Broken Glass (Glass Complex Book 1) (6 page)

“Time to leave, my lord Steg,” suggested Thomas. He ignored the start of recognition from the Imperial officer and continued, apparently unaware of the man’s sudden interest in the conversation. “We have to give up our objective of reaching Castlehome—we cannot penetrate the Imperial cordon, with all their checkpoints and patrols. Perhaps we should head towards the High Alps where we can take refuge—what do you think?”

“Yes, you have a strong argument,” replied Steg. “It does seem that Imperial defenses are impenetrable. So I agree, let’s do that. Our Homeworld Resistance will help us, and provide protection. But what about our captives?”

“Do you want me to execute them now?”

“No, no. Let’s be civilized. They shouldn’t delay us if we take them along. They could come in useful as hostages or for exchange of prisoners. Other groups may be able to make use of them.” He then added as an afterthought. “Of course, if they cause problems, you can execute them later. Now, destroy their flyer, and anything else we don’t need. We should leave here as soon as possible.”

Thomas gave the necessary orders, and quickly organized the small Homeworld force. He directed the two South Guards, accompanied by the Militia members, to take the captives through the forest towards the High Alps. He declared he and Steg should travel separately, and arranged to meet the group each evening as they trekked to distant safety. He watched as the Homeworlders and their prisoners moved off the road into the sanctuary of the forest.

“Well, that’s one rendezvous we won’t keep. I instructed the Guards to ’allow’ their captives to escape late this afternoon, and it will be midnight before they can report to their command in Castlehome. I suspect our so-called rendezvous will be raided before dawn. Hopefully it will be a fruitless diversion of Imperial effort.”

“What did you discover from the South Guards?”

“They confirmed all Guards units remain privately loyal and eager to fight back,” reported Thomas. “Sadly—a number of Guards were killed when the Imperial troops made their move against the Earl. Some since have been executed or imprisoned. A few escaped, and probably have reached the Militia. The Earl . . . was executed. He gave instructions before he was captured for all Guards to lay down their arms. He wanted to ensure a force to support the rightful claimant to re-take Homeworld. It may be a while, but it will happen. Homeworld will not accept a traitor.

“The Imperial force was not very large—they succeeded by surprise. Now, most are in Castlehome, looking for signs of overt rebellion. They sent some smaller units to outlying towns and villages, some to the cities in the north and south. And of course they set up roadblocks on most of the arteries. As a result, they’re spread thin. They
’ll
probably consolidate back into Castlehome to complete their takeover. Now, let’s continue on our way. We can assume the road will be clear until we get closer to Castlehome and then we need to take extreme care.”

Steg did not speak as they set out again on the road, this time walking. His mind was full of anxiety and growing dismay that he was to leave his home. He did not know all the details of the plan prepared by the Acolytes and that filled him with apprehension. By far, he preferred to stay and fight the invaders and help his cousins.

However, the planning of the Acolytes could not be ignored. They determined Homeworld strategy, and normally the Earl, his Barons, and the Board of Commoners, all fully participated in assessing and agreeing their recommendations. The Glass Complex was focused on survival of Homeworld; the Acolytes would co-ordinate resources and strategy with the objective of eventual defeat of the usurper and her supporting Imperial forces. It could not be otherwise.

The origins of the Glass Complex were lost in time, with details known only to the Acolytes. It was claimed the First Earl had found relics of a computerized base when he first arrived on Homeworld although details had never been published. Other stories describe how the First Earl had commissioned its concept, design and construction. The Acolytes repeatedly ignored requests for historical details as irrelevant, just as they ignored requests for details of the size and extent of the Complex.

Over the centuries the Glass Complex had been re-designed and re-built, time and time again, and now, Steg mused as he recalled the strange timbre of the voice that instructed him earlier, the Complex was designing and building its own structure and components. He knew its functions were many and varied; not only was it responsible for Homeworld’s economic and military strategy, it also guided and directed Homeworld in its intricate commercial dealings with other systems, trading partners, suppliers, and customers. Additionally, it managed all military communications for Homeworld, whether planet-bound or star-focused. It eavesdropped on star shipping communications, military, commercial and private. It did not matter to the Complex whether it gathered data from Imperial, Federation, Alliance or other star races and star unions; all were equally open to the data gathering techniques and tools of the Complex when their star ships passed through the Homeworld Nexae.

The secret and hidden wealth of Homeworld had grown from a foundation initiated by the First Earl, using prizes of war won by his military forces and rewards granted by grateful allies. At his instigation, the rewards from hard and relentless campaigns had been carefully invested, both on Homeworld and off-planet. The resulting growth in wealth was well disguised, kept secret as a matter of necessity, to ensure that envious predatory eyes were never attracted to the planet. To this end, Homeworld trade was always through nominees and agents, never openly and never with exposure to publicity. Even the Empire, Steg thought, could not suspect fully the riches that lay hidden behind the facade so carefully cultivated by Homeworld.

Not even the Lady Gaetja, in her wildest dreams, would have access to these details. But she knew now that she had ignited the tempers of Homeworld and would require substantial and ongoing support from her allies to prevent those tempers from taking their revenge. The battle for Homeworld had not yet begun and would not be confined to the planet, Steg thought. Opposition to Lady Gaetja would be backed by all the resources available to the planet and to its people.

“We need to stop, and rest up until nightfall,” Thomas broke into Steg’s reverie, “while we still have the forest to shelter us. Our destination is not far, two kays at the most, and the closer we get, the more likely we are to encounter another patrol. While I agree the Imperials don’t have enough men to saturate the countryside with patrols, we still need to take care.”

Steg acknowledged the drill sergeant’s comments and eased himself to the ground. He stretched out. His eyes closed.

Evening came far too quickly for Steg. He stretched and yawned.

“Have a good rest?” the drill sergeant inquired. Without waiting for a reply, he continued. “We should finish the rest of our rations. No fire, so it’ll be a cold meal, I’m afraid. We have another hour, then we move.”

They used the night to hide their cautious approach towards the clamor of noise and light that marked the unofficial perimeter of Homeworld’s small spaceport. This outer boundary formed a semi-circular fringe contiguous to the official boundary of the spaceport. Its main feature was a random collection of taverns that provided cheap lodging, meals, drinks and other entertainment to offworlders, mainly crewmembers and workers from the spaceport proper. Here the transient spaceport population was accommodated and entertained in tiny, cramped buildings.

While they had not yet encountered Imperial soldiers, Steg suspected they would be manning the entrances into the spaceport. He fell back into the deeper shadows at a signal from Thomas who then moved forward and entered one of the taverns. The wait seemed like hours before Thomas returned from around the rear of the tavern.

“I spent some time talking with locals and then went on through and out the back door, just in case,” he explained as he straightened his jacket. “Just as well. While I saw no uniformed Imperials, an offworlder was interested enough to follow me. He’ll have a very sore head when he wakes. The Imperials are allowing everyone to go about the normal affairs, apparently in an attempt to demonstrate nothing is amiss on Homeworld. I caught a comment that this is not really an Imperial affair, rather a company venture. House of Aluta, of course—the visitors were wearing Alutan colors. That House is so large, they are no different, Imperial is the same as Aluta.”

“Marius is of the House. Well, now we know. What about the spaceport itself?”

“Well patrolled, according to the Homeworlders I spoke with, and the Imperials are checking papers very thoroughly.”

“And the freighter?”

“Only one Rimerian freighter is in port, and it is loaded for departure and apparently cleared. The crew are fixing a minor drive problem. That’s your ship. Thank the stars the Imperials realize it would be an act of war if they stopped and boarded a Rimerian flag carrier.”

“So all I need do is board the freighter?”

“A simple task.”

******

Chapter 5

Thomas led Steg along the narrow streets,
turning
away from the streets where the lights were bright and the noise loud. The streets became narrower, twisting and turning and then turning again until Steg almost lost all sense of direction. Eventually Thomas stopped at a shadowed doorway and after checking the street, he knocked sharply, with a rhythmic sound. Nothing happened. The drill sergeant knocked again with a repeat of the pattern. After what seemed an age, the door was slowly opened. Although the light seeping out through the narrow gap of the open door was dim, Steg blinked in surprise.

“Oh honorable sirs,” fluted the high voice of the Chirrix standing in the doorway. “Why do you disturb a poor and tired worker at this late hour?”

Thomas replied in a brief burst of almost song, the words unintelligible to Steg. He realized Thomas was speaking to the Chirrix in its own language. An exchange of more unintelligible passages followed. Then, apparently satisfied, the Chirrix opened the door wide, motioned for its two visitors to enter, and quickly bolted and secured the door behind them. Its skull feathers were erect, and Steg assumed that was a sign of the strange alien’s nervousness. It conversed further with Thomas and then led them down the narrow corridor into a large work and storeroom where it switched on the overhead lights.

“Now young lord,” the Chirrix fluted and whistled as it addressed Steg. “Seek here for your new attire. You have credit for a complete wardrobe, which I will arrange to be sent quickly to your ship. It will be on board before you, I guarantee. And you, old friend, you need a change of clothes, as well.” The alien indicated the shelves and racks of clothing that filled the storeroom.

Intrigued, Steg moved down the rows of racks, checking and examining cloaks, jackets, trousers, shirts and further items in styles and colors ranging from the most somber to impossibly dazzling. He selected items that he thought would be appropriate for his new identity and handed them to the alien. Some he placed aside for immediate wear. When he was done, he changed into his new offworld finery and rejoined Thomas. As they departed the alien repeated his promise to deliver Steg’s new clothes immediately to the waiting freighter.

“Now you have met our wardrobe master.”

“Wardrobe master?” Steg almost choked at the unexpected label.

“Yes, sometimes we find it necessary when we—Guards—go offworld—on duty, as it were—to be kitted out first with suitable clothing for our task. Our resident Chirrix provides a suitable wardrobe, in return for which we have helped him develop a profitable trade with his home system. The one thing they cannot grow on their planet is cotton, and we ship hundreds of bales for him each year. Cotton somehow helps their metabolism at nesting time, I have heard.”

“His presence here would surprise the Imperials.”

“Yes, their xenos claim Chirrix and humans are natural enemies—or at least, they claim Chirrix have an uncontrollable urge to kill humans. Not true. The young males, before they mature, are likely to attack anything that looks like food; however, they can be avoided. Our friend here is an elder and does not have that in-built urge. He even wears an artificial skullcap—his own skull feathers fell out years ago. Just remember, if you ever encounter a young male, he will attack. Only the Chirrix elders have adequate control to deal with us.”

They ventured further into the extended port area where the streets were wider, well lit, and busier with both humans and aliens. No one gave Steg and his companion as much as a second glance. After a half-kay of walking, they approached one of the spaceport access points. Steg was apprehensive as they joined the small throng waiting to be cleared through the entrance.

One by one they moved forward as Imperial soldiers supervised a very thorough inspection of documents and identities. At last Steg stepped up, presented his identity and travel documents, and pressed his hand onto the print-plate. To his immense relief no alarms sounded and the security officer waved him through. Steg exited the checkpoint and slowed to wait for his companion who finally cleared the checkpoint. Steg then walked briskly towards the exit gate for the Rimerian star freighter that was to take him offworld. Thomas followed at a discrete distance.

“Stop. Hey—you. Stop.” The command rang out sharply, echoing off the walls and ceiling of the long corridor leading to the embarkation ramp. Steg had almost reached the exit door; only yards to go to reach safety. Thomas was close behind him. Again the voice rang out. “Stop. If you don’t stop, I’ll fire.”