by Chris Walley
Isabella heard the man to her right praying in a barely audible whisper. How strange; I would once have admired that—praying in adversity. The idea that she no longer found it admirable troubled her for a moment before she rejected the idea as irrelevant. Somehow praying—at least like that—seems to me a sign of weakness, a giving up of control. There is a time for prayer and a time for action and initiative; this is surely the latter. She wondered, not for the first time, who had picked this man, someone who had to fight away tears when he talked about how much he missed his family.
I didn’t tell him what I miss—being at the center of things. I made it from sleepy little Ynysmant—the town where not only does nothing happen, but it happens very slowly—to the liaison center, the bridge between worlds, only to be marginalized even worse than before.
She clenched her fist. Well, it won’t happen again. What did the old books say? “Don’t let yourself become a victim. Take action!”
I will.
She grabbed her bag, squeezed past the praying man, and walked into the washroom. She cleansed her face, brushed her hair, and adjusted her blouse.
She stared at the image in the mirror. All things considered, you look okay.
“I will stay in charge of events,” she said under her breath and left the washroom. As she walked past her seat she caught frowns. Yes, I am breaking the orders to stay seated. She forced herself to smile back and hide her scorn. Passivity in the face of oppression. We have to do better. I will do better.
She saw other faces turning to her, some expectant. Many of the younger delegates look up to me. They look to me to take a lead. I must not disappoint them.
Isabella walked down the aisle to where, at the very front, she could make out the gray, wavy hair of Dr. Lola Munez, the woman they had elected head of the delegate team. There, partly so that she didn’t have to raise her voice and partly to make her action less conspicuous, Isabella squatted beside the older woman.
“Isabella! Good to see you.” Both the voice and the dark eyes revealed a drained weariness. “Everyone okay back there? Was the flight all right?”
“They all seem to be okay. I’m fine.”
“Haakon here—” Lola nodded to the young man in the window seat next to her—“says that they have problems with artificial gravity.”
She remembered that Haakon had been in some sort of engineering.
“They can’t seem to keep the G-value fixed,” the man added, his face pale. “It’s crude.” Then he unbuckled his seat belt. “Tell you what, Isabella; you take my place. I’ll sit at the back. We don’t want to antagonize them, do we?”
That’s the problem, isn’t it? We are just too nice. Blessed are the meek, for they will be taken prisoner and not complain.
Lola gave a drained nod; Isabella saw the sagging jaw and the folds of skin on her neck. She looks old and tired. She is not up to the task. Not under these circumstances.
As Haakon passed by, she heard him whisper to Lola, “Tell her ’bout the window. See what she thinks.”
Isabella caught the worry in his voice. She took the seat. “I came up to see what you know, Lola. And whether there was anything planned.”
Lola gave a hollow laugh. “We haven’t known anything worth knowing for three weeks. And what can we do? Now?” Her eyes briefly flicked to the shuttered window.
“We need to do something.”
“Are you scared?” Lola asked, and Isabella saw from her eyes that she was afraid and that she wanted to admit it.
Isabella gave a little nod. “I suppose so. A little.” That’s a lie; actually I’m more annoyed than frightened. Annoyed at having the opportunity of my life snatched away from me. Annoyed that someone is bungling this.
“I’m scared,” Lola admitted. “I don’t know where we are going.”
Isabella looked at her. “I thought the best guess was that they were keeping us in orbit pending negotiations. In the Ambassadors’ ship? The Dove?”
Lola’s pale lips pursed in some sort of denial. “Haakon has prized the shutter up a fraction. He says he glimpsed the ship we have docked with. It was big, gray, and ugly. It’s not the Dove.”
So the rumors are true. “That explains Lezaroth.”
“Yes.” Lola leaned forward. “Take a look yourself. And tell me what you think.”
Isabella twisted her head so she could see through the crack at the bottom of the window. At first she could see nothing; then, gradually, she was able to make out the dark bulk of a massive ship hanging over them with fins and ports, and far away, a line of yellow lights. It was far too big and too ugly to be the Dove of Dawn. But below it . . .
She strained her eyes and cupped her hands to eliminate any stray light from the cabin, but still she could see only a vast, formless grayness that seemed to deepen downward. How very odd.
She turned to Lola. “I don’t see any stars.”
A tremor passed over the woman’s lips. “That’s because there aren’t any.”
“Meaning?” A terrible sense of dread came upon Isabella.
“We have entered Below-Space. They are taking us to the Dominion.”
A bare hundred meters away, on the bridge of the Nanmaxat’s Comet, Commander the Margrave Lezaroth was standing watching as Captain Benek-Hal and two crewmen worked at checking the ship out. On the main wallscreen was a 3-D image of the Comet with the ferry craft hanging underneath it like some strange parasite. On the subsidiary screens were various data outputs. Lezaroth could not fully understand all the symbols—civilian and military ships had different codings—but he was fairly certain there was nothing to give concern. And that was a source of gratification; they had executed a tricky docking maneuver at close to the maximum permitted speed and had safely descended into the shallow Nether-Realms without completing a full systems checkout.
But Lezaroth saw little else to please him. The cramped, almost claustrophobic bridge with its spartan equipment demanded comparison with the larger and far more sophisticated one on the Triumph of Sarata. The fury Lezaroth experienced at the loss of the great ship burned anew in his mind.
I should have returned wreathed in triumph, bearing captives and with the Rahllman’s Star and the body of the Great Prince Zhalatoc, announcing a new world won to the lord-emperor; instead I find myself limping back on a freighter, almost empty-handed and glad to have merely survived.
He was again tempted to give in to bitterness but refused. Control is everything; if I lose control, the best I can hope is that my body lies with my ancestors. To seize any sort of victory out of this disaster, I cannot allow myself the luxury of anger. I mustn’t give in to anger or despair.
He walked forward to where Benek-Hal was seated at a console. At his movement the crew threw him furtive, anxious glances. They are afraid of me and, by the powers, I need them to be. We can afford no more slipups.
“Captain.”
“Sir!” The response was instant.
“How is the ship?”
Benek-Hal’s clayey face turned to the image on the screen. “Good, sir. All systems normative.” Lezaroth was pleased by the deference and fear so evident in the tone of voice.
“Very good. Keep it that way.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We have no coordinates from the outward journey. We have no steersman to make a new journey. How easy will it be to get back? As fast as we can?”
“Commander, I have checked the ship’s computer here. There are some data points, and we surfaced once. So we can do a first-order standard reverse calibration. But . . .”
“We will need to surface to check our position.”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“I’d guess three times would be enough.”
And we will lose at least a day each time! “Better make sure it’s no more. Now, what is the status of the aft hold?”
The captain tapped a screen. “It’s still being set up.”
“You can give me the thirty lock
able individual compartments? and the complete surveillance?”
“Yes. I’d say about an hour for the compartments. The video is patchy; not enough microcameras.”
“Do the best you can. I want to be able to follow every word and not have them know a thing about it.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a troubled look. “On the prisoners . . .”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering about the rules on . . . managing them.”
Lezaroth heard the unspoken query. There are thirty of them, and we have only six crew and a dozen soldiers; how can we manage?
“I appreciate your concern, Captain, but let me make some things plain. The prisoners are my personal responsibility. I will deal with them with the soldiers I possess. It is vital that your men have no contact with them. These people know very little about what has happened, and I need them to be kept in that state of ignorance. I have my plans for them.” And I’m not telling you those.
“We have some shipboard Krallen. Three packs. Still crated.”
A reminder of another loss—the thousand battlefield Krallen I had to leave behind at Langerstrand. Not to mention all the other tens of thousands destroyed. “I am aware of them. Get them uncrated, activated, and on patrol outside the hold.”
“Yes, sir. Programmed to kill?”
“No. Just to corner and immobilize. I give any orders to kill.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And one more thing. I want to address the prisoners in the fore hold. In thirty minutes. Make sure it is clear.”
“Sir?” The flicker of eyebrow betrayed surprise. “I mean, yes, sir.”
Lezaroth stared hard at the captain, who paled. “I have my reasons. That is all you need to know.” The trouble with having barely twenty crew is that you can’t afford to execute someone just to improve discipline.
He gave another order. “Now, Captain, only when we have transferred everybody from the ferry craft will we go into deep Nether-Realms. And we will be traveling as deep as is safe; we need to get back to Sarata as fast as we can. Until I order that, keep us at this depth, course, and acceleration.”
“As you wish, sir.” Deference oozed out of the captain’s voice.
“Good, and, Captain . . .”
“S-sir?”
Lezaroth paused, glancing around to make sure that the two other crewmen were listening. “I don’t want any initiative or independent action on this trip.”
He saw the captain moisten his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I u-understand.”
“Good. I’ve already lost one captain on this trip. I don’t want to lose another.”
“N-no, sir.”
“Now, Captain, I will be in my quarters. Send me the Allenix unit.”
Lezaroth returned to his room and there, trying to forget the much larger quarters he had had only a few weeks ago, sat back in the single chair and commanded the wallscreen to show him the inside of the ferry craft cabin. The rows of passengers seemed much as he had last seen them: subdued and quiet. He glanced around, seeing faces that he recognized from the files.
Then he called Lieutenant Kalpustlaz, the highest ranking of the dozen surviving soldiers. They were soldiers; they are now prison guards. “All quiet, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir. We are doing continuous monitoring. But this lot is so quiet you’d think it was a scheduled flight.”
“Just don’t trust them. Remember the battle at the ridge.”
“I won’t, sir. I had comrades killed there.”
“Tell your men that we will transfer the prisoners in forty minutes.”
Lezaroth switched off the wallscreens and reviewed his plans. Those plans centered on the prisoners. The lord-emperor had always wanted some prisoners, and now, as the only achievement of a military venture that had gone very badly, they were his best chance of saving himself from Nezhuala’s wrath. But he had to make the most of them.
In his report on the failed mission, he would not just blame the ambassadors and the idiotic Hanax—all of whom thankfully were dead and couldn’t contradict him—but he would also point out the intelligence oversights. He would emphasize how a major element in the failure of the campaign lay in the way that the Dominion had misjudged the Farholmers. In his mind Lezaroth already had phrases prepared: “a failure to understand Assembly society,” “our fatal misconception that their values and fears are similar to ours,” and others like them. And in his report he would urgently recommend that, before any further attacks, there needed to be a much deeper study of Assembly culture. In the five or six weeks he had before they reached Sarata, he had time to make himself the indispensable authority on exactly that. He would call the prisoners for personal interviews, sample their opinions and tastes, assemble their history, and map their beliefs. It is not something I am naturally equipped for—I am a military man—but I see no reason why I can’t learn.
That was to be the chief focus of his strategy. But in addition to this there was a matter to be dealt with that he could not mention to anyone else on the ship, a matter that centered on D’Avanos and the great adversary. More than just a clash of cultures had gone wrong at Farholme; they had been powerfully resisted by one man. Or was he more than a man?
Lezaroth ordered the wallscreen to open the D’Avanos file he had made at Langerstrand. A succession of images emerged, clips of D’Avanos chairing meetings, inspecting troops, giving interviews, and making speeches. Lezaroth paused at the last one he had, a still image of the man taken at the end of the fighting at Ynysmant. Here D’Avanos wore stained armor, his sword hung at his belt, and he had taken his helmet off. The features of his face were hard-edged in the early morning light, and fresh scratches lined his face. In his expression there seemed to be relief, weariness, and resignation. But Lezaroth saw no triumph or elation.
“Who are you, my enemy?” Lezaroth whispered aloud. You have certainly pulled off some remarkable tricks. You led the fighting at the two battles. And you must have been involved with plotting the trap that lead to the destruction of the Triumph.
Seeking answers, he stared again at the image. “Why do you wear Lucas Ringell’s identity tag? What links you?”
The image gave him no answer.
How did you achieve such victories? I know, as the baziliarch learned, that you have found at least one survivor of the Rahllman’s Star. From him you could have learned vital information on how to deal with the Krallen and how to bait the trap that had ensnared the Triumph.
He whispered again. “But there is more, isn’t there, D’Avanos? Somehow you have managed to summon into battle some mighty extra-physical power. How?”
Lezaroth knew he was scowling. I have to find out all about that man. But it is just possible that I may have someone at hand who can help me.
There was a buzz at the door.
“Enter,” he said, sitting up but keeping the screen on.
The door slid open and a green creature walked in on all fours. It stopped in front of the door, squatted down on its hind legs, and turned vacant, disklike eyes to him. There was no image on the flank of its tunic.
“I am Zetafive, sole Allenix unit of the Nanmaxat’s Comet.”
“Fleet-Commander Lezaroth.” Except my fleet is rather reduced.
“My pleasure. I was not activated on the voyage out, or I would no doubt have made your acquaintance.”
“This conversation is to be kept utterly confidential.”
“Of course. I have a question. In the last four hours I have made myself acquainted with events. I understand the Triumph has been destroyed. Is this correct?”
“Yes.”
“Including Deltathree Allenix?” The Allenix’s voice was unexpressive.
“Yes.” Lezaroth saw no point in saying sorry.
The silence was inscrutable.
“Zetafive, have you had a chance to look over the data files from Farholme I have uploaded on the ship’s computer? Specifically the records of the delegates at Langerstrand?”
“I have done a first scan, Fleet-Commander. There is . . . a lot of data: some 9,500 hours of video—in some cases taken from multiple camera angles—and around 18,000 hours of pure audio recording of thirty individuals. The data quality is in places rather poor. It needs processing.”
“It is surveillance data. They had no idea it was being recorded.” That much the ambassadors did manage to achieve.
“I had assumed this. It will take time to characterize and identify every speaker on all the recordings, especially the audio ones.”
“Do a fast scan. Reprocess at leisure. I want all that data checked for any references to that man.” He gestured to the screen. “A man called D’Avanos, Commander Merral D’Avanos. Opinions, memories, especially personal facts.”
“Commander Merral D’Avanos.” The repeated words were devoid of emotion. “Would he be . . . known by any other names?”
“Not that I know.”
“Very well. I am already processing the data.”
“One other thing. Commander Merral D’Avanos is from the town of Ynysmant. I have noticed that one of the delegates—an Isabella Danol—is also from there. It is my guess that she will have known him, probably well.”
There was the briefest of pauses. “A quick scan of the available records gives no evidence of a definite relationship between them. But . . . they are in the same age cohort in a town of limited size. I estimate a high probability that they are friends or enemies.”
“They don’t do enemies.” Although the evidence I have picked up suggests that is changing. Their age of innocence is over.
“I will check carefully. Is there anything else?”
“No. Let me know as soon as you find anything. You are dismissed.”
“Thank you.” The creature made a gesture of acknowledgment with a forearm and left.
I prefer working with machines; they are so much more reliable.
Lezaroth turned to the screen and ordered it to switch to the Isabella Danol file. The file, compiled by the ambassadorial team before the diplomacy had been ended, was relatively short, and he cursed the dead ambassadors for their incompetence. When they had confiscated the delegates’ diaries and disabled their ability to communicate, what they should have done was download all the information on them. I could be sitting here with hours of conversations between her and D’Avanos. But now to take hold of the diaries would cause more alarm and might stiffen resistance. I will have to get the information from her by slower and more subtle means. And with that thought, Lezaroth tilted his seat back and flicked through the images and records.