by Ian Sales
Impasse.
Who are you? Ormuz demanded.
The gold figure did not speak. It tightened its grip and Ormuz winced as the cold numbed his arms.
Who are you? he insisted.
You are proving troublesome, young man, the figure said.
Ormuz kicked out. The gold figure failed to dodge and released its hold on him. Moving back, it loomed meacingly before him. You know who I am, it rasped.
The Serpent.
I am you.
No!
You are me. We are one and the same.
I will defeat you, Ormuz insisted.
How can you defeat yourself? My touch burns you, your touch burns me, because we are the same.
We share DNA, nothing more.
More than ‘share’, clone. My DNA is your DNA.
I will defeat you, Ormuz repeated doggedly.
How? You are alone. You are a nobody. My agents failed to kill you when they had the chance, but it matters little.
I will stop you. He sounded petulant but Ormuz could think of no other retort.
I can find you whenever I wish, young man. Luck has protected you so far and it cannot last forever.
To prove its point, the Serpent held out a cupped hand. Hovering above its palm sat a three-dimensional image of a starship. Ormuz immediately identified it as an OPI sloop, much like the one in which he was currently travelling to Linna. A rotating head appeared above the sloop. It was ghostly and transparent but easily recognisable as Inspector Sliva demar Finesz.
Nor can she guard you from my reach, the Serpent said.
The Navy will never do your bidding.
Starships must land.
Not all of them. Battlecruisers, Ormuz said to himself, were too large to make planetfall.
But they must re-fuel and re-provision. I have ways and means. I will use them.
The Serpent turned its hand over and swept it to the side. The images of the sloop and Finesz’s features vanished.
Eight hundred years we have been planning for this moment. Can you hold back such a weight of history? You will be crushed.
You didn’t plan for me, Ormuz pointed out.
No, the Serpent admitted at length. It’s true we did not. But it changes little, you change little.
Ormuz said, Oh yes I do. He concentrated—
And woke up in his bunk aboard Lantern.
For several long minutes, he did not move but lay there, staring up at the wooden ceiling above him and not seeing it. He had learnt nothing during his visit to the nomosphere, he had learnt everything. He had met the Serpent, his clone-father. He wanted to return to the nomosphere and discover more. But he could not force entry: he found himself there when he found himself there. Already, three nights had passed since Lantern launched from Kapuluan. Each night, Ormuz had lay in his bunk, trying to fall asleep, wanting to visit the nomosphere…
Reaching out, he turned the small gimballed glass bracketed to the bulkhead beside the bunk towards him. The clock read eight minutes after seven. He might as well get up. He yawned. Perversely, he did not feel rested but even more tired than he had been when he went to bed. Sleep, however, was out of the question. He yawned again.
Sliding from beneath his blankets, he scrambled to his feet, his back to the bunk, and stood. He scratched idly and frowned as his hand encountered bare flesh. Glancing down, he saw that he was naked. It took a moment before he remembered his discomfort the night before trying to sleep in the bed-wear Varä had bought for him. Every time he rolled over, the gown had rucked up or tightened about his legs. So he had taken it off.
Six more weeks and a handful of days, he thought, before they arrived on Linna. Two stop-overs, at Salikop and Yuotos. Perhaps he would visit the nomosphere again before the journey’s end. He hoped so: there was much he needed to know. Today, however, he would ask Varä to begin teaching him to use a sword. If they could find a sufficiently large space. Ormuz was looking forward to it. Wearing a sword at his hip he felt a fraud because he did not know how to fight with it.
He was a clone, so his blood was wholly noble. Yet he had to feel the part as well as look it.
Or he would fail.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The forward starboard torpedo room was a large irregularly-shaped chamber in the bow of Vengeful. The hundred-foot lengths of six torpedo tubes dominated the vaguely-triangular space, tubes a yard in diameter arranged in pairs on three levels. Steel ladders and platforms gave access to every foot of their lengths. Each tube bristled with switches, valves and levers. They did not look like weapons but part of some unidentifiable industrial process.
The torpedo room crew, a petty officer and eight rateds, stood at attention before the control console on the port bulkhead: six men and three women, all in Navy coveralls, streaked and smeared with lubricants and dirt. Of the crewmen, three, Rinharte noted, were rated certficated, two rated able, and the youngest, a tall and skinny young woman with brown hair in pigtails, a rated ordinary. All wore the triple crossed-cannons of Gunnery beneath the Imperial Navy sextant on their upper right arms.
Rinharte was giving Lexander Lotsman a guided tour of Vengeful. Her offer had included Tovar and Dai but both had refused. Rinharte and Lotsman had left them in the masters’ mess—they would not have been welcome in any of the officers’ wardrooms and so had been put in with the warrant officers.
“Very impressive,” Lotsman said, gazing about at the tangle of machinery.
The petty officer, a stooped and wiry old-timer, nodded at the compliment.
“The midships torpedo rooms are bigger,” Rinharte said. In truth, she found little about the torpedo room impressive: it was familiar territory to her. Realising that this could be construed as a criticism, she added for the crew’s benefit, “But this is one of the best-kept aboard and their loading-times are exemplary.”
The comment received nods from the crew, as if such a pronouncement were no more than their due. Only the rated ordinary’s face changed expression, flashing a wide grin.
Rinharte scowled when she saw Lotsman return the young woman’s broad smile.
The ex-pilot turned to Rinharte and crossed his arms. “There’s one aft?” he asked.
“No. On Renown class battlecruisers, it’s fitted to lay mines.”
The pilot raised an eyebrow. “Mines.”
“Vengeful is well-armed.”
He glanced back at the petty officer and rateds. “Well-crewed as well, I’ll warrant.”
“It’s effectively a small town,” admitted Rinharte. Was the man flirting? The rated was pretty enough beneath the dirt, she supposed.
“But no bars or night-clubs.”
“No, no bars or night-clubs. Only wardrooms, messes, and the gunrooms on the lower decks.”
“Gunrooms?”
Now he was mocking her, she was sure of it. “It’s where the rateds eat and drink. The name is… historical.”
“Because there used to be guns there?”
“Something like that.”
For a moment, the two of them said nothing and looked at each other. Lotsman had a faint smile on his face. Rinharte grimaced. She turned to the torpedo room petty officer, nodded and said, “Carry on.” She crossed to the hatch. Lotsman followed her out into the gangway. “Where would you like to see next?” she asked. They had already visited an engine room, a magazine, the boat-deck, Rinharte’s wardroom and the great hall. They had looked up the central well of the conning tower but the levels above were out of bounds.
“How about the Admiral’s quarters?” Lotsman asked.
She jerked round to stare at him in shock. He was grinning. His expression irritated her. “If you’re bored, say so,” she snapped.
He put up his hands placatingly. “Not at all. It’s… fascinating, Riz. Honestly.”
“Not Riz,” she muttered. “Rizbeka. I’m not a prole.”
Lotsman dropped his hands. “No,
” he said sadly. “You’re not.”
She glanced at him sharply, wondering… “I’m sure,” she said acidly, “if you asked nicely, she’d share your bunk.”
Lotsman, surprised, frowned. “Who would?”
Rinharte indicated the hatch to the forward starboard torpedo room with a jerk of her chin.
“Ah, yes.” Lotsman grinned. “Sorry,” he said. He shook his head. “Not my type, Riz.”
“I prefer Rizbeka,” she snapped, evading the unspoken question. It hung heavy in the air between the two of them. Lotsman’s moustache curved in a wistful smile, and he raised a hand—
Rinharte stepped back. She shook her head, as much to clear it as to signal no. Lotsman’s hand dropped. He seemed disappointed. She waited for his gaze to flick back to the torpedo room hatch… and was absurdly gratified when it did not.
“When do I get to meet the Admiral?” he asked, changing the subject
“Are you sure you want to?”
“Is she really so much of a monster?” he asked.
“Monster?” The thought refused to make sense. “The Admiral?”
“The way everyone aboard speaks of her…”
A low laugh escaped Rinharte. “You do know who she is, don’t you, Lex?”
He frowned. “A highly-decorated Navy captain?”
Rinharte smiled. “Yes,” she said, amused, “‘a highly-decorated Navy captain’.”
“Why are you grinning?” demanded Lotsman, scowling.
“Am I?” She gestured airily and turned to head up the gangway towards the nearest ramp. “You’ll see,” she said over her shoulder. “You’ll see.”
On the third day aboard, the Admiral sent a runner to Rinharte. Phrased as a request, the order asked Rinharte to attend the Admiral at her earliest convenience. That meant as soon as possible. The Admiral, however, was not in her suite. The clerk on duty in the captain’s lobby directed her to the chapel five decks below.
The chapel, a room aft on the lowest level of the conning tower, was empty but for a figure seated on one of the padded benches at the front. Despite the customary dim lighting, Rinharte immediately recognised her commanding officer—the unrelieved black of her uniform; the shaved head, bowed. Thinking the Admiral was praying, Rinharte hung back a moment. She rarely visited the chapel—in fact, the last occasion had been two years previously, a memorial service for an officer lost in action. Religion did not fit within her worldview: she put her faith in the laws of physics, human frailty and perfidy, the bore of a main gun. Stars were simply vast stellar furnaces and not manifestations of the power of Chian. Humanity was a cosmic accident of chemistry. She knew her catechisms and could not deny the role the Avatars had played in shaping civilisation on Shuto, but she held a healthy scepticism regarding their divinity. She also found the absolutism of the Chianist Church almost offensive, perhaps because she could not argue with Chian—or rather, Chian’s words, as “recorded” or “interpreted” by priests. And the pomp and circumstance surrounding worship… Mere sleight of hand to justify the Empire’s unfair society.
The Old Faith, the Henotic Church, was no better.
The stained-glass window above the altar was beautiful. Rinharte did not recognise the scene it depicted—one of the Avatars, in all likelihood—but it was rendered with skill and artistry. A young man in peasant garb laid a sword on the shoulder of a richly-dressed young woman, behind whom a priest waited with a crown in his hands.
The Admiral raised her head and stared forward fixedly. “Quite wonderful, isn’t it?” she said.
Rinharte jerked in surprise. “Ma’am?”
“The window: it’s quite wonderful.”
“Yes, ma’am, it is.” Rinharte walked up the aisle—five rows of benches to either side, each large enough for no more than half a dozen. Officers, of course. The rateds worshipped in their gunrooms and the petty officers and masters used their respective wardrooms.
She sat down beside the Admiral, and found herself aping her commanding officer’s posture: hands on knees, back straight, eyes on the stained-glass window.
“Do you know the story, Rizbeka?” the Admiral asked.
“Ma’am?”
“The story the window depicts.”
“An Avatar, isn’t it?”
The Admiral nodded. “Yes. Not one of the better known ones: Lord Ogoshu.”
Rinharte tried to recall the religious education she had been taught at school. Chian’s creed had been brought to the primitive peoples of Shuto between 5,200 and 4,500 years ago by a succession of Avatars. She remembered the story of Lord Chomu, the first Avatar. And Lord Selshu, perhaps the most celebrated. But Lord Ogoshu? No, the name was not one she knew.
“He lived some five thousand years ago, eight hundred years before the Old Empire conquered Shuto. It’s difficult to date events so long ago: the Old Empire took care to eradicate the history of those it conquered.” She smiled wryly. “In fact, the Church has the only records of ancient Shuto. And they are couched so obliquely in ecclesiastical language academicians have argued over their accuracy for millennia.”
“Ma’am,” murmured Rinharte. This was not news to her but clearly the Admiral was leading up to something.
“However.” The Admiral shrugged and folded her arms across her breasts. “Let us just say: a long time ago. When Chian was known only on Shuto.” She paused a moment, before continuing, “Lord Ogoshu. He was a nobody, a shepherd, a farmer’s youngest son, a—” Another smile. “A simple farmboy in a rural area. One day, shortly after his twentieth birthday, a pair of predators attacked the flock he was watching. He fought them off—without injury. The predators had been causing trouble in the district so he became something of a local hero. The adulation went to his head and he convinced himself he was a great warrior. He badgered the blacksmith into making him a sword and he begged for lessons in swordsmanship from his lord’s master-at-arms. More importantly, he neglected his chores. When the predators attacked a second time, he was not there to protect his flock and they were slaughtered. The village cast him out.”
“Not a happy story,” Rinharte commented.
The Admiral turned to gaze at her intently. “Few of them are, Rizbeka. Happy and contented lives do not provide lessons. But Lord Ogoshu… Where was I? Ah yes. His village cast him out. He went to live in the mountains and became a hermit. A year or two later, news reached him of a dynastic struggle in the capital. The king had died without a son, only a daughter. She demanded the crown as her birthright but the nobles did not want a queen. They had never had a queen and saw no reason to have one. The Baron Gold, head of the most powerful noble family, pressed his own claim for the Throne. It was civil war. The nobles of the kingdom lined up behind each of the two claimants.
“Lord Ogoshu came down from his mountain. He declared for the princess. He insisted that her blood meant she was Chian’s choice for the Throne. They laughed at him.” She paused. “Hardly surprising—a young farmboy with a sword made by a blacksmith who had only shoed beasts of burden… No one really knows how or why but the princess named Lord Ogoshu her champion. He fought all comers. And he won. He defeated everyone he fought.
“In a matter of weeks, Baron Gold’s faction collapsed. Lord Ogoshu was living proof that Chian was on the princess’s side. And so she was crowned. The window illustrates one of the more poignant moments in the story: before she accepted her crown, the princess insisted Lord Ogoshu anoint her. Once she had been crowned, she made him a lord. Eventually, they married. Their reign was prosperous and peaceful.”
“A… nice story,” Rinharte said at length.
The Admiral snorted under her breath. “Nice?” she parroted. “It’s an unholy marriage of religion and politics. Lord Ogoshu was not declared an Avatar until forty years after his death. Likely at the urging of a king who was descended from him and the princess… A farmboy turned warrior, who helped maintain the succession? There’s little there, Rizbeka, to jus
tify theosophy.”
“I don’t understand.”
The Admiral rose to her feet and took a step forwards. Hands clasped behind her back, she turned to gaze down at Rinharte. “I chose that window, Rizbeka, when I took command of this ship. I had the old one removed and this one put in its place.”
“You saw yourself as the princess?” Rinharte still couldn’t see the Admiral’s point. Her story had been typical of those that peppered the Chianist Book of the Sun: a parable from past times whose lesson seemed no more an exhortation to maintain the status quo.
“Did I?” mused the Admiral, smiling faintly. “No, I can’t say that I did. I chose the window as a reminder: that Chian can chose the unlikeliest of people to be heroes, that history is written by the winners, that the Church can be as much a weapon in politics as the sword…” She smiled. “That a sword can be a tool of statecraft even in the hands of a farmboy. Lord Ogoshu’s life, Rizbeka, is a cautionary tale…” She grimaced. “And now I find it happening to me!”
Rinharte understood. “Casimir is the farmboy,” she said.
“Perhaps. Once I thought I was the farmboy and Vengeful my mountain.”
“I don’t think His Imperial Majesty would be happy to be called a princess.”
The remark prompted a smile. “Nor do I. But our enemy—the Serpent—” She barked a laugh. “I do like that name, Rizbeka. I would not have known the knights sinister to have a sense of humour— The Serpent is surely Baron Gold.”
“But now there’s Casimir,” Rinharte prompted.
“Yes. A farmboy, a damn farmboy.”
“You are the princess.”
“Except I make no claim to the Imperial Throne.”
“You could, ma’am.”
The Admiral shook her head. “No. Prince Hubret will take the crown. I have no desire to change that. He will not make a good emperor but that matters not: he can do little damage.”