In Nadir's Shadow
Copyright 2017 E.J. Heijnis
Cover art by Leon Tukker (leontukker.artstation.com)
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Inferno's Cast preview
About the author
Acknowledgements
As this is my first published novel, I feel it's appropriate to recognize some of the people who encouraged and educated me.
My parents, who insisted that I read books (it only took one to hook me, but I know I resisted!) and encouraged creative expression, and my sister, for reading my work and offering her insights.
My English teacher, Ed Gerla, who gave me a copy of the Tolkien Companion, and even gave me a list of creative writing prompts to practice with in class.
Writer Lydia Rood, who gave valuable feedback on my early stories, and challenged me to write from the heart.
Writer Holly Lisle, whose website full of articles on writing first taught me that writing fiction is a skill you can learn and improve, instead of a superpower you were either born with or not.
The awesome people at the Other Worlds Writing Workshop, for their feedback on just about every aspect on this novel, and for being awesome in general.
And everyone else I met along the way who supported, encouraged, critiqued, educated, or inspired me. You all had a part in making my dream a reality, and I'm deeply grateful for that.
For Vianey, my love, and the beautiful story we've written. May we seek many more adventures together.
Chapter One
Commander Miron drew the short stone blade across his skin, breathing through the pain as he added a bloody line to the lattice of scars on his chest. A few grey hairs drifted to the floor. Once he finished the cut, he raised the knife, angling it to catch the simulated daylight from the glow panels overhead.
Fifty-seven cuts. Fifty-seven days since Wicked Sisters.
Using a hand towel from the desk underneath his raised bunk, he wiped the blood off his chest and carefully cleaned the blade before sheathing it. He took his royal blue uniform jacket down from the hook on the overhead, every part of the tiny cabin within easy reach. As he slipped the jacket on, he winced at the old ache in his back. A final glance at the mirror revealed nothing out of order, so he turned and pressed a button on the bulkhead. The door slid open without a sound and he stepped out, making his way through the steel-blue corridors of the heavy raider Tenacious. The harsh smell of chemical finishes chafed his nostrils, a persistent reminder the ship had first departed the dockyard only two weeks prior.
He opened another door and entered Control. The lower body of someone in fleet crew blue protruded from the base of the dormant Master Tactical Display, and several bundles of cables and connectors spilled out from the access panel. Ignoring the scene for the moment, Miron looked around the compartment. Tight-faced officers occupied four of the six command stations spaced evenly in a semi-circle facing the MTD. Master Second Gervasi paced behind them, pausing to berate a talent whose name Miron hadn't yet learned. As she twisted to point at the officer's holographic display projection, Gervasi saw him. The ship's second-in-command spared him only a single venomous glance before looming back over the stone-faced officer to resume her sermon.
Miron squatted down and tugged on the half-buried individual's trouser leg. A muffled voice came from within the device: "Is that you, Miron?"
"It is. What are you doing?"
"Trying to stop my display from switching colors at random."
"I didn't know they changed colors."
"Well, they're not supposed to. It turns out a bright pink display is hard to see. Also nauseating." Two hands grasped the edge of the access port, and Ship Master Borya's wiry, muscled frame slid into view.
"How is your crew?"
Borya sat up and scratched his white beard. "It's coming. They're skilled men and women, the best I've seen in some cases, but only a handful have ever worked together before. Some of them don't even seem to remember how to do that. Gervasi's working over the command crew in shifts, with the simulations. Most of them are learning. Not all. She's been yelling a lot." One corner of his mouth turned up. "More than usual."
Miron's jaw clenched. "They were hand-picked for this, Ship Master. Last-minute replacements aside, this is the best crew in the fleet."
His smile gone, Borya cocked his head. "They are the best crew members in the fleet. If they'd had a chance to train together, maybe I could agree with you."
"No training like real work. You'll have to do better, Borya. We have enough handicaps as it is."
Borya grunted. "I know that. And there is good news. Ludmila says all the engineers are best friends by now, and she's drafted the fleet guards to help with the work. Even Chief Zakhar's down there."
"She's updated you on repairs?"
The sharp voice of Detection Operator Ilari cut off his response. "Contact!" The Ship Master was on his feet and by her side, Miron one step behind. "It only popped up once, sir, but it was solid. Substantial mass and symmetrical shape. When it comes up again I should get an inertia reading."
Minutes passed as they stared at the D-OPS station. Gervasi quietly canceled the simulations and allowed the gunner and navigator to resume their work. No one spoke.
Ilari's breath hitched as the display indicated a contact. Her fingers twitched in the control gloves and available information spilled down from the top. Approximate mass, possible materials.
Traveling on a pursuit course, at faster-than-light speed.
She swallowed. "The profile is still fuzzy, but it could fit a Type 3 or a Type 7." Miron wondered at the tremor in her voice. Why would a veteran Detection Operator quail at first sight of the enemy?
"So much for training. Bogdan, issue alert level three," Borya said.
"Alert level three, aye, sir," said the thin, hairless man at the Operations/Communications station. A claxon echoed through the ship.
Borya said, "Shall we confer, Commander?"
Miron gave a nod and turned to head for the conference room. He almost missed Ilari's desperate whisper: "Master, how is the shield?"
Half the size of Control, the adjacent conference room seated eight at a table holding a smaller, simpler version of the Master Tactical Display. Miron sat at the head of the table and waited for Borya to enter and sit to his left.
"I heard Talent Ilari," Miron said. "What's wrong with her?"
Borya raised his eyebrows. "No idea."
"However inappropriate, the question is relevant. How is the ship?"
Borya allowed the silence to stretch before he spoke. "The order from the Supreme Command was to depart as soon as we were able. Not before. As I told you on the dock, expediency doesn't build ships. We weren't ready when we left, and we're not ready now. Three turrets have tracking issues, and two others can't lo
ad ammo. The relays for the Lancer cannon were installed but not aligned, and that's hard enough outside a dockyard under the best of conditions, never mind at FTL. All the command stations are glitchy; we don't even know what's wrong with them yet. And we have no shield. At last update, Ludmila told me it's not getting power. She thinks she's narrowed down the problem to a couple hundred relays in three power cables. Most are buried behind other systems that need to be shut down and the power rerouted before they can be accessed."
Miron knew he'd taken a gamble when he ordered Tenacious to leave dock before work had been completed, but at least the ghost shield had been functional when they'd departed. Its failure, he admitted only to himself, was likely related to the poor state of the ship's other systems. "When does she expect to have it operational?"
"She doesn't."
Miron stared. "Damn it, Borya. And you accepted that answer?"
Borya's eyes tightened. "She helped build the ship, Commander. She knows her better than you or I, and she doesn't want to die any more than we do. She's working on it, but even if she put her whole crew to work on the shield, the job could still take months. It wouldn't get done, and neither would anything else. I only mentioned the most critical problems, but there are issues with most of our systems. Would you rather be combat-ready with no shield, or fight with half our guns out and still have no shield?"
Miron fought back half a dozen unworthy replies. "Give her everything. Anything or anyone she needs."
The look on Borya's face as he leaned closer made it clear he considered the order unnecessary. "Tenacious is a good ship, with plenty of power. In peak condition, she could go toe to toe even with a Type 7, but there's a lot of work left to do before she's anywhere close to that. It looks like they won't catch us before we reach our target, but we're in for a fight no matter what, and I don't think we can win it. Not after weeks without a shield. Not with half our systems still unfinished and the other half sabotaged. Not with my crew crazy from exhaustion."
Miron studied Borya's long face, settled into old lines and ringed by white hair, and tried to keep the disappointment from his voice. "I don't know where you're going with this. Our job remains the same, regardless of the circumstances. If you don't like our odds for the upcoming engagement, I suggest you start thinking of ways to improve them." He softened his tone in spite of himself. "You know how it works. You used to have my job. You got the same briefing I—"
The deep, echoing sound of a bell cut him off. Before it faded, another followed. Fear surged in the pit of his stomach as he watched the overhead glow panels change from simulated daylight to bright red.
Borya gave a rough sigh. "Fucking shit," he said. "Already?" He reached for a button embedded in the table. His voice was steel: "All crew, assume alert level two. Tenacious is boarded. Until further notice, we are under Combat Code restrictions. Use internal coms only."
They looked at each other. Miron thought Borya looked even older in the red light, and he imagined the same was true for himself. "The long night begins," he said.
*****
Shura, citizen number 10134-121, stared at the words hovering over the display and wondered why she felt nothing.
Commonwealth Guards Command informs you of the death in combat of Vikenti, citizen number 75466-483, during an action by the High Risk Operations Service. His sacrifice honors his forebears, and the future of the Commonwealth is brightened by his courage.
She hadn't seen her ex-partner in more than seven years, and rarely ever thought of him. Now that she knew what had become of him, she realized she'd thought he was already dead, gone missing in battle with no way to confirm his loss. Her eyes strayed back to the same word in the message. Courage. Old, stale anger finally tried to stir the ashes in her heart, but nothing sparked to life. She deleted the message and turned off the terminal, revealing her reflection in the black projector mounted on the wall. Her hair had been more red than grey on that day, years ago, when grief had sent him running away to war, leaving her pregnant and alone.
A soft buzz in her ear made her get up. As usual, she'd been awake before the government-set alarm, and as usual, Kirill would try to sleep through it. She made her way to the bedroom as the glow panels overhead slowly brightened the beige walls. The growing light revealed the tangled pile of work clothes she'd meant to take to laundry yesterday, before she'd run out of steam and dumped them on the chair instead. As she passed the floating shelf with its five shiny, engraved metal cylinders, she ran a hand along the surface before them and summoned a smile for the faces that popped up over each one.
Her son had slipped completely under the covers to escape the offending lights, so she pulled them off the bed. He uttered a frustrated moan and curled up into a ball, going through several positions with his arms as he tried to cover his eyes.
She suppressed a smile along with the urge to curl up next to him and hardened her tone: "Up, Kiri. If I have to tell you again, you're going to regret it."
With a groan, he untangled himself and his button-nosed face appeared, twisted into a scowl. He made a show of getting out of bed, interrupted by a gaping yawn that was actually genuine.
"We're going to see Doctor Ermolei today. You like him."
Kirill rubbed his eyes. "I don't want to go."
"You can tell him that yourself when we get there."
"Can Smiley come too?"
Shura was grateful for the reminder of another topic to bring up with the doctor. "Fine," she answered after a moment's hesitation. It didn't feel right, but she hadn't managed to think of a good reason to tell her son he had to get rid of his imaginary friend. She hoped Ermolei could give her an answer.
Kirill complained all the way out of his pajamas and into his white-striped red uniform, until he accidentally kicked her in the gut as he wriggled into his pants. Her temper spiked and she snapped, "Is this how you do your part, Kirill? If everybody acted like you, we'd all be whining in our beds until the floaters came and killed us all. Stop acting like you're still a baby. You're going to start a new class soon. How do you want to look to your classmates and your instructor? Do you want them to think you don't care about your people and you don't want to do your part?" His lower lip grew to twice its size as tears filled his eyes. "Don't you cry!"
He looked down and said in a thick voice, "I won't."
"Get dressed. We need to eat before we go see the doctor."
He got ready in silence while she tried not to feel like a monster. She herded him out the door into the community complex's endless hallways. "Smiley says I should say sorry," he finally said. "I'm sorry, aman."
She looked down at his penitent face and threw her arm over his shoulders, pulling him close. "I forgive you," she said, leaning down to kiss his head. "And I think you should listen to Smiley."
They were late getting to the dining hall and joined the back of the long line for the food dispensers. She greeted a distant neighbor with a neutral "What you working on?" before fixing her gaze on the far end of the long hall, discouraging further conversation. The dining hall was the only indoor common area she couldn't avoid visiting, but there was no rule that said she had to be chatty. She'd see most of them at work, anyway.
When their turn at one of the eight dispensers came, the massive device read their palm prints and deposited an appropriately sized plate of steaming noodles and solid chunks in sauce, each a different shade of green and smelling of fish.
She found them a small table far from the larger groups. Kirill poked at his food. "What's this?" he asked as he held up a green chunk speared on his fork.
"It's wrack," she answered around a too-hot bite. "Eat it."
He stuffed it into his mouth and rolled up a noodle as he chewed. "Is everything made of wrack?"
"That's right. It's all the same stuff."
"Why do they make it look different?"
"So it feels different when you eat it. So we don't get bored of eating the same thing."
He made a face
. "But it all taste the same, anyway."
"It really does," she said with a wry chuckle.
Kirill kicked his feet while he ate and tried to turn his fork into a catapult when he thought Shura wasn't looking. After depositing their plates for cleanup, she took him across the courtyard to the infirmary. Off the path to either side, people of all ages exercised or played reflex games on the grass. Warm sunlight brightened their grass-stained grey leisure suits, but couldn't penetrate the wide shadows cast by the walls around them. Kirill strained on her arm as he stared at a group of children running after a ball, and she had to pull him back. "We don't have time for that," she said, the latest and weakest of her endless excuses to try to keep him away from other people. She couldn't bring herself to expose him to the world beyond the unavoidable hours at class and daycare, but she knew people talked about her and the son she kept hidden. When he turned eight in a few months, he would have to leave to start training for his adult life, and she wouldn't be able to hide his secrets anymore.
A palm scanner at the infirmary confirmed her identity. She was early, so it directed her to sit. They were alone in the waiting room, and Shura tried to relax. The artificial smell of flowers mixed with the disinfectant it was meant to hide once disgusted her, but these days, she looked forward to it. She studied the posters on the cool blue walls. Each projected its message into her aural implant when she looked at them, a strong, androgynous voice blending optimism and strength with just enough mockery to inspire guilt in the lazy.
"How are you getting better today?"
"The guards are fighting—how are you honoring your forebears?"
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