by Sales, Ian
“He was certainly wrong in that.”
“Wrong?” Ormuz gave a sardonic smile. “When is the Emperor ever wrong, Varä?”
The two of them sat in deep and wide armchairs of shiny brown leather in the battleship’s Great Hall. On a small round table before them a steward had left a silver coffee service. Ormuz still found this too peculiar for comfort—playing the effete noble in some posh club… which was actually aboard a battleship of the Imperial Navy. There had been no such “comforts” aboard Vengeful. The Admiral did not believe warships should be luxury berths.
Ormuz leaned forward and picked up his coffee cup. “That,” he said as he sat back, “is assuming I’m even allowed in. Or have you forgotten that I’m a prole?”
“Pah. Semantics,” dismissed Varä. “Your blood is noble, and anyone meeting you now would never guess you’d grown up a prole on some backwards world out on the Empire’s rim.”
“They don’t have to ‘guess’,” pointed out Ormuz.
Politics alone, he suspected, dictated how he would be treated on arrival on Shuto.
There was no predicting, of course, what would actually happen. And should he try to imagine, he was likely to get it wrong. No battle plan survived contact with the enemy.
He rested his chin on his hand and peered up at a banner hanging from a pole fixed on one of the Hall’s many pillars. It denoted some martial honour but he had yet to learn the trick of deciphering them. Not that he particularly cared. He was not Navy, he would never be Navy.
His eyes dropped from the banner to a trio of young officers walking along one of the balconies overlooking the Great Hall. No, not officers. Midshipmen. Their blue coats boasted white facings. He watched them march forward, heading he surmised to the main wardroom. As his gaze passed across their faces, he was drawn back to one of the three. There was something familiar about the young man in the middle of the trio.
Young! The thought prompted a smile. The midshipman was only a year or two younger than Ormuz himself, but it was difficult not to think of him as “young”. He had nondescript features in a round face, short brown hair, and stood six inches shorter than his companions. Something about him, however, reminded Ormuz of someone.
“See those midshipmen up there,” he said to Varä.
The marquess twisted round his chair and peered up at the balcony. “What about them?”
“The one in the middle: do you know him?”
Varä shook his head. “Not my type.”
“You’ve never seen him before?”
“Not that I’m aware of, Casimir.” Varä turned back to face Ormuz. “But I meet so many people.” He gave an eloquent shrug.
Ormuz did not reply but continued to watch the three midshipmen. He felt sure he recognised the young one, he could not think from where. Perhaps he’d seen him about Empress Glorina before—he certainly wasn’t from Vengeful. Ormuz knew all the officers who had been aboard her.
Shaking his head, he turned back to the marquess. Later he might remember where he’d seen the young man before.
Rinharte pulled up the battleship’s crew complement on her glass and, by flicking various switches, narrowed the displayed selection to show only Empress Glorina’s midshipmen.
“You’re certain he wasn’t one of ours,” she asked Ormuz.
“I know all our midshipmen, Rizabeka,” Ormuz replied.
Empress Glorina’s officers—enemy officers—had all given their parole and were allowed freedom of movement within officer country.
That niggling sense of familiarity had been bothering Ormuz all morning. Try as he might, he could not think where he had seen the young midshipman before. But he definitely knew his face. Something told him it had not been during the fight to take Empress Glorina from her crew. To be fair, much of that battle was a blur. He remembered thundering across the gangplank from Vengeful, he remembered bowling into the waiting defenders… The rest was a confused and confusing montage of faces, blood, and swinging sword-blades; and noise—screams and yells and the roaring of flames.
So he had come to Rinharte. She had access to the battleship’s data-pool. If the midshipman were a member of Empress Glorina’s complement—as he had to be—then his identity could easily be determined.
Ormuz peered at the ten faces arranged on the glass. The one he sought was immediately obvious. “Him,” he said, and tapped the glass on the young man’s face. “Harap. Balik mar Harap.”
Rinharte leaned close and Ormuz withdrew his hand. He heard her draw in her breath sharply.
“Where did you see him?” she demanded.
“In the Great Hall. Well, on one of the balconies.”
“Dear Lords.” She rose to her feet, picked up her sword and fastened it to her belt. “Romi!” she called.
Mate Maganda appeared in the doorway. “Ma’am?”
“Get Lieutenant Pulisz and tell him to meet us with half a dozen of his best in the Great Hall.”
Ormuz stared at Rinharte. She knew the midshipman?
She turned to him. “He’s one of the Urbat,” she explained.
“Who? The what?”
“The clones, Casimir. The ones who tried to kill you. They’re called Urbat.”
He turned back to the glass and stared at the face. Something seemed to click into place. “Aszabella!” The young woman at the assembly on Linna who had killed Mate Kowo. “That’s where I’d seen him before. They could almost be brother and sister.”
“Quite,” said Rinharte.
Ormuz abruptly remembered. “Ah, yes. Of course.” Appearances had been deceiving with Aszabella. The young lady had not been “she” at all.
“Damn. Who knows what sabotage he’s planning? We have to take him into custody.” Rinharte’s tone was urgent.
“What’s this Urbat?” Ormuz asked. “Who told you they were called that?” It was not a term he knew; he did not recall ever coming across it in the nomosphere.
Rinharte crossed to the door. She looked back. “The clone who escaped aboard Tempest,” she explained. “It was the word he used.” She shrugged a shoulder. “I’ve fished in every data-pool I have access to, but… nothing.”
She left her office. Ormuz hurried after her. Rinharte was already at the hatch leading out to the conning-tower well.
“Lieutenant Pulisz will meet you in the Hall,” Maganda called out.
Ormuz turned to the mate as he crossed to Rinharte. He thanked her, and when he turned back Rinharte had already exited. He increased his pace, and caught up with her as she reached the elevator. They travelled together down to the Great Hall.
“I saw them almost everyday in those coffin things on Tempest,” Rinharte explained. “I got to know their faces very well.” She grimaced. “And then they all woke up.”
“I never looked at their faces,” Ormuz admitted, “that time you took me round your ship.” He fell silent a moment. “I’m sorry you lost her. Was she your first command?”
“Yes.” She shrugged. “I could have expected better, I suppose. Perhaps one day I’d have made it to post-captain and been given a ship. A frigate, most likely.”
“You still might.”
“After this?” Rinharte snorted in amusement.
“You’ll be a heroine,” Ormuz insisted. “We’ll all be heroes. We’re saving the Imperial Throne from Ahasz.”
Rinharte shook her head sadly. “I suspect the only person to come out of this whole mess with no loss of reputation is the Admiral.”
The elevator settled into the carpet of the Great Hall’s deck. They stepped from the shelf and it slid back into its slot behind them. They stood there a moment and looked about. But there was no sign of Pulisz or his ship’s corporals.
“We’ll check Harap’s cabin,” Rinharte said. “He might be there.”
She strode off towards the nearest ramp. Ormuz hurried after her and together they made their way up to the second of the mezzanine decks overlook
ing the Hall. Rinharte led the way directly to Harap’s door. She rapped peremptorily upon it but there was no answer. Ormuz stepped back, leaned against the railing and crossed his arms.
Rinharte turned on him. “What do you think you’re doing? He’ll take you if you’re not prepared. The clones are excellent fighters.”
Ormuz abruptly remembered how difficult it had been to stop Aszabella on Linna. It had taken several of them, and even then she had managed to kill the coxswain. He straightened and put a hand to the hilt of his sword.
“Better,” said Rinharte. She turned back to the cabin door and raised her fist to knock again.
“Ma’am? Sir?”
A valet had appeared a couple of doors along the balcony. Arms at his side, he sketched a bow. “May I assist?”
“We’re looking for Mr Harap,” Rinharte replied. “Have you seen him?”
“No, ma’am. Not since this morning.” The valet looked briefly embarrassed. “In fact, he was due to meet his lieutenant not two hours ago, but did not show.”
“Damn.” Rinharte crossed to the railing and gripped the balustrade with both hands.
“It shouldn’t be hard to find him, Rizbeka. There’s nowhere he can go.”
She shook her head. “No, I’ve a feeling he knows we’re onto him. He’ll have gone into hiding. And this—” She flung out a hand to take in the Great Hall and all the ship about them—“this vessel is the size of an estate. If he’s run to the lower decks, we’ll never find him.”
Ormuz turned about to look out over the Hall. He saw Pulisz and six rateds down below, and waved to catch the Provost-Aboard’s attention. One of the ship’s corporals saw Ormuz. She said something to the lieutenant. He turned and looked up, and even from twenty feet away and fifteen feet up Ormuz could see the smile on his face. Pulisz and his party hurried towards the nearest ramp.
“Here’s Vardr,” Ormuz said.
They waited in silence for the Provost-Aboard and his ship’s corporals to arrive. Once Pulisz was stood before them, an expectant smile on his face, looking from one to the other, Ormuz explained the situation.
“We’ll find him, my lord,” Pulisz assured Ormuz.
“Do you know this ship?” asked Rinharte. “She’s near twice the size of Vengeful.”
“We’ll find him, ma’am,” Pulisz insisted. “Even if we have to search deck by deck.”
“Easier said than done,” snapped Rinharte.
She strode towards the ramp, stopped a moment and then spun about on her heels. “You!” She pointed at the most senior of Pulisz’s ship’s corporals. “What’s the quickest way to the lower decks from the Halls?”
“Drop to the Upper Supply Passage, ma’am.”
“Let’s go, then. Lead on.”
Ormuz joined her and they waited for the ship’s corporal—a middle-aged bruiser, built like a boxer and with the battered features to suit—to pass them. He led Ormuz, the two officers and his fellow rateds down from the balcony.
The Great Hall was busier now than it had been that morning. Many of the armchairs, grouped in brown leather islands of civility across the blue expanse of carpet, were occupied. Stewards strode back and forth carrying drinks and snacks. Ormuz nodded in greeting at a pair of lieutenants as he marched by. They were from Vengeful. They looked about to rise to their feet, so he gestured for them to remain seated. Other officers present were survivors of Empress Glorina’s original complement and they ignored the party of ship’s corporals.
Reaching the rear of the Great Hall, the rated led the party through a hatch to starboard and into a gangway. To Ormuz’s right, a line of scuttles looked out over the flank of Empress Glorina’s hull. To his left, hatches and doors led into administrative offices and bureaux. After some fifty yards, the party turned to port and the passage became a ramp heading down.
Several turns later and two decks lower, this opened onto a balcony overlooking a great tunnel through the centre of the ship. Ormuz gave Rinharte a surprised look. He had not expected this.
The Upper Supply Passage was not simply a double-width gangway, as it had been aboard Vengeful. It was two storeys tall, with walls of rivetted steel, a balcony suspended on iron pillars to either side and arched iron buttresses supporting the roof. It could have been a thoroughfare in the prole quarter of a prosperous city. It also seemed to stretch the full length of the hull, both ends narrowing to points in the distance.
“You said ‘upper’,” said Ormuz. “There’s a lower one too?”
“Two, my lord,” replied a ship’s corporal. “Below Port and Below Starboard.”
“And they’re the same as this?”
“Narrower, my lord.”
Rinharte gestured dismissively. “All very interesting, but we need to catch this clone.” She strode towards the nearest ladder and clambered down it to the Supply Passage’s deck.
Ormuz had known the crew of Empress Glorina numbered in the thousands, but until seeing this balconied avenue the number had meant little. It was the battleship’s high street, but without shops or a market. Or, it had to be said, much in the way of traffic. Ormuz saw no more than half a dozen rateds in either direction.
As he joined Rinharte on the deck, and felt a brief moment of vertigo as he looked both forward and aft and saw the gangway seemingly stretching to infinity in both directions, he wondered how they would find the clone in this great interstellar town. His foot scraped against something. Looking down, he saw a rail embedded in the deck. No, a pair of rails.
“There’s a railway?” he asked, astonished.
“Aye, my lord,” answered the ship’s corporal who had led them to the Supply Passage. “Them’s one in each. For to run supplies.”
“We’ll never find the damn man,” muttered Rinharte. “He could be anywhere.”
She lunged and grabbed the lapel of an approaching rated. “You,” she demanded of him, “have you seen a midshipman down here?”
The rated shook his head fearfully. “No, ma’am. Not me.”
She let go of him and he hurried on his way.
“This is impossible,” she said, exasperated.
“Perhaps we should split into two groups,” suggested Ormuz. “One goes for’ard and the other aft.”
“And if we don’t find him, we can drop to the Below Supply Passages,” put in Pulisz. “One group to take port and the other starboard.”
Rinharte nodded. “We’ll use Romi to coordinate.” She crossed to a caster on the bulkhead nearby and called up the Intelligence Office.
Ormuz listened absently to her instructions to the mate. Hands behind his back, he strolled away from Provost-Aboard and his ship’s corporals, and marvelled once again at the sheer size of this vessel. He looked up at the balconies on either side and down at the rails embedded in the deck. He squinted for’ard, as if he could see further doing that. He wondered at the length of the Supply Passage—he might well have read about battleships of this class when he’d been a crew-member aboard Divine Providence, but if he had the memory eluded him.
Abruptly, he remembered he had seized this warship for the Admiral. He’d fought his way aboard her and taken control…
And a shiver of fright went through him as he finally understood the magnitude of that achievement.
Such a strange place, mused Ormuz, as they marched along the Supply Passage. There had been nowhere like it aboard Vengeful. He turned from looking up at the starboard balcony and felt a brief moment of vertigo. The dimensions of this passage fooled the eye. Their booted feet on the deck echoed from the steel walls, making their party sound more numerous than its four members.
Ormuz and Pulisz, with a pair of rateds, had chosen to head for the prow, while Rinharte and four ship’s corporals went aft.
“Who is this person we’re looking for, my lord?” asked Pulisz.
“Did you ever go aboard Tempest?” Ormuz asked.
The Provost-Aboard shook his head.
&
nbsp; “But you know of the clones?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“The midshipman is one of them.”
Pulisz blinked. “From Tempest? How did he escape?”
“No, no. Not from Rizbeka’s ship. He’s one of Empress Glorina’s midshipmen, but he’s an assassin for the Serpent.”
Ormuz looked about him—they did not appear to have walked far at all. This stretch of passage resembled the previous stretch of passage in all particulars. No, not quite. Stencilled on the bulkhead nearby was a number. It was some form of address. As they moved further for’ard, the numbers appeared every twenty or so yards and decreased in magnitude.
The rated leading the group abruptly halted. He held up a hand, crossed to a hatch on the port bulkhead and pulled it open.
Ormuz joined him.
The space beyond the hatch was dark and Ormuz could see nothing. The rated stepped over the coaming and disappeared. Ormuz heard a sequence of solid bangs. Moments later, a light-panel flickered and hummed.
“Not working, my lord,” explained the rated. “Needed a good knock.”
Intrigued, Ormuz joined him. “What is this place?”
And immediately he saw.
He stepped back, suddenly dizzy. Before him was a railing. Beyond it, a great dark space, its floor some twenty feet below. He could not see the bulkheads ahead or to either side. The space was not larger than the troop deck aboard Tempest, but it was mostly dark and that seemed to magnify its size.
“What is this place?”
“For’ard hold, my lord.”
Pulisz appeared in the hatchway. “What is it?”
“Where are the prisoners?” Ormuz asked the rated. “I thought they were in the hold.”
“Aft hold,” replied the ship’s corporal. “This one’s got nothing in it.”
Pulisz moved to stand beside Ormuz. “Could he be hiding in here? What say you, Rendo?”
The ship’s corporal crossed to the railing, put his hands to its iron balustrade and leaned out. Ormuz turned from him to the rated who had remained out in the Supply Passage. A scrape against the decking drew Ormuz’s attention back to Rendo.