Judgment of Mars (Starship's Mage Book 5)

by Glynn Stewart

  “We don’t.”

  Damien tapped a few commands, making sure that the message he was recording for the Mage-King did include all of the files he needed to send while he marshaled his thoughts for what needed to happen.

  “If we continue to chase after the Keepers, we will fail, and they will all die,” he concluded flatly. “We need them to come to us. The only option I can see is for you to make a public appeal to them, warn them that they are being hunted, and beg them to come in from the cold.

  “I don’t know what secret they hold, what betrayals they have committed or what oaths they have sworn, but they remain citizens of your Protectorate. We owe them our protection if that is to mean anything.”

  He paused to think, then sighed.

  “I’m running short of other ideas, my liege,” he admitted. “Reaching out to them publicly is the only course I see that could bring us into contact with the survivors.

  “I meet with your Council tomorrow, and then I will return to Mars to continue my investigations.

  “Montgomery out.”

  #

  Chapter 17

  The Lictors didn’t say anything this time as Damien stalked up to the doors of the Council Chamber. One gestured for Romanov and Christoffsen to follow him, and two waited for Damien to be ready.

  They clearly suspected that the Hand was furious with their bosses, but their loyalties were clear. He didn’t blame them, either. Their bosses, on the other hand…

  “I’m ready,” he told them. “It’s time, isn’t it?”

  “It is, my lord. They’re waiting for you.”

  Damien nodded and walked forward as the doors were swung open for him.

  Mutters echoed around the room as he followed the white-uniformed guardian to the same plain table as before, taking a seat without a word and facing the Council. Frustrated as he was with the games, these people remained the representatives of the member governments of the Protectorate. He owed them respect.

  “This Council, Mister Montgomery, is not used to being dictated to in our own Station,” Councilor Newton snapped. The last few days didn’t seem to have done the white-haired old man any favors. He looked exhausted.

  “I do not, Councilor, recall issuing any dictates,” Damien replied. He felt as exhausted as Newton looked, and he wondered if there was something else going on. The Alpha Centauri Councilor shouldn’t be looking like he’d been through a battle.

  “We issued an invitation for you to attend this Council two days ago. Yet we were informed yesterday that we would have to meet with you today, on a deadline of yours,” Newton reminded him.

  “I will remind this Council that while you have the right to summon me before you, such an appearance is dependent on the duties of my office,” he said. “I attempted to attend at your requested time. I was forced to detour to intervene in a developing situation and, upon my arrival, advised your staff of my own time limitations.

  “I am attempting to be cooperative, but to have adhered to the original schedule would have cost the lives of an unknown number of civilians and permitted a terrorist organization to carry out the hijacking of a spaceship that unquestionably qualifies as a strategic asset,” Damien continued.

  “While I have no idea what they were planning on doing with a thirty-million-ton mobile refinery, I doubt it involved leaving any of Callisto’s thousand-odd crew alive.

  “Until and unless His Majesty decides to fire me, I am bound by an oath to honor his Protectorate by protecting our citizens, Councilors. That oath required the delay, for which I apologize. My continuing responsibilities on Mars require my expeditious return, hence the time limit.

  “I have made myself as available as I can be, Councilors, but my duties remain.”

  “The dedication to duty of His Majesty’s Hands is not in question,” Councilor McClintlock said sharply. “Your judgment, however, we are less certain of.”

  “If this Council questions my intervening in an active pirate attack, I am forced to question what this Council would expect me to do,” Damien replied.

  “Nothing else,” a shaven-headed man with pitch-black skin in the front row snapped. Councilor Farai Ayodele represented Earth and, from Christoffsen’s briefing, often refrained from speaking, as he understood the weight the homeworld’s words carried.

  “I think I speak for us all,” Ayodele continued, “when I thank you for your intervention, Lord Montgomery. There were no Navy vessels nearby to intervene. No friends waiting in the wings to save Captain Gambon and her crew—no one except you.

  “My colleagues are unused to having their neat schedules interrupted; you must forgive them,” the black man told Damien, “if they have perhaps missed the grander scheme.”

  “Of course,” Damien allowed with an exhaled sigh. At least someone in this Council appeared to be sane.

  “Now, Hand Montgomery”—Councilor Montague took advantage of Ayodele’s interruption to take control of the meeting—“we summoned you here before to speak of the events leading to the deaths of Hands Lawrence Octavian and Charlotte Ndosi.

  “You understand that these are momentous events. It is unusual for Hands to die. Almost unheard of for Hands to betray their oaths—and never before has a Hand killed another Hand, let alone two.

  “We understand, I think, what events came to pass,” she concluded. “But you were at the heart of all of this, from the attack at Andala to the Archive at Hellas Montes.

  “We need to understand not only the what and the how, but the why. Two of the highest officials of our nation died at your hands, Lord Montgomery. His Majesty may have granted you the authority to investigate Hands, but you took it upon yourself to fight them.

  “I, unlike others, do not question your judgment… but I must ask you to explain it.”

  Damien inhaled deeply and laid his hands on the table as he looked up to meet Montague’s gaze. He was relatively sure she was on his side, at least, and he had an idea of how much political capital she’d burned to give him this opportunity.

  To waste that would be…both rude and unwise.

  “Very well, Councilors,” he began.

  #

  “Let me make certain that I understand where we sit at the moment,” Councilor Newton said after Damien’s course of explanations and analysis had reached Ndosi teleporting him clear of the explosion her death triggered.

  “After all of this chaos, the deaths of two Hands, the bombardment of a civilian outpost and threats made to the Mage-King himself…we have no idea what secret these Keepers were charged to keep by the first Mage-King?”

  “We do not,” Damien confirmed. “The Keepers, including the Hands who had joined their order, died before revealing that secret. Dead man’s switches are an effective means of keeping secrets if you’re prepared to die for your cause.

  “All we know for certain,” he continued, “is that it had something to do with the alien runes we discovered at the Andala IV outpost—enough that they were prepared to, as you said, Councilor, bombard a civilian outpost to destroy them.

  “I believe that the key may be related to why those runes appear to be Martian Runic despite predating human magic.”

  “No offense, Mr. Montgomery,” Newton replied, “but your qualifications as a Rune Scribe are…unimpressive. That’s a rather dramatic conclusion to have reached, isn’t it?”

  Damien sighed. While he suspected many of the Councilors knew about Rune Wrights, none were officially cleared for the information…and the fact that Damien was a Rune Wright had been kept from many who knew the Mage-King was one but hadn’t worked with Damien himself.

  “I was trained by Desmond Alexander himself,” he reminded the Council. “Not all of my qualifications are on paper, Councilor Newton. Suffice to say that there are few in the people in the Protectorate more qualified to draw that conclusion.

  “That said, it is a dramatic conclusion,” he conceded, “and a new expedition, under Royal Navy escort, is already on its way to the
Andala system to confirm that analysis and to study those runes in far more detail than I had time to.

  “If the answers to the Keepers’ fanaticism lies in the catacombs of Andala IV, we will find them,” he assured the Council. “If not…” He sighed again. “We have reason to believe that the remnants of the Keepers are being hunted by a third party. We are doing all within our power to find and protect them, but…if they won’t talk to us, we can’t help them.

  “And if we can’t help them, their secrets may very well die with them.”

  Newton grunted, apparently mollified.

  “Thank you, Montgomery,” he said. “Is there anything this Council can do to assist in finding the remaining Keepers?”

  “His Majesty should be making a public appeal for any survivors on Mars to come into protective custody,” Damien replied. “If there are Keepers outside Sol, we will need to make sure that offer—and knowledge of the danger—is spread as widely as possible.”

  “That we should be able to assist with,” Councilor Montague told him. “We will pass that information on to our governments.

  “Does anyone else have any questions for Hand Montgomery?

  #

  Chapter 18

  Damien returned to Doctor Akintola feeling utterly drained but somewhat less completely raked over the coals than he had after his first encounter with the Council.

  “This one went better, I take it?” Christoffsen asked once they’d reached the ship and were out of reach of prying ears.

  “Better,” Damien agreed. “I’d hesitate to say well; there are still only four of them talking to me, and I’m pretty sure both McClintlock and Newton want to hang me out to dry.”

  “With a hundred and twenty Councilors, they can’t all do the talking,” his aide reminded him. “Usually, you’ll see a few of the Core World Councilors asking most of the questions. Make no mistake, though: they make decisions as a body.”

  “And I have no idea what they’re thinking,” Damien admitted. “Politicians.”

  “Hey!”

  “Present company excepted, I suppose,” the Hand said with a forced smile. “It’s been one hell of a month, Professor, and it isn’t over yet.”

  “No.”

  “My lord!” Samara intercepted them. “We just got a ping on the news net. His Majesty is going to speak in about ten minutes.”

  Damien sighed in relief.

  “I asked him to make an appeal to the Keepers,” he told his staff. “There might be something else going on that calls for an unscheduled speech by the Mage-King of Mars…but I hope not!”

  He nodded to the Inspector.

  “Thank you, Munira,” he told her. “How’s our own digging going?”

  She shook her head.

  “The same. Everyone we find is already dead,” she answered sadly. “I think…I’m afraid we may be entirely too late, my lord. I think whoever is hunting the Keepers may have completely wiped them out, at least in the Sol System.”

  “Let’s hope someone is left and listening.”

  #

  Twice a Terran year, the Mage-King of Mars ascended the public throne in the Grand Hall of Olympus Mons—not the true Throne, the one hidden in the chamber that contained the simulacrum for the most powerful amplifier in existence, but the plain chair raised six inches above the room where he would meet dignitaries and reporters—to speak to his people.

  Those speeches were carried as live as possible after light-speed delays throughout the Solar System and sent across the Protectorate by ship. News couriers would be standing by to bring the video recording to the Core Worlds and most of the MidWorlds. They were scheduled, preplanned events.

  It was unusual for Desmond Michael Alexander the Third to give a public speech outside of those two scheduled events, though not unheard of. Today, the gaunt old man settled into that chair and faced the cameras—and, Damien presumed, a gathered horde of fascinated reporters.

  “My people,” he greeted them.

  “The events of recent weeks on Mars have shaken us all to our core. A nuclear explosion in one of the largest natural parks on Mars. The deaths of two Hands. These are not events We can conceal, nor should We try.

  “We do not pretend that We have shared all details and secrets of these events,” Alexander continued, his lips quirking in what probably counted as a smile. “But We assure you that Our best men and women continue to investigate them to learn the true nature of what has happened.

  “What We can tell you today is that these events were tied to an organization created by Our grandfather, known as the Royal Order of Keepers of Secrets and Oaths. We remain uncertain of the purpose of this organization or, indeed, of whether or not they are Our friends.”

  He shook his head.

  “But. They remain Our subjects and hence under Our Protectorate.”

  Damien felt his shoulders stiffen as he watched the video. This was a different Protectorate from the nation. When the Mage-King spoke of his Protectorate, he meant the oath he had sworn to guard and protect all of humanity.

  The nation might fail. The worlds of humanity might go their separate ways. Men and women might betray their worlds and their race. But the Mage-King of Mars and his sworn servants would honor that oath to their deaths.

  “Since the Hellas Montes disaster, someone has been hunting these Keepers,” Alexander told the cameras. “Dozens, if not hundreds, are dead. We do not know who hunts them—but We also do not know who they are.

  “So, We speak now to any survivors of Our grandfather’s order: We do not know what oaths you have sworn or what burdens you carry. What We do know is that you are in danger and We cannot protect you if We do not know who you are.

  “We beg of you, come in,” the Mage-King of Mars said softly. “Find an MIS station, a Marine barracks, someone in Our service you believe you can trust. We will see you safe—but We must know who you are.

  “We cannot protect shadows from knives in the dark, but come into the light and We swear, upon Our own royal honor, that you will not be harmed.”

  #

  The yacht pulled slowly away from Council Station under Damien’s careful hand, his mental turmoil easing as he went through the practiced motions. He’d always enjoyed flying, and now it was becoming a refuge.

  While he was flying, he didn’t need to think about politics or the future. No conspiracies, no knives in the dark, just a ship, engines, and the dark of space.

  Ceres glittered in the sunlight beneath Doctor Akintola as he watched his distance, waiting until he was far enough away to bring the antimatter engines online. The numbers crossed the thresholds and he flashed a text notification to Council Station.

  Then he opened up the throttle, feeding antimatter into the ignition chamber and smoothly increasing the yacht’s acceleration up to eight gravities. His Sight showed him the power of the runes under his feet flaring as they adjusted, compensating to keep the entire ship at a single gravity.

  They’d maintain that for an hour, then coast for a while before decelerating into Mars orbit. It was a simple-enough course, though someone would have to remain on the bridge to watch the proximity alarms. The asteroid belt might be sparser than even twenty-sixth-century media liked to portray it, but there were still more rocks there than anywhere else.

  He was settling back to try and relax when his wrist computer chimed, warning him of a critical message. There shouldn’t be anything that needed his attention right now, but he pulled up his PC anyway.

  He went from concerned to confused when he saw the message had arrived on a communication channel restricted to Hands. There was a network and an encryption key the Hands kept to themselves. Even the Mage-King didn’t have access to that network—he had his own priority ways of reaching his Hands—and there were no other Hands in Sol.

  Damien opened the message, and his computer happily produced a tiny hologram of an unfamiliar woman. She was an older woman, with long dark hair and the mixed-tone skin of a Martian nati
ve, wearing a sleek black dress.

  “My Lord Montgomery,” the recording greeted him, “you do not know me. I…am not going to give you my name in this message, either, as a precaution.

  “You are wondering, I am certain, how I am able to reach you on this channel. The reason is simple and may have already occurred to you: Charlotte Ndosi gave me the codes.”

  That meant the woman in the recording was a Keeper. She already had Damien’s undivided attention, but that certainly didn’t hurt.

  “I am a member of the Royal Order of Keepers of Secrets and Oaths, but not in the usual fashion,” she continued. “I was recruited by Hand Octavian and later introduced to Hand Ndosi. To my knowledge, those two were the only ones who were aware I was a member.”

  Because what Damien’s headache needed was a conspiracy within a conspiracy and secrets within secrets.

  “This…appears to have saved my life,” she told him. “I have far more information on the rest of the Order than they have on me, and every Keeper I am aware of is dead.

  “So far as I know, I am the last Keeper. I was recruited for this exact circumstance. I am the final failsafe, Lord Montgomery, the last backup. My job is to make certain that no matter what happened, our secret was not lost.

  “I will not… I can not reveal anything over even this encrypted channel. But I will meet with you, Lord Montgomery, and I call upon you to honor our King’s promise of protection. I will be at the Sunrise Mall in Olympus City at nine oh six tomorrow morning. You know my face now, so we will find each other.

  “It is safer that way, my lord.”

  She shook her head, her eyes downcast.

  “I am the final backup, Lord Montgomery,” she repeated. “To my knowledge, I am the only Keeper left—but I am a Keeper, and my oaths will be kept.”

  The message ended, freezing the hologram of the beautiful older woman above Damien’s computer as he stared at her.

  The last time he’d heard that phrase, Charlotte Ndosi had blown herself up. If there was one thing he knew about the Keepers, it was that they meant their oaths.