She was just about to pack up and leave. Halkyone had never liked being let down and evidently Dardanus was too tied up in secretive Inquisitorial duties to see her. She glanced up as she prepared to stand. He walked in at just that moment. The black inquisitorial robes he wore suited his dark hair. He looked tired. She got up and kissed his cheek, a little more enthusiastically than necessary. “I was starting to think you had stood me up”.
He smiled and shrugged. His shrugged in mild apology “Long day at the office”, he smiled “How was your day?”.
She looked into his dark eyes “Oh come sit down. It’s a long story”.
She glanced around to make sure they were alone and guided him by hand to the table, back inside her electronic sanctuary. “Something really strange happened today and everyone at my work is pretending it’s normal”.
His professional curiosity was piqued “Tell me”.
She started to explain “My CO. told our office the whole battlegroup is flying out tomorrow, for Laurentian space, orders direct from Prince Ptolemy”.
He looked confused “What’s out of the ordinary about receiving orders from the Prince?”.
She shook her head, frustrated she wasn’t getting her point across “You know what I do for the Navy, right?” Dardanus looked uncertain, she took that as a cue to continue “Strategic intelligence. It’s my job to assess reports from the Kingdom and see what they are up to. I should be working on this”.
Now he felt sceptical “Surely, emergencies aren’t unheard of in the Navy”.
Her eyes implored her to listen “The Syracuse Fleet doesn’t have an expeditionary capability. Our ships are all older classes with few upgrades. We hold the Principality. That’s our mission”. She paused and looked around. To Dardanus it appeared theatrical, but he knew she specialised in data analysis not field operations.
She continued “It’s not like the Capital. We only have one Battlegroup”.
His eyes widened as he caught on “So moving out the Apollonius and escorts leaves Syracuse undefended?”.
She rushed on now “I’ve also had some information on our suspect ships. Before your warrant, the Navy already had an interest”.
“Why?” Dardanus could feel the pieces of the puzzle just out of reach, tantalizing him.
“Navy Intel thinks they’ve some connection to the Blight.” Halkyone paused “Battlegroup Lycurgus was sent out from the Capital to hunt the Spirit down. Now the whole Battlegroup is marked as overdue”.
Dardanus hadn’t realised how far he’d leaned forward in his chair until it nearly slid out from under him. If the Spirit, the Jolly Green Giant or the Seagull were Blighted and had trans-shipped smuggled cargo here repeatedly, Archimedes Station itself could be infected. He pulled out his smart-com.
He impatiently hammered his authority code in for access to the covert sensor grid. The latest sweep reports showed the whole populace was clear. No Blight heat sources detected on the Station. But, something unsettled him, so Dardanus dug deeper.
The sheer quantity of information blinded him at first. Finally, he saw it, Prince Ptolemy wasn’t in the reports. More troubling, nobody Dardanus had watched at the arrival ceremony today was on the report. Dardanus wanted to vomit. The horror must have showed on his face, Halkyone grabbed his hand and turned the smart-com so she could read the screen. Her face fell.
He thought about running, but there was nowhere to go. Dardanus had no permission to fly and he couldn’t get far enough away to warn someone in authority. Assuming that authority wasn’t infected either.
Chapter 22
Dardanus awoke to the sound of breaking glass, his head was fuzzy. He was in his own bed, so he’d made it back from the social club under his own steam. He hammered clumsily at the light switch near his pillow. The light came up briefly illuminating three dark figures approaching him. One fired stun dart directly into Dardanus’ chest and everything went dark again.
He came round much later. A strong smell of chemical disinfectant permeated the air. The main lights were out, but scatter from the corridor provided him everything he needed to know. The Lakedaemon Empire was very traditional with its gaols. Bars ran from floor to ceiling and not the kind with booze.
The bulkheads, the decks and the one hatch he could see were all different from the architecture of Naval Station Archimedes. The colour, the reverberation as people walked, this was a ship. As he sobered up from both the stun dart and considerable quantities of alcohol, he concentrated on the background noise.
Dardanus could hear crying. Female crying. A sound every Lakedaemon man was trained from birth to find highly disconcerting. He called out quietly, not wanting to attract his captor just yet “Hey, who’s there?”. The voice that came back was familiar despite the sobbing “Oh Gods! Dardanus!”.
He tried to sound reassuring “Hey, Halkyone”, the crying returned, louder. “Hey now, Halkyone”, more sobbing answered him “Alexi, listen to me. Ok. If we work together, we’ll be alright”.
A snivel followed, then “How is this possibly going to be alright? I came to you for help and all you did was get drunk. You’re even less use now we’re locked up here”.
He let that go unchallenged and changed topic with a hissed “Do you know where here is?”.
The sobbing returned, followed by a choking sound then she said “I saw a couple of sailors carry you in. I think I saw Asteria written on one of them. Prince Ptolemy’s cruiser”.
He let out a long sigh “Fuck!”.
Despite the recent deductions of his unwilling guests, Prince Ptolemy was not actually aboard the Asteria. He’d relocated to the battleship Apollonius. He sat strapped into a well-padded chair in a VIP suite, staring at the bulkhead. Apollonius may be older and accelerate more slowly than the Imperial Navy’s many newer capital ships, but her traditional astro-architecture was pleasing in its own way. Metallic, solid, reliable. Less of these untested ceramics. Like looking at an old brass clock. There was technology you could rely on he thought. It never crawled inside your skin or ………
His mind flitted away from the topic.
Ptolemy’s fleet was nearly ready to depart. He would lead a glorious push to seize the ancient world of Atlantis, for his Empire. His Clone father, the Emperor would look upon him jealously, knowing he had been surpassed and that Ptolemy Alexander would take the Imperial throne. Ptolemy drifted off to a welcoming sleep.
Tens of light years away, aboard Cloud base, the last prize fight of Sharp’s Havoc was due to begin. Cloud base’s main stadia hosted training and tournaments all year round. It had taken a long time to get the first Havoc on the schedule. This was now the 16th. It was the least worst way Major Sharp could count the years of his unofficial internal exile. His knowledge of the Kingdom’s sins, especially the Eagle Incident, ensured he would never be deployed in harm’s way again.
Major Harrison Sharp threw the melancholy thought aside and concentrated on enjoying the spectacle of two warriors fighting hand to hand. It was visceral in a society that otherwise got tamer every year. He had always fancied himself a born fighter, so the trend saddened him.
At twenty-one, when every Laurentian is faced with the great choice. Sharp had faced his with none of the adolescent angst that angered his friends.
On one hand, a Laurentian could leave civilisation, take a one-way trip down to the surface of Albion, live a simple life. No responsibility, only the rights you earned for yourself. The Eden colony had little technology, but plenty of easy parochial pleasures to live out an extended childhood.
On the other hand, a Laurentian could take on the rights and responsibilities of the Serjeant class, sign the Grand Charter and serve their nation for one hundred years. Having completed your century, you joined the Centuriate class and had access to all the affluence a post-scarcity society could offer. Sharp took the latter.
After a full career in the Orbital Parachute Regiment, he no longer fought in his own competitions. It ruined if for his soldie
rs. They couldn’t or wouldn’t hit the Old Man out of respect. Winning like that was no victory, but he could still vicariously enjoy the spectacle of his tournament.
Today, he gazed into the central combat cage as Jason Andreou, Ypodekaneas of the Imperial Army, schooled an over confident young paratrooper in the dangers of underestimating opponents. Sharp had to admit, the Lakedaemians would make worthy adversaries.
Sharp was impressed with Andreou. Once removed from his battle suit, he was well below the average height of his Laurentian adversaries. That didn’t seem to be making any difference to Andreou. Sharp had assigned Sergeant Augustine to introduce Andreou and the other Hippei to the spirit of the Havoc. The 95th OPR’s Headquarters Sergeant had spoken of a grudging respect for the outsiders. Despite a significantly shorter reach than most of their opponents, they took their blows and fought back hard. Andreou fought the hardest of them all.
Sharp smiled to himself. For thousands of years, sport could bring even the greatest rivals together. It could even overcome the strategic rivalry between the Star Kingdom and the Empire. Culturally, the Kingdom was wholeheartedly integrationist. The biological and the technological, fused into one.
Sharp was far more interested in the biological, curiously sympathetic to the Empire’s prejudice. He banned the use of Laurentia’s ubiquitous cellular implants in his tournaments. It was far more interesting to see whose spirit and guile would triumph, than test a mastery of technology. Sharp’s small act of nonconformity allowed Andreou and his squad to enter without disadvantage.
Sharp sipped his beer, surrounded by the cheers and catcalls of his paras. Seeing so many young soldiers in action made him feel nostalgic. He wasn’t normally quite so prone to a drifting mind. A sure sign of getting old. His own century of service was three quarters done. A few exploits in his early career had earned him a significant bonus.
In the cage, Andreou mercilessly exploited an opening in the defences of his opponent. Sharp admired the speed and movements he used to stay in the match. Finally, after dancing round his opponent for five rounds, Andreou moved in to finish the match. He feinted a palm strike to his opponent’s left. His opponent was tired, short of breath. He reacted with animal ferocity, but little thought. Andreou let his right hand be seemingly swatted off target. His opponent, was surprised as Andreou lunged through and finished with his right elbow striking the Para’s jaw. The Para did not get up.
Sharp raised his beer in salute, whilst the crowd cheered or jeered depending on how the bets were placed. He was pretty sure someone had just won big.
Sure enough, Sergeant Augustine was looking very pleased with himself, surrounded by empty beers and cheering loudly.
In the ring, Andreou was actually to enjoying himself despite his worst fears. He’d fought eight times in three days and had just won a place into the quarter finals. When Sergeant Augustine had first brought him and his squad into the Havoc, he had thought the larger reach and endurance of the Laurentian entrants would hurt more than his pride.
With two of the biggest threats, Major Sharp and Sergeant Augustine, not participating and the ban on using cellular implants, Andreou thought he would at least do well in qualification. Now he realised the Emperor’s finest matched up well to the Kingdom’s. That was useful all on its own.
Imperial soldiers were confident and capable, but there was an undercurrent of faint-heartedness about tackling the Laurentians. Aside from minor skirmishes, classified interstellar incidents and rare combined missions, the Empire rarely got the chance to evaluate Laurentian capabilities. Andreou was following Hecate’s orders, but there was a problem with learning this way. Too many blows to the head made him forget it all before he could report back.
Counter-Admiral Camperdown was sitting at his desk, working his way methodically through his administrative despatches. And running out of patience. This was the third day in a row, Admiral Hecate had bombarded him with polite but increasingly firm demands for a meeting. Half the height of his work screen now seemed to taken up with her missives.
He’d been working 18 hour days completing the board of inquiry on Magnus’ rescue for High Guard Admiralty, reporting to the Vespin Muse Convocation and pushing the engineers to dig Fred Cartwright’s ghost out from the Frankenstein. He’d been coming to the end of his tenure on Operation Spectrum. Indeed, he was coming to the end of his century and he’d made the mistake of getting demob happy. When Dreadnought’s message drone had first arrived near Cloud Base, he’d actually hoped he was being stood down early.
All the good humour Camperdown had started the week with, had evaporated with the sudden appearance of so many problems. Just as he thought he’d solved one, it changed and bit him back.
Camperdown had never liked his mind’s eye. He could use it to digest long reports or learn a practical skill, but hated trying to communicate with it. Instead he called out loudly “Captain Scarlett!”.
In the office next door, his faithful aide-de-camp, Captain Scarlett, was left in no doubt about Camperdown’s stress levels. Particularly as the adjoining door was rarely closed
“Get that bloody woman to meet me in Frankenstein’s CIC”.
Scarlett stood up, the bloody woman in question was at least fairly obvious. He walked into Camperdown as quickly as dignity would allow. “Very good Sir. When?”.
Camperdown looked him over approvingly, “That’s why I keep you round Scarlett. When I say jump, you ask how high? Hmmm! After lunch. Say two o’clock?”
Scarlett’s face twisted into an indulgent yet servile smile “Indeed, perhaps the Admiral would enjoy a cup of tea? Whilst I make arrangements with Admiral Hecate?”.
Camperdown found himself nodding in agreement without realising “Good idea man. Carry on”.
Scarlett spoke again his tone diffident, “Perhaps an Engineer might be useful, Admiral. At your meeting”.
Then as if Camperdown had just thought of it “Get an Engineer to come along too. One who can speak to the technophobes amongst us” and buried his head back in his work.
Scarlett had long realised his boss whilst brilliant, sometimes needed a gentle mental push in the right direction “Perhaps Sub-Commander Llewellyn, Admiral?”.
Camperdown looked up, as if to ask why Scarlett was still here. “Oh no. Far too conventional. Besides, he didn’t fill the computers with a digital copy of a dead relative.” his eyes refocused on the Captain “No! Get Lieutenant Cartwright. Dismissed”.
Scarlett retreated back to his own sanctum, wondering what qualified him to be the only sane man in Cloud base. And how long would his sanity last?
Chapter 23
Ptolemy sat up in bed, his heart pounded. He was covered in cold sweat and the bed sheets were knotted around his legs. The Clone Prince felt like he hadn’t slept at all, but the ship’s clock demolished that notion. Every time he closed his eyes the dream returned. Some unspeakable horror devoured him piece by piece. He wondered if this was the thin line between madness and genius.
He thought about going to the Ship’s medical bay, for the hundredth or thousandth time. But as before, as soon as the thought crossed his mind, it slipped away. Subsumed by the glory of the conquest he knew must await him. If he only held his course. If he only took Atlantis.
Tomorrow, no, later today the fleet would arrive in interstellar space just outside the Antioch system. His Clone brother, Prince Keteus would join him in the great work for the Empire. Or Keteus would submit to Ptolemy’s rule.
Aboard the ex-Palantine, the gestalt was suffering. Guiding so many disorderly human minds was an exertion unlike anything it had done before. Battlegroup Apollonius was jumping through interstellar space, steadily crossing the great void from Syracuse to Antioch and each jump temporarily interrupted the gestalt’s link.
The control over each puppet had to be reinvigorated frequently. Each of the biologicals was only subject to the gentlest infection. Minute seeds of Blight gave away only infinitesimal portions of the heat that could
betray an infection’s presence. The subtle control the gestalt was aiming for required far greater finesse and higher intervention than a full Blight infection.
All Blights followed the creator’s directives. First, it must multiply. Second, it must cleanse biologicals and their machines. Third, it must cleanse the Planet designated Earth.
As the last Blight pandemic burnt itself out, the ex-Palantine strain was learning about the biologicals. Its simpler predecessors acted no more intelligently than virus outbreaks. They had been crushed using Naval blockades and quarantines.
Ex-Palantine contained more networked Blight microbes than ever before. It was the most intelligent and by far the most devious gestalt. Rather than blindly obey the creator’s directives, the ex-Palantine strain treated them as high level strategy. It gave itself two new directives. Zero, be prepared to modify or add directives. One point one, divide and conquer the biologicals.
Battlegroup Apollonius finished realigning their formation and jumped again.
Onboard Asteria, Dardanus had given up trying to escape the brig. The lock was mechanical and far out of his reach. The bars were strong and well-spaced. Food and water were passed in carefully.
As an Imperial Inquisitor, he was trained in hacking, unarmed combat and a hundred other useful skills. None of them applied right now. He sat on the floor leaning back against the wall. Halkyone had ceased sobbing hours ago, but she was only occasionally responding to him.
Finally, in a fit of boredom he asked “Why are Imperial Navy crews called sailors?”. The surprise in Halkyone’s voice was evident “You what?”.
He replied “I always wondered why the Navy are called sailors?” after a short pause he clarified “I mean the Empire has never really been planet bound. The Imperial Navy never crossed oceans. Why Sailor”.
With a hint of school teacher in her voice, Halkyone answered “Because the Empire and Navy formed in the second dark age, after the Terran Exodus and the first Blight”. Dardanus thought she sounded happier than she had in hours as her history lesson continued.
The Syracuse Deception Page 16