Dark Foundations

by Chris Walley

  The eighteen human crew members of the full-suppression complex and the twenty-four members of the ground attack team all reported the same phenomenon and all knew the creature that stole their sleep: the baziliarch stored away in dormancy—whatever that meant—in Aft-Hold 12. So no one slept and after seven weeks in the Nether-Realms the crew walked around as if they were half dead.

  Lezaroth stared at a now yawning Hanax and wondered what to do. We all need sleep. We’re well below the very minimum state of efficiency that I would be happy with in battle.

  As he pondered the matter, a gray light flashed on the internal systems screen. It was the steersman handler. Lezaroth tapped the response button and the image of a gaunt, hairless, corpse-pale face came on screen.

  “Sir,” the handler said, his voice the usual mumble, “the steersman isn’t happy. He’s restless, thrashing about on the couch.”

  Lezaroth glanced at Hanax and decided that he was probably out of earshot. But taking no chances, he swung his chair around to deprive his colleague of the chance of lip reading.

  “What is it, Handler?” he said quietly. “Is the baziliarch affecting it?”

  “I don’t think so.” There were more mumbles. “But I can’t tell. As you know, I can’t enter the room while it is navigating.”

  “But we are on course?”

  “As far as I can tell.”

  Dealing with steersmen over a long time destroyed your powers of speech and Lezaroth felt that the handler’s mumbling testified to it. “But you aren’t sure, are you?”

  The handler looked uneasy. “I think we are on course . . . so far.”

  By the powers, I don’t need this! An erring steersman could take us anywhere at this speed. And with two other ships tagging along behind, a lot hinges on him getting it right.

  Clearly they needed to go to Standard-Space. He could use such an occasion to sort out a number of issues. Including whether it is me or the ambassadors who are really running this operation.

  “That isn’t good enough, Handler. Not for this trip. . . . Let me take the ship up into Standard-Space and I’ll have our position checked. As soon as we emerge, you interrogate the steersman and find out what’s wrong. Feed it something.”

  He paused, staring at the deathly pale face. “And remember, Handler, report only to me. Or else.”

  He noted the handler’s look of dread.

  He’s afraid of me. He knows that failing handlers are traditionally fed to their steersmen. And he knows that I am now the sort of man who would do that without a second thought. All fear me now, even the security officer. Once I wanted respect and admiration from my crew, but I now have only fear. Well, that will suffice.

  The screen went blank.

  Lezaroth squinted at the gray figures on the navigation screen. All being well, they were between systems.

  Hanax, now tossing and turning in his seat, caught his attention.

  I hate that man. He comes from a no-good family on a third-rate world. I hate the way he has climbed up the ladder. And I hate the way he wants to work with me, not under me.

  “Hanax!” he yelled.

  Hanax sat bolt upright and rubbed his face. “Sir?”

  “Wake up, man! I’m going aft. Mind the bridge.” And don’t do a thing, Lezaroth added as a mental postscript.

  “Yes, sir,” came the reply and with it a forced smile close to a snarl.

  Lezaroth walked down the aft corridor, kicking a ghost slug away as he did. I hate Hanax but I also fear him. I have no doubt he wants to replace me. Fortunately, like the rest of the crew, he is life-bonded to me. I need fear no assassination attempt. He slid open the door at the end. Deltathree, the Triumph’s Allenix unit, sat staring at six screens of what appeared to be pure electrical noise. She swung her head smoothly toward him and stared at him with dark glassy eyes. With her normal green color turned to gray, she looked more like a dog than ever.

  “Deltathree,” he said, “I’m planning to surface. Are you picking up anything local?”

  The inhuman eyes stared at him. “Nothing, sir.” The voice was light, precise, and devoid of emotion. “Down here, as you know, signals are distorted. But there is no indication of transmissions from any ship or civilization within a hundred light-years. The nearest source to us now is our destination, Farholme.”

  Typical machine certainty. “Very well, but as we start to surface, intensify your scan. I don’t want to bump into anything.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  I dislike machines as a rule. But the Allenix have their virtues: constant alertness, ability to scan a dozen channels, and, unlike us, they aren’t troubled by the Nether-Realms. Of course, you need to have them life-bonded if they are to be reliable. But she at least hasn’t lost any sleep with the baziliarch’s presence.

  Back in the corridor Lezaroth paused. He knew tradition demanded that he consult with the ship’s priest, but decided not to bother. He would risk having him as an enemy. But there was one man he would consult. He knocked on the door marked Weapons Officer and walked in.

  The man on the couch lurched upright and glared at him with icy eyes. “What the—Oh, it’s you. Sorry, Cap’n.”

  Lezaroth closed the door behind him. Wepps was a veteran now close to retirement. They had been together on three campaigns and survived some bad moments. If he trusted anyone on the ship, it was Wepps.

  “Wepps, I want to surface and check our precise location. Got any objections?”

  “Depends where we are, Cap’n.” Wepps rose, cursed, ran a hand through cropped hair, and peered at a screen. “Looks okay to me. Middle of nowhere. Any reason?”

  “I want to get some sleep.”

  “Fair reason enough, I suppose. Wouldn’t mind some myself.”

  “I’ll see you get it. Oh, and as we surface, I am going to run a full attack drill. Any objections to that?”

  Wepps rolled his cold eyes. “Not from me, Cap’n. The crew won’t like it. And the results will be poor, I can tell you. And because it ain’t textbook, Hanax won’t like it either.”

  “Another reason for doing it.”

  Wepps leered. “You really don’t like the guy, do you, Cap’n?”

  “No, I don’t. He’s a nothing.”

  “But he wants to be something.”

  “That’s the problem.” And if he thinks this trip is going to be another inevitable step up the ladder for him—it isn’t. “Better prepare for the drill, Wepps.”

  “Yes, Cap’n. On my way to the bridge now.”

  On the bridge Lezaroth walked over to Hanax as Wepps took up position on his couch. “Under-Captain, we are surfacing.”

  “Surfacing?” Hanax’s face showed disbelief.

  “That’s what I said.”

  Hanax’s look was one in which irritation and curiosity were mixed.

  Hanax doesn’t fear me. He thinks being the lord-emperor’s appointee protects him. He hated Hanax even more because he didn’t fear him.

  “It’s my decision,” Lezaroth said.

  Hanax tapped the screen with fast fingers. “There’s nothing here,” he said.

  “That’s why we are surfacing.” Hanax’s irritation satisfied him. He feels he ought to have been consulted on such a major maneuver and he’s right. Another little provocation.

  “Warn the Dove,” Lezaroth ordered after a suitable pause. “Make sure it stays at least ten kilometers away. We don’t want them to dirty their pretty white paintwork, do we? Then signal the Comet. That robopilot shouldn’t need any such warning.”

  “Yes, sir. Any other message?”

  “Yes. Tell them I’m coming over to see the ambassadors and Captain Benek-Hal.”

  “Is anything wrong?” Hanax asked, his dark eyes searching for answers.

  “No, Under-Captain.” I love that prefix under. It reminds him who he is. “Nothing is wrong. It is just that as commander of this little flotilla I have made a decision.”

  “I just wondered. I mean, this is a m
ajor maneuver. Standard operating procedure is that both the captain and his deputy must agree on it.”

  By the powers! What was Nezhuala thinking of when he sent me this man? “Under-Captain, you will probably find I wrote the manual on standard operating procedure when you were still playing with toys. But do you disagree with my decision?”

  Hanax’s tired eyes were filled with protest. “I do need to know the basis for your decision, sir.”

  Patience! “Very well. Carrying the baziliarch has put a heavy strain on my men. I want to surface to Standard-Space for twenty hours or so and cleanse this ship of this extra-physical trash.” As he spoke, he saw another smokelike tendril coagulating into a solid existence by the emergency hatchway. “We can all get some uninterrupted sleep. And, as a long-term solution, while we are in Standard-Space, I want to transfer the baziliarch to the Dove for the rest of the voyage. Those, Under-Captain, are my reasons. Do you disagree now?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Very good. Now carry out my orders.”

  “Sir!”

  Lezaroth waited until Hanax made the calls, then pressed a button that, in a world of color, would have been bright red.

  A siren echoed throughout the ship.

  “Hear this all crew!” Lezaroth snapped, feeling the thrill of power that issuing such orders always gave him. “We will start to surface to Standard-Space in a minute’s time. We’ll be fully visible in twenty minutes. I do not anticipate any threat, but we are coming out ready for it. On my word, I want all crew to attack positions at orange alert wearing full anti-rad suits and high-G gear. I want all defense missiles primed. Have grappling and arresting gear ready, the laser cannon charged, the blast doors sealed, and Krallen deployment pods ready for launch—now!”

  He pressed another button and a new siren rang out.

  A robotic voice spoke. “Ship ascending to Standard-Space. Emergence in twenty minutes.”

  As they began the ascent Lezaroth turned to Hanax. “When we surface and have the all-clear, I want to run some drills—a full series of timed, target-acquisition drills. You will give them coordinates.”

  Hanax controlled a grimace. “Yes, sir.”

  “Have the men do ten drills and I want the figures for accuracy and speed immediately. Are you happy with that?”

  “Well . . . sir, it’s not standard policy. The manuals state that you should rest a tired crew before running drills.”

  “Under-Captain, maybe they omitted to tell you in college that war doesn’t wait until we have had a good night’s sleep. We must always be prepared to fight.”

  “Sir, I merely point out that it’s not policy. And it’s not good for morale. The men will be unhappy.”

  “Hanax, I don’t care. And I have a security officer to take care of complainers. We will do the target drills.”

  Lezaroth turned sharply to the screens to watch his crewmen slipping on suits, moving to attack positions, and strapping themselves into the seats of the firing consoles. For all their haste, there was a wearied clumsiness about their actions that annoyed him. They are too slow!

  As the minutes passed, color seeped back into the ship. Grays became blues, reds, and yellows. No one—at least no one Lezaroth knew—fully understood why color vanished in the Nether-Realms, but everybody who’d ever traveled the depths knew the lifting of the spirits that came on the ascent when color came back. And as color returned, the extra-physical phenomena vanished.

  As they rose, Lezaroth maintained his vigilance on the wealth of output data running across the screen, listening to the noises of the ship as he did. He could hear the bustle of activity now: the thud-thud of machinery, the pumping of hydraulics, and the hiss of pressure valves. Everything seemed in order. This is my ship and I control it.

  “Fleet-Commander Lezaroth!”

  He turned to see the night-blue robed figure of the ship’s priest, offended pride and anger in the tattooed face and in the drug-heightened blackness of the eyes.

  “Yes?”

  “We are surfacing! I should have been consulted.”

  “I’m sorry. Operational necessity.”

  “We need to make a sacrifice as we surface to celebrate color and starlight and to seek safe passage.”

  “Do so. You have sacrifices?”

  “Chilled. Not the same as live. The blood is too thick.”

  “A pity. But use them with my blessing.”

  “As captain, it would be appropriate if you joined us.”

  “Priest, I am busy. And I trust Zahlman-Hoth.” Lezaroth clutched the talisman through his shirt. “He is a power who understands a warrior’s needs and does not expect such sacrifices.”

  The priest’s black eyes tightened. Lezaroth knew that ships’ priests were always negative about Zahlman-Hoth, because he required so few sacrifices.

  “Have Under-Captain Hanax help you. I’m busy.”

  The priest shook his head, muttered something, and slunk toward Hanax.

  Lezaroth ordered the opening of portholes that had been sealed shut to reduce the extra-physical phenomena in the deep Nether-Realms. Here, close to the surface of the Nether-Realms, it was safe to look out without the risk of madness. He took his position at his command console and soon saw through the portholes stars appearing as faint points of light in a sea of pearly mist.

  “Entering Standard-Space now,” the robotic voice said.

  The mist suddenly cleared and they were in the starry blackness of space.

  “Wepps, give me an assessment,” Lezaroth ordered.

  Since the weapons officer was the only crewman Lezaroth allowed to link into his bio-augment circuits, he soon heard the answer directly into his head. “Data still coming in, Cap’n, but we are on our own. Nothing here, but I’m picking up perturbations to port. Two sets. Looks like the other ships emerging.”

  Lezaroth targeted a camera on the anomalies and was rewarded by the sight of the smooth white form of the Dove of Dawn popping up like an ancient sea creature through the distant blackness. He watched the brilliant blue lines tracing manic paths around it as the energies were balanced. The ambassadors’ ship. He scorned it and all it stood for.

  Behind it, the dull titanium gray bulk of the star series freighter hauled its way into the starlight. It was the Nanmaxat’s Comet, a last-minute addition to the fleet at Lezaroth’s insistence. His reasoning had been that because the Dove traveled light and the Triumph was full of military equipment, they needed a third ship to carry supplies and—assuming all went well—captives back to the lord-emperor. Lezaroth had been in campaigns where warships had been forced to transport captives and didn’t care for the practice.

  “We are clear,” he announced to Hanax. “Run the drills. I’m going aft. And when you have finished, get me a shuttle ready.”

  Round the corner he called the chief engineer. “We will be here no more than twenty-four hours. I suggest you put a couple of probes up to check the outside of the ship. Have the chimpies and the bug boys deployed on routine inspection inside.”

  “Sir, it’s hardly . . .” The engineer hesitated, then said, “As you will, sir.”

  My will must prevail on this ship. I must have an automatic and instant obedience before we reach Farholme.

  Lezaroth walked the half kilometer along the ship to the steersman chamber, overriding the closed blast doors as he went. He strode past humming laser cannon positions with their tang of ozone, ducked around the murmuring silver bulbs of the particle guns, passed the dozen vast columns of kinetic energy weapons, and walked between the whispering cylinders of the forward Krallen deployment pods. Everywhere he heard sounds of activity, but saw none of his crew. All eighteen were at their posts.

  When he arrived at the steersman chamber, the handler was there. He had clearly only just come out of the chamber and stood by the door mopping the sweat off his white face with a towel.

  Lezaroth suddenly remembered that handlers rarely lived long due to the stress of dealing with steersmen. H
e didn’t think this one would last long.

  “Sir!” the man said with a start. His hands visibly trembled. “I wasn’t expecting . . .”

  “I wanted to find out what the problem was. Personally.”

  “It’s bad.” The man nodded toward the chamber. “He’s scared.”

  “Why?”

  The handler dabbed nervously at his brow with the towel. “You know steersmen retain some sort of link with each other?” The words blurred into each other.

  “Yes.”

  He nodded toward the chamber again. “He found out that the steersman of the Rahllman’s Star was killed.”

  His words were so slurred, it took Lezaroth some seconds to work out what had been said. Killed? I wish I knew more about these creatures. “You mean his body was destroyed?”

  “No, sir. In that case he would have continued as a spirit. It is worse. He was destroyed—utterly.”

  “At this Farholme?”

  “Apparently. Steersmen are not easy to get information from, sir.” Don’t blame me, his eyes pleaded. “Not when they are disturbed like this. You can only get bits and pieces out of them.”

  Lezaroth’s mind raced. This is significant, even worrying. “But, Handler, how can they be killed? Some sort of accident?”

  “No. Even if we hit a star, he’d survive as a spirit. No, it must have been deliberate. And you’d need the knowledge. Probably power as well.”

  “Power?”

  “Extra-physical. Something like a wizard or a mage.”

  “I see. So, something—or someone—very potent attacked this steersman in his chamber?”

  “Must be. They never leave them.”

  This raises a lot of issues, an awful lot. “Handler, does this mean the Rahllman’s Star is destroyed?”

  “I don’t know. . . . Maybe. . . . Not necessarily. . . . Sorry, sir.”