by William Cray
Monticel focused, turning towards Ambrose. “It will not be me.”
Ambrose leaned in closer, hearing the echoes of his own inevitable retirement and replacement in his words. “No, it won’t be.”
A long cloud of vapor exited the stricken man’s lungs. He couldn’t nod his head or move any exterior part of his body, but that long breath felt like surrender. Ambrose loosened his grip on the pocketed injector.
Ambrose repeated, “Who commands the Battleforce?”
“I do not know who he is.”
“Who is the Sumaii?”
“Is this why Caleb has had me killed? Because he wants answers to questions thousands of years old?”
“Please Monticel, please.” Ambrose pleaded. “We don’t have much time. Serve Caleb one last time in this life. Let me tell him that you were loyal even at the end when you knew the truth. He will never doubt you or any of your progeny again.”
Monticel’s eyes left Ambrose, looking towards the blue sun beaming its fading light into the interior. “The father. He is the father of our order.”
“Why would the Idoans in the Battleforce call their new leader Sumaii?”
“I do not know.”
“Has John the Holder been restored?”
“I do not know.”
“Does a Viva carrying John the Holder exist?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In stasis. On board one of the great light clippers. I don’t know which, no one knows, not even its captain.”
It was an old rumor no one had ever been able to prove. Most believed it was a lie by the Idoans to hang over the heads of the Prime Consentors to ensure the continuation of their independent sect. But the threat they faced now seemed real enough.
“Could John Braiselle be at the head of the Battleforce?”
“I do not know.”
“When did the Idoans become aware of this Sumaii?”
“I do not know. I only became aware of him through Consentor Barbaron.”
“Do other Idoans know of him?”
“On Pavonis, no. But word is spreading.”
“If this Sumaii is a clone of John the Holder, will the Idoans follow him?”
“I do not know.”
Ambrose leaned back. He hadn’t detected any lies. It wasn’t easy reading Monticel through his subdued state, but he wasn’t telling everything. Continuing down this path was getting him nowhere. He decided to try another tact.
He placed a hand on Monticel’s forehead, running it across his naked head sympathetically. “Would you follow him?”
The corners of Monticel’s lips turned up in a fading smile. “Yes.”
Ambrose could feel the creep of Monticel’s mind shedding the shroud around it. Even with Ambrose’s limited Idoan training he could sense a tinge of hope in the sea of fear.
Monticel continued. “He is the father of our order. So much died with him, so many abilities that we have forgotten or never achieved again. His vision was correct. He could usher in a new future for all of us. He would free us all. Not just Idoans, but all of us.”
“Free us from who?”
“From you. We deserve our own destiny.” Monticel smiled.
Ambrose held Monticel’s head in his hands. Looking into his half lidded eyes. “John the Holder was man of peace. Would he turn the Battleforce against us?”
“He wouldn’t need to. The true John the Holder could arrive swathed in a tattered refugee’s cloak and win us all over. He did that once before, you know. It’s how he defeated the most powerful man to ever exist.”
Ambrose turned away to leave. Removing his comforting hand from the naked head of Monticel who rasped as the freezing air entered his lungs. As Ambrose was about to exit, Monticel’s fading voice reached out to him.
“I find it strange that John Braiselle could be at the head of the Battleforce.”
“Why do you think that? The record says he was a soldier.”
The words wheezed out of Monticel. “A poor one by all accounts. He became a soldier because he revered his father more than anything… wanted to follow in his footsteps… before he knew he could change all of humanity’s future.”
“His father was a soldier?” Ambrose asked.
Monticel’s lids drooped, nodding his head. The paralytic was fading but it wouldn’t be long now. He would be gone in moments.
“Do the Idoans know who his father was?”
“No. No one does.” His eyes closed and Ambrose stood to leave but he spoke again. Ambrose leaned in, listening to him struggle for words.
“Consentor Polesti, I will tell you one more thing,” he rasped. “… For a promise.”
“What promise?”
“Promise me that you will see me restored. That I will return to Caleb’s service. Tell him that he can still trust me.”
“I promise I will give him your request. But why would you wish to serve a man who could do this to you?”
“I want to see the Sumaii even if it’s not really me standing there. But part of me will be. Part of me will play a small role.” His eyes were still closed but the corners of his mouth tilted up ever so slightly.
Ambrose nodded. He wondered if when it came time for him to be retired, would he beg for his own life to continue, even if it was a lie.
“And your part of the bargain, Monticel? What do you have to tell me?”
“A name.”
“Yes?”
“Carr. His name is Carr.”
__________________________
Letter to the Reader,
I’m sure most first time authors will tell you the same thing. It came to me in a dream. While the subject of the dream is a long way from the final product, I still remember the first terrifying moments after waking. I was in Galveston, Texas, the A/C was broken, and I woke up in a bed soaked with the terror of my experience. It was horrible, but in a way, it was also very cool. I had to put it down on paper and hope that one day I could do it justice. Since that terrifying night in a stifling seaside hotel, I’ve grown from the experience of putting hammer to steel to forge the terror of that night into an actual story.
I loved the adventure of writing this story. Of course it borrowed from many of the classic writers that are the cornerstones of the genre. Herbert, Heinlien, Brin and some of the newer masters like Alastair Reynolds and Richard Morgan have inspired me like almost anyone who has picked up one of their classic works. Anyone who has written or read in this genre owes them a debt beyond the price of a book. What is the price of inspiration?
As for what is next, the mystery of Kearsage awaits. I can’t wait to get there. The worlds of this story are just beginning to be explored.
Will Cray
About the Author
William Cray
Is a former Army Intelligence Analyst with an avid interest in history. The Intruder Mandate is his first novel.
-COMING 2018-
BOOK 2
THE FARTHEST STAR FROM HOME
Preview
3030 P.F.C.
15 Years until arrival of Triumphant Horizons
6 Million kilometers from Delta Pavonis
The couch absorbed the press of acceleration but the crush was still rather unpleasant, Ambrose thought. His body had the uncomfortable sensation of being sat on by a large pachyderm. He could have chosen the option to reside in the acceleration couch while in blissful sleep, but the nature of the invitation for this extra-orbital journey gave him cause to think and a desire to experience every remaining moment of his life, even if there was some measure of discomfort in the process. He lamented some on his recent discomfort, but he thought most about the boy he was leaving behind, and the possibilities he would not see come to fruition.
The sprintship Ambrose boarded four days ago would continually accelerate for the outbound leg, boosting hard at least three times per rotation in order to make a landing with the massive vessel racing up behind them. This was the last burst of speed tod
ay before the sprintship matched pace with the decelerating light-clipper. They would be aboard Sojourn North within hours.
For most constituents, having the chance to come aboard a light-clipper, such as Sojourn North, was thrilling and an honor. But for a Second, it was an ill omen. It meant a new Second of Ambrose Polesti had arrived to take his place and sit on Caleb Barbaron’s Council of Pavonis. It meant retirement and an unknown future.
Although all Seconds were promised a stately retirement and freedom from synchronicity, Ambrose was not sure what awaited him. Provisions were made for Seconds according to the desires of the Prime. Some would be sent to a kind of retirement home where they could pursue their own interests and hobbies that eventually developed after strict adherence to synchronicity had faded. A comfortable cell and isolation waited other Seconds from more draconian constituencies, or even execution in the most extreme cases. The rumors were endless. It was something Ambrose hardly had time to think about until one of his close associates was abruptly replaced. This time, it could be him that didn’t return.
When he received the invitation to come aboard Sojourn North, one never declined the invitation; a sense of failure had permeated him. It was the sense that he had not performed satisfactorily. He hadn’t expected recall until the next clipper’s arrival in twenty or more years. He was proud of his accomplishments and secretly wanted to continue his work. The arrival of the Kearsash Battleforce over Delta Pavonis would have tremendous consequences, and his involvement in preparations to meet the crisis were a small source of pride, especially his work with the boy. Perhaps those tiny and inconsequential desires had resulted in his recall. More likely, his participation in Monticel’s murder had been exposed. Barbaron wasn’t beyond trying to quietly hang it all on him.
The entire plot to retire Monticel seemed wasted at first. Monticel had given up the name of the commander of the Kearsage Battleforce, but not his identity. Who Ramsar Carr was, was still very much a mystery. But Monticel had given up something else inadvertently, a clue into John the Holder’s history. That small piece of information and a deep search into the old empire’s classified archives had led him to the nameless boy now waiting for his return on Pavonis.
He would probably never see that boy again, or learn of the role his decisions played in the final outcome of the crisis.
Despite the enourmous risks he was taking, he believed he had made the exact decisions and reached the same conclusions that his Prime would have in his place. After all, he was the Ambrose Polesti, a perfect replication of the original who had lived over five hundred years; who was Chairman of the Socialist Consenters of Phannis and past Consentor General of the Commonwealth.
But it was not his Prime here and now, was it? It was this replication of him, and despite all of the efforts of Synchronicity to provide continuity; Ambrose was an individual doing the best he could on the information available. His work would continue with his replacement, but I should be allowed to continue.
The burst of acceleration ended and Ambrose released himself from the couch as the G-loading returned to slightly above normal. He struggled against its gentle press to the viewing dome slung beneath the engine cowlings. Maya Kulopov, his First Assistant, joined him there almost effortlessly. Her sculpted form carried much less of the bulk that was genetically inflicted on Ambrose as an identity safeguard. No one would ever mistake him for his Prime.
Behind them loomed the light-clipper, Sojourn North, sweeping towards them like a mythological raptor. Sojourn North was massive, even from this distance. There were moons and asteroids with human colonies not as large as she. She was as long as she was wide, a wafer thin arrowhead in general shape with a row of cylindrical engines lining her upper and lower flanks like plump aquatic symbiots suckling on her skin. Each of the quicksilver metal engines acted independently to regulate the ships direction and thrust.
Too much raw energy was required to accelerate such a massive beast, so it always moved at a small fraction of the speed of light, never coming completely to a halt, instead circling its destination like a predatory bird. When it came time to resume her journey across time-space, she would accelerate for years on a spike of new relativity flame, and push light to its limits, but never beyond. Any faster was forgotten to humanity, a painful reminder of how much had been lost after the fall of the Emperors.
From a distance, she seemed alive, with small moving appendages appearing here and there to perform some task. She was traveling at nearly three hundred kilometers per second but against the black void she looked like she standing still. Only the fast retreating star of Delta Pavoinis gave away the incredible speeds they were traveling.
Below Sojourn, Ambrose could make out other sprintships and larger materials vessels falling into line aft of them. They would be swept up by the raptor as she passed on the outward leg of her wide elliptical orbit. Still more vessels were ahead of them, also slipping into the formation. It was all carefully choreographed by Sojourn’s Luminary-level Intelligence Core into a symphony of regimented notes, each arriving on time and in key.
Sojourn North and those like her were the thin threads of fabric that connected what was left of humanity’s isolated colonies and planets. Less than thirty of these great light-clippers remained. She was one of the newer and faster light-clippers, less than a thousand years old. The pitiful threads that linked humanity had made interstellar war between worlds as impossible as it was impractical. The only battlefield remaining was Kearsash. That war was apparently over now and its soldiers were returning home. As massive and powerful as Sojourn North was, Ambrose thought, she was a fraction of Triumphant Horizons.
Maya looked at him as they watched the procession of ships falling into line. “Will we ever see such a thing again Consentor?”
Ambrose forced a smile at her but he couldn’t bring himself to answer. A light blinked on and they were all ordered back to their seats. They were on final approach.
After landing aboard the massive ship, Ambrose and his entourage of assistants traversed the main corridor along the leading edge of the delta-shaped wing of Sojourn North. The opulent corridor was virtually empty, giving the impression of a vast abandoned castle. Uniformed attendants stood at attention at each intersection, ready to answer the call of a guest. Any passengers aboard Sojourn North wealthy enough to traverse the stars on anything but official constituency business would be pampered and caressed by the staff when not in their acceleration couches. Old families from the earliest empire traversed space and time as permanent passengers. They lived above the constituencies, joining the eternal cruise as an exiled elite, living out their multi-generational existence onboard a single ship, deigning to depart the ship at the destitute colonies like snobby tourists invading ports of call. They departed less and less at Pavonis.
As they walked, Ambrose was escorted by Sojourn’s executive officer, a fit looking centurion by the name of Serra who followed every protocol exactly.
Serra turned towards the diplomatic wing of the ship along a central corridor. As Ambrose followed, his staff was silent. Some of them knew this would probably be the last hallway they walked with this version of Ambrose Polesti. Everything from this point forward would become very formal.
The Phannis diplomatic officer assigned to Sojourn would greet Ambrose Polesti and relay the praise and gratitude of the Prime for Ambrose’s enduring efforts to enhance the Phannis Constituency. He would open a priceless wooden case and present Ambrose with a medal on behalf of the Prime, draping the ribboned bauble around his neck. He would be thanked for his service and all would render old-fashioned applause. Having been shown proper gratitude and decorated for his efforts, small or large, he would be introduced to his updated successor, and that would be that. The two Ambrose Polesti’s, new and old, would exchange pleasantries for a few minutes before Ambrose, the now retired one, would be escorted to a grand meal with those of his personal staff also being retired. Then he would be taken to his preservation couch
and put to sleep until he arrived at his designated retirement home, perhaps centuries from now. It was all very formal and courteously swift. All but the walk that is, Ambrose thought. I want to continue.
The group paced forward with the determined walk of diplomats on a task. Near the end of the corridor the troop of aids and escorts came to a stop at the Consulate for the Phannis Constituency. Ambrose straightened his back, holding back the tremor in his breath as the end of his journey arrived.
Lieutenant Serra turned and indicated they had reached their destination by extending his hand towards the entrance. It was a gesture of finality. “Consentor Polesti, I am directed to extend to you an invitation to attend dinner with the Sojourn North’s master, Captain Sing.”
Ambrose looked at him, seeing the young officer mouth his words, but not understanding what he was saying. This was not protocol. It took a moment to comprehend what was happening.
Serra continued, “Dinner will be served at 2100 hours ship-time, and I am sorry I will have to inconvenience you by asking you to remain in your Consulate until your escort to the Captain’s table arrives.”
Ambrose hesitated a moment longer as he recovered from the shock, then replied. “Of course, Lieutenant. I shall wait for your call and please relay to the Captain my warmest regards and gracious acceptance of his invitation.”
Serra nodded. “If you require anything, please tell your Consul General and it will be arranged. Good day Consentor, and it is our deepest hope that your time aboard Sojourn North will be pleasant.”
As Lieutenant Serra departed, Ambrose stepped into his Consulate. He could feel the flush on his forehead as a gaggle of questioning faces looked back at him among his staff. They were as relieved as he was. Ambrose took a deep breath and his practiced diplomatic posture melted. He rested a hand against the doorframe to stabilize himself.