Imperial Twilight

by Eric Thomson

  As they stepped out of the terminal to search for transport, Ty Renlinger nodded at the many scorch marks etched into the road and neighboring buildings.

  “Looks like someone tried them on, and not that long ago. A few months, maybe. Less than a year. Those scars still look relatively fresh.”

  “That reiver wolf pack the 197th Battle Group chased up the Lyonesse branch most likely,” Markov said. “I’ll bet they were ambushed right here on their way to raid downtown Lannion, which means the ships landed. And that means the reivers arrived before the 197th. Otherwise, something like Vanquish would have turned them into orbiting wreckage. Interesting.”

  “How come?” Orobio asked.

  “This place hasn’t seen an Imperial Armed Services garrison, beyond the naval supply depot, in almost a decade. Ergo, the local police and militia probably fought off those reivers by themselves without self-destructing in the process. Think about that.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, indeed. This place is getting more interesting by the minute.” Markov nudged Bouras. “Worth the trip on its own, right boss?”

  Bouras grunted in agreement.

  “Let’s walk into town and see how far the fighting went.”

  Thirty minutes later, the team stopped within sight of Lannion’s central square.

  “Looks like they contained most of the reivers at the spaceport, though from the odd shot hole, a few escaped and ran. I wonder what happened to the ships and why they didn’t bomb the shit out of this place once they realized the attack was going sideways.”

  “Must be because the 197th finally entered orbit and didn’t give them time to strike from above,” Renlinger suggested. “Whoever remained aboard must have lifted off and tried to run the moment it looked like the jig was up. Badlands barbarians don’t give a shit about that no one left behind business.”

  — 28 —

  “Major Gelbar reports no issues at the spaceport, Centurion,” Sergeant Rodion Kuryakin, the duty communications tech said once he’d caught Haller’s attention. “Final tally is two hundred and sixty migrants from Arietis asking for asylum and four visitors here on a three-month visa. The migrants are at the processing facility where the debriefing team is getting ready. Gelbar is standing A Squadron down and returning to base.”

  The processing facility, formerly known as Camp Lannion, used to be the Lyonesse Rifle Regiment’s training installation on the city’s outskirts. Morane turned it over to the administration when it became clear they faced a small, but steady influx of arrivals and likely would until starship traffic through the Lyonesse branch of the wormhole network ceased entirely. The Rifles’ Headquarters and A companies now used a section of Lannion Base instead, which suited Lieutenant Colonel Kayne and his troops.

  “Four visitors?” Haller turned away from the operation center’s panoramic window and glanced at the communications station. “Did we get any details from immigration control?”

  Kuryakin, a Rifle Regiment noncom who’d served a hitch as a starship communications rating in the Imperial Navy before settling on Lyonesse, nodded.

  “Visual from the checkpoint and the screening officer’s notes.”

  “Good. I’m glad the colonial administration has taken Admiral Morane’s advice on increased security to heart.”

  “You think they could be persons of interest, sir?”

  “When did we last see visitors on a three-month visa, Sergeant? As opposed to immigrants and starship crews taking shore leave?”

  Kuryakin scratched his short salt and pepper beard, lost in thought.

  “Couldn’t say offhand, but if it happened while I was on shift, I’m sure I’d remember. Want me to check the database?”

  Haller shook her head.

  “No need. We haven’t seen actual visitors to Lyonesse since I started working operations. Show me the visual.”

  “Coming right up.” Kuryakin pointed at the main display.

  Haller, along with the other six operations center watchkeepers, studied the video of four humans, two men, two women, moving as a group through the immigration lines until they reached the immigration officer’s counter. They listened to the interplay, then watched them leave the arrivals hall.

  “Comments?” She asked once the video faded away, replaced by four columns listing the personal data on the visitors’ ID chips. “Take your time.”

  “If they’re trade representatives, I’m a Void Sister,” Sergeant First Class Eddy Craddoc, one of the veteran 21st Pathfinder noncoms assigned to Defense Force HQ, said.

  “Why?”

  “Their eyes are everywhere, and they move like fighters. Especially the dark-haired woman.” Craddoc glanced at his terminal. “Jaimee Markov. If she walked into the sergeant’s mess tonight, I’d ask her which regiment. Maybe even flash my challenge coin.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Call it gut instinct. The other three, no, but they’re not career civilians.”

  “Anyone else?” Haller asked.

  “Now that Eddy mentioned it, yeah, the buggers don’t strike me as merchants,” Sergeant Kuryakin said. “But don’t ask why. It’s just a feeling. Perhaps because they don’t act like wide-eyed tourist or worried migrants wondering whether we’ll let them stay.”

  Of the four petty officers culled from the 197th who filled out the rest of the duty shift, none added anything, though the senior among them, Vlad Harkness, tentatively agreed with his buddy, Craddoc.

  Haller gave the ID data readout a last glance.

  “So be it. Sergeant Kuryakin, tell the Lannion Police, the immigration section, and the public safety coordination center those four should be considered persons of interest. They should be watched but not approached until further notice.”

  “Wilco, sir.”

  Seized by momentary indecision, Haller nibbled on the inside of her lower lip before coming to a decision. She dropped into the duty officer’s throne-like command chair and stroked the screen embedded in its right arm. Compared to most military organizations throughout history, the Lyonesse Defense Force functioned with a vanishingly small staff cadre and a dizzyingly vertical command structure.

  As operations center duty officer, she enjoyed direct access to the admiral and his three immediate subordinates, but Haller knew better than to go beyond entering noteworthy events in the daily log unless necessary.

  However, something told her that while this wasn’t on the same level as a reiver wolf pack emerging from the Lyonesse wormhole, it might be noteworthy enough to ring up Colonel DeCarde, the defense force second in command.

  DeCarde’s smiling face appeared on Haller’s private screen moments later.

  “What’s up, Eve?”

  “We may have welcomed visitors of interest among that last batch of migrants, sir.”

  “Visitors? As in they came, they’ll look around, and they’ll leave?”

  “Four, purporting to be trade representatives looking for opportunities. Immigration gave them three-month visas. Our records show no other tourists since the admiral convinced Mister Logran to set up strict entry controls, and that wasn’t long after we arrived, so it’s been a while. Immigration sent us a video along with their ID data. We figure they might be something other than they claim.”

  “In that case, I want to see what you saw. Send everything to my terminal.”

  DeCarde looked away while the video played on her office display. When she glanced up at Haller again, her face wore a puzzled frown.

  “You did well to pass this on right away. There’s something off with those tourists. The dark-haired woman—”

  “Markov.”

  “Yes, that one — she seems vaguely familiar.”

  “Eddy Craddoc figures Markov wouldn’t seem out of place in the sergeant’s mess and might even carry a challenge coin.”

  “He thinks she wore a winged dagger at some point?”

  Haller nodded.

&nbs
p; “And the others, while not in the same class as Markov, probably answer to service numbers. I doubt they represent a company called Universal Exports. Not only has it never done business on Lyonesse, but who in their right mind would troll for commercial opportunities at the far end of a wormhole cul-de-sac cut off from whatever’s left of imperial space?

  “Based on the latest migrant debriefings, the Arietis wormhole junction might not be a reiver’s paradise yet, but if I recall correctly, ship owners stand to lose their insurance coverage if they go into star systems no longer under navy control. That’s why we’re seeing nothing but scummy tramps these days instead of company freighters.”

  DeCarde tapped her chin with an extended index finger.

  “Then why would these fake tourists come here?”

  “I guess the only way to find out is see what they do. We notified the police and civilian authorities to keep an eye on them as persons of interest.”

  “Good. And I should probably ask Matti Kayne to sic his informal intelligence network on them.”

  Upon hearing the name of the Rifle Regiment’s commanding officer, Haller gave Sergeant Kuryakin an involuntary glance. He and the other watchkeepers were listening in on her conversation with DeCarde, and when their eyes met, Kuryakin gave Haller thumbs up, then pointed at himself.

  “An excellent idea, sir. Perhaps the operations center should be appointed as an information clearinghouse for Colonel Kayne’s spies. I have just the man for the job — Sergeant Kuryakin.”

  “Done. Thanks for the heads-up, Eve, and keep me apprised of developments. I’ll let the admiral know. DeCarde, out.”

  Haller climbed out of the command chair and walked over to the panoramic window overlooking Lannion Base from the operations center’s clifftop aerie. She could easily make out Lannion itself, strung along the banks of the broad, muddy brown Haven River, including Government House, a bright white rectangle at the center of a lush, walled-in park.

  Further south, high above the Middle Sea’s hazy shoreline, thunderheads were building ahead of the usual late afternoon downpour. At this time of the year, it left the air so muggy Haller often thought she’d be better off with gills.

  A soft rumble drew her eyes to the civilian spaceport a few kilometers east of downtown Lannion. Avadora, now rid of her human cargo, was firing thrusters to prepare for takeoff. Haller idly wondered whether she was carrying anything worth selling back in the big, wide galaxy or returning to Arietis with empty holds, and whether she’d land on Lyonesse again one day. Avadora could even be the last starship to visit if rumors about the Coalsack Sector government losing its grip on one star systems after another were true.

  The growl of overworked thrusters grew, though the sound remained muted by both distance and the armored window. Moments later, Haller watched a tiny black shape rise on columns of brilliant light. She followed the freighter’s progress until it vanished from view, swallowed by the towering clouds.

  When Haller turned back toward the room, she noticed Eddy Craddoc was once again studying the video, eyes moving between it and the ID pictures on a side display.

  “Tell you what, Centurion,” Craddoc said when he felt Haller watching him. “The more I think about it, the more I figure they either bleed Marine green or Navy blue. Except for Markov. She bleeds Pathfinder gold. I can feel it in my bones. How about me and a few buddies hang out where they end up staying and try to make friends? Unless they show up at the recruiting office asking to join us, they’re here on someone’s orders. We probably want to figure out whose.”

  Haller considered his proposal for a few seconds, then shook her head.

  “Let’s leave that job to the Rifle Regiment’s street runners for now. If you’re right and Markov used to be one of us, she’ll figure you out within the first ten seconds. Best if she and her friends don’t know we’re paying them any attention.”

  Craddoc put on a crestfallen expression and sighed.

  “I didn’t think of that, sir. Never mind.”

  — 29 —

  Yotai

  The reception, one in a long series designed to heighten Marta Norum’s profile among the Coalsack Sector’s notables, seemed even drearier than any of its predecessors, despite the lavish pomp and circumstance usually seen only at the imperial court on Wyvern. This time, Custis had summoned the star system high commissioners, governors, and governors general who owed him allegiance, sending his fastest ships to convey them through the wormhole network.

  After being informed Lady Marta was a direct descendant of what Custis now publicly called the last legitimate emperor, Kal IV, every noble, politician, and senior officer wanted to bask in her imperial glow. That Custis gave himself the title of regent shortly before and announced Marta was destined for greater things didn’t help. Sadly, most were tedious creatures when they weren’t oozing venality and greed.

  If it weren’t for Heloise’s silent, yet steadying presence as her lady-in-waiting, Marta would gladly give each of them a piece of her mind. Then, she would march off to the 16th Fleet HQ senior non-commissioned officers’ mess in the viceregal palace basement for a few shots of whiskey in the company of salty veterans unimpressed by the nobility. The latter was a habit everyone in the palace from Custis and Zahar on down deplored, but none dared forbid the future empress from visiting her loyal troops.

  What they didn’t realize is that she used the noncoms’ network to stay informed of military and naval matters without Zahar or his officers being any the wiser. Among the many bits of wisdom she learned from Uncle Olav was one most senior officers either never learned or forgot once they wore stars.

  If you want to know what’s really going on, ask a Marine command sergeant or a navy chief. And she’d shamelessly traded on Olav’s good name and standing among old time Marine Corps noncoms to run her own informal intelligence service. Much of what she heard never even made it to Zahar’s ears, let alone those of Grand Duke Devy Custis, Regent of the Coalsack Sector. He enjoyed next to no respect among members of the senior NCO’s mess, especially those from the 55th Marine Regiment assigned as palace guards, a job they found demeaning.

  Marta, standing beside Custis in the place of honor, let her eyes roam across the immense ballroom, brilliantly lit by hundreds of floating crystal candelabras and filled with almost a thousand of the sector’s highest ranking officials. The military officers were resplendent in dress uniforms dripping with gold bullion, medals, and other martial devices. Their civilian counterparts variously wore the civil service uniforms proper to their appointments or the sort of formal clothes rarely seen in a frontier sector. A Marine band, arrayed on a balcony overlooking the dance floor, played lively tunes with verve and élan, creating a harmonious counterpart to the dissonant drone of too many conversations.

  Yet beneath the shining veneer, she sensed an almost desperate urge to recreate what existed before Admiral Loren rose against Dendera’s rule and triggered the civil war now tearing apart the mightiest empire in human history. The smiles were too bright; the conversations were too animated, and the formal bows of those approaching her and Custis as they stood in isolated splendor at the heart of the ballroom were too enthusiastic.

  Marta sensed a yearning for safety and stability permeating the overheated atmosphere. Yet it seemed tainted by an unconscious, almost primal fear that no matter what, their future was bleak, that the old empire could never be reassembled, and that the certainties of the past were gone forever.

  Animals knew instinctively when catastrophes were in the offing. Humans did as well, though few could translate feelings of uneasiness into the realization they faced mortal danger, both as individuals and as a civilization, and thus ignored them.

  Where Custis and Zahar dreamed of a reborn empire growing and prospering under their leadership, Marta saw nothing other than Ragnarök, the end of all things which must come before humanity can regenerate and repopulate the galaxy. Tonight’s reception, splendid as it
was, presaged Götterdämmerung, the twilight of the gods, not their entry into a new Valhalla.

  Those thoughts and feelings weren’t new. She’d come to Yotai already convinced Custis’ scheme was a forlorn hope. Her visions of the end, however, were strengthening with each passing week, each gathering, reception, and formal dinner, and with each step closer she took to the throne. Though Marta couldn’t quite pinpoint why, she suspected Heloise’s teachings were doing more than just opening her inner, third eye. Whether by accident or design, she couldn’t tell.

  “You seem lost, my dear,” Custis murmured in Marta’s ear. “Is everything all right?”

  “I felt someone walk over my grave, Devy, nothing more.”

  In truth, it was over humanity’s grave. But she wasn’t about to discuss the matter with Custis. Especially not in the middle of Yotai’s most prominent social gathering since well before the rebellion, when a young Dendera toured her realm and stopped off to be feted by the Coalsack Sector’s nobility. He could see nothing beyond his ambitions and would laugh at Marta’s mystical notions of a coming Armageddon.

  Custis gave her a curious glance, then pasted a false smile as he saw the governor general of Micarat and her spouse approach them.

  “Look sharp, my dear. Janae Gumbs and that idiot partner of hers want to make their manners.”

  Marta had met Gumbs the previous day when Custis introduced her to the assembled star system government heads after presenting his plan to reunite humanity under the protection of a constitutional government cleansed of the Ruggero dynasty. He’d referred to her as Kal IV’s direct descendent, the light which would guide them to a new golden era of justice and prosperity.

  Strangely enough, none of the men and women assembled in the viceregal reception room showed the slightest bit of amusement at Custis’ overwrought language. There too, Marta had sensed an atmosphere of almost irrational hope.

  Gumbs, a hatchet-faced former Imperial Navy commodore who’d seized control of Micarat with the help of her task force after Admiral Zahar murdered Viceroy Joback, bowed to Marta first.