Sands of the Solar Empire (The Belmont Saga)

by Ren Garcia

  Gwendolyn absorbed the news. “I see,” she said again.

  “In light of this development, your mission has changed. You are to intercept the Seeker, board her, and deliver Paymaster Stenstrom, Adjutant Josephus, Lord of A-Ram, and Marine Private Taara de la Anderson back to Fleet. There, they shall face any number of charges and fines. You are authorized to disable the Seeker in any manner you see fit to safely accomplish your mission, though I bade you to be mindful of Fleet assets and protect them as best you can. I trust to your good judgment. Am I clear?”

  Gwendolyn’s elation fell. “Admiral,” she said, “I request that another perform this task—I do not feel up to it.”

  “There is no other that I trust for such a mission. We cannot tag out a Main Fleet warbird for this task, as it shall then be out of the Admiralty and a matter of public record. The Paymaster, should such a thing come out, might garner sympathy in the court of public opinion throughout the ranks and manage to get out of this situation enhanced. He might even find help—as no doubt, his father or Captain Davage would come to his aid should his plight become known. We have to keep a tight lid on this, Gwendolyn. I want this matter kept on the hush, and I want that animal from Tyrol before me in irons. We want to rip that mask from his foolish Belmont face and tear that coat right off him. And, for that we need you.”

  “Who, pray, is ‘we,’ Admiral?”

  “Never mind. Just get him here on the quick.”

  She closed her eyes. “Admiral, what is to be done with Paymaster Stenstrom?”

  “Let us be creative here for a moment. Stockade is an obvious punishment. Work detail, possible imprisonment, and censure from the Fleet and the Sisters are likely. And surely, a date with the sonic lash would be in order.”

  She sat there for a moment.

  “Can I count on you, Gwen?”

  “Uncle, were you aware that Adjutant Josephus is an accomplished pilot?”

  “Josephus? Of course not! The man can barely see and is afraid of his own shadow. He often scares himself with all the research he does on that Calvert Fiend maniac.”

  “Apparently, he can see well enough to fly a sub-orbital onto a wrecked ship in orbit. Apparently he has more skill and more guts than you gave him notice for.”

  “What does that have to do with your orders, Gwendolyn? When you bring Josephus back here, maybe I’ll have a talk with him and flush out these skills that I did not know he had. Perhaps I can introduce him to the right folk. In any event, I need you to put this Paymaster’s captaincy to a quick end. Again I’ll ask, can I count on you, Gwen?”

  She nodded. “Yes, yes Uncle, of course.”

  “That’s a good lady. We’ll speak again soon. Please be safe and ensure the unharmed return of Josephus and Private Taara. If you have to get rough with the Paymaster, feel free—just remember, I want that coat. Derlith out.”

  The screen went black.

  Gwendolyn sat there for a moment. She sighed and collected the cards sitting on the table. She arranged them back into an orderly deck. “Com,” she said in her usual gruff voice.

  “Com here, Captain.”

  “Com, there’s been a change in plans. The Seeker has broken orbit around Kana and is headed for Bazz. We are to intercept her at once, board her, and return all persons within to Fleet with all speed. Send to navigation to lay in an adjusted course.”

  “Aye, ma’am.”

  “Also, inform the boatswain that I want the Christmas guns checked and made ready to be run out.”

  The Com paused. “The … guns, ma’am?”

  “Did I stutter?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Are you incapable of following my orders?”

  “No, ma’am!”

  “Then carry them out. I’ll not repeat them, and I’ll expect the boatswain’s report in short order.”

  “Aye, ma’am.”

  The Com went off. She sat there at the table. Outside she could hear the occasional chattering of crewmen as they passed by. She looked at the empty chair on the other side of the table.

  There was nobody there, and there probably never would be. That cafeteria at Fleet was, more and more, an idyllic place she could now never go.

  Part 2 All That Resists Him

  1 A Remarkable Birth

  “So, where’re you guys from?” Taara asked. She was sitting at the Missive’s chair eating an insta-meal, her feet propped up on the panel. “I’m from the west continent of Bazz, a little village called Dyson-Clampton. Villages on Bazz always have two names—don’t ask me why— they just do. Ever heard of it?”

  Stenstrom sat down in his chair. “No. I’m afraid I don’t know all that much about Bazz. It sounds like a charming place.”

  “Charming? Nothing charming about it. It’s hot in the summer and way cold in the winter; still, it’s home.”

  “I’ve heard the bugs on Bazz are massive and not to be trifled with,” A-Ram said from the helm.

  “They sure are big. And mean too. Everything’s mean on Bazz. Look at me—I’m mean.” She unbuttoned her Marine vest and got comfortable.

  Stenstrom laughed. “What’s your family do?”

  “Well, since you asked, I’ll tell you. My mom’s a fruit vendor—Galacas mostly when they’re in season. My dad and my uncles distil Zemuda. You like Zemuda?”

  “I heard it gives you a hangover.”

  “It can if you’re not used to it, and it stops you up pretty good—you never get used to that. Wish we had some right now.”

  “I like Zemuda,” A-Ram said, “in a blue cochina. Very tasty drink.”

  Taara turned her nose up at the thought. “So, A-Ram, what about you? Where do you come from?” she asked.

  He turned the wheel a bit. “From St. Edmund’s, a little fishing city south of the forest. A-Ram’s a Calvert House. Neither one of you have probably ever been to Calvert.”

  “I’ve been to Calvert, and St. Edmund’s myself many times,” Stenstrom replied.

  “You have?”

  “Yes. I suppose your being from Calvert is why your thoughts dwell on the Fiend of Calvert so much.”

  Taara put her fork down and turned to them. “Ok, since I’m not a local, who is the Fiend of Calvert? Can you clue me?”

  A-Ram spoke up. “The Fiend of Calvert is a maniac who terrorized the whole of the Calvert region twenty-five years ago.”

  “Let me guess. He killed ladies, courtesans, that sort of thing?” she asked.

  “No, he killed sailors, merchants, drunks—pretty much any dirty man roaming about on the streets was fair game. Since he killed shadowy, downtrodden sorts, nobody really did much about it for a long time, and to this day nobody knows for certain how many people he did away with. After several years of this activity, the riff-raff had had it, and they marched on Calvert Square, demanding justice. The Fiend was like a ghost; nobody could get him, not even the Gifted inspectors from the north they brought in.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “A vigilant from the east called the Mad Lord of Walther came and defeated the Fiend, and he hasn’t been heard from since,” A-Ram said.

  “He killed the Fiend,” Stenstrom said.

  “No, he didn’t kill him,” A-Ram said. “The Fiend escaped, fleeing across the rooftops of Calvert. You know, my room in our house was on the top floor. The night the Mad Lord defeated the Fiend, I was just a kid. I distinctly remember lying in my bed hearing footsteps on the roof—bump, bump, bump, bump—running across to the adjacent house. That was the Fiend fleeing with the Mad Lord in pursuit. Gives me chills when I think how close I was to him. He ran across my rooftop.”

  “You sure it’s a ‘he’, A-Ram?” Stenstrom asked. “I heard the Fiend was a woman.”

  “Oh, that old theory again? It’s been debunked by Lord Roderick of Dee.”

  Stenstrom was about to say something when Taara butted in. “What does your family do, A-Ram?” she asked, trying to change the subject, bored with it.

  �
�Fishing and canning mostly. I never liked the sea much. Flying’s another story. My brother had an old 22-Merc sub-orbital. I got it going when I was young, and that’s what I learned to fly on. I love to fly.”

  “How many brothers and sisters do you have? I’ve got one—one brother, and we fight all the time,” Taara said, seemingly enjoying the get-to-know-you session.

  “Eight,” A-Ram said. “Five brothers and three sisters. I’m the youngest—my mother had a hard time with me and could have no more afterwards. My oldest brother Ephelrood is the pride of our family. He married a Caroline.”

  Stenstrom thought a moment. “A Caroline—you mean a lady from the House of Caroline? They’re Xaphans aren’t they?”

  A-Ram beamed. “They are. There’s an old story about the Carolines that my brother heard of and put to the test. The story goes that, if you venture out to the ruins of Caroline manor bearing gifts and wait there in the moonlight, then you may be rewarded—a Caroline Lady might just pop out of nowhere.”

  “So, your brother went out and waited amongst the ruins of an abandoned manor with gifts, and a woman just appeared?”

  “That’s right. Her name is Lady Ezthold. It’s a very romantic tale.” A-Ram appeared rather envious.

  “Hmmm,” Stenstrom said. “A-Ram, does the word ‘Carofab’ mean anything to you?”

  “No. Why?”

  Stenstrom wanted to say something, but he held his tongue.

  “My brother,” A-Ram continued. Not only did he have the good fortune to marry a Caroline, but he also had the distinction of participating in the Sister’s Program once.”

  “The Sister’s Program?” Stenstrom asked. “Only once? You’ve never participated, A-Ram?”

  A-Ram blushed a little. “Our family—the Sisters normally don’t pay us any mind. Calverts—they just don’t seem to like us much.” He appeared curious. “Bel, have you participated … with the Sisters, I mean? Belmont is a Zenon House, is that right? Zenons are usually favored amongst the Sisters.”

  “Yes, A-Ram, it is. And, to answer the first part of your question, I have.”

  A-Ram stood there behind the wheel—clearly wanting to know more. Taara smiled. “Bel, I think A-Ram’s pretty keen on this Sister thing. I think he wants to know how many times you’ve corked a Sister and is afraid to come out and ask. That right, A-Ram?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Well,” Stenstrom replied. “I’ve never thought about it in quite that fashion, Taara, but I’ve participated twenty-seven times.”

  “Twenty-seven!” A-Ram exclaimed, spitting. “Twenty-seven times? You, by yourself, have nearly quadrupled the output of the entire A-Ram line with the Sisters since it was patented years ago. Why so many?”

  “I don’t know. I … really don’t. They just come. They come often.”

  Taara laughed. “Ha! I’ll bet they do!”

  Stenstrom knew why—he knew perfectly well; he simply didn’t want to say. Being spurned by the Sisters was a bad slap and public humiliation that A-Ram appeared to feel quite strongly about. Programmability, as it was called, meant a lot in the League. He looked devastated.

  Taara tried to change the subject. “So, Bel, what about you? Where are you from?”

  “Tyrol.”

  “Where’s that—I don’t know Kana much.”

  “Esther region, by the sea.”

  “What’s your dad do?”

  “He’s a Fleet captain. He’s commanded the warbird Caroline since before I was born. And no, before you ask, his ship, the Caroline, has nothing to do with the House of Caroline previously mentioned.”

  “Why are you a Paymaster then, Bel?” A-Ram asked. “Why—what with your father and all, and apparently the Sisters approve of you,” he said with a touch of bitterness. “Admiral Derlith at first could not for the life of him figure out why you didn’t simply join the Fleet. He was certain you had some sort of criminal past and was determined to uncover it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. He says you’re a sorcerer—is that true?”

  “I’ve been trained as a Tyrol sorcerer, yes.”

  Taara was fascinated. “What does that mean?”

  “Not much— it means I have various skills which come in handy every so often.”

  Taara stared at him. “Do something?”

  “Oh, please …”

  “Come on, Bel, do something,” she persisted.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, anything.”

  Stenstrom thought a moment. “All right. Taara, pretend I’m a bad guy. Get the drop on me with your SK.”

  “You want me to draw on you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Wait a moment.” Taara pulled her SK , unloaded the mag, and checked the chamber. She seemed satisfied. “Ok, Bel, you ready?”

  “Ready.”

  In a blur Taara pulled her SK. “Ok, you’re covered, I …” Taara looked around. “Bel? Bel … where’d you go?”

  His chair was suddenly empty. She shot up and touched his chair. “You invisible or something?”

  “Nope,” came his voice from the other side of the bridge.

  She whirled around. “Where are you, Bel?”

  “Right behind you.”

  She turned and there he was, back in his chair.

  “Wow!” she said poking him in the shoulder to see if he was real. “Did you see that, A-Ram?”

  “I did. Very impressive.”

  Taara poked him again. “How’d you do that?”

  “Sorry, I can’t tell—that’s a sorcerer’s first rule.”

  “You know what you could do on Bazz with skills like that?”

  Stenstrom laughed. She returned to her chair and remagged her SK. “So, Bel, you sneaky guy you, why did you become a Paymaster?”

  “It’s a difficult story.”

  “Seems to me we’ve got nothing but time,” she said, taking her Marine coat off and loosening her boots. “You guys mind if I take my boots off—they’re killing me.”

  Stenstrom sat there—contemplating his life.

  With two thuds, Taara’s boots bounced to the floor. “So, what about your mom then? What about her?”

  My mother…

  “My mother’s dead, passed away. She was a socialite; she had no particular profession. She raised me and my twenty-nine sisters, as our father was often at sea.”

  “Twenty-nine sisters?” A-Ram asked. “No brothers? That’s odd.”

  Yes, yes it is.

  The questions kept coming and Stenstrom, sitting in his chair, fell into nostalgia as he listened to A-Ram and Taara.

  Bad birth . . . A-Ram had a bad birth.

  Mother/Father . . . .

  Sisters. The Sisters spurned him.

  The House of Caroline . . . A-Ram’s brother married a Caroline from nowhere. Carofab. A fraud?

  Zemuda . . . .

  Sorcerer . . . Tyrol sorcery is forbidden.

  Paymaster . . . Your father’s a great captain. Why are you a Paymaster?

  Why??

  How had he come to this place?

  * * * * *

  “Push! For your baby’s life, you must push!!”

  Lady Jubilee of Belmont-South Tyrol, sweating and near-delusional, was in dire trouble.

  She previously had twenty-nine children. She’d never had a problem carrying or delivering any of them. She could typically wear her expensive gowns all the way up to the end, then, lying on a Tyrol altar, her child would literally fly out of her.

  The one she was presently in the middle of delivering was her thirtieth. It had been a rather difficult pregnancy, the two-year period laced with bouts of angina, bleeding, pain, and periods of madness and raving—an odd case to be sure. And the delivery itself was proving to be a challenge, the Tyrol altar beneath her staining with blood, salty fluids and sweat. Five Sisters of the highest order presided over the delivery and appeared concerned. They struggled to save the life of the baby. The Sisters normally show
ed little emotion, but, in this case, they were clearly frantic.

  Lady Jubilee and her partially delivered child were both dying.

  With no Marines present, the Sisters had no way to speak with Lord and Lady Belmont. However, their thoughts seemed most plain.

  “Push, damn you, Tyrol woman! Push, or we shall tear you apart to get at the child. The child shall live—you are of no concern!!”

  “Push!!”

  * * * * *

  Two years prior, when Lady Jubilee, normally such a vibrant and powerful woman, began showing signs of sickness in her thirtieth pregnancy, her Lord Stenstrom became quite concerned, as any husband would for his wife. He took time away from his duties as captain of the Main Fleet Vessel Caroline to personally tend to her. Seeing her in the early stages of deterioration, he took his lady to see the Hospitalers in Tyrol for help, and they were perplexed.

  At first they simply thought Jubilee’s age was playing a factor—she was over two hundred years old, after all. However, after testing, the Hospitalers determined Lady Jubilee was in model shape. She was fit, typically plump in a modest way as was her body-type, and extremely healthy—a standard Elder woman.

  They tested her for signs of sickness or poisoning—nothing could be found. Still, her symptoms were clear: she writhed in bouts of invasive pain, she fell into madness and began to walk a road of slow deterioration that could lead to her eventual death—all the signs were there.

  Stumped, the Hospitalers noted everything unusual and pertinent about the lady that they could use to aid in their analysis. Her hair was a bright silver in color—Pewterlock, the shade was called in the east, a trademark of her House Tyrol heritage. Lady Jubilee had a number of vices. She liked to indulge in smoking as was the fashion in the Esther region, and not simply the demure, tiny cigarettes mounted on a stick as ladies often enjoyed; rather, she smoked a large, home-made coal that was almost large enough to be considered a cigar. She smoked them quite often; however, she had given the habit up for her pregnancy—she was loudly eager to take it back up again as soon as she delivered. She also enjoyed the occasional stiff drink, not fruity cocktails, but “men’s drinks”—but again had given the practice up for her pregnancy. She was medium-sized for an Esther woman and carried a bit of extra weight, but nothing so excessive that might explain her symptoms.