A Prospect of War (An Age of Discord Novel Book 1)

by Ian Sales

  “Divine Providence’s next stop is Kapuluan, ma’am.”

  “Bato,” corrected the Admiral. “We detected her departure some hours ago, and Lieutenant-Commander Voyna determined that the data-freighter was heading for Bato. But it is on the route to Kapuluan and that explains her choice of destination.”

  “I also—” Rinharte broke off and grimaced. She cast a quick worried glance at Mubariz.

  “Go on,” said the Admiral. “I wish Mr Mubariz to hear whatever you might say.”

  “The knight-captain gave us a message, ma’am, a message for you. He said that the Emperor desires you to take your place, that He has known of your ‘masquerade’ from the start and thinks it is inappropriate.”

  “And how did you reply, Rizbeka?”

  “I told him no, ma’am.”

  “Good. We have work to do yet.”

  “He offered a full pardon, ma’am. For the entire crew.”

  The Admiral chopped the air. “I will see everyone is pardoned, Rizbeka. I do not need messages from the Order of the Emperor’s Shield for that.”

  The Admiral turned her back on Rinharte, Kordelasz and Mubariz. She stood there a moment, oblivious to the trio behind her. She wanted to consider the message from the knight stalwart audacious—calling the path she had taken after so much soul-searching a “masquerade”! thinking it “inappropriate” of her!—but she could not. The knight stalwart was only relaying the Emperor’s words and He could never be audacious. She was profoundly disappointed, and angry, that He felt so little of her that He chose to couch his message in such terms. Rinharte had done well to refuse the Emperor’s offer. She would have been brusque but courteous. The Admiral knew she would not have been so polite herself. She clenched a fist. A masquerade! It was a calculated insult.

  Still angry, she strode around her the desk. “Who do you report to, Mr Mubariz?” she said harshly. “The Imperial Household?”

  The commander jerked in surprise. He opened his mouth and then closed it without speaking.

  “Come, Mr Mubariz,” said the Admiral. “I’ve known of your tale-telling for some while. At least have the decency not to dissemble.”

  Mubariz cleared his throat. “The knights signet, ma’am.”

  “How?”

  “Message buoys.”

  “You set the Emperor’s dogs on Rizbeka and Garrin, Mr Mubariz. That is unforgivable. You are directly responsible for their current injuries.” She paused. “You are a good officer, Abad,” she said sadly, “but you have shown yourself undeserving of my trust. You will report to Mr Voyna and inform him that he is now to assume the role of executive officer. You will then report to the provost aboard and ask him to detail a guard outside your cabin, where you will remain until further notice. I will not have you on my bridge, Mr Mubariz, and when this is all over I will see that you are not rewarded for your perfidy. You may leave.”

  The commander nodded. “Ma’am.”

  Rinharte and Kordelasz turned to watch him leave the day cabin. The Admiral saw the marine-lieutenant glance briefly at Rinharte and was happy to see the rapport they had developed. A ship was only as good as its officers, and good officers did not keep their thoughts from one another.

  Mubariz, however… She was sorry that events had required his humiliation. His “tale-telling” had been of no consequence during the early years of their desertion and she had turned a blind eye to it. Perhaps she had wanted to win some form of approval from the Emperor through the commander’s reports. At the very least, she had hoped that knowledge of her actions would prove the rightness of her decision. Sadly, that, if the knight stalwart was to be believed, had not happened.

  Commander Mubariz’s informing was now an embarrassment, if not dangerous. The Admiral’s war against her enemy had entered a new phase, and she could not afford to have the Imperial Household attempting to upset her plans.

  Nevertheless, she was pleased to see Mubariz accept his disgrace with aplomb. His back remained straight as he marched from the cabin. He was still a Navy officer, despite all. And for that reason, she trusted him to do as ordered. She did not need to ask for his parole. To officers of Commander Mubariz’s calibre, of his naval and noble rank, the bond was implied. She knew she would not receive a report detailing the theft of a pinnace and the disappearance of the commander. Abad mar Mubariz, Baron Mateen, would sit out his arrest with all the grace and steadfastness of an officer and a peer. Perhaps events would prove him right. Perhaps he hoped they would not. She did not know his motives. She was not interested in them. His actions were enough.

  The door closed behind Mubariz. Turning to Rinharte and Kordelasz, the Admiral said, “Perhaps I left that too late, given the events on Ophavon. No matter. I have the knights’ stalwart message and they have their reply.”

  Rinharte’s mouth twisted briefly in an embarrassed smile.

  “Yes, Rizbeka?”

  “I’m afraid I have to ask for a marine boat-squad to be seconded to the Intelligence Office. They were present when the knight-captain delivered his message. News of the offer of a full pardon should be kept… quiet.”

  “They are yours. Use them wisely. And be more careful in future, Rizbeka. I can’t detach the entire crew to your department.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You may go—” The Admiral held up a hand. “No. You have more to say, Rizbeka.” It was not a question: the Admiral knew Rinharte well enough to read the signs.

  “It’s Divine Providence…”

  “Go on.”

  “While we were on Ophavon, someone attacked Divine Providence and attempted to assassinate the crew—”

  “I fought them off, ma’am,” put in Kordelasz.

  “How many?” asked the Admiral.

  “Three. The fourth one, er, got away.”

  “I see.” The Admiral paused a moment. “Now explain to me why you did this. Surely they were about to do our job for us?”

  Rinharte shook her head. “No, ma’am. I—” She floundered for an explanation, brows lowered. “Do you remember that incident on Napad? The seneschal was murdered before we could get to him?”

  The Admiral nodded: she remembered.

  “It was the same: four black-clad masked assassins. Garrin had no choice but to defend the data-freighter’s crew. Especially since…”

  “Since what, Rizbeka?” asked the Admiral.

  Rinharte explained: “We know the assassins work for the enemy. Why would they attack Divine Providence if they’re on the same side?”

  “Perhaps they had their reasons,” the Admiral suggested. “I do not very much care. But if this data-freighter and her crew are not minions of the enemy, then on whose side are they?”

  “I don’t know,” Rinharte admitted sheepishly.

  If Divine Providence was not an enemy vessel, then it seemed likely Divine Wind had not been. And the Admiral had ordered the latter destroyed. “This is not welcome news, Rizbeka.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You may go.”

  The Admiral stopped Rinharte as she was about to step out of the day-room. “Rizbeka?”

  Rinharte turned and looked back. “Ma’am?”

  “Keep your hair that colour.”

  The lieutenant-commander frowned. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I should be grateful you didn’t choose blonde, I suppose.” To those brought up close to the Chianist Church, as the Admiral was, blondes—their hair the gold of Konran—were considered untrustworthy.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Ormuz stood in the control cupola behind the pilot’s station, his hands resting on the shoulders of Lotsman’s chair. He was watching the view ahead. One moment, all that could be seen was formless. The next, a universe popped into being: a star-speckled blackness, hot white point of the sun off to starboard, the bloated sphere of a blue and green gas giant below. The transition was instantaneous. Jagged fingers of b
lue light flickered about the frames of the glass roof, the residual effects of emergence from the toposphere.

  Ormuz had asked to be present during Divine Providence’s arrival in the Bato system. Captain Plessant refused. Ormuz insisted. He had been calm and determined. She had found his new-found resolve unnerving and reluctantly agreed to his request.

  “Not much to see, is it, Cas?” remarked Lotsman.

  “Has anyone ever tried filming it, and watching it at slow speed?” Ormuz asked.

  “Can’t be done,” Plessant said flatly. “The emergence scrambles the images.”

  Ormuz nodded. Much was still unknown about topologic travel, despite being used for almost five millennia. But then it had never been invented. Astronomers on Geneza, so history claimed, had spotted something plainly artificial in orbit about their planet. This prompted intense research into rocketry. Which eventually put a team of astronauts into space… who discovered the artificial objects were wrecked spaceships. The topologic drives aboard them had given the Genezi, the founders of the Old Empire, the stars.

  In all the millennia since, the provenance of those ancient wrecks had never been learnt. They were supposed to have been built by the mythical Anyol. One of Ormuz’s favourite melodramas depicted a noble knight who had stumbled upon the Anyol’s fabled home world, Anuras, kept its location secret, and used its magical technology to right wrongs throughout the Empire. It was sheer fantasy, but well-produced and not without artistic merit.

  Plessant’s chair powered back, and Ormuz dodged out of the way.

  “We’ll stay long enough to recalibrate the topologic drive,” she said. “Then I want us on the way to Kapuluan.” She glanced at Ormuz, and he read irritation in her gaze. “There’s nothing to see here, so don’t ask,” she added.

  Lotsman nodded and bent to his console. Plessant clambered out of her chair and left the cupola. She halted on the ladder, her torso framed in the lower half of the hatch. Ormuz turned to look back at her. For a moment, she peered at him narrow-eyed. She shook her head sadly and descended from sight.

  “What did you do to her?” Lotsman asked once the captain was out of earshot.

  “It’s what she did to me,” Ormuz replied.

  “Which was?”

  “Told me why we’re going to Kapuluan.”

  “Ah.” Lotsman paused in his inspections of the various glasses on his console. He twisted round. “She did, did she? What else did she tell you?”

  Ormuz shrugged. “About the Serpent and who I really am.”

  “She told you a lot, didn’t she?” Lotsman said, bemused.

  Ormuz stepped between the captain’s and pilot’s stations and settled on the arm of the captain’s chair. “Not everything,” he corrected. “She won’t tell me who you work for.”

  Lotsman barked a laugh. “Don’t expect me to, Cas. That secret is seared across our souls. We would sooner die than tell it.”

  “She admitted she doesn’t know who the Serpent is.” Ormuz frowned angrily. “How am I supposed to fight him if I don’t know who he is? If I don’t know who my allies are?”

  “Fight him?” asked Lotsman incredulously.

  Ormuz waved a hand in the air in a brusque gesture. “I’m supposed to be a weapon, aren’t I? Isn’t that why you’ve decided to use me?”

  “I didn’t decide, Cas.”

  “The only person who’ll wield that weapon, Lex, is myself. I mean that. I won’t be used.” He looked away from Lotsman’s wide-eyed stare.

  The pilot cleared his throat. “You’re not a weapon, Cas. You were in danger so we decided to keep you safe. The— ahem, the people waiting for you on Kapuluan aren’t going to use you.”

  “Yes, they are.” It was a statement of fact, not a supposition.

  “How, Cas? What is it you can possibly do?”

  Ormuz snorted contemptuously. “You’d be surprised, Lex.” He bent forward and smiled tightly. “Do you know who Riz is, Lex?”

  Lotsman turned back to his console. His voice, when he spoke, was curiously flat. “An agent of the Serpent, I imagine.”

  “She’s not.”

  “Who is she, then?”

  “Imperial Navy.”

  The pilot laughed. He turned back to Ormuz. “She was Navy, Cas. She told us that much herself.”

  “No, Lex, she is Navy. Still. And not a rated, either. I saw her uniform. I looked up the badges and everything. She’s a lieutenant-commander in Navy intelligence.”

  Lotsman’s mouth opened comically. He snapped it shut. “FOSTA?” he asked faintly.

  Ormuz shook his head. “No. She wasn’t wearing the trident-and-net of the Fleet Office of Strategic and Tactical Assessment.” He touched his right arm just below the shoulder. “The gold sextant on her sleeve here had an open eye beneath it. According to the encyclopaedia, that means she’s in the Intelligence Office aboard a warship. If she’s a lieutenant-commander, she’s probably the head of it.”

  “Which ship?” demanded Lotsman.

  “The ship’s crest on the other shoulder had been removed.”

  “That’s impossible. They never do that. It’s unheard of.”

  “I’m telling you what I saw, Lex.”

  “Saw where?”

  “In the nomosphere.” Ormuz rose to his feet. He crossed to the hatch.

  Lotsman turned to watch him go. “What’s the nomosphere?” the pilot demanded.

  Ormuz stood, gazing down the ladder to the main gangway, hands to either side of the hatch. “The nomosphere, Lex,” he said sadly, “is what makes me a weapon.”

  “Why? What is it?”

  “It’s the Serpent’s legacy,” Ormuz said, speaking more to himself than the pilot. “It’s the one gift he has given me.” He lifted his head. “Not that it was his to give…”

  The ship’s pipe buzzed. Plessant reached for the console and stabbed it angrily with a finger. “What is it, Lex?” she demanded. “Can’t you do the calibration on your own?”

  “I think you’d better come up to the cupola, captain. You need to see this.”

  Plessant closed the connection and swore under her breath.

  Ormuz smiled tightly. The captain, always the most tightly-knotted of people, was beginning to unravel about the edges. He knew the cause of this: himself. Since Darrus, Plessant had been thrown deep into a secret war. Previously, she had only watched from the periphery. Now she was a target. Or rather, Divine Providence, her ship, was a target. Because it carried Ormuz. He could not feel sorry for her, but nor did he believe that she deserved what had happened. She had always been good to him. Keeping him in ignorance of his fate was unforgivable, of course; but she’d revealed as much as she could when the occasion had warranted it.

  Ormuz could no longer imagine his life of before. Not his bucolic existence on Rasamra, nor his naïve years as Divine Providence’s general crew-member. Knowledge had changed him. The source of some of that knowledge had also wreaked its changes upon him.

  “We’ll discuss this another time,” Plessant said, rising to her feet. “I knew that Gotovach woman was more than she claimed, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.” She paused and bent forward, hands on flat on her desk-top. “How long have you known about her, Cas?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “And only now you saw fit to tell me?” Plessant glowered at him.

  “I won’t be used, captain.”

  She pointed a finger at him angrily. “And I won’t have you withholding information which affects the safety of this ship and her crew,” she snapped, dropping her hand. “I need to know whatever you learn in this… this… nomosphere.”

  “If it’s relevant,” Ormuz insisted. He would not be swayed on this point. It was his destiny that was at stake.

  “I’ll decide if it’s relevant.”

  Ormuz stood, the better to meet Plessant eye to eye. “No,” he said firmly. “You won’t. You’re in no position to demand t
hat.”

  “You owe me,” Plessant grated.

  “For what? For cloning me? For keeping me in the dark for twenty years? For making me a target of the Serpent? Whoever you work for, you have a lot to answer for.” He glared at the captain.

  “Bah!” She turned away. Her fists clenched. She said nothing for a minute or two. “What’s happened to you, Cas?” she asked softly.

  “I grew up,” he returned flatly. “You made me grow up when you told me about the Serpent, when you told me I was a clone.”

  “Did I?” Her voice remained mild. “You needed to grow up.”

  “For your sake, or my own?”

  “Perhaps for the Empire’s.” She barked a sardonic laugh. She shook herself as if coming to her senses. Abruptly, she was all business. “Let’s go see what’s got Lex all in a panic.”

  Plessant led the way from her office along the gangway to the ladder to the control cupola. She scrambled up it, Ormuz directly behind her. She was dropping into her seat as he stepped through the hatch. Lotsman flashed him a bemused glance and then turned back to his console.

  “Got a bogey, captain,” the pilot said. “A big one.”

  “Show me.”

  Lotsman flicked a series of switches and the data was repeated on Plessant’s console. She peered at it closely, as if such an inspection would make sense of it. “A warship?” she said in disbelief.

  “Not Navy, though,” said Lotsman.

  “Only the Navy has warships this big,” stated Plessant.

  Lotsman nodded. “I checked the Identification Manual. She’s in there: a battlecruiser, Renown class.”

  “So what makes you think she isn’t Navy?”

  “There’s no beacon signal. Navy ships always run a beacon, even in battle.”

  Ormuz stepped between the two stations. “Show me,” he said. “Show me a picture of this ship.”

  Plessant gave him a puzzled glance, then called up the Identification Manual on a second glass. She accessed the page describing Imperial Navy Renown class battlecruisers. A diagrammatic representation of the warship’s hull appeared: an elongated torpedo-shape with a complex superstructure festooned with aerials and close-defence weaponry…