Arkship Alliance

by Niel Bushnell

  ‘Your machine,’ Faron said to Wynn as he waved a piece of food in Gofal’s direction. ‘He is your Lord Chamberlain. That is unusual.’

  ‘Gofal is my oldest friend, and a trusted advisor,’ Wynn explained, smiling benevolently at the bot. ‘He is not your typical machine.’

  ‘We have few robots here,’ Faron replied. ‘We have nothing against them, but we would never use an automaton in place of a person.’

  ‘We see Gofal as our equal, not as a slave-class.’

  ‘So, you would not save a man’s life over that of your machine’s?’

  Wynn hesitated. ‘That’s a complex hypothetical question.’

  ‘It’s not so complex,’ Faron smiled. ‘It’s just a question of which you value more: a human or a machine.’

  Bara saw her husband’s awkwardness at this line of questioning. ‘Gofal has saved my life on several occasions,’ she said.

  ‘Then he has risen in my estimations,’ Faron said, holding his glass up to Gofal. ‘And the wine you brought is excellent.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Gofal responded, lifting his own glass. ‘I’d be more than happy to discuss the nature of consciousness and prejudice with you another time, Faron Dulac, but first, a toast: to our hosts and new-found allies, the House of Dulac.’

  Faron laughed, emptying his glass. ‘I think I like him.’

  Wynn chuckled, and the formality drifted away. Bara enjoyed the company, listening as Wynn and Faron talked, captivated by the stranger’s voice; deep but gentle all at once. His eyes were playful, yet there was a hint of sadness about them.

  ‘You said you’ve had some contact with the House of Draig?’ Wynn asked as their glasses were refilled.

  Faron’s mood darkened. ‘They wanted us to join with them. We declined.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘We lost a lot of people.’ He fell into a brooding silence, his deep eyes far away.

  ‘To absent friends,’ Bara said, raising her glass.

  Faron smiled, his attention returning to the room. ‘Yes, to absent friends.’

  Wynn and the others joined in the toast.

  ‘And to new friendships,’ Wynn added.

  ‘I have heard of your war with the House of Draig,’ Faron said, putting down his glass. ‘You have paid a high price for your resistance. I’m surprised none of the other families came to your defense.’

  ‘It hasn’t been easy. We lost the arkship Obsidian, along with my father. Bara’s home was also destroyed. We’ve had some assistance from the Church, but other families have been slow to respond to the threat. They think that with Orcades Draig dead, the danger has passed, but Valine seems as power hungry as he was.’

  ‘But her methods are subtler,’ Bara added. ‘It’s easier for the other houses to turn away.’

  ‘We had the start of an alliance,’ Wynn said. ‘But . . . well, our so-called allies have turned their backs on us.’

  ‘Pressure from the House of Draig?’ Faron asked.

  Wynn nodded. ‘Valine calls it the Draig Empire. It’s a loose coalition of houses under the Draig flag, but their power is growing.’

  ‘Then we will stand against them,’ Faron promised, his voice full of steel. ‘Our alliance will see to that.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Wynn said.

  Bara couldn’t help but sigh.

  ‘You disagree?’ Faron asked.

  Startled, Bara glanced up, realizing how insightful he was. ‘I . . . I just want it to end. I want to live in peace, without fear.’

  Faron put his hand on hers. ‘One day soon, we will.’

  She reddened, pulling away, aware of Wynn watching her.

  Reader Aditsan adjusted the cushions behind him, still looking uncomfortable. ‘I note you do not have a Reader aboard your arkships . . . Would you like me to hold a service while I am here?’

  Faron tensed. ‘Thank you, but we have no need of your religion.’

  ‘You deny your people the right to their faith?’

  ‘Not at all. My people are welcome to believe in whatever myth or legend they see fit. It is their business, not mine. Which is why I will not sanction your faith over another. We are not against the Church, Reader, but I will not endorse it.’

  ‘Understandable,’ Reader Aditsan said, at ease with Faron’s rebuttal. ‘I would not wish to force my views on you or your people. But know this: the Church is still your friend.’

  ‘Good enough for me,’ Faron said jovially. Turning his attention back to Bara, he said: ‘I hear you are newly married.’

  Wynn grinned proudly.

  ‘Family is the reason we fight, is it not?’ Faron said to Wynn.

  ‘The only reason,’ Wynn replied.

  An aide came to Faron’s side and passed a small pad to him. The cool light of the screen lit up their host’s face, exaggerating his concerned expression. After a moment, he lowered the pad.

  ‘News from one of our long-range scouts,’ Faron explained, passing the pad to Wynn. ‘The House of Draig has taken the Carter & Grey shipyard.’

  ‘That is a heavily defended station,’ Gofal said. ‘The Draig fleet isn’t strong enough to take it.’

  ‘They didn’t fire a shot,’ Wynn said, passing the pad to Bara.

  ‘Valtais Valine has been voted onto the board, as the new Chair of the shipyard.’ Faron said. ‘She is in control, and the other families who make up the board are behind her.’

  ‘They are part of her empire?’ Bara asked.

  ‘As good as,’ Wynn said grimly.

  ‘The Tanis?’ Reader Aditsan asked.

  ‘It is our new arkship,’ Wynn explained to Faron. ‘The Tanis is under construction at the Carter & Grey shipyard.’

  ‘If this is true, then the Draig Empire has a major asset,’ Gofal said. ‘A dedicated construction facility to churn out new arkships, new support craft, new fighters. This could shift the balance of power across the entire Cluster.’

  ‘Narwoulf will not stand for this,’ Faron said.

  ‘What can they do?’ Reader Aditsan asked. ‘They may be the largest shipyard in the Cluster, but they are competitors. They will not risk a battle. This is not just the House of Draig anymore. It is all the other families who are part of Carter & Grey. Even if they will not fight with Draig, they will not oppose them.’

  ‘We must do something, while there’s still time,’ Wynn said, climbing from the cushions. ‘They have one of our arkships in that shipyard.’

  ‘The Tanis is not yet space worthy,’ Gofal reminded him. ‘We cannot simply take it.’

  ‘Then we talk to them,’ Bara said.

  All eyes fell on her.

  ‘Negotiate?’ Wynn said with contempt. ‘We’ve already tried that.’

  ‘And we’ve tried fighting them. It didn’t work.’

  ‘My gods, Bara! They killed your parents!’

  ‘You think I’ve forgotten that? I can never forget that.’ She took a second to catch her breath. ‘But Orcades Draig is dead. We have to try a new way.’

  ‘Valine will never negotiate,’ Wynn replied. ‘You know what happened with the refugees.’

  ‘I think Bara is right.’ Faron said quietly. ‘I know you’ve already tried before, but it is worth another go. We should try to talk to them . . .’

  ‘And if that fails?’ Wynn asked, his anger rising. ‘When that fails?’

  ‘Then we prepare for battle.’

  ‘That’s not the only option,’ Bara said with a sigh. ‘Let’s try talking to them, but if that doesn’t work–’

  ‘It won’t’ Wynn cut in.

  ‘Then we build our own alliance of other families. We speak to Narwoulf, we join forces with others until we’re too powerful for Draig to oppose. This doesn’t have to end in bloodshed.’

  She could tell Wynn wasn’t listening. Already, his mind was filled with rage. He was walking the same path he always did. But then he stopped, offering his hand to Bara. ‘I don’t want war,’ he said to her, ‘but we must be ready for it, if it comes.’

  �
��That’s all I ask.’

  ‘All right, we’ll try to talk.’ Wynn looked to Faron. ‘We’ll go to Carter & Grey. To talk. Will you join us?’

  ‘My hand is yours,’ Faron said with a bow.

  THE PATIENT

  Scribe Ermengarde Barrahaus didn’t get much time to herself. Being the leader of a religion was more of a vocation than a job. Her schedule was arranged from the moment she awoke until she returned to bed. Every second was accounted for, every meeting and event planned in great detail. It began with private prayers, as it did every day, a personal communion with the Infinite Gods, then she would wash and dress. Breakfast usually involved a meeting with her highest-ranking Librarians, or a visiting dignitary. She used to hate eating in front of others, but she had grown accustomed to it over the years, so much so that eating alone was alien to her now.

  The morning was assigned to transcribing the sacred texts that made up The Word of The Infinite. Each new Scribe rewrote the teachings of the Infinite Gods. The sacred texts were fluid, a changing testament as seen through the reflection of the Scribe. It was a monumental task that would never be finished. The text grew and evolved over time, her revisions transmitted to every Reader across the Cluster almost immediately. It was the job of the Librarian’s to implement and track this ever-changing text, ensuring that doctrine was current.

  Afterwards, she often walked the halls of Icarus with a chosen Reader, before a light lunch in one of the observation suites. It was a chance to get to know her Readers, and to discuss the politics of the Cluster. She liked to know what was happening out there amongst the numerous arkships adrift in the maelstrom of gas and rock. Public prayer and worship took up the afternoon, followed by a brief discussion with her Librarians on the day’s changes to The Word of The Infinite.

  Most evenings there was a formal dinner or banquet that required her presence. Sometimes they included contributions from the arts; dance, music, an art exhibition, a play. Even so, these events were designed with the business of the Church in mind. She was its figurehead, the divine word of the Infinite Gods made physical, so there was an unending line of people who wanted to see her, to talk to her, to kiss her hand. She would always leave early, keeping her appearances to the point. Finally, before she could rest, there was the duty of a transmitted prayer that was broadcast across the Cluster. Once that was completed, she would retire to her suite, bathe, read for a while, perhaps listen to some music, then sleep.

  There was a calm and reassurance to the order of her day, a cycle that began again with each new rise of The Infinite, but from time to time she liked to include an hour of planned freedom when she could pretend she wasn’t the Scribe. Her Librarians didn’t like her changing their finely-tuned calendar, but there was little they could do about it.

  Today, on her hour off, the Scribe walked alone through the restricted parts of Icarus. She felt a tremble of excitement, as if she was breaking a rule, but she could go where she pleased. Even so, the rarity of solitude made this feel like a forbidden act.

  She walked through a large door, past two guards who bowed reverentially, towards an area that visitors never saw. Down here, the Church kept its secrets, its weapons development, its forbidden texts, its research into the true nature of The Infinite. She stopped for a moment at a door marked R113. Through the tiny slice of glass in the thick door she could see Church scientists calculating the farthest extent of the plan. She liked to discuss its implication with the mathematicians and theologians, but not today. The Scribe carried on, towards the lower levels, to the calm of the infirmary.

  When she had been a little girl, Ermengarde dreamed of being a doctor, of helping people, saving lives with her surgical skill. The dream followed her through school and college, even though her father disapproved. Finally, when the inevitable pull of the Church stole her dream from her, she would console herself that she was helping people in a different way, not with medicine, but with prayer and hope. Even so, to this day, she felt a comfort and calm here, amongst this hushed world of surgery and science.

  ‘How is your patient today?’ the Scribe asked the attending nurse. He was barely out of training, perhaps just twenty-four.

  ‘He’s not responding well,’ the nurse replied after completing the obligatory bow. ‘His vitals are stable, but the damage to his organs and skin is extensive.’

  The Scribe picked up a pad by the patient’s bed, flicking through the notes. She glanced up at the nurse, seeing his name badge.

  ‘Your devotion is commendable, Marcus.’ She said with an encouraging smile. ‘I am surprised he has lasted this long.’

  ‘Thank you, Scribe. He’s through the worst of it now, his chances of survival are up to sixty four percent. The burns are treatable, in time, but the trauma to his organs is the most critical part of his recuperation.’

  ‘It is a miracle. I wonder why the Gods bestowed such a gift upon him?’

  ‘Scribe, forgive me for asking, but his notes do not say how he came to us.’

  ‘Shipwrecked, along with the others. He was found by one of our scout ships.’

  An alarm sounded somewhere else in the infirmary. Marcus looked up at the Scribe, awaiting her release.

  ‘Go,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you, Scribe.’ Marcus bowed and left quickly. From further down the corridor, voices could be heard, shouting for help as another patient lost their battle with life. The Scribe said a quick prayer for their soul then, as she looked into the burned face of the patient, her thoughts drifted to Derward Tarkkail.

  She had lost him. She had all of this power at her fingertips, the entire network of the Church was at her disposal, and yet Derward eluded her. He had left her six months ago, to find Reader Mallory. He had set off in search of the Draig flagship, stopping over to refuel on a Ciation arkship. That was the last verifiable location she had for him. Not long after that, the location transponder in his ship stopped working. He was headed towards the Gargan, but she had no idea if he had arrived.

  Six months, and not a word, no other sightings, no ship, no wreckage. Was he dead? She had spoken to Reader Mallory many times, but she knew nothing. To be certain, the Scribe assigned the Church’s best agents to watch over her. Her room was tapped, every part of her life recorded and analyzed. Nothing. Six months . . . and not a word.

  The unknown terrified her. But something told her he was still out there, still clinging to life. Was it a hopeless wish? The fantasy of a lost love? She couldn’t tell. Derward was alive. Derward was dead. He was both at once.

  ‘Where are you, Derward?’ she whispered as a tear rolled down her cheek. She remembered her last conversation with him, before he left, and she suddenly realized there was a way she could find out. The bot knew.

  Derward had told her about Gofal, Prince Halstead’s companion and Lord Chamberlain, who had communed with the Infinite Gods. He claimed that they had shown Gofal the future. Derward had made her promise to keep this a secret, and she had done nothing about it this last six months. But now, she saw that she had to act. Gofal would know, he alone could answer her question. A plan began to form. She would soon have the machine – and his knowledge – in her grasp.

  Her wrist com buzzed: her time was almost up. A delegation from the Clan Sinclair were already waiting to see her, keen to talk to about pressing matters.

  Ermengarde looked at the burned figure one last time then turned away, ready to wear the mantle of the Scribe once more. As she walked out of the infirmary, Derward’s final warning came to mind, about the bot who had seen the future: ‘Whatever you do, know that Gofal has already seen it.’

  STRANGERS

  Bara was happiest when she was solving a problem, it was the only time she really felt content. There was something about the purity of it that appealed to her brain. Engineering dealt in absolutes – yes and no, zero and one, fixed laws that rarely changed. There was always an answer waiting to be found. it was just a matter of time and resources and knowledge. There were no gr
ey areas.

  She had risen early, leaving Wynn asleep in their royal suite. He had meetings all day, and she wouldn’t be missed. She could indulge herself here in the hanger bay, with Lexica, solving as many problems as she could find. In the dirt of the interflow couplings, her worries fell away. There was no room for doubts and concerns here. Her mind was calm.

  Beneath her feet, she could feel the gentle throb of the arkship’s Cube drive, taking them towards the Carter & Grey shipyard. She could tell by the vibration how fast they were going, how efficiently the drive was operating. Sometimes, she missed being the Chief of the Engine Deck. She knew how busy it would be there right now, as they monitored the drive’s performance, ensuring that everything ran smoothly. But she could console herself with the intimate calm of Lexica instead. Being here, fixing things, it took her back to her childhood on Melchior. She had helped her father to build this ship, learned everything she could during those long days together, laughing, joking, arguing. Lexica was the last thread to her past, a survivor, like her.

  Coming here helped her to reconnect to her past, to clear her head of her worries, but it failed to dispel the cloud of loneliness that surrounded her. It was a reminder of how much she had lost.

  ‘Do you need a hand?’

  Startled, Bara looked up from her work. Faron Dulac stood at the edge of the landing pad, smiling at her. He was dressed in his familiar casual attire; heavy boots, dark trousers, a brown shirt with the collar open to his chest, sleeves rolled up. Simple clothes, without fuss or ornament.

  He strode towards her, looking up at the hull of Lexica. ‘Thornton? Mark five?’

  ‘Mark three,’ Bara replied, ‘but you have a good eye.’

  ‘Mark three?’ Faron checked. He walked to the end of the ship, studying the engines. ‘Quad Mertle engine stack. That’s not standard for the mark three.’

  ‘Nothing on Lexica is standard. I’ve pretty much rebuilt him from the ground up.’

  ‘Him?’ Faron laughed.