shrugged and chuckled. "You're after information? That's it? You inconvenience me in the pursuit of my business... for information? Am I accused of any crime?"
"No," said Ravenor. "But withholding information from an authorised agent of the Inquisition is a crime, so I advise you to be thoughtful about your next statement."
Siskind shook his head. He was a handsome man, but there was an unpleasantly cruel set to his features. "I know the Oktober Country. But I've had no contact with it. Not even seen it for, what, three years? There is my information. Now remove yourself from my ship."
"You are in no position to make demands," said Ravenor. "My ship-"
"Will hardly fire on mine with you aboard. I hate to play games, but it was easier to let you aboard. Does the concept of 'hostage' mean anything to you?"
"Oh, absolutely," said Ravenor.
"Shit!" cried the dark-haired man suddenly. Off to their left, Harlon Na
yl stood in the knee-deep fog, a heavy automatic pistol aimed at them in a two-handed grip.
Siskind jumped back. To his right, Kara Swole had an assault cannon on them.
"And behind you." Ravenor added.
All four turned. Mathuin smiled. The barrel-cluster of his rotator cannon cycled menacingly. Siskind and his men had been so intent on Ravenor they'd not even noticed the others slip out under cover of the deck fog from the other side of the gig.
"I was being polite," said Ravenor, "but we will play it your way. Harlon?"
Nayl fired a single shot and blew off the balding man's left kneecap. Hit, the man fell onto the deck, shrieking and writhing.
"I think that's established the ground rules," Ravenor said. "Now let's get to business."
I had no desire to waste time. Exposing all of the Allure's secrets would have taken months of painstaking research. It was a big, old ship, its history, manifests and logged records lousy with all manner of dubious deals, illegal transactions and outright crimes. Like any rogue trader, in fact. I'd never seen Preest's ship-log, and she'd never volunteered it to me. It was the fundamental understanding on which our relationship was based. Rogue traders, even the best of them, tested the limits of Throne Law. Don't ask and you won't be disappointed. All I'd required of Preest was she keep her activities clean all the while we were associated.
My worthy, long-departed master, Gregor Eisenhorn, had once told me that if you examine any one man, any group of men, any institution, or any world long enough, you will uncover something untoward. I am proud of the achievements of the Imperium, and the virtues of its society, but I am not naive. There is corruption and crime and heresy everywhere. It is endemic. To operate successfully, an inquisitor must learn to be selective, to focus on the principal matters of his current case. To do otherwise leads to stagnation and failure.
Thus, I ignored the forty-eight freight tariff evasions the Allure had notched up. I ignored the conviction for grievous assault First Officer Ornales had evaded on Caxton. I turned a blind eye to the fact Siskind had a fugitive murderer working amongst his enginarium crew, and also to the fact that his ship's surgeon had been disbarred from practice due to gross anatomical misconduct. I passed over the fifteen illegal or prohibited weapons carried aboard the ship, the largest two of which were battery-mounted on the hull. I didn't even care about the consignments of yellodes, gladstones and grinweed we dug out of cavity spaces.
I concentrated on flects, the Oktober Country, and on Feaver Skoh and Kizary Thekla.
The Allure had a crew of seventy-eight, thirty more than the Hinterlight. I examined each one in turn, shaking all kinds of petty crime and misdemeanors out of their heads. Meanwhile, Nayl oversaw the phsyical sweep of the ship, and Thonius, from his bed in the Hinterlight's infirmary, conducted a data purge of the Allure's systems.
"Sir?"
"Go ahead, Carl."
"There's virtually nothing in the Allure's files to link it to the Oktober Country. A handful of trade meetings. But I have traced an astropathic communiqué received the day after the Oktober Country left Eustis Primaris. It's filed and logged, uncoded. From Thekla. It says what we already know... asks Siskind to make his apologies to Baron Karquin."
"Thank you, Carl. Keep searching."
"Sir, the message ends with a curious sign off. 'Firetide drinks as usual'."
"Repeat that."
"'Firetide drinks as usual'. Mean anything?"
"Sweep our data core for the term 'Firetide'. It could indicate an event or time when Thekla and Siskind next intended to meet face to face."
"That's what I thought, sir."
"Good work, Carl. How's the arm?"
"Still attached to me. Mr. Halstrom's operating keyboard for me."
"Keep at it. Thank you, Carl."
I had taken over Siskind's ready room for my interrogations. As Thonius signed off, there was a knock at the hatch.
"Yes?"
Frauka opened the door. He took a lho-stick out of his mouth, exhaled a plume of smoke and said, "Ready for Siskind?"
"Yes, Wystan. Let's have him."
I'd saved Bartol Siskind until last, gravely aware of what Duboe had told me under interrogation. Siskind had blood links - remote, admittedly, but still real - to one of the sector's more infamous heretics. For a while I'd kept telling myself it was just a coincidence. Then I'd thought about it more carefully. It didn't have to be a coincidence. Though long-aborted, the Cognitae academy and its mentor had enjoyed a profoundly wide influence. The last time I'd checked - about two years earlier - ninety-four cases under prosecution by the Ordos Helican had involved someone or something with Cognitae connections. As secret orders went, it was one of the largest and most pernicious in modern memory. Also, the Cognitae had prided itself on using and recruiting only the very brightest supplicants. It was no low cult, feeding off the poor and the uneducated. Lilean Chase had not only pulled into her influence the Imperium's finest, she had instigated several eugenic breeding programs that mixed her corrupt but brilliant genes with the bloodlines of the most promising of her students. Her offspring were everywhere, many of them unimpeachable men of high standing. To be a rogue trader, one needed savvy, smarts and panache. Just because Siskind was of her line didn't automatically mean he was a heretic himself.
Siskind entered the ready room. He looked flustered and unhappy. Frauka had given him a smoke, and he twitched it in his fingers.
"Sit down," I said.
He sat, and had to adjust the setting of the chair. He wasn't used to sitting that side of the captain's desk.
"Bartol Siskind."
"Inquisitor."
"I give you notice now that this interview will be conducted mentally. I recommend you relax, or it will be a painful episode to endure."
He took a drag on his lho-stick and nodded.
+How long have you been master of this vessel?+
The clarity of the first psi-query made him blink. That always happened. No one is ever quite ready for the voice inside your head to be anyone other than yours.
"Fifteen years."
+Before that?+
"I was first officer on the Kagemusha."
+And how did you come to command the Allure?+
Though uncomfortable, he smiled. "I won it in a card game."
I verified his truth centres. He wasn't lying.
+How long have you known Kizary Thekla?+
He shifted in his seat. "Thirty years, give or take. We were juniors together on the Vainglory under Master Ensmann. I moved to the Omadorus and then the Kagemusha, Thekla went to the Oktober Country under Master Angwell. When Angwell died, Thekla inherited command."
+When was that?+
"381. Summer 381. Angwell was old. Four hundred and some. He died of a fever."
All true so far. Siskind was playing ball. I tried to examine his mind. Curiously, it reminded me of Duboe's. Superficially bright, sharp, fit, but strangely turgid deep down.
+When did you last see Thekla?+
"I told you this. Three years ago, on Flint, at the Winter Great Moot."
His first lie. It was glaringly obvious. He couldn't hide it.
+When really?+
Siskind sighed. He drew on his lho-stick again, exhaled and looked straight at me. "Two months ago. Briefly. On Lenk."
The truth.
+Describe that meeting. +
He shrugged. "I was in a tavern, drinking to the birth of Bombassen's first son-"
+Bombassen? Your chief engineer?+
"That's right. We were rat-arsed. Thekla came in with some of his crew, bought a round to wet the baby's head. We chatted for a while about old times. Nothing... nothing..." His voice trailed off. This was more truth, but I was annoyed at the opacity now coating his mind.
+You're related, you and Thekla?+
Siskind laughed. "He's a distant cousin. But our lineage is all frigged-up. You know that or you wouldn't be asking this. Our parents' parents were connected to the Cognita
e school raising program. I'm not proud of that. Shit, I'd rather it wasn't the truth. This isn't the first time the Inquisition has pulled me over because of things my frigging ancestors did."
Also true. True as I could see.
+Thekla sent you a communiqué asking you to make apologies for him at the moot.+
"Yeah. He couldn't make it. But when you've got good contacts with a slaughterbaron, it pays to be civil. He didn't want to piss Karquin off, so he asked me to smooth things out."
+Do you know why he couldn't make the moot?+
"He didn't say. I didn't ask."
+Do you know why I'm after him?+
Siskind paused. He breathed deeply. "Yeah. It's about flects, isn't it?"
+It is. What can you tell me about flects, Bartol?+
"Not much. It's a suicidal trade. I mean, dealing flects is going to bring trouble down on you eventually, right? He wanted to cut me in, but I said no. I move a little grin, sometimes I run gladstones. But not flects."
+You've never dealt in them?+
"No, sir."
+Never tempted?+
"By the return? Frig, yes! But I knew it would be bad news. Damn, look at this... I'm being mind-probed by the Inquisition for not dealing them. How frigging bad would this be if I was?"
He had a point.
+Where does he get them from?+
"I don't know. Seriously, I don't. You only get to know if you join the cartel."
+There's a cartel?+
He flinched slightly, causing the long char of ash accumulated on his lho-stick to tumble off onto the polished chrome floor. He knew he'd just let onto something he hadn't realised I didn't know.
+A cartel, Siskind?+
He recovered smoothly. "Of course there's a cartel, inquisitor. The flect trade doesn't depend entirely on the Oktober Country."
+I never imagined it did.+
"Far as I know, there are about twenty rogue traders who do the run. The source is extra-sub. It's coming from somewhere out in Lucky Space. And before you ask, I have no idea who runs the operation. Or how it's run. Or anything. You buy into it, that's what Thekla told me when he tried to get me in. It's a contract. You get all the details when you buy into the cartel. There's an up-front payment. A deposit. A gesture of good faith."