“The farmers have left here. Perhaps they also have gone to the village for news. Or they have already gone into hiding.” Thomas scratched at his beard.
Steg checked the map. “The village is about twenty kays down the valley. We should keep going.” He hefted his packs back into place and they headed on past the deserted farmhouse.
They reached the small village well after nightfall. They had encountered no one on the road, no farm animals and no one working in the fields. Even the automatic watering systems were powered down. Both ComNet and DefNet were silent. That silence was worrying. As they entered the village, they dropped off their supply packs in a shadowed area, keeping only their weapons packs, and then moved forward in full combat readiness.
“Don’t approach the houses,” advised Thomas quietly. “No lights showing. The inn should be our first stop.”
Steg nodded his agreement. The inn was a further hundred yards or so, and Steg expected that the innkeeper or his guests, villagers or travelers, would have news of what was happening. At the inn door, Steg handed his weapons pack to Thomas and pushed open the heavy door. He stepped through the small entry foyer into the dimly lit taproom. Thomas was immediately behind him.
Conversations halted, although no one looked openly at the two strangers. Steg stopped to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light. There was silence in the taproom as though a common breath was being held while guesses were made as to their identity. Steg peered around in an almost futile attempt to pierce the gloom and waited as a hesitant innkeeper reluctantly approached.
“From Castlehome?” he inquired softly, his nervous voice barely lasting across the short distance that separated them.
Steg nodded.
The innkeeper visibly relaxed, dropping the edge of his apron where he had been wiping his already clean hands over and over. He looked behind Steg at Thomas, part hidden in the deeper shadows. “I recognize you, I’ve seen you there. We are hearing strange stories—offworlders—the Empire has taken over Castlehome. Can I help you?”
“Food, drink and a bed for the night,” Steg replied, matching the soft caution of the innkeeper. In the background the gentle murmur of numerous conversations again filled the room, as guests and drinkers carefully ignored the activity at the door. “Are any offworlders here?”
“Not in my inn. Not now. They were here earlier—I will tell you while you eat. Come in, I have a good table, in the corner there, and you and your friend will be able to watch the door if you wish.” The innkeeper told the serving maid to bring food and drink—the menu was short—a good Homeworld stew, according to the innkeeper, which he described as the best in the district as he led them to a table away from the entrance. He waited for Steg and Thomas to select their seating and carefully ignored the two weapons packs that Thomas pushed under the side of the table. He carried on a one-sided conversation while they ate. “There are three offworlders—Imperials—here, in the village. They arrived in their flyer this morning and posted notices everywhere. They are camped on the common.” A quick smile flittered across his face. “Their tents are palatial, no match at all for my sparse rooms. And they did not like the idea of sharing with bed bugs—my guests were all scratching, they were. And we were looking for the bug killer powders. Even the Imperials started to scratch, they did. So they decided they were safer outdoors.”
“What do the notices say?” queried Thomas.
“Well, one is a reward notice—seems like they think the village may be sheltering some of the Earl’s men, soldiers and officers, who they would like to capture. The other is some kind of proclamation. It says that the Earl was plotting against the Empire and that he held power illegally, that he seized the throne from the rightful heir.” He sneered. “They don’t know their Homeworld history—why, the Earl’s lineage goes all the way back to the First Earl, as we all know –.”
“Who have they nominated as ruler?” interrupted Steg, his concern obvious.
“The Lady Gaetja, for her infant son, Edrin.”
“So she is the traitor,” Thomas cursed. “She is a commoner, and not even a Homeworlder. Never trust anyone from Denixx, there’s a start. Her late husband was a minor baron, nowhere near the line of succession. And to claim Castlehome for her son –.” He stopped as Steg gripped his arm.
“And I suppose warrants are out for the arrest of the Earl’s family?” Steg spoke very softly.
“Yes. And stories are already filtering to us of executions. Murders, more like.” The innkeeper spat out the words. He was careful to look away from Steg, who was showing obvious signs of shock and growing anger.
“What about the Imperials here?” queried Thomas, also keen to explore the possibility of revenge.
“Two young soldiers and an officer, wearing Alutan house colors. We could take them out, but they would have more here tomorrow—we will wait until the time is right. Pretending to be awed, we are. My platoon will be ready when we are needed. Militia Captain, I am.”
“Good,” affirmed Steg. He had his anger under control. “You need to co-ordinate with Militia Control. It should not be too long before a counter strike is ready.” He spoke with a firmly optimistic tone. “Now we want a few hours sleep. Then we’ll leave, hopefully without being discovered by your Imperial guests. We’ll need some help to reach Castlehome.”
“Sir, you will be safe here. We have comfortable rooms, and welcome, you are. We all support the Earl’s men.” The innkeeper nodded his reassurance. “And his family too, the rightful heirs.”
The innkeeper left the table without further comment and Steg watched as he moved around the taproom, conferring with different groups. The inn slowly emptied as the villagers departed. Steg enjoyed the meal, relaxed in the certainty that the villagers would keep careful watch through the night. At last the innkeeper’s wife came forward to show them to their rooms. Thomas spoke briefly with the innkeeper before he followed.
******
Chapter 3
Steg woke abruptly, struggling for air. A hand was clasped tightly across his mouth, and was removed as the muted voice of the drill sergeant penetrated the fog of deep slumber. Steg sat up, momentarily confused.
“Quiet, Steg. Dawn is only thirty minutes away and we need to move out of the village before the Imperials begin to stir. They—er—consumed a rather large amount of our host’s special brew last night and will be somewhat the worse for it this morning. Come along. There’s a tractor and trailer load waiting to be taken into Castlehome. You are now a hard working farm hand and,” he smiled, “very poor. Here, wear these, so that you look the part.”
Steg donned the proffered clothes. They were clean and the fabric felt rough. The shirt and jacket were loose fitting and would hide his chainmail vest from any but a full inspection.
His breakfast was a rushed meal of bread and cold meats and he watched Thomas examine and select a variety of weapons from their packs. The pile of discarded items grew steadily; they would provide extra supplies for the local militia. The remainder—two short blades, a stunner each and—from the locals—some HEx—would suffice. A larger selection of weapons would be difficult to hide and if discovered by Imperial troops, would invite disaster. Thomas prepared a separate personal pack that he handed to Steg to carry.
An apprehensive farmer was waiting for them outside the inn. He was standing by a tractor and trailer unit, which was burdened with large, round, and ripening cheeses. They were in the early stages of the special processes that finally would produce the Homeworld product for which chefs on many planets would pay a small fortune. Steg almost gagged as he unexpectedly encountered a waft of an especially strong odor.
The tractor was fitted with a sturdy electric motor, which would propel them along at a modest pace. Fully charged, the batteries had a range of a hundred hours of operation which was more than enough to reach their destination. The tractor controls were minimalistic: a throttle lever for speed, another lever that provided one forward and one reverse gear,
a brake pedal and a steering wheel. The seats were shaped and marginally padded. With wheels of heavy rubber and springs instead of shock absorbers, their ride would not be comfortable. The tractor and trailer would suffice for their return to Castlehome; the trip would be steady, they would need to restrain their sense of urgency.
“When you reach Castlehome,” explained the farmer. “You can leave it at the Deer’s Head; the owner is my uncle. He will re-charge the batteries until we can collect it. We are happy to be of some help, little though it may be.”
“We will do our best,” promised Thomas. “However, in these times, circumstances may—”
“I understand.”
“We will ensure your brother is reimbursed if the load does not survive the trip,” promised Steg. “That is, assuming we do.”
Thomas then worked on both sides of the trailer, taping long strips of HEx to the underside, just along the edge of the trailer bed, working the plastic material into position. The explosive was almost undetectable, and would be well disguised from prying eyes. He fixed in remote detonators. When armed, it only required a slight touch on a minor imperfection on the inside of his belt to trigger each one. When fired, the explosives would cause metal strapping around the edge of the trailer bed to flail out in pieces of shrapnel, causing significant injuries and perhaps death, to anyone standing within ten yards or so of the sides of the trailer. At last he was satisfied.
“The Imperials will—I trust—think that only primitive backworld farmers could bother with a cargo like this. They will not be too eager to search it thoroughly. Now come on lad, move thy lazy self, we ain’t got all day. It’s after sunrise and we need to be off.”
The innkeeper handed them a food pack and Steg and Thomas took their positions on the tractor unit. They quietly thanked the anxious farmer and innkeeper. Steg noted other villagers positioned protectively around the small village as they began their journey. Thomas set the gear lever for forward travel and slowly edged open the throttle lever. The electric motor was almost silent as the tractor and trailer eased into movement.
Steg tried to relax on the passenger seat. He was certain they were going to experience a long, hard ride. The road ahead was dusty, winding around several small hills before leading into a broad green valley where it hugged a shallow and meandering river. Open patches of pasture grasses stirred and rippled in the light morning breeze. Occasionally, both the road ahead and the river were hidden by small wooded areas, until at last they separated and went their own ways into another larger and densely wooded valley. As yet no other travelers were on the road although life on the small farms along the way was beginning to stir. Steg was eager to glimpse the peaks of Castlehome. He relaxed as much as possible; in different circumstances, he could have enjoyed the peacefulness of the panorama through which they were traveling.
They had no warning. As they rounded a blind corner, an Imperial squad moved into the center of the road, signaling them to stop. Thomas pulled back the throttle lever and stepped hard on the brake pedal, and the heavy trailer ground to a halt. An officer, an Imperial lieutenant, came forward, almost blanching as the ripe aroma made its presence felt. He covered his mouth and nose.
“Ugh. What is that garbage? Come here, both of you, away from that damned stink.”
Steg and Thomas both clambered down from the tractor and moved to where the officer indicated. The squad appeared to be well armed and Steg glimpsed a flyer parked some yards off the road. He slouched carelessly as the officer approached them and kept his eyes downcast, carving an arc in the dust on the edge of the road with the side of his boot.
The officer ignored Steg and addressed Thomas. “Well, where do you think you are going?”
“Sir, we need to go to Castlehome to sell our cheese.” Thomas maintained a servile attitude, in complete contrast with his usual drill square autocracy.
“That’s cheese? I suppose you barbarians will eat anything. Now tell me, have you seen any of the Earl’s men? A severe penalty will be applied to anyone who harbors fugitives,” the officer threatened. He stood in front of Thomas, hands on hips and an undisguised arrogant expression on his face.
He had been questioning these peasant farmers for the last two days and his attitude indicated that he doubted that any of them would know a soldier from Castlehome if they saw one in full uniform. Offworlders did not realize the best of Homeworld military were recruited from these same farmers, and they carried their military inheritance with substantial pride and exceptional loyalty. They could also dissemble; they were able to hide their military culture from the prying eyes of offworlders. As a result, the officer faced a burly, almost elderly farmer, unshaven, accompanied by a lout of a farm lad, both roughly dressed, who were transporting a trailer load of extremely rotten-smelling cheeses, and did not seem to question their legitimacy. The officer dispatched one of his men to examine the trailer and its cargo. The inspection was perfunctory, carried out with the rush of someone who wished his tasks were over quickly.
“Well, have you?”
“No, sir,” Thomas replied. “We ain’t seen soldiers for days. Maybe longer.”
“And you, lad?”
Steg kept his head down. He had recognized the lieutenant as one of the Imperial officers who had watched the sword fight in Castlehome. He waited a moment, scuffing a deeper groove in the dust.
“N—n—no, sir. I ain’t.”
“All right. On you go,” sighed the lieutenant as he signaled his squad to move aside.
Steg and Thomas climbed back on board the tractor. Thomas started up the motor and released the brake. They edged slowly past the obviously bored soldiers and soon the tractor and trailer were rolling along at top speed.
As they traveled on, their conversation was sporadic; Thomas complained about the delay, and Steg commented about the hardness of the seat. Another kay passed.
At Thomas’s hand-signaled instruction, Steg clambered over the trailer, checking where the Imperial soldier had examined the load. Just behind where Thomas sat, Steg found a small device clipped to a restraining strap. He signaled Thomas, pointing out the bug. They continued in silence.
Somehow the earlier magic of the morning had evaporated. Steg was no longer a farm hand taking merchandise to sell in Castlehome; instead, he was a fugitive and his freedom, indeed his life, were at risk. The road stretched ahead, empty and dusty, waiting to treadmill them through the day. The sun was relentless, building its summer heat as the hours and kays passed by. Thomas appeared to be asleep, responding to the curves in the road by coincidence rather than intent.
Thomas again signaled Steg after they had traveled ten kays or so away from the Imperial troop. Steg acknowledged his instruction and reached for the bugging device. He eased the device gently off the strap and dropped it onto the road where the front and rear wheels of the trailer crushed it. He checked further in case a second device had been hidden elsewhere. Satisfied he turned back to Thomas.
“Not very efficient,” he commented.
“Thank your lucky stars, lad,” Thomas remained in character. “Those soldiers could have delayed us all day, or even told us to return home, at the very least.”
Soon the sun arched overhead. Steg felt as though they had been traveling for days; next time he would make sure he had a cushion; the seat was harder than ever. Steg edged sideways, moving to ease his discomfort. As he moved, a wave of pain and nausea almost toppled him from his seat. He grabbed at Thomas, who looked startled at the intensity of Steg’s discomfort.
Thomas pointed ahead at where the road again ran along the river. “Let’s take a break here beside the river. We have been on the road for over six hours, and must have covered seventy—seventy-five kays. Good progress, considering.”
Steg did not reply, as Thomas steered the tractor to the side of the road. He was fighting to sit upright, as he fought against the waves of pain. Thomas positioned the tractor and trailer well off the road and set the brake.
“Steg, what is wrong?”
“Pain—nausea—not mine. Someone is hurt. Here—close by.” He was bewildered; he could not understand why he was reacting so. He staggered down from the tractor and clung to its side. He sensed that was someone in agony, nearby.
Thomas climbed down from his driver’s seat. He was at a loss as to what was affecting Steg. He had a first aid kit in his hand, taken from under the seat.
“Over there,” Steg indicated a direction towards the river. He and Thomas began a search and as Steg moved closer to bank and further downstream, the pain intensified. “There, see? A body, just under the bank. He must be still alive.”
Thomas handed the first aid kit to Steg and waded into the shallow river. He half dragged, half lifted the body from the water. He felt for and found a pulse, ragged and faint. He carried the body up onto the grass, above the riverbank. His face paled when he turned the body over and saw the victim’s face.
“An Acolyte?”
“Yes,” Thomas confirmed, indicating the implanted interface unit almost hidden under a heavy mop of hair. They both worked to apply first aid. Steg cut back burnt clothing and applied salve; the severity of the burns required urgent hospital treatment. Thomas prepared a pain-killing injection.
Steg said, “I think I recognize him, but I have never seen him away from the Glass Complex.”
Homeworld Acolytes maintained the Glass Complex, a massive computer installation hidden far below Castlehome. They programmed, repaired and defended the Complex, the functions of which were seldom mentioned or disclosed. The data they stored and managed was sourced from every known world, human and alien. The accumulation was immense; it had been gathered over centuries and added to whenever a starship landed or a data glass arrived from remote sources. The Acolytes were linked to the Complex; they were its high priests and hand servants, interpreters and communicants, locked, human mind to artificial intelligence, in surgical servitude. The Glass Complex knew and read the thoughts of the Acolytes and they in turn read the depths of data held in the storage glasses and saw the patterns and movements in the data.
Broken Glass (Glass Complex Book 1) Page 3