Space Trek (Three Novels, Three Worlds, Three Journeys Book 1)

by Jo Zebedee

  The baron leaned close. “Which duke would that be, eh?”

  Ormuz thought a moment before saying, “Ahasz.”

  The baron pulled back, surprised. He frowned, glanced quickly at his wife and daughter. “Ahasz, you say?”

  The baroness’s features abruptly changed from suspicion to simper. Ormuz could only imagine too well what she was thinking, and so made his excuses and walked away. He had gone no more than a dozen steps when a figure appeared breathlessly at his shoulder. He stopped and turned. It was Lady Aszabella.

  He sighed. “Yes?” he said. “My lady?”

  “Would you join me in a glass of punch, my lord?” she asked, gazing at him with beseeching eyes. She shook her head to set her artfully-arranged chestnut ringlets bouncing.

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  Aszabella pouted. Refusing to take no for an answer, she hooked an arm through his and pressed her bust to his upper arm. “We haven’t had an assembly like this for ages,” she remarked brightly. “Is it for you? You’re a long way from Syrena—”

  “Syrena?”

  She gave him a puzzled look. “That’s the Duke of Ahasz’s homeworld.”

  “I’m not from Syrena.”

  “Oh.” She blinked and pouted.

  “And this party is not… entirely for me.”

  Aszabella started forwards. Her hand slipped into Ormuz’s and, startled at not feeling flesh, he glanced down. The sleeves of her ball gown ended in built-in bejewelled gloves. He could think of no polite way to disengage and resigned himself to her company. She had a surprisingly long-legged stride and with every step her full skirt bounced and swung. A musky flowery scent enveloped him, surprising a choked gasp from him.

  “Who was that lady I saw you with?” Aszabella asked. “The tall one in the black dress.”

  “Lady Sliva demar Finesz,” Ormuz replied absently.

  “Oh.”

  They reached the stretch of gallery opposite the entrance and came to a halt. A commotion at the doors drew Ormuz’s attention. He saw a group of figures enter the ballroom. Three were bluecoats, two wore green, and the foremost was clad in a smart black insignialess uniform. He didn’t need the shaved head to recognise the Admiral.

  “Oh,” breathed Aszabella, following Ormuz gaze. “Who are they?”

  “The other guests of honour.”

  “Isn’t that…?”

  “The Admiral, yes.”

  “The… who? Admiral? Admiral who? It looks like Her Imp—”

  “She prefers to be called the Admiral,” Ormuz interrupted.

  Aszabella turned and peered up at him in surprise and awe. “You know her?”

  “Yes.” He frowned down at her. “You’re not surprised to see her?”

  “Well, of course I am,” she replied blinking. “You don’t expect to see members of the Imperial Family at a party like this. It’s quite a coup.”

  “I mean, you’re not surprised to discover that she’s alive?”

  “Uhm? Alive? No, everyone knows she mutinied. They told the proles she died in action but that was just for them.”

  For the proles, reflected Ormuz bitterly. Rather than admit to dissension amongst the nobility, the authorities had declared the Admiral lost in action. How much else that the proletariat believed to be true was false, was the product of political expediency?

  “You seem not at all bothered at having a mutineer present,” he remarked.

  She frowned and bit her lower lip. “Yes, well, that’s a Navy thing, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a little more than that. A mutiny against the Navy chain of command is disobedience to the Imperial Throne.”

  “But she can get away with that, can’t she? She might sit on it one day.”

  Ormuz snorted in amusement. “She’s not the heir, my lady. Her elder brother, Prince Hubret, will inherit.”

  Aszabella shrugged a shoulder and gazed at him guilelessly. “Accidents happen, my lord.”

  For a moment, Ormuz was stunned into silence. He could not decide which was more shocking, that Aszabella accepted assassination as a common political tool, or that she thought the Admiral capable of using it. He knew the Admiral to be strong-willed and determined, but she believed firmly in Imperial law, in the rules and regulations that moderated the Empire. And assassination was illegal… although who would indict an emperor after he had assassinated his predecessor?

  “Can you present me?”

  Ormuz was lost for a moment. “Pardon?”

  “Can you present me to the… Admiral? I’ve never met a member of the Imperial Family. My friends will be so jealous.”

  “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  Aszabella pouted. “Why ever not?”

  “It wouldn’t be right,” he repeated stubbornly.

  “Casimir.”

  He turned at his name. It was Finesz. She raised an eyebrow at Aszabella’s presence and said, “The Admiral’s here.”

  “Yes, we saw.” Seeing Finesz’s gaze settled questioningly on the young woman on his arm, he quickly added, “This is Lady Aszabella, daughter of Baron—” He broke off, his mind a blank. He remembered the baron giving his name, his wet mouth inches from Ormuz’s face, but the sight of those slavering lips had captured his attention and he had not heard it.

  Aszabella came to his rescue: “Epalulo. Of Sirtoma,” she declared in a bright voice.

  Sirtoma was, Ormuz recalled, an industrial world, rich and heavily-populated.

  Ormuz finished the introduction on an embarrassed note: “Lady Sliva demar Finesz, of the Office of the Procurator Imperial.”

  Aszabella’s eyes went wide.

  Finesz smiled thinly and turned back to Ormuz. “Rizbeka said the Admiral wants to see you. You might as well bring the chit.” Her smile turned wicked.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Rinharte returned to the Admiral after passing her message to Finesz. The Admiral had not moved from her position by the entrance. She and her officers were still standing before the tightly-closed doors, resembling a party of gatecrashers hoping not to be asked to leave. The Admiral was at the gallery railing, scowling down at the dance-floor, her hands clasped behind her back. Her officers—Lieutenant Rud demar Gogos, Mate Leka demar Kowo, Major Mattus demar Skaria and Marine-Captain Garrin demar Kordelasz—had gathered to one side, and were regarding the dancers with a different set of expressions. Kordelasz had an almost predatory gleam in his eye. As did Kowo, Vengeful’s coxswain, but she at least had the grace to flash an abashed smile in Rinharte’s direction.

  “He’ll be here directly, ma’am,” she told the Admiral on reaching her side.

  “What in heavens was Kunta thinking?” the Admiral mused. “What can all this achieve?”

  “It was the best way to get those we need to Rusko without suspicion,” Rinharte answered.

  “And when word spreads of my presence? Is that not suspicious itself?”

  “Ma’am, if Casimir is right, the time for hiding is well and truly over.”

  The Admiral sighed. “I know, Rizbeka. And I dislike it.”

  “It had to come, ma’am.”

  She turned to Rinharte and glared at her. “Don’t be fatuous, Rizbeka. I will not have it in my officers.”

  Chastened, Rinharte nodded and turned away, scanning the circumference of the gallery for Ormuz. Her gaze fastened on a tall blonde in black approaching: Finesz. And behind her, a smartly-dressed young man in a black coat and tight grey trousers: Ormuz. He had someone on his arm, a young lady of an age with himself, pretty and voluptuous, wearing a golden ball gown that emphasised her figure. Rinharte was surprised: she had not thought Ormuz the type to find himself a partner so quickly. Nor, now that she considered it, had she thought the brunette with the youth to be the sort he would find.

  The trio reached Rinharte and the Admiral. Ormuz and Finesz directed smiles at Rinharte, before turning to the Admiral.

  “Casimi
r,” said the Admiral. She turned her gaze on the young woman on the boy’s arm and frowned.

  “Lady Aszabella,” Ormuz said quickly.

  Aszabella gave a deep curtsey. “Your Imp— um, ma’am,” she said breathlessly.

  “An ally already, Casimir?” the Admiral remarked. “I am impressed.”

  Ormuz blushed. The girl’s eyes were shining and she gazed at the Admiral with awe. Some of that wonder, however, was clearly for Ormuz, who was on sufficient terms with the Admiral to be addressed by his first name.

  “Who is your father, young lady?” the Admiral asked Aszabella.

  “Baron Epalulo, ma’am,” the girl replied.

  Rinharte saw that the young woman was wearing a lot of make-up—far too much, in fact: her face was smooth with cosmetics. There was something off-putting, almost disguising, about it.

  “You told her, Casimir?” the Admiral was asking Ormuz.

  “That you had not been killed in action? No.” He frowned. “She already knew. She says everyone does.”

  “Indeed.” The Admiral was not pleased. “I had not thought the knowledge so widespread.”

  “Your secret is apparently safe from the proles,” Ormuz remarked.

  Rinharte stared at him—that had sounded suspiciously like sarcasm. She waited for the Admiral’s response—

  And was shocked to hear her commanding officer laugh. “But not all of them, Casimir?”

  Ormuz scowled. “From personal experience? Most believed it.” He sounded bitter.

  “After tonight, it is likely everyone will learn better.” The Admiral made a brusque gesture and started for the stairs down to the dance-floor. “We have work to do, Casimir. It is time we were about it.”

  Rinharte heard Ormuz let out a sigh, but his face was carefully blank when she turned to him.

  The Admiral marched past, Ormuz and his companion fell in behind her, Rinharte joined Finesz, and the remaining Vengeful officers brought up the rear. As the staircase descended below the level of the gallery, Rinharte saw that they were being watched… by almost everyone below. Those ringing the dance-floor were looking up at them, and some of the dancers had stumbled to a halt. People were now appearing at the gallery railing, a wall of bodies circling the ballroom.

  She searched the crowd. This was relatively easy to do since everyone was gazing up and she could see their faces. Eventually, she spotted the Duke of Kunta and his wife standing amongst a clutch of sofas on a dais on the edge of the dance-floor diametrically opposite the entrance. With them was Captain Vartoi, alert and watchful.

  “Quite a party, eh?” remarked Finesz. “Everybody within a week’s radius, by the looks of it. Not to mention representatives of every regiment, militia or Navy presence.”

  “But is it enough?” Rinharte replied dourly. “Kunta may be one of the most-populous and richest duchies in the Empire, but the Yalosukinens have let so much power slip through their fingers…”

  “Kunta may not wield many votes in the Electorate but he has bags of influence.”

  “True enough, I suppose,” Rinharte admitted. The ducal family was well-liked and their patronage was heavily sought-after. If this had been a political struggle, Kunta would not have been an ideal ally. Not, of course, that the Admiral and Ormuz could afford to pick and choose allies.

  “So what do you think to Casimir’s young lady?” Rinharte asked Finesz. She spoke quietly, for the OPI officer’s ears alone.

  “Not that young,” Finesz replied.

  Rinharte blinked in surprise. “No? She looks to be his age.”

  Finesz shook her head. “Older. She’s trying to look younger. To what end I can’t imagine.”

  “To trap Casimir? Or Varä? I should think it was no secret the duke had a pair of young lords staying with him.”

  “Possibly,” mused Finesz.

  “There is,” said Rinharte, thinking back to her first sight of Lady Aszabella, “something oddly familiar about her.”

  “You’ve met her before?” Finesz asked, wonderingly.

  “No… And that’s what’s so odd. She reminds me of someone but I can’t think who.”

  Finesz snorted. “With a figure like that, you’re probably confusing her with some entertainments star.”

  “Unlikely,” Rinharte said. All the same, she could not puzzle out whom the baron’s not-so-young daughter resembled.

  They had circuited half of the ballroom’s circumference and were at the foot of the stairs. The Admiral halted. Ormuz stepped up to her side. “Where is your friend, the fop?” she asked him.

  “He was with Sliva,” the youth replied.

  Finesz took a step forward. “I left him on the gallery.” Under her breath, she added, “Chatting up a regimental officer.”

  “Good.” The Admiral nodded. She had clearly not heard the OPI officer’s aside. “I would not have him listen in all the time. Later, we will have need of him, but for now— Ah.”

  This last was uttered in response to the sight of a trio of Navy officers approaching. A commodore and two lieutenants. The only commodore in the system was Livasto, commander of a squadron of destroyers stationed about the emergence zone surrounding the Linna system’s sole gas giant.

  Livasto bowed stiffly and said, “The Admiral, I presume?”

  “Commodore Livasto. I am glad you are here. We need to talk.”

  “I will not disobey my orders, ma’am.”

  “But you will happily disobey Edkar’s Promise?” Rinharte could hear the edge in the Admiral’s voice. Destroyers were often used by the Navy to jump into possible battle-zones to secure them for the arrival of a fleet. It seemed the commodore had adopted similar tactics in his dealings with people.

  “I have not been called upon to honour the Promise—the Emperor has asked for nothing from the Navy.” Livasto remained stiff and formal but was clearly unhappy.

  “I am calling you, commodore. I have the right.”

  “I do not deny it—”

  The Admiral interrupted harshly: “I hear a ‘but’. I would rather not hear it.” She gestured peremptorily. “Think on your loyalties, commodore. And when you have them sorted, we will talk again. You have until this circus is over.”

  Livasto accepted his dismissal with barely concealed anger, turned about smartly and stalked away. His accompanying lieutenants gave the Vengeful party wary glances before following their commander.

  “That might not have been the best way to negotiate their support,” Ormuz commented.

  The Admiral turned on him. “You do not negotiate with Navy, boy,” she snapped. “They obey orders, or they are not Navy.”

  “As you did, ma’am?”

  There was a moment of silence. Rinharte waited apprehensively for the coming explosion. The moment stretched… and still nothing was said. She glanced across at Finesz with a frown and then back to the Admiral and Ormuz.

  “Ah.” The Admiral reached up and swept a hand over her shaven scalp, forehead to crown. “I am not a politician, Casimir. I cannot be one and I do not wish to be one.”

  “So don’t be one,” Ormuz said.

  Rinharte was shocked at the familiarity with which the youth was addressing her commanding officer. In all her years of service under the Admiral, she had never approached that level of intimacy. She wondered what the two had said to each other during their many private conversations over the last few days.

  “I am not a farmboy, Casimir, though I may carry the sword.”

  They had obviously discussed Lord Ogoshu, then.

  Intercepting a puzzled look from Finesz, Rinharte leaned close and whispered, “A story from the Book of the Sun. I’ll explain later.”

  Gogos, the Admiral’s protocol lieutenant, stepped forward. “Ma’am, we should pay our respects to his grace.” As an Imperial princess, second in line to the Throne, the Admiral had been assigned a protocol lieutenant to manage her affairs but his duties also included etiquette. T
he Admiral used him infrequently in the latter role.

  “So we must,” said the Admiral.

  The duke greeted the Admiral with grace, his politeness attesting to his breeding. He gave no indication of his real thoughts on the Admiral’s presence. Rinharte, however, knew full well how he felt. She had witnessed several stormy meetings between Kunta and her commanding officer. But the man was a high noble and there were forms to be followed. If Kunta’s feigned pleasure stuck in his throat, he disguised it with all the tact common to his rank. She could understand why his patronage was so valued.

  Rinharte turned her gaze from the duke to Vetlina, the duchess. She marvelled at the woman’s seeming delight at the Admiral’s presence. Rinharte knew it for a front.

  Gogos, acting as liaison between the Vengeful’s party and the ducal entourage, suggested the Admiral’s aims would be better served if done in private. There was a series of chambers off the ballroom, small exquisitely-furnished withdrawing rooms, and Kunta was happy to allow the Admiral use of one.

  As they made their way across the dance-floor—the withdrawing rooms were sited beneath the ballroom entrance—Gogos said smugly to Rinharte, “The words, ‘The Admiral wishes to speak privately with you on a matter of some importance’, will be just as effective as her presence.”

  She frowned in annoyance. The protocol officer’s role usually bred arrogance in an officer and she did not like it.

  Oblivious to her disapproval, Gogos hurried on ahead to open the door to the withdrawing room and usher the Admiral within. The chamber, ten feet on each side, was furnished with three spindly sofas arranged as three sides of a rectangle. A line of matching chairs sat against the back wall. The walls to left and right were hung with tapestries depicting martial scenes from the ducal family’s history. If this withdrawing room was the only one decorated in such a fashion, Rinharte wondered at Kunta’s choice. Was he trying to tell the Admiral something?

  The Admiral settled on the sofa facing the door. Ormuz, the baron’s daughter still on his arm, sat on the settee to the right. Finesz folded gracefully onto the sofa opposite the youth. Everyone else remained standing.