The View from the Imperium (3 page)

The ship behind them emerged with frightening speed. Now Iltekinov got a good look at it. Sleek as a seal, neat as if it came out of the shipyards that very morning. Even as he studied the outline another burst of hot energy crackled toward them. And then it was gone.

Poldin let out a burst of profanity.

“It’s a drone!” she exclaimed.

Iltekinov made a fist, causing the viewtank to bring in an extreme close view of the last sighting of the pursuer. Sparks burst and fell away from a skeleton framework. Without a drive or navigation, it swerved and crashed into the next big rock. The missiles exploded within seconds against the same asteroid. The captain felt his blood drain.

“If tha’ big ’un was a drone . . . then what’d it come out of?”

“Yii!” yelped Poldin. A
bang!
resounded under the deck. The ship jerked. Alarms whooped, and the red lights flashed. Iltekinov glanced at the tank. Another burst of plasma had slagged a chunk of rock. It spun out of control and smacked into the side of
Little Darling
. Seconds later, another alarm sounded. They were bracketing him! Iltekinov scanned the viewtank, his heart in his throat. Where was the ship?

“Computer, ready jump!”

“Two minutes . . .”

“I want it in thirty seconds!”

“Not possible. Please wait.”

Another hit, this one much closer. The councillors were pale and sweating. Iltekinov felt the wetness in his armpits and palms. A drop rolled into his right eye. He dashed it away in irritation.

“Make for that big lump over there,” he ordered Poldin, having the computer bracket the biggest rock he could see. “We’ll hide in there ’til the calculatin’s done, then go like hell hounds’re followin’.”

“Aye, Cap.”

The
Little Darling
zipped into the narrow hole. If it had been a planetbound chunk of wood instead of a stone the size of a city, the twisting labyrinth could have been made by a woodworm, instead of an eternity of smaller stones rubbing their irregular but patient way through the bigger one.

Just before they wriggled beyond line of sight of their entry point, thermal scan showed a massive burst of heat. Iltekinov gritted his teeth. The way back had been slagged shut. No choice but to go forward, and hope the enemy didn’t seal every hole in the planetoid before they could escape. Servos whined as the ship negotiated the dark passageways, sometimes coming within centimeters of the rough walls.

The captain checked the viewtank for the other ship. Data fluttered along the margin of a nearly dark screen; there must have been a hefty measure of lead or other ores capable of blocking the scanners. Signals bounded off in every direction. He couldn’t tell where the other ship was. He hoped it was having similar problems watching
him
.

At a V-intersection, the ship arrowed left. The gigantic stalagmite-like dagger of rock half-blocking the tunnel surprised them all. One of the visitors cried, “Look out!”
Little Darling
’s shields destroyed it in a blaze of light and smithereens that ricocheted off the sides of the tunnel into the ship again and again like pachinko balls. Iltekinov found himself panting.

“How far?” he asked.

“Six hundred kilometers,” the computer told him. “Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .”

“Ready weapons,” Iltekinov commanded, arming four more missiles.

Little Darling
shot out into open space. Only a few artifacts, three misshapen asteroids, lay between her and her vector home. Poldin was already laying in the coordinates to avoid them.

Bzzzzappp!

Iltekinov read in his own sound effects to match what he was seeing in the viewtank. One after another, the asteroids superheated, slagged and collapsed in on themselves.

From behind the planetoid, the other ship loomed into view like a moon emerging from an eclipse. Iltekinov felt his jaw drop at the very sight of it. Its long, sleek, white-enameled body gleamed, seemingly bejeweled by the gold and red spotlights that illuminated hatches and weapons emplacements. It looked like a longsword, the engines arrayed along the quillons at the rear. The captain looked in vain for lettering on the hull; whoever they were, they didn’t want to advertise their origins. Must be corporate pirates, damn them.

“Guns are going hot again,” Poldin said.

“Can we jump?” Iltekinov asked.

“Ready,”
Little Darling
replied.

“On my mark, then. Three . . . two . . .”

“Sir, it’s hailing us,” Delius interrupted.

The star-spangled black in the viewtanks were flooded suddenly with light and color. On a yellow background, a green and black banner burst into gaudy view surrounded by the bursts of skyrockets exploding in red, purple, yellow and blue. Blaring trumpets proclaiming a triumphant march took over the shipboard speakers. All the councillors clapped their hands over their ears to block out the din. Iltekinov signalled to Delius to damp it down. The Uctu held his long hands up to his shoulders in a gesture of helplessness.

“They’ve hacked our system, sir!” he shouted.

Iltekinov moaned. He knew he should have upgraded the firewall! “Dammit, override!”

The Uctu bent to his task, yanking levers and palming heat switches.

Poldin shouted, “Sir, they’re trying to break into the protocols for navigation!”

That system Iltekinov knew was up to date. “Block them,” he ordered. “Make for the jump point.”

In the viewtank the banner dissolved slowly, revealing the face of a human male. Handsome by any standards, he had a strong, square jaw, silvery hair brushed back over a broad, rectangular brow. Even his thin, beaklike nose seemed powerful. Glittering, pale sea-blue eyes stared out of deep sockets. His face was clear of any markings or tattoos, showing that he was not a denizen of the Cluster. The man leaned forward, his face filling the tank. Iltekinov found himself staring, unwilling to break eye contact with the image. A screech from the drive systems brought him back to his wits. How dare this man and his big fancy ship interfere with a free trader of the Castaway Cluster? Defiance filled his chest like oxygen. He would show this interloper he wasn’t afraid!

“What can I do for you, stranger?” he asked, as casually as he could.

The image frowned. The councillors gasped.

“I am Captain Sgarthad of the TU destroyer
Marketmaker,
” the man said. He crossed his arms on his magnificent, broad chest covered with medals. “I order you to stand down your ship and surrender.”

Something about Sgarthad’s rumbling baritone reached deep inside Iltekinov and touched a primal nerve, compelling him to obey, but he saw the increasing energy signature of arming plasma guns. Fury and the pure stubbornness that had helped him survive many seasons running the hazards of the space lanes kicked in.

“When hell freezes over,” he said. “Jumping . . . now!”

“Hold it, Captain!” Pinckney cried, just before the navigator touched the controls on her console. Poldin froze.

“What now, Councillor?” Iltekinov demanded. They were fifteen seconds from an unobstructed jump. In twenty-four seconds the other ship would be between them and their exit.

“You heard the man,” Pinckney said, gesturing toward the viewtank. “Surrender the ship.”

“What?”

“He wants it.”

Against his better judgement, Iltekinov turned back to look at the tank.

The face within it gazed at them, the light eyes dragging all of theirs deep into them. Iltekinov found himself leaning towards it, wanting to oblige this man. He liked him. No, it was a stronger feeling than that: he wanted to please him. A portion of his mind still rebelled. The computer system was supposed—no,
guaranteed
—to catch and quarantine hypnotic patterns and other mind-control devices fed through the system. He felt his resistance dropping. He couldn’t look away from Sgarthad. The longer he maintained eye contact, the more he knew he had to do what Sgarthad wanted. What was happening to him? The man’s straight brows rose just a millimeter, inviting him to comply. Iltekinov couldn’t help himself. He
had
to do what Sgarthad wanted.

“Yes, that’s right. I must.” The captain’s hands fell slack to his lap. The jump timer counted down to zero, then continued to count up, unobserved. Pinckney smiled. The other human councillors smiled, too.

The big face in the viewtank smiled even more broadly.

Chapter 1

“Thomas Innes Loche Kinago, you look absolutely smashing. Fantastic! Elegant! And, very, very military.”

I strode back and forth in front of the lighted mirror set into my cabin’s mahogany closet door with my chest stuck out and my toes turned at just the right angle. I do not believe I felt inordinately proud of my new uniform. I admired the set of the smart, deep blue tunic, the lavish, jeweled gold braid on sleeves, shoulders and lapels, and the shiny black of the boots and cap, the latter of which so handsomely set off the shiny chestnut brown of my freshly barbered hair. An especial point of gloating was to be found in the satin stripe down the outside of each buff-colored pant leg. Those were white. I had never been allowed to indulge myself like that in military school, not with the pure silk white stripe, and not with all that gold braid adorning sleeves and shoulders. Besides my pleb insignia, I had been restricted to a single loop of gold to identify my personal rank as a cousin of the Imperial house. Now that I had been assigned to command my own cutter, I had a certain amount of leeway. But what fun was leeway if one didn’t push at its edges?

I touched the gold badge at my breast: Kinago, T.I., which of course stood for Thomas Innes—military protocol limited me to only two initials, which I felt was terribly unfair considering the dignity of my ancestry, particularly the omission of my mother’s surname which would properly be placed before my father’s—and polished off a small smudge at its inner edge with the tip of my sleeve, then took a pace or two back to get a better view of the whole.

Most admirable,
I thought. The deep blue of the tunic emphasized the pale, slightly greenish blue of my eyes set in a long, smooth face tinted the tanned complexion of the Loches I had inherited from the noble forebears in my mother’s maternal line. The eyes came from the Innes clan, the straight but interesting nose with the slightly flared nostrils a vestige of the Melarides family, my father’s maternal ancestors. Ah, the parents would undoubtedly be proud of their second son attired in such well-tailored finery. My distressingly above average height provided perhaps one small sore point; most of my cousins were shorter than I was, and often made me feel like a scarecrow, particularly when I was younger and not as physically coordinated as I had grown to be. Still, the fine, long fingers and noble jaw were as good as anyone could hope for. I didn’t have to see my gene map to know I represented the best of our ancestral DNA. Yes, a fine specimen, I had to admit, and dressed to set off my assets in the best light possible. Fully human. I was proud of my reflection.

A gentle “Hem!” from behind me retrieved me from my reverie.

“So it’s not true they always send the fool of the family to sea,” I said to my aide-de-camp Parsons. “No, indeed. Or in this case, to space.”

That worthy, possessed of a long, oval face even more epicene than my own, taller by a hand’s breadth, brushed-back hair the black of unoccupied space, clad in a more somber, inky, midnight-blue uniform with self-effacing and totally irreproachably polished boots, cleared his throat, and almost, but not quite, rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

“No, my lord.”

I caught his look of doubt and nodded wisely. “Oh, you aren’t thinking of my great-uncle Sidor again, are you?”

“No, my lord,” Parsons said, in definite tones. “I promise you, I’m not thinking of your great-uncle Sidor.”

“Good,” I said, happily surveying the satin stripe down the side of my trouser leg. Shimmering like a snowbank. Very handsome. And striking. “Because that sort of decadent behavior really is best forgotten, you know. I mean, running off to a desert planet like that, in the middle of the Imperial birthday celebration . . .”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Parsons interrupted me. “Would you like to go down to mess now, sir? Your lady mother did say not to be late, particularly your first day. After all, naval protocol . . .”

“To the black holes with naval protocol! And,” I dropped my voice, as if First Space Lord Admiral Tariana Kinago Loche might be within hearing range which, heaven knew she could be, what with modern technology, “. . . and with my lady mother, too. Who’s in command of this vessel anyhow? Her or me?”

“Technically neither, sir,” Parsons said, palming the door plate. “This is Admiral Podesta’s flagship, the I.S.
Wedjet
. Your cutter is aboard this one.”

“Yes, well, a technicality,” I said, giving myself another look, and my admiration knew no bounds. I was the best product of tailoring and breeding that I had ever seen. “I outrank him where it counts, don’t I? Eh? He’s of good family, but not in the line of descent at all. Is he?”

Parsons didn’t reply. He could not deny it, and I knew it. I might be a lowly brevet lieutenant, field-promoted from my commission rank of ensign so I could command the cutter in question on a mission that yet of which I knew nothing, but Parsons had confirmed for me that not one of the officers in command of either the dreadnought or its many small craft in the launch bays were a cousin of the Imperial house or any kind of court noble close to my own lofty birth. Parsons himself held the naval rank of commander, but here he was serving as my personal attache. Let the average Steve, Josephine or Sergei try to top that! Ah, the glorious traditions of the Space Navy!

“I am sure you enjoy the distinction,” Parsons intoned. “Would it perhaps not be more tactful to avoid rubbing the difference between your stations in the lord admiral’s face in his own mess hall? After all, sir, courtesy is the force that has held the Imperium together for many millennia, and your deck rank is that of ensign.”

“I shall be the picture of civility,” I promised him. A thought struck me suddenly, and I glanced over my shoulder to meet his eyes directly. “By the way, why am I the only one like me on board?”