Sanctuary's Soldier: The Darkspace Saga Book 1

by B. C. Kellogg

  Alpha and omega. “Balt,” said Conrad, casually. “What does that mean—the alpha and the omega?”

  Baltasar shrugged. “It’s just a saying,” he said. “The words don’t mean anything as far as I know. It’s an old saying, though. Thousands of years old, dating back to the first Satori record.”

  “Are there many languages in the Empire?”

  “Oh, sure,” the medic-mechanic said with a nod. “Hundreds of thousands of languages are spoken across the Empire. They’re all catalogued in the archives. But all citizens in the Empire who want to do any business off their own worlds have to learn Canonic.”

  “Canonic?”

  “What you’re speaking right now,” said Baltasar, mildly annoyed by his ignorance.

  “I see,” said Conrad. The plot thickens. “Did you grow up speaking Canonic?”

  “Oh, sure. I grew up only three portal jumps away from Albion Prime, so of course I spoke Canonic growing up. And I was never allowed to learn anything else from the minute I entered training for the Fleet.”

  Baltasar sighed, gazing at the planet. “It’s dangerous, but my god is it also beautiful,” he mused. “If I’m lucky, this will be the last time I see this place,” he said. He lay in a course for the planet.

  “Let’s hope none of us ends up regretting what we’re about to do.”

  “Can your hairy friend walk on all fours?” Baltasar addressed the question to Conrad, which was probably wise. Argus was already roaring with indignation at the suggestion. “I know, I know,” said Baltasar, holding up his hands and wincing. “But sentient and semi-sentient non-humans aren’t allowed on the planet’s surface.”

  “Argus?” Conrad looked at the Kazhad. He wasn’t going to make the decision for him.

  Argus flattened his ears against his head and growled. “Yes,” he hissed out between gritted canines. “If I must.”

  “And no clothes,” said Baltasar, already backing away. “Sorry! It’s just the custom. A foolish one if you ask me. I think you look very… charming… in clothes.”

  Conrad patted Argus’s arm. “Just think of it as showing off your physique, Argus,” he said. Argus swatted his hand away.

  Baltasar darted away from them and rummaged through a storage bin, coming back with two bland, dark blue jumpsuits. He tossed one to Conrad. “We’ll wear these,” he said. “If anyone asks, we’re Fleet, and we’re off duty. They won’t ask as many questions if that’s our excuse, at least until we get into a restricted area.”

  Conrad pulled the baggy uniform on. The suit seemed to activate when he touched the fastener at his neck; it tightened suddenly, conforming to the shape of his body. He tugged at it, uncomfortable.

  “Just showing off your physique?” Argus suggested next to him.

  Conrad thought about suggesting Argus wear a collar and leash, but decided he preferred his head to stay attached to his torso.

  They exited the Oro Yurei. Conrad shaded his eyes at the brilliance of the buildings around them, and the reflective silver platform on which the Oro rested. Everything was white or silver here at the top levels of the city. From where they stood, there was nothing but more buildings and cityscapes on the horizon. Aircraft flew between the tall, smooth structures. He spun around as he heard a soft hiss behind them. The platform was sinking down, taking the ship with it.

  “She’s stored here until we’re done,” said Baltasar. “I’ve hacked into the system and copied the registration of a local baron’s pleasure yacht. It’ll work so long as no one actually checks the physical ship against the registry. And there are hundreds of other ships stuffed in this automated facility. We’ve got a day or two to find what you’re looking for.”

  Conrad looked up as he felt rain beginning to fall on them. The water sheeted down their jumpsuits, and he stayed perfectly dry. Argus puffed with displeasure. He’d been warned not to speak in Standard—Canonic, Conrad reminded himself—or any language. He was masquerading as their guard animal while they were on Albion Prime.

  When’s the last time I felt rain—real rain? During his brief visit to Rose it had been damp and foggy, but this was the first time he’d seen rain in years. The sunlight on Albion Prime still glowed through the clouds, even as the rain poured down.

  “It’s like this all the time,” Baltasar said to him, walking away from the platform. “Rain, rain, rain. Explains why the Satori are so pale—although it’s my opinion that they look that way because it was fashionable two millennia ago and everyone’s too scared to tell them times have changed. Me, I prefer some brown in the skin,” he said cheerfully.

  Conrad brushed the rain out of his eyes as they advanced into the city. All the buildings were in various shades of white, gray, and black.

  “Where are we going?” he called after Baltasar. Argus loped at their side, looking miserable in the rain, his wet fur revealing that he was really only half as large as he appeared.

  “The palace,” he replied. “It’s at the center of the city, five miles away from here. Everything arranges itself around the palace,” he said. “And the universe arranges itself around the Satori.”

  Conrad wondered if that last sentence was one of Baltasar’s jokes—or if he really believed what he said.

  The palace was not so much a palace as a city in its own right, Conrad realized. It was a world within a world.

  Their path through the upper reaches of the city led to the top of a tower next to the Imperial palace. They looked at the palace’s gleaming spires in the distance. It was breathtaking, built with perfectly polished gray stone, stretching up into the sky. The highest spires disappeared into the clouds. It seemed to glow in the afternoon sun and rain.

  “Something out of a children’s story,” he murmured to himself. There was something familiar about the building, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what.

  The palace towers were massive. Conrad had never seen any structure quite like the stony edifices before them. They climbed taller than any building on Sanctuary, and were as imposing as they were beautiful. There was little ornamentation on the outside, at least from where they stood. But the sheer scale of the towers was a message in and of itself. Looming over the sprawl of the capital city, they communicated unspeakable wealth, centuries of history—and above all, unshakeable power.

  The small aircraft that seemed to pervade every level of Albion Prime avoided the air space around the palace.

  “The palace goes three miles above the surface of the planet,” said Baltasar. “And Lords know how many miles below. That’s where the archives are.”

  The palace was surrounded on all four sides by kilometers of what appeared to be lush green gardens, so thick with plant life that it seemed to be a forest. Beyond that was a wall made out of more white stone. He could see people standing on the wall—from his vantage point they seemed to be small moving dots.

  “Can anyone go into the archives?”

  Baltasar snorted. “Knowledge is the real currency of the Empire. Remember how I said I didn’t learn anything more than Canonic? They keep the knowledge to themselves.” He turned to Conrad. “They wouldn’t keep it from you, though.”

  He hopped down from his perch on the edge of the tower. “We need to buy you something to wear,” he said. “Something a little more presentable.”

  Chapter 18

  Conrad pulled the black hood down over his head. The garment was threaded through with a fine gold thread that gleamed faintly when light fell on the cloak. It was all they could afford at the market in the bowels of the city, but it was enough to cover the simple military jumpsuit he wore.

  “Not that it matters all that much,” Baltasar said after they bought it, leading them toward the palace gardens. “All that matters is the blood. The blood is everything. But fewer people will look too close, this way.”

  Down here, pinned between the surrounding buildings and the palace wall, it was dark. If he looked up and squinted, Conrad could see just the faint glow of the sky far a
bove them. Moisture dripped on his face. It tasted of rust and moss. He frowned; it wasn’t pure rain anymore.

  Baltasar pointed to a black grate five meters across. “The tunnel under the gardens is here, according to the information I bought in the market,” he said. “The prince’s bloodprint, if you please.”

  There was a panel on the grate. Conrad recognized the small circle at its center. “Princes come through here?” he asked dubiously.

  “Princes go anywhere they want,” Baltasar replied. “This isn’t the grand entrance, obviously.”

  The grate opened and they dropped down into the tunnel, one by one. It was dark and the floor was slick inside the tunnel, but Conrad could feel that the path within had been worn down by centuries of footsteps.

  “Each door in the palace has its own purpose, though. This tunnel’s for moving supplies into the palace structure. Same construction as a standard Fleet storehouse, in a lot of ways. No need for it to look pretty.”

  They came to the end of the tunnel, which was lit by a single light. They walked into the darkness. There weren’t any people here, but there was a path leading to the wall. A door was built into it, almost invisible to the naked eye. He lay his finger on the door. It opened smoothly, into the dimly lit corridor. Conrad tensed as the door slid open. It was still strange and unsettling, to have doors in alien palaces opening at his touch.

  He entered first, Argus and Baltasar following cautiously behind him. The door slid closed, locking them in. The corridor branched off into other passageways.

  “Where do we go?” he whispered.

  “Up,” said Baltasar. “We have to go up to go down. I know that much. This part of the palace is cut off from the subterranean levels. The levels immediately above this one are the base residence levels of palace guests, low-level Satori, and high-ranking non-Satori. The hangers-on, you see. Then you get to the middle levels. Those are the Satori dukes and princes. Above that is the audience chamber… and then at the very top are the residences of the Imperial household. The higher you go, the richer the blood.”

  “We’re not getting anywhere close to any of those places, are we?” Argus grunted, finally feeling free enough to speak.

  “Just to the base residences,” said Baltasar. “Nobody who sees us there will think anything of us, with the prince here. They’ll just assume we’re his servants. That’s the plan, anyway.” He walked down the corridor, searching for another door.

  Conrad heard a whirring noise to their right. A legion of men in brown work clothes headed toward them, hauling a massive sheet of rock. Argus dropped to all fours.

  “They use people to move things like that?” Conrad asked with mild surprise. Even on Sanctuary they would use mechanical tools to move something of that side.

  “No androids in the palace,” said Baltasar, as if it were obvious. “It’s one of the oldest edicts. It’s even frowned upon to use them in the surrounding city, although they’re brought in for major projects.” He straightened as the men approached and pushed Conrad toward them. He stepped to Conrad’s side.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, his accent becoming suddenly more clear, and more formal. Conrad wondered where a medic-mechanic like Baltasar had learned an accent like that. His captain, probably.

  “My lord is… lost,” he explained, inclining his head slightly. Not enough to indicate subservience, but just enough to convey a sense of propriety. “Would you be able to guide us to the residences above?”

  The leader of the work crew dropped his load and looked at Baltasar suspiciously, but all traces of suspicion faded when he saw Conrad. “My lord,” he said, bowing stiffly at the waist. “If I may… I would be pleased to lead you to your quarters.”

  “No need,” Baltasar cut in. “Just to the upper level, if you please. I will guide him the rest of the way.”

  They followed the worker through the maze of corridors in silence. It reminded Conrad of the depths of the storehouse. They sure do love their mazes, he thought to himself. There was some sense to it, he figured. If the inside of your fortresses was a maze, even when your enemy infiltrated your defenses you’d still have a fighting chance.

  These people must have a lot of enemies.

  After what seemed like an eternity of navigating through the cold, dark corridors they finally came to a dead end. They climbed a small stone staircase against the wall, spiraling up.

  “Isn’t there a lift?” Baltasar asked, with a faint grimace. Their guide glanced back at him, quickly hiding the look of scorn that passed over his face. “We are not permitted the use of lifts unless directed by a palace guard,” he explained, his face now carefully neutral. “In any case, there is only one lift that opens into this area. Which you must have used, if you ended up down here.”

  “Of course,” Baltasar said, mildly chagrined, but knowing better than to try and apologize to the worker. An aristocrat’s valet would never ask forgiveness from a menial.

  They emerged into a broad hallway. Their guide refused to enter, merely gesturing at them to exit.

  “Where do we go now?” Conrad whispered to Baltasar, as the door slammed shut.

  “Damned if I know,” Baltasar mumbled back.

  They’d been wandering the halls for hours now. There were no maps posted, not even any signs or words written on the walls. It was as if every inhabitant of the palace was expected to know exactly where everything was, and where each person belonged.

  Passing guards had glanced at their strange little party of three, but looked away just as quickly when they saw Conrad. When they saw people dressed in neat dark clothes—courtiers or bureaucrats, he assumed—Baltasar led them in the opposite direction.

  They’d climbed five levels. There was still no sign of lifts, although they passed small gardens and atriums lit with artificial light—there was no natural sunlight this far down in the palace.

  The floors were polished and the walls appeared to be smooth, although when Conrad studied them more closely he discovered they were covered with fine carvings, so small and delicate they could only be seen when his eyes were centimeters away.

  “Do these mean anything?” he asked Baltasar.

  “We’ve got no time to play tourist,” the man responded in a harsh whisper. “You have to look like you belong, remember—stop staring at the walls like you’ve lost your mind!”

  “Well, we haven’t exactly found anything,” he said in a low voice. “If you ask me, we need—” Conrad broke off, as a strikingly beautiful woman appeared in a corridor forty paces away, a door sliding silently open, then closed, behind her. “Hello,” he murmured, momentarily distracted.

  Baltasar stared at the woman, then looked back to Conrad’s face. A gleam entered his eyes. He turned and walked straight toward the woman. Argus looked back at Conrad with alarm, but stayed on all fours, rumbling deep in his chest with uncertainty.

  “Balt!” Conrad hissed at him. The medic-mechanic glanced over his shoulder at them and jerked his chin in the woman’s direction.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ve got an idea.”

  Conrad had no choice but to follow, speeding up to keep pace with Baltasar and then slowing down as they approached her. What’s he going to do? Ask her for directions?

  The woman was petite, the top of her head barely coming up to his shoulder. Her masses of curly dark chestnut hair were tied into a thick, elaborate braid that swung halfway down her back. She wore a bronze-colored dress with a low neckline and a skirt that brushed the floor. There was no jewelry on her body except a pair of teardrop-shaped earrings, but looking at her, Conrad could guess why: Any more jewelry would simply be a distraction from her beauty.

  She met his gaze without shyness.

  “Your ladyship,” he heard Baltasar say. “May I present… Prince Conrad.”

  Her green eyes blinked with mild surprise. “Con-rad,” she said, stretching out the syllables. “I’ve never met a Satori with a name like that.” She spoke Canonic with a strong, rough accent
that seemed to contradict her girlish appearance.

  “You’re not Satori?” Conrad asked, dumbly.

  “You flatter me,” she said. Conrad wondered if he detected a hint of sarcasm underlying her words.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, lamely. Maybe I really am just a second-rate pervert, like Rose said.

  She made a small, perfunctory curtsy, bowing her head in what he guessed was a customary show of submission. “I am Lady Jira Tai,” she said. “Of Cadero. Concubine of the third rank.”

  His heart hammered in his chest. “A pleasure,” he said.

  She smiled faintly. “For you, certainly,” she said.

  What does she mean by that?

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but—”

  She put her hands on her hips. “I expected they would send someone eventually, since I haven’t sought anyone out myself,” she said, in a resigned tone. “But this is what they send?”

  Conrad had a vague sense that he was being insulted, even if he didn’t know exactly how or why. Dumbfounded, Conrad glanced at Baltasar and then at Argus. Both of them looked away, as confused and as embarrassed as he was.

  “I’m—I’m not that bad,” he let slip. He wondered why he felt compelled to defend himself.

  She looked at him through her thick lashes with a critical eye. “You’ll have to do,” she said with a soft sigh. She reached out and grabbed him by the arm. “Come on, then.”

  Her grip was surprisingly firm. Conrad stumbled slightly as she pulled him along. He looked helplessly at Baltasar and Argus. Help, he mouthed.

  “Where are we going?” he asked, all pretense of dignity lost.

  “My quarters,” she replied. “They’re not much but they’re what they gave me. You’ll have to just go with it, unless you want to drag me up to your apartments. You’ll have to endure it for five or ten or fifteen minutes. However long it takes.”

  “However long what takes?” Conrad had the feeling he should be offended.