The beep of an alarm caught her attention, and she saw the holograph light up with a new contact.
‘Cube transit,’ an officer called. ‘Arkship approaching.’
‘They’re early,’ Faron said, sounding disappointed. ‘Who is it? Li Zhang? Sinclair? Addington?’
‘None,’ the officer replied after a brief delay. ‘It’s the Gargan, the Draig flagship.’
TRUCE
Prince Halstead was walking towards the exit when the alarm sounded. He turned back to look at the flight deck, uncertain what was the cause of the problem.
‘Draig arkship just dropped out of Cube transit, directly behind us,’ Commander Watson said as Halstead returned to the operations map.
‘Draig?’ he checked, his nerves suddenly on edge.
‘ID confirmed, it’s the Gargan,’ Watson said.
‘Valine’s arkship,’ Halstead muttered under his breath.
Watson shouted orders to her officers. ‘Power up the Gilgore gird, all pilots to their fighters, set battle condition throughout the arkship. Civilians to the shelters. Weapons fire is authorized on my command.’
Halstead watched as the arkship drew closer. ‘Any weapons activity?’
Watson raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Nothing yet. Their grid is inactive, no emission signatures except for their engines and maneuvering thrusters.’
‘Commander, incoming transmission from the Gargan,’ an officer called from his console.
Watson nodded her approval and Valine’s voice broke into the flight deck.
‘Ark Royal Caerleon, this is Valtais Valine of the House of Draig. I bring greetings of peace to our friends in the House of Kenric. I wish to talk to the prince. There are matters of mutual importance to discuss. I am not your enemy, Prince Halstead, and I offer you a truce.’
Halstead looked to Watson. ‘A trap?’
Commander Watson nodded grimly. ‘Almost certainly, based on previous history. What would you have me do?’
‘No response. You’re free to attack, Commander,’ Prince Halstead said.
OLD SECRETS
Library One was situated in the oldest module of Icarus, a part of the station that had been here for over two hundred years. Since that time, it had been enveloped by newer constructions, and its exterior windows now looked out on corridors and walls rather than open space.
As he entered the library, Gofal noted that the official floorplans for the station did not show this room, although its existence didn’t seem to be a secret. It was almost as if it had been forgotten, a dusty dead-end on the way to nowhere. The place was deserted, just a cold storage space, with old lights that flickered when they were switched on.
Librarian Horst entered first, leading the way for Gofal and Otto through the narrow walkway. Either side of them was the tightly packed confines of storage shelves, each one set on tracks so that it could be moved to gain access to the records hidden inside.
‘It’s freezing,’ Otto moaned.
‘It helps to keep the data drives and the books nice,’ his mother explained. She stopped at a table that filled a crossroads between the shelves. At one end was a grubby looking console, an older type with a solid screen that was no longer common.
‘Welcome to Library One,’ Horst explained. ‘This is our store of all of the older documents that we’re in the process of archiving. Everything is physical, in one form or another; external storage drives, data chips, physical logs and reports. We’ve been working on this for years, on and off, but there’s still lots to do. It’s not been a priority, if I’m honest.’
‘Perhaps I can help you with the task,’ Gofal suggested.
‘Me too!’ Otto said, popping up from beneath the table.
Horst smiled. ‘All right. Where would you like to start?’
‘At the beginning,’ Gofal replied. ‘What are your oldest records?’
‘It’s not that easy,’ Horst chuckled. ‘We don’t actually know what we’ve got down here, not completely. In theory, the oldest records should be back here.’ She led the way through the crowded shelves, into the dark recess beyond the table. ‘Take your pick.’
Gofal stooped down, inspecting a battered looking box on the bottom shelf. There was a pattern of dirt on the front of the box, a splay of muddy lines that appealed to him on an aesthetic level. It was a random choice, as good a place as any to start. ‘This one,’ he said.
‘Can you read that?’ Horst asked Otto, pointing to the label on the side of the box.
Otto crawled through Gofal’s legs, pushing up to the box. ‘Arkship . . . Have . . . Haven.’
‘That was one of the first arkships to leave Earth,’ Gofal noted. ‘It was built ten years before the Fracture, intended for an expedition beyond the solar system.’
‘Are there any numbers on the label?’ Horst asked her son.
‘Two, one, three, five, then a line . . . then two, one, five, two.’ Otto said.
‘Twenty-one thirty-five to twenty-one fifty-two,’ Gofal replied. ‘That covers the years leading up to the Fracture, right through the evacuation and exodus from Earth. Well done, Otto, that is a perfect place to start.’
Horst pulled the box from the shelf, a cloud of dust falling from its ancient resting place, and handed it to Gofal. He took it to the table and opened the security seal.
‘What’s inside?’ Otto asked, climbing up to see inside. ‘Is it treasure?’
‘Of a sort. It is information,’ Gofal said.
Otto’s grin faded, replaced with disappointment.
Gofal removed the lid to reveal a stack of data storage drives, all of them two hundred years old. He knew their stored information would be degraded and corrupted, no doubt much of it was beyond retrieval, but he felt the sensation of excitement as he stared into the box. No one else had looked at this data for a very long time.
‘There’s a book!’ Otto shouted, snatching at something inside the box. His little hands pulled out a dark red rectangle, a bound volume of some sort.
‘Is it a story?’ he asked, offering it to his mother.
Horst took it, and gently opened the cover. The old book creaked, it’s pages seeing light for the first time in decades. ‘It’s the Captain’s logbook,’ she said.
‘Is that a story?’ Otto asked hopefully.
‘Yes,’ Gofal said. ‘It is a story of adventure, escape, and the destruction of a planet.’
REASON
‘Any response?’ Valine asked her com officer.
‘Nothing, Valtais,’ he replied, sounding nervous.
Valine returned to the holograph, cross-referencing the information she found there with the pad in her hand. Prince Halstead had received the message but had chosen to ignore it. Now, his arkship showed numerous power spikes; the tell-tale signature of gun stations preparing to fire.
Chief Berg came to her side. He was shorter than Valine, his frame unimpressive, but he stood with a confidence that she admired. Shoulders back, chin raised upwards, he waited patiently until she turned to address him.
‘Speak,’ she ordered.
‘The Caerleon has powered up its Gilgore grid, its weapons are primed. We must defend ourselves.’
‘Must we?’ she asked, annoyed by his insistence.
‘It is advisable,’ he replied, his voice uncertain now.
‘No, not yet. Let them fire.’
The Chief made a noise in the back of his throat, something halfway between a gasp and laughter. ‘Valtais, is that wise?’
‘Very,’ she said, her voice domineering him.
‘Yes, Valtais,’ he responded meekly, turning back to his console.
Halstead would be cautious, she had expected that much. He might bluster, but he would listen to her offer. He was a reasonable man, and that was his weakness.
‘Incoming hostile fire!’
Valine spun round in time to see the bright dots of light erupt from the dark surface of the Caerleon, growing larger as they raced towards the Gargan. She smil
ed, impressed that Halstead was learning. She had underestimated him, but that only made the game more interesting. She would have to think of another way of getting to the prince. False diplomacy wasn’t going to work, but Valine had plenty of other tricks to try. Prince Halstead would expect her to defend herself, to fight back. Not today, she decided.
‘Get us out of here,’ she said to the Chief.
THE VOID
The jets of warm oxygen washed over his skin, easing the tension in his scars. The moisture trickled over his face, rivering down his neck, finding the delves and grooves where his skin had been grafted. The pain never left him now, but his hours spent in his steam bath helped to make it bearable. His eyes closed, soothing his scratched pupils, and his thoughts drifted back to his escape from the arkship Fenrir.
Orcades would never forget it. He had caused a fallorite cascade to rip the vessel apart, believing it was the only way to destroy his enemies. He was at the height of his addiction to gravel, and his thoughts were erratic and confused. He believed himself immortal, fully expecting he would survive the destruction. Orcades laughed grimly at the memory; at least he had been right about that last part.
It was his mother who had saved him, or at least the drug-fueled vision of her. She had led him to the escape pods, demanding he use one. Barely conscious, losing blood from his injuries, Orcades had obeyed, watching his mother through the hatch as the pod thundered away from the Fenrir. The last thing he remembered was seeing the arkship rip itself to pieces. After that, he remembered nothing, just fleeting moments in a hospital bed.
The clippers moved over his body, tiny robotic spiders that removed his dead skin and injected proteins and medicines into his injuries. Larger healer bots – the size of his hand – moved about him, placing cooling pads of nutrients onto his torso, their contents soothing him, making him drowsy. This reminded him of his recuperation, of the constant hum of attention from machines and doctors. All he remembered was the unending pain, from his broken body and from the withdrawal of the drugs. He cried for the mercy of death, but that gift never came to him. That time was a blur of images, without detail, just the torture of his existence, until he awoke on a small ship, adrift close to the Calisto Span. Six months lost. No memory of where he’d been, of who had saved him. The void bothered him. Orcades did not like to be in the debt of another, especially when he didn’t know who it was. One thing was certain; they would want something in return, eventually.
Orcades brushed the machines aside and stepped out of the chamber, feeling his ears pop with the pressure difference. Immediately he felt cold, the temperature difference waking his body, dismissing his fatigue. He dried his pitted skin and dressed, ignoring the discomfort, then he made his way to the flight deck.
Commodore Orava stood on sight of the Valtais, walking to meet him. ‘You are rested?’
Orcades ignored his officer’s concern. ‘You’ve found him?’
‘We have a sighting, yes. One of our scouts picked up some com chatter on a Draig frequency. The message is fragmented, but it mentions the Melrakki. If it’s correct, we could be upon them in two hours.’ Commander Orava began to smile. ‘I took the liberty of powering up the Cube drive. Coordinates are plotted. We can leave on your word.’
‘Good. Do it.’
Orava nodded to his second-in-command, Simonson, and the noise of the Cube transit alarm filled the air. Orcades took a moment to watch Simonson work, remembering his treatment at his hand. It would be wrong to seek out vengeance, wouldn’t it? That would be the old Orcades Draig’s way. Still, the officer would not meet his eye, and Orcades sensed Simonson’s days on the flight deck might be numbered. He would enjoy making him pay for his disrespect. Orcades was grinning, he realized, and did his best to hide his malevolent thoughts.
‘Stand by for Cube transit,’ Orava warned him.
Orcades took hold of the handrail, finding a harness to fasten to his belt, and watched as the flight deck distorted around him.
MOTIVES
Gina Horst checked her face in the mirror, keen to make a good impression. Her hair was short, just above her shoulder, a style she had kept to over the years. It was functional, easy to maintain. Lazy, perhaps? Maybe, she conceded, but she’d never been the sort to embrace glamour. She moved closer to her reflection and decided she looked tired, the wrinkles around her eyes were deeper than she remembered. She should get more sleep, but that was easier said than done with a demanding ten-year-old son, and an even more demanding seven-year-old daughter, to look after by herself.
She looked in on Otto and Adele, confirming they were asleep, activating the auto-monitors, then Gina set off for her meeting with Scribe Mori. Nerves cluttered her thoughts. Why did he want to see her, so late in the day? Was this Church business, or something else? Sol! She hoped not. In the few meetings she’d had with him, he’d always kept things formal, never deviating from official business, but she saw how he watched her when he thought she wasn’t looking. He was an educated man, steeped in culture and etiquette, but there were some feelings even he could not suppress. Gina could see them, even if Mori couldn’t.
She pressed the entry button and, as the door opened, Gina tensed to see Scribe Mori was alone in his office.
‘Librarian Horst, please, come in, sit down,’ Mori said with a jovial grin. ‘I’m sorry to call you out so late in the day. Have I interrupted anything?’
She sat, keeping her posture upright and formal. ‘No, Scribe.’
‘Good, good.’ He hesitated, looking awkward. ‘Drink?’ He said it like the suggestion had taken him by surprise.
Gina shook her head politely. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Ah,’ Mori replied, sounding disappointed. ‘Mind if I do?’ He didn’t wait for her answer, standing to find a bottle from the bookshelf behind his desk. He produced two glasses and poured a measure from the bottle into each.
‘In case you change your mind,’ he said as he pushed the glass over the table towards her.
She looked at it, not moving, waiting.
Mori raised his glass, watching her, then he sipped from the golden liquid.
‘You have a new friend,’ he said as he put his drink down.
Gina grimaced inwardly, wishing she’d delayed this meeting until the morning. ‘Scribe . . . I am your loyal servant, but–’
He silenced her with a wave of his hand. ‘It’s late, call me Akito. I’m still getting used to the new title, it sounds a bit . . . odd, don’t you think?’ He chuckled, finding his glass again.
‘I’m sorry, but it doesn’t feel . . .’ She hesitated, trying to find the right word.
‘Appropriate?’ he offered.
Gina nodded, relieved. ‘Appropriate, yes, Scribe.’
‘Of course,’ Mori said, smiling to hide his disappointment. He emptied his glass, staring at the little lines of liquid falling back down to pool at the base. ‘Yes, so, your new friend: the bot.’
Startled, Gina struggled to keep up.
‘Gofal,’ Mori added.
‘Yes,’ she said, realizing.
‘Tell me about him.’
She thought for a moment, trying to decipher what the Scribe wanted to know. She had been in attendance during the meeting of the Circle to discuss the bot’s supposed encounter with the Infinite Gods. The previous Scribe had argued for Gofal’s survival. Was Mori questioning that judgment now? ‘He is here to study, I believe.’
‘He has befriended your son?’
‘Yes. I met him the other day. He’s keen to learn what he can on the origins of the Church.’
Scribe Mori leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed. ‘That’s correct. He wishes to make sense of his encounter. He possesses great insight, which I believe could be very dangerous to the future of the Church.’
‘The Circle voted, Scribe,’ she reminded him.
‘I have not forgotten,’ he snapped. ‘But now Gofal has returned here, intent on uncovering the very origins of the Church. Is he not conten
t with knowing the future?’
‘He is just a bot,’ she replied, becoming irritated.
‘You have given him access to Library One, haven’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Gina replied slowly, feeling like she was being cornered. ‘I filed an access request before I took him there. The request was approved.’
Mori reddened. ‘An oversight. I’ve been very busy with preparations for my inauguration, and my workload has been heavy. He should not have been granted access.’
‘Why not?’ she asked, noting his embarrassed bluster. ‘There’s nothing there but old manifests, arkship logs . . .’
Mori shook his head. ‘To a human mind, yes. But to an inquisitive bot, who can see connections where we cannot, who can see patterns in a maze of data, I think the contents of Library One could be explosive.’
It was futile to argue against him, Gina realized. ‘What would you have me do? I can restrict his access. Library One could be off limits to him.’
Mori filled his glass again, thinking. ‘If Gofal truly is an instrument of the Infinite Gods, then we cannot stand in his way. If the Gods work through him then it is not our place to obstruct him, is it?’
‘No, Scribe,’ Gina said, uncertain if the Scribe had expected a reply.
‘We must trust in the wisdom of the Gods. Let Gofal continue, but I’d like you to keep me appraised of his progress. He must be closely monitored.’
Gina nodded, standing. ‘I’ll send you a report at the end of each day.’
Arkship Conquest Page 4