Sands of the Solar Empire (The Belmont Saga)

by Ren Garcia

  “See, look at it roll,” Taara said through her Aquanaught. “Its orbit is terminal. I think it got clipped by an old weather sat a few days ago and busted open a thruster.”

  The great ship looked like a bird shot dead on the wing. All of its lights were off, and the massive forward sensor was quiet.

  Stenstrom gazed at it with wonder. Rolling, tumbling, in desperate shape—that was still his ship.

  His ship.

  “I don’t think we can do this with the Seeker rolling like that. We won’t be able to dock,” A-Ram said.

  “Can we start heading down, then?” Taara asked, clutching her coat. “It’s freezing in here, and these Aquanaughts will only last a few more minutes.”

  Stenstrom looked at the ship. “Look there,” he said. “Look to that large window in the aft tower section—that’s the main mess I think. The way the ship’s rolling, that window, centrally located near the pivot point, is hardly moving.”

  “And so?” A-Ram said.

  “So, just crash us through it. Once we’re inside, the blast shutters should close, or I’ll seal the breech myself and send the bill for its repair to Admiral Derlith.”

  “Seal it? With what?” A-Ram asked.

  “Holystones. You’ll see. So, go ahead, A-Ram, just plow into it.”

  Taara shivered. “You guys can let me back down any time now.”

  A-Ram pushed his glasses back and punched it. He maneuvered past the rolling wings and made a bead for the large mess hall window spinning ahead like the center of a tire—not taking his eyes off it.

  With a bang, the engines went out for want of air. They drifted ahead.

  A-Ram pointed the nose at the spinning window as his controls, designed for atmospheric use, gave way.

  CRASH!!

  The sub-orbital plowed through the large window, smashed through the debris of chairs and tables within the mess, and slammed into the far wall, partially going through it. The decompression instantly began pulling the furniture out of the mess, and even began tugging on the sub-orbital.

  The cracked hatch of the suborbital flew off and was sucked out into space.

  A-Ram, though he was strapped in, was so slight of frame that he was pulled through his straps and out toward the window. “Where’s the shutters?” he gasped.

  Stenstrom caught and held him fast by the wrist. He flapped up and down in the suction.

  Taara leaned forward and grabbed onto A-Ram’s arm as well. His aquanaught was sucked out of his mouth and out the window. He screamed in pain.

  “Taara, you got him?” Stenstrom roared.

  “I got him!”

  “I’m going to let go and seal the breach! You ready?”

  “I’m ready!”

  Stenstrom let go, waved his hands, and three lime green balls appeared between his fingers. They were instantly sucked away, past A-Ram, toward the blown out window. The balls hit the window frame and burst into what looked like a huge spider web. The window, now partially blocked, lost a fair bit of suction. A-Ram fell to the floor with a thud.

  Stenstrom surged out of the wrecked sub-orbital and, standing, he produced several more lime green Holystones and threw them at the window. Before long, the breach was covered.

  The ship, somewhat belatedly, reacted to the depressurization and the blast shutters closed with a clang behind the webbing.

  He stood A-Ram up. “You all right? Is everyone all right?”

  A bit shaky, A-Ram nodded, and Taara bounced out of the craft, clearly fine. They looked around and noted the damage. The mess was a mess. The suborbital was done—this flight into low orbit would be its last. Stenstrom and Taara pulled the cargo of brandy out of the wreck of the sub-orbital and looked it over. Inside, several of the bottles were cracked.

  A-Ram, who had managed to hold onto his hat, rummaged through the crate. “Looks to be we’ve got nine bottles left. Bel, did the Admiral say how many bottles you were to bring to Bazz?”

  “I don’t recall him mentioning a specific number. He just said get the brandy there.”

  A-Ram arranged the bottles on the floor in neat rows. “Well then, that’s in our favor. Since he was mum on that point, all we really need is one bottle.”

  There was no power in the ship. The Grav Pack was still functioning—it worked on a redundant, solar-powered system so it was usually the only thing working on a stripped-out ship, besides the emergency shutters and a tad bit of convection heat to keep the miles of pipes from bursting. Using the chronometer on the sub-orbital, Stenstrom made a recording and beamed it to Admiral Derlith’s holomail.

  He had boarded the Seeker with minutes to spare.

  * * * * *

  They made their way to a nearby RipcarBay that was clear. Taara disappeared and returned some time later with a few bagged snacks and cans of flat Gasol. “This was all I could find.” Sitting Indian-style, they ate in the dark, softly lit by a few Holystones and using the Admiral’s brandy crate as a makeshift table.

  “This is kind of cool,” Taara said, “sitting here in the dark with two handsome fellows.” Taara, apparently a bubbly person, raised her can of warm Gasol. “To Stenstrom, Lord of Belmont-South . . . whatever. Here’s to your first day of command.”

  A-Ram smiled and raised his can. “I concur.”

  Stenstrom laughed and clicked his can with theirs, making his Gasol fizz. “And here’s to good friends. As they say, a friend made on St. Porter’s Day is a friend indeed.”

  As they sat there in the dark eating their unappealing meal, a bond was formed between these three people: Stenstrom, A-Ram and Taara. As Stenstrom said, a friend made on St. Porter’s Day was a friend for life.

  Such a thought could never have been truer.

  6 The MOLLY

  So now that they were aboard the Seeker—what was next? The ship, with the exception of working gravity, was dead and only had a few days left before its decaying orbit became critical and then entered the atmosphere as a flaming ball of wreckage.

  “A reclamation team is coming in from Planet Fall, Bel,” A-Ram said. “I recall seeing the order on the Admiral’s desk. Either tomorrow or the next day—everything’s in a bit of limbo due to the holiday. If they enter the ship, by Fleet rule, all appointments are cancelled. You cannot be bonded as captain if they board.”

  “Then we need to be out of here prior to their arrival.”

  “`Scuse me,” Taara said. “The ship’s dead. Her engines were removed and hauled out for scrap—I saw it on the roster a few days ago.”

  The three of them were trying to pry one of the central corridor hatchway doors open with a pole-like strut they had salvaged from the sub-orbital. They were hoping to reach the bridge. There, they could assess the situation and, with luck, right the ship. The door stubbornly held shut—they strained and sweated.

  “Your boy, A-Ram, Admiral Derlith, had this episode planned out well. Bloody holidays! All I have to do is get a stinking crate of brandy to Bazz for an Admiral’s party—but look—the Seeker’s not going anywhere.” Stenstrom wiped his brow. “And I’ll wager that brandy is gut-wrenchingly bad, as well.”

  “I’ve heard the Admiral produces a very fine brandy,” A-Ram replied.

  Taara had her Marine coat off and was straining on the pole, her little hands gripped on hard. “Why drink brandy when a good honey ale is available?” She let go of the pole and stared at the unmovable door. “Elder’s Balls, this thing is a pain. Well, why not use our heads here. You boarded the Seeker, so that part’s taken care of. Why not just hire a ship to transport the brandy to Bazz? Heck, a slow stumblebum transport out of Armenelos would have it there in three or four days, and you’ve got twelve.”

  The hatch gave a metallic groan. They strained harder.

  “No,” A-Ram said, sweating on the pole. “Won’t work—the Admiral’s got us covered. By order, the Seeker has to deliver the goods. And, having a devious mind, he even wrote in verbiage stating that the Seeker in particular has to deliver it. Not
a model of the Seeker sitting on another ship, and not another ship named Seeker—this one, and under its own power, no towing or barging.” A-Ram released the pole, flexed his aching fingers, and tried again.

  “The Admiral appears dead set against me commanding this ship. He welcomed my money with a smile, but, for the rest of it, I’m on the quits.” Stenstrom said.

  A-Ram let go of the pole. “That coat you wear really got to him. The Admiralty hates the Hoban Royal Navy. May I ask, why did you wear it to your appointment?”

  Stenstrom looked down at his coat. “Because I like it. Because Lilly picked it out for me.”

  “Who’s Lilly?” Taara asked.

  “A dear friend of mine. My sponsor, Lord Davage, asked that I not wear it—apparently sensing the Admiral’s hatred for the group.”

  “You shouldn’t have worn it?” Taara asked.

  Stenstrom thought a moment. “I suppose not. I guess I wanted to get their attention, to make a splash. I didn’t give them their due, and look where I am.”

  He looked around. “All of this is my fault.”

  A-Ram continued on the pole. “I … don’t know if it was just the coat. One of the Admiral’s hangers-on seems to have a firm agenda against you.”

  Stenstrom let go of the pole. “Against me?”

  “Yes, I’m not sure who has it in for you or why, but your name’s been kicked around quite a bit as of late.”

  Taara clapped him in the shoulder. “Ah, don’t worry about that stuff. Things will work out, you’ll see. Put a bold face on it.” She grabbed the pole and began straining again.

  The hatch groaned. “Oh … oh, I think we’ve got it!” Taara cried.

  The hatch gave and opened with a clank. Beyond was a dark expanse of corridor stretching off into the distance. They all huffed and puffed; the effort to get the hatch open had been considerable.

  A-Ram peered into the dark. “Bel, I thought the ship was abandoned.”

  “It is,” Stenstrom said trying to pull the pole from its place—it was rooted fast.

  “Well, I know I saw somebody standing there in the dark, just now.”

  “What?” Taara said looking through the hatch. “I don’t see anybody.”

  Stenstrom, holding the pole, stepped through. “I agree. There is nobody here but the three of us.”

  “No, no, I’m certain I saw someone.”

  “I don’t see anybody,” Taara said, squinting.

  They all went through into the dark beyond—the air was heavy and stale. A-Ram appeared apprehensive.

  “We’re going to have to take a good hard look at life support,” Stenstrom said. “The air’s already getting a little bad.”

  He waved his hand producing three yellow Holystones. He shook them and they lit up in a yellowish glow. He then handed one each to Taara and A-Ram. “These are cool,” Taara said holding hers in her palm. “You’re just full of surprises.”

  A-Ram shook his Holystone and held it up. He gasped.

  “Did you see that?”

  “See what?”

  “I saw someone moving into the dark. I saw the hint of a passing cloak and a bend of the knee.”

  Stenstrom stepped forward. “Hello? Anyone there?”

  No answer.

  “Where did you see it?” Stenstrom asked.

  “Just there,” A-Ram said pointing.

  Taara stepped out into the dark, waving her Holystone around, her long, black sideburns jangling about her head. “I don’t see anybody.”

  Stenstrom joined her, seeing nothing. “I think your imagination is getting to you, A-Ram. There is nobody here.”

  A-Ram laughed and felt silly. “Certainly. You’re right. Sorry.”

  They made their way down the section, their heels clicking on floor boards.

  “Hey, Bel, what’s that?” A-Ram asked, pointing.

  Lying on the floor in the center of the corridor was a small white envelope. A-Ram stepped up to it and shined his Holystone illuminating a black flowing script written across its face in an elegant hand. “This letter is addressed to me,” he stated.

  “To you?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not possible. Did you know anybody aboard the Seeker from the previous crew?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  Stenstrom approached and leaned over the letter. It read:

  to: STENSTROM, LORD OF BELMONT-SOUTH TYROL

  “A-Ram,” he said flatly, “this letter is addressed to me, not you.”

  “No, it’s addressed to me, Bel I can read, you know.”

  Stenstrom waved his hand and produced a small chest. He opened the lid, popped the letter in and shut it.

  “What are you doing,” A-Ram asked.

  “I’m putting this letter away for safe keeping. We need to focus on getting to the bridge for the time being.” He waved his hands and the chest with the letter resting within, vanished. “We’re all tired and possibly a bit oxygen-deprived from our trip up. We’ll examine it in further detail later when time allows.”

  Not far down the corridor, another hatch emerged in the dim yellow light. Apparently all of the hatches were sealed. They groaned with the prospect of having to grapple open another one.

  “The bridge is several levels up and probably twelve hundred feet away from us with about fifty hatches in between. We’ll never get there like this. We need power,” A-Ram said. “I’m dreading the prospect of manually opening another one.”

  “You know anything about Straylight ships?” Stenstrom asked.

  “A little bit,” A-Ram said.

  “Not a thing,” Taara said. “I’m just a grunt.”

  They approached the next hatch. Stenstrom tested it and it held fast. He sighed in frustration. “Let’s have that pole and put our backs into it.”

  From behind them, toward the aft of the ship, came a distinct groan.

  “What was that?” Taara asked.

  “Just the ship, the superstructure torquing about,” Stenstrom said.

  “Ok,” she replied. “Didn’t sound like metal to me though. Sounded like a person.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  They turned back to the locked hatch, and Stenstrom fished the pole into the base. As he strained on the pole, he heard the distinct sound of rapid footsteps approaching, thumping on metal.

  Bump . . . Bump . . . Bump . . . Bump . . .

  “Who’s running?” he asked. A-Ram stood there rather ashen, and Taara drew her SK.

  “Gods,” A-Ram said, “I’ve heard footsteps like that before when I was a boy. It was the Fiend of Calvert running across my rooftop.”

  “I heard something that time, but I don’t see anything,” Taara replied.

  “It’s the Fiend. He’s on the ship with us. Perhaps he’s the one who left me the letter?”

  “Oh please, A-Ram—listen to yourself,” Stenstrom reproached. “There is nobody other than us on this ship.”

  Stenstrom held his glowing holystone up to see. “See? Nothing, there’s nothing. Just our imaginations. Come on, let’s get this hatch open.”

  A-Ram crowded in near Stenstrom and grabbed the pole, tugging on it.

  As they began to work on the hatch, a new sound emerged. It was a harsh sound, a grating of metal on metal culminating in an abrupt SNAP! SNAP!

  Stenstrom released the pole and stood upright. He was most familiar with the sound.

  SNAP! SNAP!

  Just like from his old dream. The sound moved up and down his spine, unsettling him.

  “Do you hear that?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Taara replied. “Sounds creepy. So what are we going to do? And, you’re right about the air, Bel; it’s already going foul.”

  Stenstrom stood there listening.

  “Bel?”

  He pulled himself from his thoughts. “I’m sorry. We must get to the bridge. I suppose we’ll figure something out from there.”

  A-Ram released the pole. “I think it’s time to play serio
usly.” He unbuttoned his white shirt and reached in. A moment later he pulled out a gold necklace that he’d been wearing and showed it to them. “Here—I think this might help.”

  “What’s that?” Taara asked.

  A-Ram was holding a gold necklace with a charm in the shape of a freshwater fish dangling off it.

  “Is that a guppy?” Taara asked.

  “What are we looking at here, A-Ram?” Stenstrom asked.

  “This, Bel, is the MOLLY. It’s the LosCapricos weapon of my House. Do you know what it does?”

  “No.”

  “It allows one to do things one wouldn’t ordinarily be able to do, and to know things one shouldn’t know.”

  Taara looked at it with interest. “What? The fish does that? You’re pulling my leg.”

  “No—I’m serious. With the MOLLY, I can do and know all sorts of things.”

  Stenstrom was skeptical. “Sounds too good to be true. Have you ever used it to discover the identity of the Fiend of Calvert?”

  He laughed. “No—it doesn’t work too well on abstract things like that—it’s great for technical matters and physical feats. It does have a few pretty severe drawbacks, however.”

  “And they are?”

  A-Ram blushed. “Well, for one thing, you have to register with the Sisterhood before you use it—they keep a close eye on such things. Also—and I’ve never witnessed this myself— they say if you use the MOLLY too much, there are repercussions. I’m told that a demon will come for your soul.”

  “A demon? Is that true?”

  “Again, I’ve not seen it myself. I’ve never used it for much other than small things.” A-Ram laughed. “I used it to win an eating contest once, and that’s about it.”

  Taara laughed. “Did you register with the Sisters for that?”

  “Sure did.”

  Stenstrom pulled one of his pistols out of his sash. “Fate works wonders on St. Porter’s Day, A-Ram. Remember this?” he said.

  Stenstrom’s weapon looked like an ancient lock-style pistol. It had a smooth iron barrel with a worn walnut stock inlaid with gothic golden lines. “This is the NTH, the LosCapricos weapon of my family,” he said.