Sands of the Solar Empire (The Belmont Saga)

by Ren Garcia

  He thought to re-send the Com, but checked his time-piece and thought better of it.

  Admiral Derlith awaited. He stood and continued on his way through the near empty complex to the environs of the 3rd Fleet in the back quarter of the building.

  He felt confident. Good things were supposed to happen on St. Porter’s day.

  The area was set up as a series of small structures and landscaped courtyards mixed in with thick greenery from the GreatArmenelosForest which wasn’t far away. It was so quiet today he could almost hear the trees growing and sopping up moisture. Stenstrom made his way through the maze of walks and passages and finally found the heavy oak door emblazoned with a brass sign reading: ADMIRAL DERLITH.

  Stenstrom knocked loudly on the door with the meaty part of his fist.

  After a few moments, the door swung open. A meek, small-shouldered fellow stood there. He was decked out like a Fleet adjutant, the personal assistant of a higher ranking officer. He wore an elaborate dark blue coat embroidered with silver stitching and a relentlessly frilly white shirt underneath. He wore dark blue knee britches, with white leggings and a buckled pair of black shoes. His hat was large and plumed.

  He was a mousy fellow, short of stature and sloped of shoulder. His costume looked rather large on him as well. His hair was a bright banana blonde under his large blue hat.

  “Are you Paymaster Stenstrom?” he asked quietly.

  “I am. I have an appointment to see Admiral Derlith.”

  The small man swung the door wide and gestured for him to enter. “Yes, thank you, sir. Right this way.”

  The man led him through several courtyards and then into a small but lavishly furnished office. Inside, an iron-haired man in an admiral’s uniform sat behind a desk. He gave Stenstrom a quick glance and didn’t stand or stop what he was doing.

  “Sit down,” he said in a terse voice.

  Stenstrom sat down and waited. The admiral was busy doing something at his desk; what it was Stenstrom really couldn’t tell. He appeared to be speaking to somebody, his voice muffled by a directed Com cone.

  Stenstrom could make out a few words, though he tried not to eavesdrop.

  “Yes, he’s here now. It’s all arranged.”

  The adjutant came in a moment later with a coffee service on a silver tray. Leaning over the table, his face close to the cups, he made the admiral a coffee and set it on his desk.

  The admiral took a drink. “Josephus,” he said. “This is cold.”

  “Beg your pardon, Admiral,” he said and quickly left with the pot.

  Without looking at Stenstrom, the Admiral spoke. “You have secured appointment to the captain’s chair of the Main Fleet Vessel Seeker. You pledged, at the time of your appointment, one hundred thousand Belmont sesterces to be used to fund the refitting of the vessel, as it is in need in several key areas, per Fleet regulations. We have received your pledge, and all is well in that regard. At the present time, your appointment status is marked: Provisional. As you may be aware, there are a number of pre-conditions that must be met for that appointment to be validated and made permanent, or ‘Bonded’ as we say in the Fleet. They are as follows: One, you must board your vessel no later than 22 bells standard today—failure to do so shall revoke your appointment. Two, your first mission must be at the pleasure of the Admiralty—in this case, my pleasure as the Seeker is my ship. You will undertake a mission that I shall give to you, and you must complete it; otherwise, again, your appointment shall be revoked, and you will not be Bonded.”

  Stenstrom knew all of that. He had, at that time, nine bells to board the Seeker, and then the mission, the “Admiral’s Pleasure” as it was known, was usually some tawdry, perfunctory exercise that was more tedious than challenging.

  “I see,” he said. “Thank you. And what is the nature of my mission?”

  Josephus, the tiny adjutant, returned and prepared another cup of coffee for the Admiral from a steaming hot pot. He took it and casually began sipping. “Why can’t you ever give me coffee like this the first time around, Josephus? This is more like it.”

  “I am sorry, Admiral,” he said. “Paymaster, may I offer you a cup?”

  Stenstrom smiled at him. “Thank you, I’m fine.”

  The Admiral finished his cup. “Your mission, Lord Belmont, shall be the following: In Warehouse 87 at the far end of the Fleet complex is a crate of fine, six-year-old Remnath brandy fermented at my very own home in the hills of Remnath. My House is known for its fine grape brandy. You are to take the brandy to a grand ball that is to be thrown by Admiral Pax at Fleet annex Teflegar-Martin II on the planet Bazz. The brandy is to be served to the Admiralty after the main feast has been enjoyed. The ball shall take place on September 32nd—that will give you twelve days to deliver the cargo.”

  “Twelve days to go to Bazz? Is that all, sir?” Stenstrom asked. A trip to Bazz, at a leisurely rate, should take no more than two.

  “Yes, that is all. Recall, your appointment is at peril. You now have less than eight and a half bells to formally board the Seeker, and you have twelve days to deliver the goods to Bazz.”

  Admiral Derlith then returned to whatever it was he was doing. Without a further word the meeting was over.

  Stenstrom stood and took his leave. On his way out, he passed Josephus, who was busy preparing a snack for the Admiral. He appeared to be having issues seeing what he was doing.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Paymaster?” he asked looking up from his work, a mustard-loaded spreading knife perched in his small hand.

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you, and Happy Porter’s Day to you, my friend.”

  Josephus lit up. “And to you, sir. Good luck and safe journey.”

  Stenstrom tipped his hat, then made to leave.

  “Sir?” Josephus said, calling out to him.

  Stenstrom turned. The adjutant appeared to want to say something but had second thoughts. “Again, good luck, and be bold.”

  Stenstrom smiled. “I shall do so, sir. Thank you.”

  He left the courtyard and made his way through the vast complex to the warehouses at the far end—it was a good, brisk walk that took about thirty minutes. As before, he met few people along the way.

  He got to the correct warehouse—Number 87—and tried the door.

  It was locked. A sign posted on the door read:

  CLOSED FOR ST. PORTER’S DAY. WILL RE-OPEN STANDARD HOURS 9/21.

  Hmmmm.

  Stenstrom stood there and thought. This could be a bit tougher than he first imagined. With the place virtually deserted for the holiday, how was he to secure, load and transport his cargo to the Seeker? Another problem immediately entered his mind—how was he going to get to the Seeker in the first place? He was no pilot. He needed somebody to fly him there, and the pickings here at Fleet appeared to be slim at best. There literally was nobody around to fly him up.

  The enormity of the problem hit him fully.

  Admiral Derlith …

  He spun about in frustration. He’d paid his money. Now Admiral Derlith was going to see to it that he failed his appointment by plunking him square in the middle of a paid holiday. The man was apparently quite sly.

  He could, should things get ugly, call up to the Seeker and have them send a ripcar down for him, but that would be embarrassing. He hoped the situation wouldn’t come to that.

  Stenstrom took his hat off and wiped his brow. He supposed he could simply send a Com to his father, or to his mentor and sponsor, Lord Davage, and they would sort everything out. One or two heated Coms to the Admiralty, and this puerile attempt to drum him off the Seeker’s chair before he’d even had a chance to sit upon it would be quashed—cold.

  But, should he do that, he would be partially validating the Admiral’s low opinion of him. They had set obstacles before him, and now it was time to conquer them unassisted.

  So be it. The loins were about to be girded.

  3 Tyrol Sorcery

  He tried the wareho
use door—again, it was locked. So, thusly inconvenienced and all alone by design, he determined that he was given lease to use any method necessary to accomplish his goal.

  So, what was he to do? Unlike his father and Captain Davage, he had no Gifts of the Mind, the fantastic abilities people from the north and from Zenon could do; his mother’s Tyrol stock had suppressed it in him. Neither he nor his twenty-nine sisters could perform the Gifts of the Mind.

  But, that didn’t mean he was helpless here. Far from it. He pushed up the sleeves of his coat and made ready. It was time to make good use of the skills his mother had taught him.

  He could, drawing upon his training as a sorcerer, take command of this situation in any number of ways. For the simple task of opening the door to the warehouse, naught but a bit of slight-of-hand should suffice.

  He produced, as if by conjuration, an elaborate set of manual and magnetic lock picks. He’d fully inherited his mother’s dexterous hands, and his skill at producing hand-held items out of thin air was impressive. Mother had trained him well.

  The lock to the warehouse was a simple manual type. Since nobody was around, there was no need to be sly about it. He selected a Raven’s Tooth manual pick, inserted it, and tested around a bit, his trained fingers feeling the internal landscape of the lock through the shaft of the pick.

  Voices. People approached.

  Stenstrom ceased his work and stepped away.

  Two Marines came into the area and stopped near the entrance to the warehouse. “This the door?” one Marine asked.

  “Yep.”

  “I don’t see anybody, do you?”

  The other Marine looked around. “Nope.”

  Stenstrom was standing right there not ten feet away—yet another one of the skills that Mother had taught him—to melt into the shadows and be unseen. Stenstrom was adept at it. He leaned against the warehouse and waited for them to leave.

  One of the Marines tried the door. “Locked up tight. What are we doing here again?”

  “Got a report of a suspicious person snooping about.”

  “I don’t see anybody. Let’s to the canteen and set to it. It’s St. Porter’s Day for Creation’s sake.”

  The other Marine looked around again and adjusted his cap. “All right, I’m satisfied. Let’s log our report and be off.”

  Stenstrom stifled a yawn as the second Marine pulled his communicator. “Base,” he said.

  “Go ahead,” came a reply.

  “Base, A-1, investigating report of an unauthorized person skulking about Fleet Warehouse 87. We have investigated and have determined there are no unauthorized persons about. We are quitting the area.”

  “Negative,” came the reply. “Accomplish standard Fret scan.”

  The two Marines winced. One of them got out a small device with a fold-down screen. He adjusted the screen and pressed buttons. “Well, go on!” he said to the other Marine. “Start spraying!”

  The other Marine produced a small gray can from his coat and started moving about the face of the warehouse, spraying a thick, hanging mist from the can. He came within a few feet of Stenstrom, getting him in the face with the spray—it smelled like peaches.

  The Marine holding the device waved it around. “I’m not detecting any hint of use of Gifts here. No Wafting, no Cloaks. I see a fading bit of heat near the door, but that’s all. Probably just someone stopping by forgetting it’s the holiday.”

  “May we please be off then?” the Marine holding the can asked.

  “Base, A1,” the first Marine said, putting his device away. “Fret scan complete—no activity detected. We are retiring from the area.”

  “Acknowledged.” With that, the Marine put his communicator back into his coat, and the both of them walked away.

  A moment later, Stenstrom returned to the door and continued his work. He slid the pick back in and, with a satisfying “click”, the door opened. It was easy. Mother would be proud. He plunged inside.

  Within was a vast warehouse. It was quite dark and Stenstrom could see the blinking lights of motion sensors placed at regular intervals. Again, falling upon his skills, he walked into the interior of the warehouse, his smooth, shadow movements not triggering the sensors.

  He quickly produced a yellow Holystone. He gave it a shake, and it began to glow in his hand. Holding it up, he could see well enough to make his way about. Unlike many warehouses he’d seen before, which were dusty, cobwebbed places, this one was clean and tidy, full of knick-knacks and trinkets. He found several partitioned areas which were labeled with what, he guessed, were the names of various admirals: Pax, Scy, Garth, Riddle, and finally Derlith. This warehouse must be where the admirals stash their booty. Rummaging through the Derlith area, Stenstrom found a large crate labeled: BAZZ. Struggling, he pulled it out of its place. He found a pry bar and opened the crate. Inside, cushioned in a nest of soft straw were twelve black bottles of brandy, sealed with wax and labeled with a black covering. Satisfied, he put the lid back on the crate. Testing the crate’s weight, he discovered it was too heavy to lift and carry. He looked around.

  At the far wall was a float lift.

  Making his way through the dark warehouse, he found the float lift was off and locked down.

  Out came the lock picks again; this time a magnetic Sarah’s Rage pick did the trick, and the float came to life. Fiddling around with the controls, Stenstrom brought it under heel. After a bit of doing, he managed to get the crate on the lift and, floating on air, dragged it out of the warehouse and back down the hall.

  One obstacle down.

  4 Private Taara

  Following the signs, he then made his way to the ship park, which consisted of a control desk, a large hangar, and an open-air yard, twinkling with running lights. He needed a transport or ripcar to take him up to the Seeker. By this point, he was down to about six bells. A slow ripcar could get to the Seeker in about ten minutes.

  As he feared, the ship park was virtually empty—the control desk sat unattended. Outside in the yard, crickets chirped.

  Nearby, a lonely Marine girl, decked out in her fine red coat, stood guard in front of the bust of a stern-faced admiral mounted on a fluted column. The Marine had short black hair that was tucked up into her cap. She had a pair of sickle-like strands of hair that hung down across her face, almost meeting at her chin, sort of like hanging side-burns. Slung across her shoulder was a strummer, a large, mostly ceremonial rifle that the Marines used in large, important places such as Fleet HQ. It was an impressive-looking weapon that had virtually no firepower—it was just for show. Holstered at her waist was the real thing—a jutting, black SK pistol that had a large enough caliber to knock down a brick wall.

  Hanging around her neck was a sign on a string. The sign read “MOM” in a harsh, hand-written scrawl.

  She saw Stenstrom and burst into a smile. “Hi!” she said in an energetic voice. She then stiffened and adjusted her posture. “I mean, good evening, sir,” she said in a much more formal tone, eyeballing his coat and hat.

  “Hello,” he replied. “I need immediate uplift to the Seeker. I was told I may request a transport in this area.”

  “Nobody’s here, sir,” she said, doggedly standing next to the sour-faced marble bust. “Everybody’s gone home for the holiday, I think. I’m really sorry—they’ll be back first thing at six bells. If you want to get some rest in the meantime, you can go to billeting, as I think they’re pretty empty today.”

  Stenstrom looked at her standing there by the bust. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Me? I’m guarding the statue of Admiral Pax here.”

  “You’re guarding a bust?”

  “No, I’m guarding the statue,” she said, pointing at it. “That’s what they said. After I messed up the surprise inspection and got everybody in trouble, they said: ‘Guard Admiral Pax with your life until we come to fetch you.’ So, here I am.”

  Stenstrom gazed at the sign hanging around her neck. “What’s that sig
n?”

  She blushed. “Oh, I sort of forgot about that. It means ‘Maiden of Misery’—that’s what my unit calls me, since I mess things up all the time. I have to wear it all day today.”

  “That’s not very nice.”

  She shrugged.

  He looked around, seeing no one other than her. “Well, ‘Mom’, you’re sure there isn’t anyone who can help me?”

  “Nope, I mean yep. Nobody until six bells.”

  Stenstrom winced. Six bells was no good. Six bells was eight bells past his deadline. With nothing else to do, he determined to return to the Admiral’s area and demand an extension, as he was clearly being set up to fail in a big way.

  As the Marine guard stared at him, he considered his options. The last recourse he had was to do something considered rather embarrassing. He would have to call up to the Seeker and have them send a ripcar down. It was a humbling thing to have to ask his new charge for a lift, but he, by this point, truly didn’t care. He needed to be on that ship. Let Derlith and his lot have their laugh; it made no difference to him.

  The Marine looked at him carefully, puzzled by his coat. “What sort of uniform is that?” she asked. I thought you were an admiral at first, but that’s not an admiral’s uniform. Now that I look on it, I don’t know what it is. What’s HRN mean?”

  “It’s a long story, he said.”

  “Is that a mask you’re wearing? I can’t really see clearly from over here, but it looks like you’re wearing a small mask—like a robber.”

  Stenstrom shook his head. “I’m not a robber, though I rather feel like one at the moment.”

  She leaned up against the bust and adjusted her sign. “Hey, mister, may I trouble you for a moment? I can’t leave my post until I’m relieved, and I’m terribly hungry. They’ve left me out here all bloody day. Could I possibly ask you to go and get me something from the cafeteria?”

  “Are you allowed to eat while on guard duty?”