Fortunes of the Imperium - eARC

by Jody Lynn Nye

This time Jil dipped her countenance. I felt momentary sorrow for that thrust, seeing as it was delivered with less than perfect tact before her friends. I was about to apologize when yet another luggage carrier appeared on the scene, rumbling under the weight of its load. It had been piled as high as a mountain with bags of every color and configuration. I executed a perfect double-take, to the amusement of the ladies.

  “And where is all that going?” I inquired.

  “Well, wherever it will fit!” Jil said. “You can’t expect my ladies to travel stark naked.”

  “And by ‘stark naked’ you mean fewer than twelve layers of clothes?”

  “Just exactly,” Jil said, laying a delicate hand upon my arm. “I am so glad you understand what I say, Thomas. It will make the trip much more entertaining.”

  What could not be cured must be endured, I mused. I turned my back on the loader.

  “Gentlewomen,” Plet said, inclining her head a few millimeters. “Welcome aboard. Lieutenant Kinago, please see to their comfort.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” I said. I applied a salute to my forehead, then extended an elbow to Jil. “Please come along and see your quarters.”

  Jil battened on, and I proceeded toward the boarding ramp.

  The cooling system was in full operation, so the ambient temperature within was several degrees lower than the desert sunshine outside. After a moment of shivering, the ladies had acclimatized. They looked around, their brows wrinkled with curiosity. I followed their glances, taking in the thin layer of the cream-colored inner hull against the steel-blue of the shielded and armored outer hull. Beside the hatch were glassteel-fronted cases containing emergency gear, each with a series of images instructing on their use. Beyond the airlock, the size of the average foyer in the Imperium compound, a short corridor led to the main passage. I was accustomed to its appearance, but I realized how utilitarian and forbidding it might seem to civilians.

  “Why don’t we start with a tour?” I asked. I directed them to the main corridor and to the right, where the ship’s artificial gravity took hold and turned us thirty degrees. “This way is the bridge.”

  “Here we have the nerve center of the entire ship,” I said, entering the command module with understandable pride. “You see all the screens and tanks that provide telemetry for all information the crew will need to pilot the ship and take care of its many functions. The four station chairs are for command, navigation, communications and defense, and are fitted with complicated padding and harnesses to protect the officers during launch, landing and any rough travel.”

  “Battle?” asked Marquessa, with a frisson that shook her delectable flesh. As she was not related to the imperial family, she had not had to go through the academy for two years’ service. Instead, she had taken part in an ecology program on a planet being terraformed in Colvarin’s Department Store system. I imagined what it must look like to her to enter a warship for the first time. The walls full of screens and scopes must be a trifle overwhelming.

  “If need be, of course, but our first move would be evasive tactics,” I assured her.

  “Why are there six chairs?” Hopeli asked, pointing out the obvious.

  “Well, that one is mine,” I said, pointing to the one slightly behind and to the right of the center of the bridge. It had superbly comfortable padding and an enhanced sound system installed. Its extended frame was custom-fitted to my long back and legs.

  “Where do we sit to watch the launch?” Sinim asked, eagerly, peering around. “I don’t see any other seats.”

  “Not in here, I am afraid.”

  I led them off the bridge, past the hydroponics garden and conference room, showed them briefly the location of ladders and conveyance chutes around to the cabins and bathing facilities, storage facilities, and repair bays. I explained the spinning core that ran through the center of the ship, to provide normal gravity while in the void. I looped back briefly to the cargo bay at the far aft just behind engineering. With all the goods needed for the trip, including military skimmers and aircycles already occupying a large portion of the area, the addition of the ladies’ luggage filled it up to the toes of the evac suits hanging on the walls in their individual cubbyholes. We had just room to squeeze all the way around to observe the aft airlock and back again. Our tour ended in the common room.

  “This is where you will observe launch, or anything else you choose,” I said. I flipped on all the lights.

  The enormous chamber, thus revealed, elicited appreciative oohs from my audience.

  “This is the entertainment center,” I said, my voice echoing off the white enameled panels that were the default walls of the room. “It doubles and trebles as the refectory, tri-tennis court, exercise room, theater, party venue and whatever else helps keep the crew healthy and pass the long weeks or months that the ship may be in transit. Here is where you will dine.”

  I showed them the tables that rose from the floor, then operated the control to activate the kitchen.

  The food service section hummed into life. It occupied a large cubbyhole of its own. A wide conveyor, self-cleaning, led to the dishwasher-cum-food recycler that all cycled down into a system that was part of life support. Dishes and utensils left the washer and stacked themselves neatly in a cabinet beside the mechanized food preparation area. Prepared meals need only be placed on the IO platform for each section to be heated or chilled to temperature.

  “You are not expecting us to eat processed glop,” Jil said, horrified. “I left that behind at graduation!”

  “Certainly not,” I said. I pointed. “Cold storage, including walk-in freezer or refrigeration units for real food, is behind this section. You have access to anything not marked with somebody else’s name. I have ordered excellent supplies to see us through the transit and beyond the frontier. Rank has its privileges. But look here,” I added. “You will enjoy this.”

  I opened a few of the wall hatches to show them the clever storage units concealed within. My sports equipment had been secured in the storage lockers along with that belonging to my crew. I took out my favorite tri-tennis racquet, a Williams model in black high-impact compound with electric blue and pink flashes, and swished it through the air. The ladies opened one hatch after another to have a look. They found bats, hoops, nets, balls of every size and configuration, exercise equipment, weights, variable resistance machines and so on, secreted behind panels all over the large room.

  “Yes, but one does not always want to play sports,” Jil said, bored already with the delights of the chamber.

  “One is not expected to do so,” I said, activating a control on the wall. A black glassteel panel slid up to reveal a state-of-the-art video center and music player, compact enough for one person to operate, but with extensions and connections for three dozen to use. Tri-dees, old videos, thousands of subscriptions to holographic and sound magazines and countless other media were stored for recall by anyone who had time to kill. Myriad games, with appropriate controllers and joysticks, needed only to be unlocked to be enjoyed. “Every file is available anywhere on the ship on demand. Come take a look.”

  Jil allowed herself to be persuaded to seat herself at the console and peruse the listed media selections. She ran her finger up and down the screen, frowning at some entries, smiling at others.

  “Oh, Ya!” she exclaimed happily. “You have Ya!”

  “You’re a fan, too?” I asked. The video series was an import from the Autocracy, starring an all-Uctu cast. Our distant ancestors would have called it a soap opera. I had been a devotee of it for years.

  “Of course I am a fan,” Jil said, with a moue for my stupidity. “You knew that. You bought me season six for my eighteenth birthday.”

  “Oh, but that was so many years ago, cousin,” I said. “Oof!” She hit me in the stomach with her elbow. I folded over the blow, giving her enormous satisfaction.

  “What a wonderful collection,” Sinim said, her eyes aglow as she scrolled down the list. “We�
�ll enjoy all of it!”

  “Yes,” Marquessa said. “It won’t be as bad as I thought it would be.”

  “Well?” I asked, waiting for the inevitable reaction from my cousin.

  “Well, what?” Jil asked.

  “What do you think of my ship?”

  She looked around, her lower lip pushed out in thought.

  “It’s a trifle small, isn’t it?”

  “Small!” I was taken aback and said so. “How many other Kinagos have their own warship?”

  “Technically, it’s not yours,” she said, teasingly. “It belongs to the Imperium Navy.”

  “Then I suppose it belongs to my mother,” I said. “And you should be impressed. She has thousands of ships. Of every size.”

  “I wonder if she gives them pet names,” Jil said. “I would, if they were mine. The White Star would become Trinket. How does that sound? And this one would be Neeps.”

  “Rodrigo,” I said firmly. “It is named for my father. But I quite agree. Some of them would be the better for a nickname. They are only meant to sound fearsome to our enemies, not to the brave souls serving aboard them. I shall run us up a copy of the naval manifest, and we can rename all the ships in the fleet.”

  Jil clapped her hands. “That would be splendid!”

  My viewpad buzzed. I lifted it to see Plet’s severe face staring up at me.

  “Launch in ten minutes. To stations. Countdown beginning.”

  With that terse order, her image disappeared, to be replaced by clock numbers tolling downward.

  Jil pouted.

  “Do you really have to go?” she asked.

  “Plet gets very annoying when she’s being officious,” I said, casually. “I had better get you situated, cousin. Oskelev is the most amazing pilot, nearly as good as I am, but technical glitches can happen to anyone. I should hate to see you bruised when the event is so preventable.”

  I went around the room, pulling down crash couches and seeing to it that the guests were properly buckled in. The veteran of many transstellar voyages, Marquessa fastened her own harness expertly. I was glad there was one I did not need to worry about. Hopeli became intricately tangled in the padded straps, and did some most intriguing contortions to get free. I remembered from her Infogrid page that she was a fellow student in a dance class Jil took in town. The others waited for me to secure them in place. I flipped buckles and grip-pads expertly, and had them safely strapped in no time. I had learned from several hours’ practice the most efficient order in which to secure the various parts of the harness. I could tell that my guests were impressed.

  With less than five minutes remaining, I hurried to the bridge and threw myself into my crash couch. Parsons was already serenely fastened in.

  Plet gave the order to Oskelev, who opened communications with the tower.

  “Oromgeld, this is scout ship CK-M945B, ready for departure.”

  “Rodrigo, we read you. Safe journey. Prepare for launch in six, five, four, three . . .”

  I braced myself against the coming thrust of engines. I always adored takeoff.

  “. . . Two, one!”

  Oskelev planted her big furry hands on the controls. I felt the skin of my face seem to part and slide toward my ears as g-forces took hold.

  We were off.

  CHAPTER 8

  What good was a crash couch, Skana Bertu mused pleasantly, stretching, if it wasn’t suitable for just crashing in?

  She lounged at her ease within sight of the viewtank that showed their position in space, one jump beyond the Imperium home system. There had been no good reason to stay awake during the approach to or transit through the jump point. Her custom-made protective settee was upholstered in silkskin, the hide of a rare species that was both durable and incredibly soft to the touch. For years she had thought about raising the creatures for their pelts. This new couch decided her for certain. She was going to do it.

  “Tuk,” she said aloud, “make a note. Silkskins. Where can we get enough for breeding stock?”

  “The information is already in my records, madam.” The Croctoid’s voice came from a few yards away. “If you would care to peruse it while we are waiting until it is safe to unstrap, I would be pleased to send it to you.”

  She waved a dismissive hand, although she knew he couldn’t see it in the depths of his equally custom-made but not as handsome lounger. Croctoids liked rough fabrics and lumpy cushions that would make humans writhe just to look at them.

  “Later’s fine. What do we hear about those prisoners? Taken care of yet?”

  “No information yet, madam, but they will be handled shortly.”

  “All right,” Skana said. She hated loose ends. “What took so long to clear Keinolt space?”

  “Random inspection!” Nile’s peevish voice erupted and echoed off the ceiling. Skana made a note to improve the soundproofing. It could be done at their next supply stop. “Customs has decided to search every vessel leaving the system now, instead of just coming in! Invasion of privacy!”

  Skana tried not to sigh aloud.

  “They’ve been doing that for centuries, Nile,” she said. “Random inspections started before Earth’s first colonies. It’s purely a safety measure.”

  “They’re picking on us! They know this is a Bertu ship!”

  “They can’t possibly suspect us of anything,” Skana said, not bothering to try and look in his direction. “We have receipts and safety certificates for every single object on this ship. They were just trying to make sure we didn’t blow up ten minutes into flight. Let it go, Nile.”

  “Don’t be angry, Mr. Bertu,” said one of the two girls who were sharing Nile’s ample couch and protective harnesses with him. “Wouldn’t you rather be happy? Can’t I help you?”

  “And me,” the second girl said. “How about a shoulder massage? Would that help to relax you?”

  “Well, maybe . . .” Nile’s voice trailed off into a sigh.

  When they had launched from Oromgeld spaceport, Skana wasn’t sure if hiring the girls had been a good idea. They had both been nervous. She was afraid that their caution might rub off on Nile, but it hadn’t lasted. In fact, giving him a couple companions was paying off handsomely. Alone, by that point in their journey, he would have been having fifty kinds of fit, over whether they had brought enough booze, or if Tuk had remembered to load the entertainment system with all the new music Nile craved (he had; he always did), or bemoaned yet again the temporary loss of connectivity with their businesses. Skana glanced at the viewtank again. She could see the space station that orbited near the jump point. They didn’t need to stop for supplies or maintenance yet, but communications would have been reestablished. Yes, she could hear the sound of Tuk’s claws on the screen of his clipboard. Any minute Nile would hook in. He’d have a happy hour or so dictating his daily messages to the hundred or so factories, businesses and other concerns. If there were any real problems, he’d probably shuffle them off to her. In the meantime the girls would keep him happy.

  They were both slender and fairly tall, with golden skins and green eyes, deliberately chosen for their resemblance to the lady that Nile had picked on. Skana hated to feed his obsession, but it might keep his mind off the real thing.

  Both the girls were nervous, scared that they might not make the return journey alive. Skana found their concerns neither here nor there. If they made Nile happy, they would be transported back again. Then they could resume their jobs, one a quality control manager in an orbiting factory out in the direction toward Cassobrix, the other as a receptionist at a Bertu Corporation office in the outskirts of Taino. They would be safe as long as they never breathed a word about what they saw or heard during this trip to anyone for the rest of their lives. That meant lovers, children, as well as the press or future biographers. Once they had accepted the assignment, Skana implanted them both with recorder chips to make sure.

  They didn’t have to take the job, she had pointed out. It was genuinely optional, wi
th no strings attached to refusal. The Bertus kept their word on that. Her brother had a bad temper, yes, but he could be very generous. He was a good businessman when his emotions weren’t engaged. The girls decided to take the chance, so they had agreed to the terms. Betray the Bertus, and no one would ever find the bodies. But if they survived and kept silent, they had a good opportunity to rise higher in the company, not just in Nile’s bed. He and Skana rewarded loyalty with loyalty. And once the trip was over, they’d never have to sleep with him again. This was a one-off. Every girl who ever traveled as one of Nile’s arm candy knew it. He probably wouldn’t recognize either one a year from then. The odds were he couldn’t pick either of them out of a line of similar girls now.

  It wasn’t like they were traveling steerage, either. The Pelican was luxurious and brand new. In fact, it had just floated out of the shipyard. Skana had designed it with the shipbuilder who created the Emperor’s personal vessels. State-of-the-art engines purred at the rear of the long, sleek body. The repulsor array was calibrated to take out any particle up to a pretty good meteor. The cabins wouldn’t have been out of place in a palace. Every single component, every piece of furniture, was beautifully made as well as durable. A few of their friends had joked about the ship’s name, but the Bertus liked it. After all, it was registered as a cargo vessel, even though it would take a genius with a map to locate the storage bays from the residential areas. Oh, the customs officials had no trouble locating them . . . at least the majority of them. Little hiding places, and some not so little, occupied what would be dead space in other ships. At the moment, those were empty, and the main bay was full of crates of fine metal powder suitable for manufacturing use. The Bertus had no intention of being stopped for any infraction whatsoever. When they crossed the border into the Autocracy, they wanted to be clean as a whistle. Enstidius and his connections would make certain there were no other delays. She’d hate to be late for a coup.

  A gentle chime sounded from concealed speakers and from everybody’s pocket secretaries and clipboards. Noises like a pig emerging from a wallow meant that Nile was getting up. After one surprised squeak from the receptionist, probably a foot in the face, neither girl let out a peep. Skana nodded. She had chosen well.