by Jo Zebedee
The huge marine nodded and lumbered from the wardroom. Rinharte turned and closed the door behind him with a savage flick of the switch. Once it was sealed, she rounded on the marine-captain. “We have our instructions, Garrin, and I won’t have you jeopardising them. I don’t care if you don’t like your orders but you will not ignore them. If the Admiral calls you a gaoler, you will start counting the heads of your prisoners. And you will ensure all are accounted for.”
Kordelasz gestured dismissively. “They’re going nowhere. They’re mindless.”
“They’re the enemy, Garrin.”
“Some enemy,” he scoffed. “Where’s the threat in a group of people without a thought between them?”
“They brought this ship here. How do you imagine they did that if they’re incapable of thought?”
“Something struck them down after they’d arrived.”
“And they just happened to be lying in those sarcophagi when it happened? Think, Garrin.”
“Perhaps the Provincial Foot put them in those, before they disembarked.”
Rinharte snorted. “You don’t believe that, so why expect me to? Clearly, the clones were thinking beings when they crewed Tempest to this system.”
“And they just let their minds go?” scoffed Kordelasz. “That’s even more fanciful than… than…” He trailed off, lost for a comparison.
“Garrin, I don’t know what happened. But what can be done can often be undone. And I plan to be prepared should that happen. I have my hands full commanding this ship and preparing for the arrival of whomever answers the Admiral’s call to arms. I need to be able to rely on you to keep the clones secure. Can I rely on you, Garrin?”
The marine-captain scowled. “I’ll not let anything happen.” He narrowed his eyes. “You have Gogos to handle those flocking to the Admiral’s banner, anyway.”
“I don’t trust him.”
This elicited a snort of derision from Kordelasz. “And you don’t know whether to trust Midshipman Maganda. Your first command… and the Admiral has stacked the odds firmly against you.”
“Romi will suit.” She said it in deliberate contradiction but found herself oddly believing it. Yes, the young woman would suit. Whatever the truth to the rumours about her inability to perform—and that was being charitable about what she had heard—Rinharte had a feeling the midshipman would prove herself capable. Her use of the young woman’s first name without thought only testified to the strength of her conviction.
“We will do,” she said, “what is expected of us. I will not give cause to disappoint the Admiral or disgrace myself. See to your marines, Garrin. Delegate what you will to Boat-Sergeant Alus but don’t delegate your responsibility to the security of this vessel.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Four pinnaces sat side by side on the aerodrome’s apron. Finesz, well-wrapped in a fur coat, dug her hands deeper into her pockets and stamped her feet. A white carpet of snow lay undisturbed over most of the aerodrome, churned to a dirty slush only beneath the booted feet of the seven platoons of the Duke of Kunta’s Imperial Winter Rangers lined up before the terminal. Jewel-like encrustations of ice decorated the buildings’ eaves, glittered on pitched roofs beneath the midday sun. For the first time since leaving Imperial Court, Finesz felt herself to be inhabiting a fairy-tale. The troopers, smart in their pale blue jackets, silent and wreathed in breath, stamped and shuffled in the creaking snow…
It wasn’t, however, merely her surroundings that put Finesz in mind of a fantasy. She felt warm deep inside and smiled secretively into the collar of her fur coat. After a week of enchanting Commander Mubariz… Of course, she had not been charming that entire period: at times, their conversations had often slid into heated discussions, on topics as widespread as politics, history and religion. Mubariz could be uncomfortably prickly at times. Conversation with him was filled with traps and pitfalls. And yet still she persevered. She liked Baron Mateen, she could not deny that. She found his stolidity, his deeply-centred sense of worth, appealing, attractive. Very attractive.
Was it just nostalgia, a mid-life craving for her carefree youth and the lovers that had populated it?
No matter. Mubariz had surrendered to her advances on the seventh day. The OPI, she told herself with a smile, always get their man…
The bow of one of the pinnaces opened and three figures stepped down into the snow. A gust of wind whipped to and fro the white hair of the figure in the lead: Captain Rinharte. Beside her stood a stocky man with leathery features, also in Navy blues. Finesz did not recognise him. Looming behind the pair of them hulked an enormous marine in green and dun. He wore a double knot on one prodigious biceps and so must be Boat-Sergeant Alus.
Finesz crossed the apron towards the trio, skirting the platoons of Imperial Winter Rangers. “Rizbeka!” she called.
Rinharte turned at her approach and put a hand to the crown of her kepi as the wind gusted fiercer. A fine powder of snow swirled about their boots.
Once Finesz was within earshot, Rinharte introduced her companion: “Captain Okrent of Coriaceous. This is Inspector Sliva Finesz of the OPI. So, Sliva, how have you been?”
“Fine, fine,” Finesz assured her. “The baron and I have been getting along… famously.” She grinned at her private joke.
“The baron? Ah, Commander Mubariz. He’s been no trouble?”
“None at all. A fascinating man.”
Rinharte grunted in mild disbelief and turned to the Imperial Winter Rangers. Abruptly, she was all business. “This is their entire strength on Linna?”
“There’s the wounded too, of course, but they’ll be staying. Afi has also promised a company of his household troops.”
“Where’s their regimental-lieutenant?” Okrent demanded gruffly. Only a company sergeant major and two sergeants fronted the platoons on the apron.
“Saying goodbye to his casualties. He asked to let his men settle in first.”
“He didn’t ask me,” remarked Rinharte flatly. She clasped her hands behind her back, ducked her head to present the crown of her kepi to the blow of the wind and frowned.
All that was missing, thought Finesz with some amusement, was the bridge of a warship about her. Who could have known that Rinharte would take to command with such gravity? Her disappointment at the regimental-lieutenant’s absence was palpable.
Rinharte abruptly ruined the illusion: she sighed, lifted her head and clapped a hand to her kepi as a suddenly fierce gust threatened to remove it. “I will put Romi on it,” she said resignedly.
“Romi?”
“The captain’s executive officer,” explained Okrent. “Midshipman Maganda.”
Finesz gazed at the destroyer captain blankly. Midshipman? Executive officer?
“Don’t ask,” Rinharte said.
“Well,” said Finesz. But she did not ask. She changed the subject and asked brightly, “So what does this bring our strength to?”
“With the household troops? Three under-strength companies.”
“Three companies? That’s a battalion, isn’t it?” Finesz was no military enthusiast but she knew that Tempest’s complement was two battalions.
“Almost. But for the wounded, we’d have a full-strength battalion.” She shrugged. “More will come.”
“What about warships?” Finesz asked.
Another shrug. “Livasto’s squadron. Once the Admiral’s signal has gone out, more will come.”
“So how’s it going up there?”
“Fits and starts,” Rinharte replied.
Okrent grunted sceptically. “Captain Rinharte is mostly succeeding in an impossible task,” he allowed grudgingly.
“Been bashing heads, eh?” Finesz grinned.
“His—” Rinharte jerked her thumb at Okrent— “was the first.”
“Ah.” An uneasy alliance then. If Okrent had balked at joining the Admiral’s fleet, his presence here at the aerodrome could only mean he still had
reservations. He wanted to inspect every element of the Admiral’s forces before fully throwing in his lot. Or… Finesz peered at the stocky captain. Perhaps she was doing him a disservice. Perhaps he was a more honourable man than that.
“The commodore?” asked Finesz.
“Still smarting,” Rinharte admitted. “He’ll bow to the Admiral readily enough but it irks him to have do the same to me.” She smiled grimly. “He’ll learn,” she added flatly.
Finesz grinned. Rinharte would soon have the various captains in orbit toeing the line. Finesz did not doubt that. And the thought of the white-haired lieutenant-commander browbeating them could not help but be amusing.
“CSM!” called Rinharte, turning away from Finesz. “Get your men aboard.”
The company sergeant major saluted smartly, spun about and began barking out orders.
“How long until the Admiral is back?” Finesz asked.
Okrent answered, “Another week. Perhaps longer. It depends on how long she tarried at her destination.”
“You’ve met her before?” Finesz asked him.
He shook his head and scowled. “No. Our paths never crossed. But I’m fully aware of her reputation.”
“You didn’t attend the assembly?”
“No. I was on duty.”
“So you’ve not met Casimir either.”
“The Admiral’s lordling mascot?” Okrent asked.
The remark surprised a laugh from Finesz. “Mascot?” she scoffed. “Don’t let Casimir hear you say that. Varä told me he has the makings of a master swordsman.”
The captain’s opinion was written on his face: he considered Ormuz little more than a dilettante who could behave prettily with a blade. Finesz grinned at him. Okrent would learn his mistake soon enough.
Rinharte spoke up as she watched the platoons trot towards the pinnaces: “We’ll come back down for the household troops.”
As if to an inaudible drum-beat, the Imperial Winter Rangers smartly boarded the boats, disappearing up ramps into the open bows one by one until the apron was empty of troops. Rinharte, Okrent, Alus and Finesz were alone. Finesz turned and gazed at the pinnaces, saw their crews busy at their stations through the control cupola scuttles. She looked up, following in her mind the path the vessels would take. The sky was too bright to see the tiny specks of light that were the ships that had accompanied Rinharte’s Tempest to Linna.
“When the Admiral returns,” Rinharte said, “you will join us in orbit, Sliva.”
“And the baron?”
“Commander Mubariz? He remains here, I suppose. Your duke will look after him.”
“He’s not my duke,” Finesz protested—but not too strongly. “Besides, leaving him here might not be such a good idea…”
Rinharte gazed searchingly at Finesz. “No?”
“I, ah, had a visit from an acquaintance of yours,” Finesz answered sheepishly. “A Sir Bluret mar Sudnik. Of the Order of the Left Hand.”
“A knight sinister? Here?”
“Indeed, Rizbeka.”
“Dear Lords.”
“My sentiments exactly.” Finesz pursed her lips and blew out. The cloud of breath dissipated quickly in the chill breeze. “He wanted the baron.”
“What in heavens for?” demanded Rinharte, surprised further.
“He neglected to mention his reason.” Finesz winced: she was being sarcastic. Whenever she reported to superiors, she turned sarcastic. It had maddened Norioko.
“I take it he left empty-handed. You fought him off?”
Finesz pulled her hands out of her pockets and peeled back the cuff on her right glove, revealing the bandage wrapping her hand. “Wounded in the line of duty, in fact.”
Okrent snorted dismissively.
“He scratched you?” asked Rinharte, leaning forwards and peering at the dressing.
“Scratched me? He stabbed me. It hurt, Rizbeka. It still does.” She gave a lopsided grin. “I’ll never be able to write a report again.” Pulling back the glove’s cuff, she shrugged. “He also owes me a rather expensive sweater.”
“I’m not having Mubariz aboard Tempest. I can’t afford to put more marines on guard duty.”
“He’s given his parole,” Finesz replied, a little too earnestly perhaps. “You needn’t guard him.”
“I can’t risk it,” Rinharte replied flatly.
“He’s an honourable man,” Finesz insisted.
“He stays, Sliva.”
“And what if Sudnik returns? He promised he would. And he struck me as the sort that would stand by his promises. Especially ones of that sort.”
“They won’t harm him.”
Finesz turned her back on Rinharte and Okrent. “Then I’ll make my own arrangements for his safety.”
“Why?” demanded Rinharte.
But Finesz refused to answer.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
For three nights, Ormuz tried to visit the nomosphere and failed. As if the act of wanting to be there disqualified him from admittance. It had seemed so easy before, although no act of will on his part had been involved. But even such reverse psychology proved unsuccessful. Not wanting to visit the nomosphere was as fruitless as wanting to visit the nomosphere. Ormuz’s frustration grew nightly.
Sleep, when it eventually came, was a relief. But drained by his attempts to access the nomosphere he sank too deep into a dreamless state, and woke the following morning with the night hours a complete blank.
But on the fourth night, after an afternoon spent practicing with swords in the sports salon, Ormuz lay languid and satisfied in his cot. Somewhere beyond the edge of his thoughts lay the barrier of sleep, tantalisingly close, bulking large and yet unseen. As he sank deeper into drowsiness, he watched in wonder as his cabin dissolved about him. Light bled from the bulkheads, grew brighter, eye-searing bright, until all detail, all form, vanished. A shift of perspective and he was there. Black points swirled together into galaxies, the dark diffuseness of nebulae, ebon stars all about, above, below and beyond.
He had a task: he hunted through the nomosphere for the intelligence he had promised the Admiral. His quest went unopposed: he met neither his mysterious blue ally nor the gold figure of the Serpent. He intercepted and deciphered data, gathered information, building up a picture of the movements of the forces at the Serpent’s command.
The night before Vengeful arrived in the Urkia planetary system, Ormuz finally had his answer. He did not tell the Admiral because he wanted to be sure. It was hard to be certain about anything learnt in the nomosphere: interpretation was everything, and he did not yet trust his own proficiency in that area. With practice perhaps might come certainty. It was not only a matter of finding the desired data but also the intended meaning of the data he intercepted.
By day, Ormuz and Varä battled it out in the sports salon or Ormuz alone would closet himself with the Admiral to further discuss their plans. The more time he spent in the Admiral’s presence, the more Ormuz came to appreciate her. He drew strength from her. When his doubts overwhelmed him and the struggled seemed too much, he need only marvel at the Admiral’s resolve and determine to be like her.
Neither Finesz nor Rinharte were aboard Vengeful, and Ormuz’s other friends—the crew of Divine Providence—had made it plain where their loyalties lay. It raised a barrier between them and their ex-cabin boy. Even Varä, close as he was, not could not be entirely trusted: he was a knight sinister, after all; although he had yet to confess as much. Perhaps the marquess’s loyalties were wavering. Certainly he seemed more and more inclined to abandon whatever hidden agenda he followed. Ormuz watched him carefully, somewhat embarrassed at the misinterpretation put on his surveillance by Varä but unwilling to cease. Perversely, his observation hastened Varä’s inexorable slide to his side.
Only when he was satisfied he knew all there was to learn from the nomosphere did Ormuz admit to success in his task to the Admiral. They met in the Admiral’s day cabin
—Ormuz, Varä and the Admiral. The marquess was there at Ormuz’s request, over the objections of the Admiral.
“You know he will tell his masters what you have learned,” she had said.
“First,” Ormuz had replied, “we can prevent him from doing so; second, what can the Order of the Left Hand do if they knew?; and third, I want him close.”
The Admiral nodded and Ormuz had known she had misinterpreted this as “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer still”. Varä was no enemy but a close friend, and becoming closer still. Like all such friendships it teetered on a knife-edge of trust and Ormuz was mindful of the fact the marquess had not yet had an opportunity to betray that trust.
The Admiral sat behind her desk, Ormuz and Varä occupyied two of the three chairs arrayed before it. Without Rinharte by her side, the Admiral plainly found her command lonely. Her gaze was weary and her mouth fixed in a permanent scowl. Perhaps it was the waiting. So much depended on Ormuz finding the location of the Serpent’s rendezvous. Without knowing it, the Admiral’s nascent forces were powerless to intercede.
But he had found it.
“Geneza?” said the Admiral. “You are certain, I take it.”
Ormuz nodded.
“Geneza. A good choice,” the Admiral admitted grudgingly.
Since the Sack of Swava almost 1,300 years ago, the world had been entirely made over into parkland. No trace of the Old Empire’s capital remained. Where once Swava, a huge city, millennia-old and the pride of the Genezi culture, had stood, there were now only rolling verdant meadows. Few people visited Geneza. There was nothing to see.
“You’ve been there?” Ormuz asked. Until the events on Darrus, he had never left the outer worlds of the Empire. The heart of the Empire was a foreign country to him and, as he had learnt, they did things differently there.
Both Varä and the Admiral nodded.
“As a child,” the Admiral explained. She smiled wistfully, taking Ormuz somewhat by surprise. “A Family picnic. Geneza has been a popular location for such excursions for the Imperial Family for generations. Once, it may have been more in the nature of a pilgrimage—”