Dark Foundations

by Chris Walley

  “And when did this happen?”

  “Hard to tell. They are vague on time. Some weeks ago is my guess.”

  “Can we find out more?”

  “Sorry, sir. Not now. He’s eating a bug boy. . . . Soothes them.”

  “I need more information, Handler.”

  “I understand, sir. You could talk to him yourself. They like captains. Honors them.”

  “You think that would work?”

  “Sir, it’s the best. He’s uneasy about going on. You may have to make him promises.”

  “What sort of promises?”

  The handler clicked a screen on a wall nearby. Lezaroth saw a bizarre, straw-colored figure like the empty shell of a man bent over a wriggling brown form with a skin like a cockroach, but with strangely humanoid arms and legs.

  “Better food.” The handler’s words were a quiet mutter.

  “I’ll be back. I have a visit to make,” Lezaroth said. “Tell no one.” He caught the man’s tired eyes and nodded toward the screen. “You really wouldn’t want to be that better food, would you?”

  The handler took a step back and touched the wall as if for reassurance. He shook his head rapidly.

  “Good.” Lezaroth turned and walked to the spine of the ship where he took a transport pod that whisked him back to the bridge. There he checked the ship’s position—they were where they ought to be—frowned at the appalling results from the timed target acquisition drills, and checked on the state of the baziliarch. After a moment’s deliberation about what to wear on his visit, he put on his battlefield armored jacket and leggings. He ordered the crew (apart from Hanax) to stand down and get some sleep. Then, after having given the under-captain specific—and very limited—authority, he boarded the shuttle.

  For much of the ten-minute flight to the Dove of Dawn, Lezaroth, fighting tiredness, reviewed on screen the specifics of the Rahllman’s Star. Like the Nanmaxat’s Comet it was—or had been—a star series freighter with the fairly standard pattern of a large and clumsy main master unit coupled with a smaller more streamlined slave unit capable of planetary landing. He reasoned that if the Rahllman’s Star had remained in space, then the steersman would have been in the master unit. On the other hand if—as was most likely—they had landed on Farholme, then it would have been in the smaller steersman compartment of the slave unit. This suggested that at least one, or possibly both, elements of the Rahllman’s Star had fallen into Assembly hands.

  The lord-emperor isn’t going to like that.

  He also recognized something else, something very troubling. Intelligence had suggested that as many as thirty renegades might have been on the Rahllman’s Star. Lezaroth had no sympathy for them, but by any reckoning, they were brave, tough, and innovative men. And they had not been defenseless. In addition to their own arms, the Rahllman’s Star as a freighter in a war zone carried some weapons and a Krallen pack. Yet, for all this, something had gone badly wrong. Somehow unarmed people from a peaceful planet had managed to slay a steersman. That meant someone had entered the ship either on Farholme, or in space, got past all the defenses, and done something very remarkable.

  The lord-emperor’s warning was wise. The Assembly is not to be treated lightly. He wondered what to tell the ambassadors, but decided that the steersman’s information was a card he might better play with more profit at another time. For now he would tell them nothing.

  Through the glass of the airlock of the Dove, Lezaroth saw Captain Benek-Hal waiting for him. Although he had not been on board the Dove before, Lezaroth had met Benek-Hal before and knew him to be a long-haul convoy pilot with no frontline experience. He understood why the man had been chosen; the lord-emperor wanted someone who would fit with the civilian profile of the ambassadors’ mission. Well, there are no civilians in our war society. But a freight-hauling pilot might pass as one.

  As the door slid open, Benek-Hal seemed to start at Lezaroth’s armored jacket and leggings. He visibly paled.

  As I intended. I want them to know I mean business.

  The captain, clean-shaven and well groomed in an immaculate white uniform, saluted with precision. “Welcome to the Dove of Dawn, sir,” he said in a deferential tone and motioned Lezaroth to a small anteroom.

  Lezaroth was surprised at how light and airy the Dove was. There was white paint everywhere and the ship smelled almost medicinal in its sterility.

  “It’s an honor to have you, sir,” Captain Benek-Hal added.

  “Thanks.” Let’s not waste time. “Captain, I’ve come to tell you that we will be shifting the baziliarch over in two hours’ time.”

  “Over where?” Benek-Hal’s neck wobbled nervously.

  “Here. More specifically, your forward hold.”

  “Sir . . . was this agreed?” Benek-Hal’s voice registered unease and his brown eyes held fear.

  “Not at this stage in the voyage, true, but an earlier transfer has become a military necessity.”

  “How so?”

  “The thing’s affecting crew performance. I just ran a drill on my men. Fifteen seconds average for targeting. A mere 92 percent accuracy. Quite unacceptable, Captain. If we do run into trouble in the Farholme system, we need to do better than that.”

  “What about putting him on the Comet?”

  “No. A baziliarch needs managing. We will send you the intermediary as well.”

  “Sir, I’m unhappy about all this.”

  Lezaroth took the man’s arm in a gesture that could be interpreted as one of friendship or threat.

  “Captain,” he said in a low, insistent tone that he often found himself using these days, “you don’t want me as an enemy, do you?”

  Benek-Hal paused, then looked away. “No, sir.”

  Suddenly a wallscreen blinked on. A pale face, puffy on one side and heavily bandaged on the other, appeared. Only a single, bloodshot gray eye was visible. Lezaroth glimpsed medical tubes behind the face.

  “Ah, Margrave!” It was a man’s voice, light, smooth, and polite. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “I don’t think we have been introduced.”

  “No, we haven’t. You may call me . . .” He paused as if remembering something. “Ambassador Hazderzal. My colleague, who is also undergoing a little reconstruction, is Ambassador Tinternli.”

  Not their real names of course. I’ll never know those. They are no doubt people from the lord-emperor’s trusted inner circle.

  “Ambassador Hazderzal, a pleasure.” Lezaroth bowed. “I’m sorry that our hasty departure prevented us from meeting earlier.”

  “A sad necessity. But this surfacing? And your visit? There is no problem, I trust.”

  “I just came over to inform you that there has been a slight change of plan. From now on you are taking the baziliarch.”

  A glimmer of fear shone in the single eye. “No. The agreement was the transfer would take place just outside the system. I refuse.” His defiance seemed hollow.

  I was afraid of this. The ambassadors no doubt see themselves as in control of this trip. That is an issue of principle that needs dealing with firmly and now. “I think we need to talk personally,” he said, then switched the screen off. “Take me to them, Captain.”

  Benek-Hal looked unhappy. “Sir, they are in a sterile setting—flesh sculpting. The doctor will not allow a visit.”

  Lezaroth leaned toward him. “Captain,” he said with a deliberate slowness, “just take me.”

  “Very well.” Benek-Hal looked away again. “This way.”

  Lezaroth was led down a series of corridors. As they walked, he found himself struck by the differences between the Dove and the Triumph. It wasn’t just the white paint and greater illumination; there were other things. Particularly striking was the absence of shrines or images. Some of the alcoves where there would have normally been statues of gods or powers were empty; others had other statues or even vases of flowers. He saw only one image of Lord-Emperor Nezhuala.

  On one wall was a mural of
trees and woods. Lezaroth paused to read the caption: The forests of central Narazdov.

  Someone has a grim sense of humor. Central Narazdov is so radiation blasted that it glows at night.

  Finally the captain led the way through tightly sealed doors to a room with two beds and a multitude of medical equipment. The air was cool and sanitized.

  As the doors opened, an angry man in a white coat strode forward with determined steps. “This is impossible! It’s a breach of—” He stopped and seemed to take in Lezaroth’s armor and badges of rank. “My apologies, sir,” the doctor added, his face emptying of color. He stepped back awkwardly.

  “Thank you.” Lezaroth turned to the captain. “I like a man who knows his place in the great scheme of things.”

  On the left-hand bed lay a still figure covered in bandages and with tubing entering and exiting at various points. Only the fact that the chest rose and fell gently indicated life. To the right, a figure slowly rose from the bed with inflexible movements.

  Lezaroth strode over. “Ambassador Hazderzal,” he said, hearing the mockery in his voice, “please don’t feel you have to get up.”

  The bandaged figure slumped back onto the bed.

  Lezaroth pulled up a chair and sat down. “I thought that you and I should talk face-to-face.”

  “I think it is unnecessary. You should keep the baziliarch,” the ambassador quavered.

  Lezaroth glanced at a large diagram on the wall labeled Ambassador Hazderzal that had a series of summary tissue-sculpting diagrams underneath. In one corner was a picture of a man with a short, neatly pointed gray beard and a lean face with soft gray-brown eyes and wispy white hair.

  “Ah, what you will be. The acceptable face of the Dominion. . . . Tissue grafts, new cheekbones, new eyes. Very nice.”

  “Margrave—Fleet-Commander—” A bandaged jaw opened to reveal a half-completed array of teeth. “I really would prefer that the baziliarch remain on your ship. You have the space.”

  “Ambassador, we need to get one thing straight. This operation is fundamentally a military one. It has a diplomatic preamble that may—or may not—succeed. But the chances are that we will use the full-suppression complex that I command. So, my task is to make sure my men are at peak efficiency. And in order to maintain that efficiency, I have made the decision to transfer the baziliarch to this ship.”

  “I still disagree.”

  “Oh, dear.” Lezaroth looked slowly and deliberately around at the half dozen tubes running into the man’s body. “You know, Ambassador, tissue programming and flesh sculpture always carries risks.” He suddenly grasped a tube with red fluid in it. “On a ship, it is riskier still.” His fingers tightened around the tube. “And in the Nether-Realms, it’s very risky. No colors to guide you in surgery. Accidents do happen.”

  The ambassador’s head twisted around, as if he looked for help. But the doctor and Captain Benek-Hal had vanished. “You wouldn’t dare, Lezaroth!” His voice seethed with hatred.

  “Margrave or Fleet-Commander, if you please. . . . Oh, I would. We only need one ambassador really. She will do fine. And the doctor would sign the death certificate.”

  “Margrave, if you as much as touch me, the lord-emperor will send you to the far end of the Blade of Night. There are things there that can keep you in torment forever.”

  “Ambassador, if we mess up this mission, we will all get sent down the Blade together. My job is to make it succeed. Trust me. My men need to be fighting fit. Take the baziliarch.”

  The ambassador’s jaw opened and closed. “Very well. We will take the baziliarch. But don’t think the lord-emperor won’t hear about your threats.”

  “What threats? Do I bear a gun? Ambassador, since we have to work together, we need some working rules. So learn a rule: I’m in charge. Agreed?”

  He tweaked the tube.

  “Agreed.” The word was a gasp.

  “Good-bye. The baziliarch will be on his way soon. We will be en route in twenty hours or so. See you and the lady ambassador in a month’s time.” He leaned close to the ambassador’s face. “Sweet dreams.”

  Back on the Triumph, Lezaroth ordered the transfer of the baziliarch with Hanax supervising, ostensibly because it required a senior officer. In reality, if anything went wrong, he could blame it on the under-captain.

  The creature, in its dormant state, was housed in a syn-crystal container the size of a large room that could be transferred by robotic tugs.

  Steeling himself, he returned to the steersman chamber.

  I hate talking to steersmen. But I have no option. I need to get everything I can out of this creature about what happened on Farholme. I must ask the right questions.

  The handler let him into the chamber. As the door slid shut behind him, Lezaroth blinked, trying to force his eyes to see in the gloom. A chill vapor wrapped around his feet and a foul smell struck his nostrils. He looked up, seeing on the high ceiling the spheres that represented the local stars. He stepped forward, his feet crunching on bones.

  As Lezaroth walked toward the seat where the steersman sat, he gazed at the floor. I do not wish to look at this being. Finally, he looked up, seeing a tall, thin, hollow form, resembling a man.

  He tried to reassure himself. I must remember that while I can hear him, he cannot read my mind. Only a baziliarch can do that.

  In a few paces, he stood in front of the dimensional column, with its six sides carved with the great incantations that only the Wielders of the Powers knew. Behind it sat the steersman. Lezaroth saw the light glinting on the metal crown and below it the empty voids of the eye sockets. With a rustling sound, the being rose up with an uncoordinated motion, a distorted parody of the human form—the epitome of emptiness.

  Who are you? said the voice in Lezaroth’s mind.

  “I am Margrave Sentius Lezaroth, Fleet-Commander by personal appointment of the Lord-Emperor Nezhuala, Dynast of the House of Carenas.”

  The captain himself.

  “Indeed. It is an honor to be received by you. We value your services.” Lezaroth saw that the being’s strange fingers looked like dry twigs and were stained with drying blood.

  I do not wish to go to Farholme.

  “Why not?”

  Something happened there.

  “What?”

  A kinsman of mine was killed there. Destroyed. There was fear in the words.

  “I’m sorry. How was he destroyed?”

  A man did it.

  “On his own?”

  Yes.

  “Tell me about it.”

  I felt fear. My kinsman was very afraid. There was a man. A man destroyed him.

  There was a silence.

  “We will protect you,” Lezaroth said. “This ship is bigger. We are well armed. We travel with a powerful ally from the Nether-Realms.”

  The husklike figure tilted forward.

  Yes. One of the seven is with us. I feel his presence. But I am afraid.

  “We will find this man and kill him. You will get revenge.”

  I want revenge.

  Despite the cold, Lezaroth realized he was sweating. “If we go to Farholme, you will get revenge.” He heard the shakiness in his voice.

  What else?

  “You will have new flesh. Women. Children.”

  Good. Do you promise?

  “Yes.”

  You know what happens if you cheat me?

  “Yes. Just get us all to Farholme fast.”

  Revenge and children?

  “Yes. It’s a promise.”

  The fingers clicked as if in agreement.

  A promise then.

  As Lezaroth turned to go, suddenly a thought struck him. “Did you get the name of the man?”

  A name? Yes, there was a name mentioned.

  “Can you tell me that name?”

  Perhaps.

  “Please.”

  Ringell. Lucas Ringell.

  Lezaroth did not return to the bridge as he had intended. Instead, with his t
ired mind reeling, he took the elevator to the summit of the dorsal spine of the Triumph and headed to a small chamber with wide views fore and aft over the ship. An apemorph—“a chimpie”—was checking panels inside but, at his entry, the creature made an urgent grunt, bowed, and fled.

  Lezaroth walked to the curved glass window and looked out. As his eyes adjusted to a scene lit only by starlight and some stray illumination from the ship, he was able to make out the robotic tugs towing away a crystal box that gleamed with a faint blue light under the stars.

  The baziliarch was on his way.

  Lucas Ringell—that name again. The lord-emperor said that Ringell’s name had been mentioned among the powers. Whoever has taken on that name is the great adversary. And the lord-emperor wants him dead at all costs. What will he reward the one who slays this man?

  Lezaroth stared at the enormous mass of the ship that projected far ahead of him and blotted out the stars. Funny. When the lord-emperor mentioned the name Ringell, I thought it some sort of a fantasy. But hearing it just now from the steersman, I believe it.

  He looked at the immense number of stars that enveloped the ship. Around one of those pinpricks of cold light ahead was Farholme. The lord-emperor’s enemy—his enemy—was there. A man who had killed a steersman.

  For the briefest moment, Lezaroth felt fear. He looked again at the ship before him with its stark proud array of weapon turrets, its forests of surveillance antennae, its arrays of gaping missile tubes, and the proud ensign of the Final Emblem of the Dominion on its hull. And as he did, any trace of his fear fled. I command the latest and greatest full-suppression complex—three-quarters of a million tons and the most formidable accumulation of weapons the human race has ever built. I have enough sheer power at my command here to erase an entire mountain chain in a second and enough range to obliterate a city from a hundred thousand kilometers. And I have more than just brute power too. I have enough Krallen to cleanse an entire planet of its population within a few weeks.

  He felt reassured. There is no threat. On the contrary, my enemy is there and trapped. Within weeks we will be face-to-face and I will destroy him and the lord-emperor will be delighted.