by Eric Thomson
“Let’s go back to the hide and talk it over,” he finally murmured.
**
“That was almost too easy,” Skurka said when a bend in the road swallowed the cooperative’s lights.
“The Almighty always offers a way, provided we keep our faith and search for it.”
When the mercenary glanced at Sister Averyl, sitting beside him in the transport’s control cabin, he saw the glow of the instrument panel light up one of those mysterious smiles which first attracted his attention.
“I prefer keeping faith in my skills, Sister. And in yours. That was impressive. Easy or not, we did good. So long as the cops don’t stop us.”
“Trust in the Almighty, Colyn Skurka.”
“I’m not a big believer, unlike the boss back there,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the transport’s cargo compartment. “Hartwood seems to have adopted Heloise as a combination of commanding officer and oracle.”
At Heloise’s suggestion, Cahal had led everyone as close to the cooperative as they dared, keeping to the shadows. Meanwhile, Skurka and Averyl had hacked the vehicle’s AI so they could be on their way sooner than if they made a detour to load up in a secluded spot off the main road. The sister seemed so confident no one questioned leaving the forest this close to a human settlement.
“That’s okay. The Almighty believes in you.”
Something in her tone caused him to glance at her again, but this time, he saw mischief gleaming in her dark eyes.
They spent the next few hours in companionable silence, the mercenary at a loss for safe topics of conversation, and forced to concentrate on driving through the night along an unlit road. Averyl had disabled the self-driving functions since they couldn’t risk the AI changing its mind or a traffic control node that survived the rebellion seizing control of their vehicle.
Tiryns’ outskirts eventually materialized from the pre-dawn gloom, and it quickly became plain that portions of the port city had suffered as heavily from the fighting as the most devastated parts of Petras. Piles of rubble littered the outskirts, casting strange shadows under widely scattered light globes still in working condition.
Skurka, his concentration focused on navigating through the debris, missed Averyl’s gasp of alarm and by the time he realized they’d come within sight of a checkpoint, it was too late. Backing up now would make things worse.
He switched his radio to send on the short range unit frequency.
“We got problems, boss. Checkpoint. Can’t see if it’s Guards, cops, or someone else. Too late for evasion. Standby.”
— 14 —
Lyonesse
DeCarde’s head whipped up from the map projection she was studying with Kayne the moment she spied Morane in the hallway of what they now thought of as Lyonesse Defense Force Headquarters.
“And?”
“I got everything we wanted.” Morane entered the conference room adjoining the operations center and gave them a weary grin. “Congratulations, Colonel DeCarde. Please be so kind as to hand the 21st Pathfinder Regiment to Lieutenant Colonel Salmin and stand up the 1st Brigade.”
“And you?”
“By common accord, we decided appointing a defense force chief and making promotions to flag rank will need a Colonial Council vote, as per the old imperial constitution.”
“Surely in your case, that’s a mere formality.”
“But an important one, Brigid. We don’t want to repeat the empire’s mistakes. If you’ll pardon me, I need to call what will soon be the Lyonesse Navy and announce a few promotions and reassignments. Lori Ryzkov has a lot of work ahead to form the Defense Force Support Group. And the sooner we turn our plans into reality, the harder they will be to undo if people in the colonial government get second thoughts.”
He nodded at Kayne.
“And part of that means regularizing your unit, Matti. You’re no longer in charge of a colonial militia but a reserve regiment.”
“Yes, sir. Might I suggest we hold formal ceremonies marking the creation of the Lyonesse armed services?”
“With Governor Yakin as reviewing officer?” When both DeCarde and Kayne nodded, Morane said, “Done. I’m sure it will please her excellency to receive full military honors as commander-in-chief.”
A loud shout echoed from the far end of the hallway. Morane turned to look for its source and saw a figure in green tussling with a man wearing a prisoner’s gray single piece garment by the staircase door.
“Let go of me, you cur,” the man shouted in what Morane recognized as a distinctly nasal version of the courtly Wyvern drawl. “I will speak with whoever commands this asylum for congenital morons.”
Morane gave DeCarde a sardonic glance and muttered, “Gwenneth warned me.”
Then, in a louder voice pitched at the Marine guarding the headquarters entrance, he said, “Please escort that individual to my office.”
The sentry released the intruder and stamped to attention. “Yes, sir.”
**
Morane’s office, previously that of the 77th Imperial Marine Regiment’s commanding officer, was as bleak and sparsely furnished as a prison cell. Its austerity didn’t escape the political prisoner’s attention, judging by his disdainful expression.
After examining the room, still closely watched by a visibly annoyed Marine lance corporal, he turned a cold stare on Morane. An unattractive sneer distorted his patrician features.
“You run this place of perdition, do you, Captain?” He made Morane’s rank sound like an insult.
“Why don’t you sit?” Morane gestured at the field chair in front of his desk. He nodded at the lance corporal. “Please wait in the corridor.”
The Marine stiffened.
“Sir.”
He saluted, pivoted on his heels, and left.
Morane studied his unexpected guest before speaking. The man seemed to be in his late fifties, with silver-dusted black hair and a sculpted face that could only come from genetic engineering, but his eyes seemed much older and held no more warmth than interstellar space.
“My name is Jonas Morane, and I am the senior armed services officer in the Lyonesse system. My battle group rescued you and your fellow political prisoners from certain death at rebel hands.”
“And you’re expecting me to shower you with gratitude? After keeping us penned up like animals since we woke?”
“Your living conditions are no worse than those of my Marines.”
“Really? Do you know who I am?”
Morane’s lips twisted into a deliberately mocking smile.
“A rude individual who trespassed and imposed himself on me in a most discourteous manner. I expected more from a former nobleman of the imperial court.”
The man leaned forward with what he likely believed to be a threatening expression.
“I’m Severin Rembert Downes, Count Hallibrank, and you will show me proper respect.”
“Or what?” Morane’s reply seemed to a catch Downes by surprise, and he blinked twice. “We are no longer in the empire. Titles of nobility hold no sway on Lyonesse. However, we still expect common courtesy. Especially from someone who might right now find himself dying by millimeters in a Parth jungle or, if the rebels had decided to not bother with another batch of useless courtiers, be so much space debris.
“We gave you and the rest of the political prisoners a chance at a new life. Find some gratitude before my patience runs thin, and I carry out Dendera’s sentence. Lyonesse has a place of exile called the Windy Isles, from which no one can escape. The worst of the common criminals who traveled with you are already there, building their own settlements and growing their own food, lest they starve. We can easily send you and any other obnoxious lordlings to join them.”
Downes stared at Morane in shock, momentarily robbed of his ability to form words. Finally, he said in a hoarse voice, “No one ever dared speak to me in this way.”
Morane cocked an ironic ey
ebrow.
“Not even Dendera when she dispensed with your presence at court because she suspected you of plotting her overthrow? Hard to believe. Or do you mean no one you consider inferior has ever dared?” Morane let out a derisive snort. “Get used to it, Severin. You’re on a new world with different rules. We will shortly resettle you former political prisoners in the community at large where we expect you to do honest work and earn a living under the supervision of someone who doesn’t give a damn about dusty old titles.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Downes hissed. “I’m a member of the imperial nobility, not a damned commoner with grubby hands and a dull mind.”
“Please don’t waste my time with useless posturing, Mister Downes —”
“Count Hallibrank, or My Lord, if you please,” the man snarled. “I was the secretary to the imperial chamberlain. I’ve squashed more insolent officers of your sort than I care to remember.”
Morane ignored the outburst.
“Why did you force your way into my office, Mister Downes? Other than to show your lack of manners?”
“Who is governor of this planet? I demand to see him or her.”
“That would be The Honorable Elenia Yakin, who has no interest in speaking with any of the political prisoners.”
“I’m personally acquainted with Elenia’s husband, Brigadier General Quimper of the Imperial Guards. Take me to her now, you ill-bred lout.”
“She won’t waste her time on useless drones, especially those who claim friendship with a thoroughly dishonorable man like her former spouse.”
Downes lunged forward as if to grab Morane by the lapels and shake him. Morane reached up, wrapped his hands around the count’s wrists, and pushed back.
“Trying to assault me was a terrible idea, Mister Downes. You are on an installation belonging to the Lyonesse Defense Force and thus subject to military discipline and military law. This conversation is finished. Lance Corporal?”
“Sir,” a loud voice responded from the corridor. The man appeared in the doorway seconds later.
“Take this individual to the brig. He’ll stay in solitary until tomorrow morning, on short rations. Spending time alone might give him a chance to reflect on the wisdom of adapting to his new life.”
When Downes began to sputter, Morane said, “Legally, you and the rest remain convicts until a Lyonesse court vacates your sentences. Since your sort is largely responsible for the empire’s decay and collapse, you’ll not find any sympathy if you continue to display this level of arrogance and entitlement. No one here will lose a moment’s sleep if the court sends you to the Windy Isles instead of setting you free. There’s no room on this planet for parasites, troublemakers, or anyone who won’t pull his or her own weight. Good day, Mister Downes.”
When the former count and his Marine escort vanished down the stairwell, DeCarde stuck her head into Morane’s office.
“Nasty customer? We heard raised voices.”
Morane pinched the bridge of his nose with the thumb and index finger of his right hand and sighed.
“Make a note Brigid. We must quash any attempt to set up a nobility in exile on Lyonesse with utmost ruthlessness, including summary execution. Otherwise, we won’t survive for long.”
“Isn’t our governor one of them?”
“Technically, but I doubt she has much sympathy for those who used to be her peers at court, let alone those who thought themselves her superiors.” When he saw DeCarde’s quizzical look, he made a dismissive gesture with his left hand. “Something Emma Reyes said when I was at the College Club, but don’t ask. It’s not my story to tell.”
“When do you want Matti and me to brief you on our preliminary plans?”
“Since the Rifle Regiment companies are already dispersed throughout the main settlements, may I assume you intend to spread out the 21st Regiment’s squadrons as well?”
“Yes. We’re ready for you in the operations conference room unless you’d rather we do this later.”
Morane climbed to his feet.
“Anything to help calm my irritation after meeting Severin Downes, formerly Count Hallibrank. Lead on.”
**
When the daily command conference broke up the morning after Morane’s run-in with Downes, Gwenneth lingered until only the two of them remained in the room.
Morane gave her a curious glance.
“Is there something on your mind, Sister?”
“News of the treatment you gave Mister Downes has spread through the political prisoners like wildfire. I’m not sure incarcerating him was wise.”
Morane sighed.
“You may be right. But the damn idiot not only got up my nose the moment he opened his mouth, he and his ilk also represent everything that’s been wrong with the empire since Stichus Ruggero usurped the throne.”
“Downes described the incident in a most inflammatory manner and is stirring up no end of unrest among his fellows. Unfortunately, the deeply negative atmosphere he’s creating causes my Brethren further distress. We will persevere, but I must ask how long before we may at least move some of the political prisoners to Matti’s camps if we can’t yet send them into the community? Since the Brethren voted in favor of Chancellor Reyes’ offer, the land is ours, and Lieutenant Grimes has begun to set aside shipping containers we can transform into housing. Thus, everything is in place to found our new abbey. We would like to resume a monastic life, yet we cannot leave this place until you free us of our duty to the prisoners. Void Brethren do not walk out on their commitments.”
“Perhaps I should send the entire lot to the Windies. Get them out of our hair while the colonial government helps us prepare the training camps to receive semi-permanent residents. I don’t care about forcing the politicals to live in austere conditions, but food, medical care, and the like must come from Gus Logran’s administration. We don’t have the resources, and it’s not as if the buggers can work for a living before the courts vacate their sentences.”
Gwenneth grimaced.
“That will be another point of contention. Half of the politicals expect the sort of sinecure they enjoyed at court, while the other half hopes to live off the first half’s sinecures.”
“The Windy Isles it is then. Leave the useless bastards there for a year and teach them a lesson they won’t forget. It’ll save us converting Matti’s training camps into holding facilities.”
“As much as I’d like to agree with you, such a sentiment would come from the part of me I strive to keep in check. Still, it would be a blessing if you could give the colonial administration a little shove and move some of them out of the barracks.”
“Such as Downes and his cronies. Understood.” He gave her a crooked grin. “I will do my utmost to hasten the chief administrator at our next meeting, but the moment I put forth the principle that our armed forces must report to the council, not the administration, I lost most, if not all of his goodwill.”
“A shame. At least the public safety people were diligent in removing the common criminals destined for work farms. I believe the last of them left yesterday.”
“Small mercies.”
“The criminals were never our concern. Those I spoke with were happy they landed on a better world than Parth.”
“The politicals might not once they fully understand their situation, but I can’t see the Windies being any worse than Parth’s Desolation Island.”
Gwenneth gave a small shudder at hearing the name of humanity’s harshest and deadliest open-air prison, a place of exile from which no one returned.
“May the Almighty look kindly on the souls marooned there.”
“Indeed. Because no one else will.”
— 15 —
Mykonos
Skurka let the transport glide to a silent stop a few meters before the checkpoint, a horizontal metallic pole running across the street. Its ends sat atop dented cubic shipping pods. He could make out half a dozen figures
on either side, all armed. More probably lurked behind scabrous, battle-scarred walls on either side.
One of the figures, wearing castoff armor and carrying a military issue carbine, approached the driver’s side. A single glance told Skurka the man didn’t move or hold his weapon like a trained soldier. He stopped a good two meters from the cab and gestured at the mercenary to open his window.
When Skurka complied, the man asked, “Crown or freedom?”
“Neither, friend. We’re ordinary folks trying to survive.”
“What’s your business in Tiryns?”
“We want to find a ship heading west, to Karinth, where people hopefully aren’t killing each other because of fucked up politics.”
The man studied Skurka for a moment.
“You look like a soldier,” he said in an accusing tone.
“I was a private military consultant working for the local merchant guild before the rebellion. Now I’m just another displaced person trying to keep his head attached to his neck.”
A grunt.
“What’s in the back of your truck?”
“Eleven more tired people who want to escape the madness with my friend and me.” When Skurka glanced at Sister Averyl, he saw her staring intently at the shadowy figure. “I’m not carrying any cargo or other valuables. Feel free to check. Just so you’re aware, a few worked with me on the merchant guild contract, meaning they’re armed and armored, but only for self-protection. None of them owe allegiance to either the Crown or Jorge Danton.”
“Then you won’t mind us looking.”
“Nope. Let me warn my passengers.”
Instead of replying, the man made a gesture toward his comrades at the checkpoint, then indicated the transport’s back end. Two figures broke away from the group.