Fortunes of the Imperium (13 page)
Read Fortunes of the Imperium Online
Authors: Jody Lynn Nye
Tags: #Fiction, #science fiction, #General, #Action & Adventure, #Space Opera
“Eight. The number of great wealth.”
Jil looked pleased. “Well, of course it is.”
“What about you?” Banitra asked. “I am sure yours is just as interesting.”
I hated to reveal it, because it just came across as bragging. “Nine,” I said, hoping I seemed modest when I said it. “The number of great power.”
“But as you say,” Jil said, wrinkling her nose. “There’s nothing to all this.”
“Of course not,” I agreed.
“I knew it,” Banitra said, tucking her hand into my elbow. “I could tell you were a man who could get things done.”
Her grasp was soft, but it felt like a manacle pinioning my limb. I hesitated to move. She seemed harmless, but I felt suddenly as wary as the proverbial cat surrounded by threatening furniture. While it was not uncommon to encounter a person who communicated through tactile means, it did appear that Banitra, at least, was setting her cap for me. And while I did not condemn cap-setters in general, I objected to them being aimed in my general direction.
I began to rise and reached clumsily for my coffee cup.
“I had better get about my duties, or Lieutenant Plet will chide me,” I said, in a confidential manner, though I knew perfectly well my words could be heard on the bridge through the interior communication system. Plet would be annoyed and amused at my statement.
“Oh, must you go?” Hopeli asked. “We were just going to play cards!”
“I have no wish to excite comment on my behavior,” I said. “My mother and all.”
“Lieutenant Plet wouldn’t tell on you, would she?” Marquessa asked, shocked.
“She would have no choice,” I said, with a helpless lift of my shoulders.
“Lieutenant Plet would have no reason to complain if you carried on your duties here, my lord,” Parsons said, appearing suddenly by my side. I controlled myself heroically to keep from jumping. His materialization caused the ladies to burst into fits of giggles.
“Really?” I asked, with a lift of one eyebrow. Parsons retorted by elevating two eyebrows. Since I could scarcely best a move like that, I furthered my inquiry. “What may I do to keep her ire from falling upon me?” I shot meaningful looks in the direction of the ladies, particularly Banitra and Sinim, and hoped that for once his impressive powers of mind-reading would be used for good, not evil.
My silent plea was not in vain. Without changing expression whatsoever, Parsons removed his own viewpad from his belt.
“I have files for you to study before our first stop at Way Station 46,” he said, “but many that must be mastered before arriving in the Autocracy.”
“Bring them on!” I said, relieved that I was going to have to study. It took me out of the admiring gaze of the ladies who saw themselves as potential future mates. The fact was not lost on me that I would need to learn how to keep them at arm’s length without exciting comment.
“Oh, Thomas,” Jil chided me. “Reading files! That makes you look so respectable.”
I lowered my head. “You needn’t be so harsh, cousin.”
She touched my arm. “I didn’t mean to tease. Aunt Tariana must have been very angry with you.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I said, leaning forward to exude a confidential air. “In fact, she insisted that I . . .”
“Hem!” Parsons clearing his throat could have brought a raging waterfall to an apologetic halt.
“Well, I mustn’t tell tales,” I said, sitting back hastily.
“No, indeed, sir.”
“And which files do you prefer that I review?” I asked, returning the conversation to the subject at hand. After all, he was saving my life, matrimonially speaking.
Parsons touched the viewpad. Images sprang up on mine.
“Regarding the Autocrat herself, Visoltia. Before we arrive, it would be prudent for you to gain knowledge of her thought processes and interests. As she holds the same office as your cousin, the Emperor, it behooves you to avoid causing distress or offense.”
“I am ahead of you there, Parsons,” I said, unable to prevent smugness from infecting my smile. “The Autocrat, Visoltia, posts often on her Infogrid file, though the Uctu do not seem to be as strict about required posting as here in the Imperium. I have been reading her output daily. She’s a most interesting young soul. Did you know that her mother was elderly when she was born, and passed away when Visoltia was an infant? She was raised by her father. I know what that means. She was actually in the hands of a raft of servants. But I think they were good for her. She sounds quite normal, really.”
“Are you reading her file in the original language?”
“Not strictly. Everything is translated, though of course I do understand fluent Uctu. My spoken language is a bit behind my comprehension, though.”
“At present, you have time to work on improving it,” Parsons said.
“But I have a translator on my viewpad,” I protested.
“It would be insulting to Her Serenity if you did not speak fluently to her in her own tongue. Naturally, she speaks perfect Imperium Standard, but you will be in her court. Therefore, as a petitioner, you must put all effort on your side of your appeal. Otherwise, it would seem arrogant.”
“I wouldn’t
think
of causing a calamity,” I said, chastened. I checked with my Tarot card program on my viewpad, and requested a single-card reading. The Star. A world will open up to me if I study the language. “Redius can help me to learn it.”
“He will not have the facility of native speech,” Parsons pointed out. “He is Imperium-born.”
“What about
Ya!
” Jil asked. “That’s all in Uctu.”
“Marvelous idea,” I said, warmly. “I will catch up on the episodes I have missed, and they will aid me in learning fluent modern Uctu. I shall immerse myself, watching as many series as I can between now and landing upon Dilawe. And you can be part of my education, Jil.”
“I already understand Uctu,” she protested. “I love
Ya!
”
“But you don’t
speak
it fluently, either,” I pointed out. “Don’t let a little thing like a verbal faux pas destroy your chance to become an intimate of the leader of another entire empire.” I put the matter as temptingly as possible. “And to bargain in the shops, like they do in Kotirus Street on the show? You could come away with a new dress for a single credit. Remember how delighted Fratila was when she bought that formal outfit?”
“When you put it like that, how could I refuse?” Jil said. “It’ll be a contest.”
“To the fluency?”
“Of course!” Jil said, going eye to eye with me. “What’ll you bet?”
“What do you want?”
She smiled slyly. “Your crystal ball.”
I admit it: my mouth dropped open.
“But you are not a student of the occult arts,” I protested. “And besides, Parsons made me leave it at home.”
Jil pouted.
“But it’s pretty. I want to put it on my dressing table. I would look at it every day.”
I would have missed it, so it was a good item to use as stakes. I nodded. Such a goad would make me work my hardest.
“You are on, my cousin. No cheating, no viewpads, nothing to assist you. Pure conversational Uctu. Redius shall be the judge.”
I was not worried about winning and retaining my precious crystal. Jil did have a natural flair for languages, but I counted upon her becoming too bored to study. Yet, it would not matter in the slightest if she became more fluent than I. It was all in the service to the Imperium.
“It’s a deal,” she said. She put out a hand, and I took it.
And thus began the marathon.
Ya!
became the soundtrack of our travels between Keinolt and rendezvousing with the
Bonchance
. We watched episodes together. We watched them in our separate quarters.
Ya!
accompanied us on our physical fitness regimens and during mealtimes. The only points at which I did not have a season’s worth to hand were during sleep and when Parsons chose to drop by and request a report. For some reason, my viewpad ceased to function in any useful manner when he was nearby. I suspected a devious device furnished by our friend Mr. Frank had been secreted about his person, but it was not in my remit, nor even at the reach of my most daring, to seek it out. Redius, Jil and I spent our free time poring over the transcripts of past shows and discussing the plots, our use of Uctu words and phrases increasing daily. I even began to translate my daily horoscope readings into Uctu. I made my immersion as complete as I could without compromising clarity—or interfering with my devotion to my occult studies. One never knew when a peek at the infinite might come in handy.
CHAPTER 11
“Dila’entha an?”
I asked, following Redius through the crew corridors of the
Bonchance
.
“An thale,”
Redius said, pointing to a door. He switched his tail back and forth in excitement. I felt much the same emotion. It always excited my curiosity to investigate the workings of a new ship.
My small scout, though equipped with ultradrive engines, would suffer undue wear and tear should it be expected to make the journey to the border by itself. Instead, the
Rodrigo
would occupy a berth in the flight bay of the carrier
Bonchance
, and my crew would bunk in with the carrier’s ordinary complement while the larger vessel conveyed us within a few days’ journey to the frontier. It was almost nine days after departing from Keinolt that Oskelev settled the
Rodrigo
gently in the echoing landing bay among individual fighters, scout ships and corvettes. We were welcomed by a lieutenant commander who gave us a brisk but thorough orientation briefing and set us loose to make ourselves at home. So to speak.
I palmed the panel at the door lintel and peered in.
“No,” I said. “I must have misspoken. I thought I asked you where my quarters were, not yours.”
“Grammar correct. Yours indeed,” Redius replied. “Mine Nesbitt shares alongside.” He nodded to the next door.
I studied the chamber with a jaundiced eye. A single bunk had been made up, though I could see the outline of a second bed base folded into the wall opposite. A floor-to-ceiling hatch the width of my shoulders stood open to receive my personal possessions. But it was no exaggeration to say that I could stretch out my arms and with a single sidestep either way, touch the walls of the chamber. I admit my arms are long, but the cabin was definitely on the small side. It measured less than two-thirds the size of my cabin aboard the
Rodrigo
. My scout had been constructed with me in mind. Its quarters were more generous, along the lines of the
White Star
, the in-system vessel that I and my relatives had served aboard during our Academy training. (Since only members of the imperial house were in our class, it might be excused that we were given more comforts than the average commoners who were not used to similar luxuries.) Still, it was a shock to expect to wedge myself into so small a container.
Even more by contrast, I had just come from escorting my cousin and her entourage to their quarters. Those pleasant domiciles were in the guest area, not far from the hydroponics gardens, a dedicated break room and the nursery crèche. Each lady was given a chamber to herself, with hygienic facilities shared between each two cabins. There were no other guests on board beside them, so all the amenities were theirs alone to enjoy. Those bedchambers were easily three times the size of the cabin I was expected to occupy, in spite of being granted single occupancy instead of double. In Jil’s case, and those of our distant relations, I would not have had it any other way. Still, I took it a trifle hard not to be placed similarly.
At least the bed was comfortable and the cabin spotless. I could not discern a single dust mote out of place. A sink with a large mirror stood in one corner, along with a fold-out booth containing a sonic cleanser. The latter was only to be used in need of haste or chemical contamination requiring isolation. Bathing and sanitary facilities were close by, across from Anstruther’s cabin. I realized that nearly all of those in active service to the Imperium Navy lived in quarters like this, but I thought some exception could have been made in deference to my rank.
It took only moments to stow the contents of the standard case I was permitted in the closet. I spruced myself up before the room’s mirror, then answered the tap at my door.
“Glad together,” Redius said, showing the tip of his tongue.
“As am I,” I said, heroically subduing a sigh. I consulted my newly downloaded housing chart. Anstruther and Oskelev were together beyond Redius’s quarters. All of our quarters were on the same corridor. Plet had a single on the other side of mine. As if invoking her name caused her to appear, she emerged from her chamber and came to join us.
“Are you settled, sir?” Plet asked.
“Well and truly,” I said. “Though it’s a trifle cramped. Our last guest occupancy was on a much more spacious vessel.”
“The
Wedjet
is Admiral Podesta’s flagship,” Plet reminded me, with the same toneless voice I might have heard from my viewpad’s LAI. “It is also the newest of the destroyer class. The
Bonchance
is thirty years older and part of the carrier class.”
“I do know that,” I said. “I studied the floor plans. I simply had no notion that I would be disposed down here in the smaller cabins.”
“But floor plans of naval vessels are not available to civilians,” Plet said, then the perfect ivory of her cheeks tinted ever so slightly with red.
I smiled, a trifle self-deprecatingly. “I can’t help it if my mother’s passwords are so easy to guess,” I said.
At the sound of our voices, our fellows emerged from their cabins.
“Where is Commander Parsons?” Anstruther asked, glancing over my shoulder as if to find my mysterious aide-de-camp a pace behind me. I offered a magnificent shrug in return.
“Where Parsons is disposed, I have no idea. For all I knew, he sleeps upside down like a bat somewhere within the ventilation system. We will see him when he chooses to allow us to see him, and not a moment before. In the meanwhile, I shall catch up on my Infogrid updates. I fear I have let them slip the last week.”
“No, sir,” Plet said, in that irritating fashion she had of contradicting me. “Our crew has been ordered to report to the senior officer in Maintenance. That is our duty for the duration of our passage to the frontier.”
“Curse it, Plet, that’s no way for a gentleman of my rank to spend my time!” I said. “Nor is it fit for my highly-trained crew to paint what doesn’t move and salute what does.”
“Review your instructions,” Plet said, imperturbably. “You will see our rota.”
I brought out my viewpad and clicked upon the message that was pulsing red with official impatience.
“Orders different now,” Redius said, peering over my shoulder.
I glanced down at the entry. Was I mistaken at my first reading? My duties, listed as belonging to Kinago, T., Second Lieutenant, were to be carried out in “‘laboratory, hydroponics.”
“Well, that is a good deal more pleasant,” I said. “I would welcome duty in those lovely gardens. Wouldn’t you all prefer that?”
“Not for me, sir,” Nesbitt confided, looking a little embarrassed. “I have hay fever.”
In any case, Nesbitt did not need to attend infirmary for anti-allergy treatment. Ship’s bells sounded, indicating that it was time for mess. Crew members wearing the insignia of our host vessel began to appear out of cabin doors and head for the lifts. We joined the throng. I realized that I had not allowed my viewpad to download the correct shiptime schedule, and followed along with the mob.
Crew on duty aboard a working warship had their day essentially divided into four portions. The first and most important was the work shift, eight hours, followed by first rest period. Formal mess was at the beginning of this period. What time was left following the meal was for personal use before the sleep shift. The fourth was the second rest period, during which one prepared for the day, socialized a trifle, and undertook personal chores. A ship typically divided its crew into three contiguous work shifts. The rest periods were designed to be sacrificed during enemy action or emergency, for greatest overlap of personnel.
I was most intimately familiar with the mess hall aboard the
Wedjet
, which featured a head table at which its master, Admiral Podesta, had sat surveying his flag crew with an eagle-like eye. The rest of the room was filled by round tables, waited upon by both serverbots and living staff. As the
Bonchance
was not a flag-ranked vessel, serverbots were the order of the day, with only the occasional spacer or ensign helping out.
A much smaller vessel meant a smaller crew and, hence, a smaller dining room. The tables were long rectangles, with the exception of an oblong board at one end of the room. A flag on a small standard flicked and waved as though caught in a breeze. To my eye, experienced as it was in picking up the nuances of diplomatic dinners, teas, luncheons and every other dining experience to fete visiting dignitaries, I deduced that must be where Captain Naftil entertained his guests. I straightened my mess tunic, adorned with my sole medal, and made for a chair not at the head or foot of the table, but modestly along one side. I took my place and stood at parade rest.
My studies of the day before we arrived had included looking up the captain on the Infogrid. Therefore, when he arrived, accompanied by his executive officers, I was able to recognize him readily. I straightened my shoulders. When he approached, I favored him with my most enthusiastic salute.
“Captain Naftil!” I said. “Lieutenant Thomas Innes Loche Kinago. I and my crew are very pleased to be aboard.”
The captain was a slim Human male with the broad shoulders of a long-time space soldier. As my mother had said, he was fairly young for such extensive responsibilities, but he carried them easily. His warm ochre complexion contrasted in a striking manner with his glossy black hair and eyes. The eagerness of his expression told me that he possessed considerable natural energy and enthusiasm. I felt that we could be good friends. I had readied several topics of conversation to get to know him. Such courtesy would please my mother.
He returned my salute with a snap of his wrist.
“Lieutenant Kinago, I am glad to make your acquaintance. Welcome aboard.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He did not invite me to sit down. I paused for a moment to give him a chance to gather his thoughts. No doubt he was unused to having so many members of the aristocracy in his complement at the same time.
“I await your cousin, Lady Jil, and her party,” Captain Naftil said, lowering his voice. “She is absolutely enchanting, isn’t she?”
“I must confess, fifty percent of the time she is,” I confided in him. Only I and others who occupied her company more frequently than that fifty percent knew the quirks of her personality.
He chuckled in appreciation of my quip. But we had not long to wait. Just before the second signal to mess sounded, Jil and her friends sailed into the dining hall.
My cousin was in the vanguard of the coterie of ladies, gliding forward as if on antigrav skids. I heard Naftil’s breath catch in his throat. Jil overwhelmed the senses as if she were one of her own perfumes. The gown she wore would have been flamboyant at a club in the most fashionable neighborhoods of Taino. The blood-red garment occupied no more space than one of Jil’s swimming costumes, except for the gory streamers that descended along her legs from the wisp that concealed her slender nether regions and a cursory strap of gold braid that rose from the brassiere to circle about the nape of her neck. Poor Captain Naftil fairly quivered in his regulation footgear. Only the very best training prevented him from the social faux pas of forgetting to greet his other guests, Parsons among them, who brought up the rear of the procession. Jil swooped down upon the captain and offered him a delicate hand.
“Captain, how generous of you to offer us your hospitality.”
“I am . . . delighted to have you here, madam,” he said, holding her fingers as if they were soap bubbles. “You grace us with your presence.”
Jil gave a warm chuckle, laden with wholly unnecessary sensuality.
“You are more than kind,” she said, though she knew full well how much of a bombshell her appearance had exploded upon the senses of the assembled service people in their dark blue uniforms. “May I present my friends?” She introduced the ladies in turn. Marquessa curtseyed deeply as the captain bent over her hand. She was a vision in deep royal blue. She made way for Sinim, in a coral gown that warmed but did not overwhelm one’s vision like Jil’s dress. Banitra and Hopeli both wore shades of purple and, thankfully, more fabric than Jil did.
“You look like a bouquet of exotic flowers,” I said, approvingly. “Most becoming!”
