Guardian of Night (21 page)

Of one thing Blawfus was certain: a captain like Ricimer would be true to his word. He would think not merely to escape. He would want to strike a blow. Fight was built into the nature of Sporata captains, the good ones. Blawfus knew because he had been one himself.

Did he still have that fight within him?

He liked to think so.

All of these considerations left Blawfus with one locus he was quite certain wasn’t hiding and wasn’t going anywhere.

Sol C.

Blawfus’s flag vessel, the
Indifference to Suffering
, was in the center of the classic hemisphere formation, as doctrine called for. She had only light defenses in place. Total readiness cost a great deal of difficult-to-replenish energy, and the idea was for the edges of the hemisphere to defend the center by concentrating fire on any encroacher. The vessels that made up the periphery rotated through four
tagatos
, about six human days, and everyone got to partially stand down at least half of the time.

So Blawfus had decided to risk Gergen’s wrath and continue the invasion, use Sol system as bait for the
Guardian of Night.

The full-scale invasion of Sol was therefore on. Whether or not his gamble paid off, this left Blawfus in a difficult situation politically. Ricimer, damn him, had seen to that, had probably intended it. After that captain’s stunt, no one was going to trust a Sporata officer with tactical, much less strategic control, for many cycles going forward. Blawfus suspected the Sporata secretariat would soon be in civilian hands—which meant, effectively under total Civitas Council control.

Ever the politician, Blawfus had begun preparing himself for this certainty by spending most of his off-duty time with DDCM fleet officer Porhok, soaking up as much high grade Old Fifty-five and Cerlish Footwash as he could safely imbibe without exploding his urinary filtration organs. Porhok had, as a result, only overridden the most trivial of Blawfus’s orders. Unfortunately, Blawfus’s imbibing had also led to constantly damp feet—hence the trail of footprints wherever Blawfus trod.

Such indignity was a small price to pay.

As soon as he had his entire strength in place, he would descend upon the twice-cursed Sol system. He would net Ricimer, destroy his Mutualist allies, and, in the bargain, complete the conquest of Sol system that the Mutualist insurrection had so inconveniently interrupted. Or do it all in reverse order.

It mattered little, so long as he won.

So he would win. There was simply no other choice if he planned to survive.

Now, where were those cursed stragglers? It was time to attack.

TWELVE

18 January 2076

Vara Nebula Inbound

A.S.C.
Powers of Heaven

Captain Cliff-clinging-icefall Malako stood in his bridge atrium and gazed at the view-screen representation of the down-arm portion of the Vara Nebula, his immediate destination.

Nearly a light-year in diameter, the Vara lay north of the Orion arm’s axis, and thus out of the Milky Way clumping as seen from Procyon or any other star in this branch of the galaxy. For a hundred cycles it had been a hideout for pirates and illicit traders, until the Sporata had finally moved in and cleared the interstellar scum—this at about the time humanity was sorting out the fall of the Western Roman Empire. Now the Vara was a useful tool for Sporata vessels seeking a stealthy way in toward the galactic center.

Guardian scouts had mapped the nebula down to a precise resolution—on the order of a planetary orbit—and, with a bit of precise flying, a captain might direct his craft through using instrument-only travel relying on a map and zero external sensors. Even someone following who possessed the same map could not guess where his quarry was headed.

Most importantly to Malako at the moment, the Vara had been used as the invasion route for Sol C, for Earth.

Its inbound pathways all led to a sector about two light-years from Sol system, yet obscured in a starless patch of sky when seen from the galactic disk. So hidden was it, Malako did not believe the humans even knew of the Vara’s existence before the war.

At the moment, Malako was fuming. The ammonia of supreme annoyance grew thick about him until he absentmindedly waved a hand to dissipate it, then fumed some more. He realized the entire bridge was beginning to reek of his disgruntlement, but he didn’t care.

One
tagato
past, a messenger drone had intercepted the
Powers of Heaven
with new orders. Orders that Malako was loath to obey.

The fool Blawfus—middle of his class at the Academy, a hundred places below Malako, and
admiral of the Sirius armada
now, thanks to his political connections and Ur-hypha heredity—that idiot was attempting to draw Malako off the scent. Rein him in from the hunt. Malako knew he was on the trail of Ricimer. And now these orders in a message drone?

Break off current activities. Rendezvous at Wolf 359 immediately.

Vector directly across the Sol System Containment Sector, rendezvous with Sirius armada. Prepare for Sol C operation
en masse
attack. Unknown number and variety of Mutualist vessels may be rendezvousing and regrouping in unconquered, quarantined human territory. The
Guardian of Night
, now known to be traitorous, reported to be joining Sol forces.

“Now is the opportunity to eradicate all of our enemies in one powerful blow,” Blawfus had said. “Let us not hesitate, but move forward and accomplish this task with the vigor of the unconquered and forever unconquerable instrument of Regulation.”

Mutualism. A blind madness and unchecked political rage had taken over the highest levels of the Administration when the philosophy was mentioned. For the past five-cycle, the Administration, and hence the Sporata, had reacted to the slightest hint of it as an immune system reacts to an allergen. The response was always, predictably, colossal, always out of any proportion to what Malako believed was the threat. Certainly, the philosophy was crackpot and the remnant of true believers who remained ought to be stamped out. But the galaxy held greater challenges.

Such as hunting down traitors and thieves.
Cunning
traitors. Thieves of
massively powerful
technological gleanings. Real threats.

Malako was more than half convinced that Ricimer had engineered the current uproar over Mutualism as a ruse. And he was certain that the Poet, the traitor Gitaclaber, had been acting for Ricimer, either wittingly or unwittingly, stirring up Mutualist sentiment in the armada—and then traitorously broadcasting news of a Mutualist rendezvous to the humans.

Ricimer, curse him, had
personally recommended
Gitaclaber to Malako to be his communications officer.

That’s right, Malako, your supposed friend of the
gid
, your own brother-in-arms and dear companion Arid Ricimer, has screwed you over.

Why did you not expect as much? Trust the purebred hypha lines to always seek to use and abuse hybrids such as yourself. Trust that your leg markings are constantly on display, uniform or not.
He’d believed Ricimer to be different, above all that. Had allowed himself to be convinced in his own loneliness, his own isolation. Another cursed mistake.

Malako was done being the butt-end of purebred ruses.

And now Ricimer had the Kilcher artifact.

Could he, in his delusion, think to use it as a bargaining chip for power? No, not even a lunatic would believe the Administration would ever willingly cede one iota of its centralized control. Did Ricimer intend to establish his own outlaw enclave? Mate again, produce offspring, and found a new hypha line? Malako had at first taken it that Ricimer’s stated goal to join the humans was nonsense. But perhaps not. Perhaps the fool had been telling the truth.

Which meant that the Poet’s broadcast—maybe all of them—likely contained other information for the humans. Something more than a final plea for help before he was spaced.

If only he could personally question the scumbag, Malako knew he would be able to wring the information out of the Poet. But that was no longer an option—thanks to yet another arrogant, purebred fool.

The portal to the bridge slid open and two security officers entered, dragging between them the object of Malako’s most immediate ire.

Receptor Transel.

“What is the meaning of this, Captain?” Transel squirted as soon as he caught sight of Malako. “In the name of the Directorate, I demand these officers release me.”

Malako sighed wearily and stepped from his atrium. He motioned for the guards to drag Transel to stand before him. The DDCM officer grunted as he was jerked forward and put into place. Malako, who was a half hand taller than Transel, stared down at him.

“You have forfeited the authority of the Directorate with your recent actions,” Malako said. “You have put this vessel and the armada in danger by your rashness, and I have been forced to invoke Verdict Three Protocols—”

“Verdict Three?” Transel sprayed forth a repugnant carbolic cloud of amazement. “Verdict Three!
I
am the only officer aboard authorized to enforce Verdict Three protocols. This is insubordination of the highest order!”

“Now, that’s not quite true,” Malako answered calmly. “Regulation states that when the craft receptor displays behavior that might otherwise lead to a culling offense, the vessel sub-receptor”—Malako flared his muzzle into a smile—“that would be
me
, is authorized to apply Verdict Three protocols in such a way as to eliminate that threat, up to and including confinement of craft receptor under such circumstances.”

“You must have medical officer and Governess approval!”

“True, except under contingency of immediate threat.”

“What threat?” screamed Transel. “I eliminated the threat myself when I tossed the traitor out the airlock!”

“Just that,” Malako replied. “As captain, I’ve become convinced that Mutualist vessels are indeed in the vicinity and intent on massive insurrection. I can only conclude that your reason for spacing the traitor Gitaclaber was to cover up your own part in this conspiracy.”

“What!” Transel’s exclamation emerged from his nasal passages in a half-formed, snotty effusion that dribbled down his face.

“The logic that leads me to this conclusion is crystal clear,” Malako said. “I’m left no choice but to invoke Verdict Three protocols.”

Suddenly Transel laughed. “I understand. I understand you now,” he said. “He was your friend. He was your friend, this Ricimer. You’re going to ignore orders. You’re not going to rejoin the armada. You’re going to continue the hunt for the
Guardian of Night
on your own.”

“Be careful what you say, Transel.”

“Yes, that’s it! You hope to wipe the stain of your association with this Ricimer away by personally capturing or destroying him.” Another hysterical laugh issued from Transel. “You black-striped spawn of impurity—you really think you will be forgiven? They’re going to strip you of command, Malako. And after that, they will likely strip you of your life. Your
gid
will be burst and spread into emptiness!”

Malako motioned to the guards who held Transel. “Place Receptor Transel in the bridge holding chamber,” he said.

“May your seed disappear from the stars!”

With a motion of Malako’s foot against a nubbin of metal next to his atrium, a section of the bridge deck opened up, uncovering a narrow space five hands wide and fifteen hands deep. The holding chamber was a long-established feature of Sporata design that was now seldom used. It was a legacy of the ancient Guardian days of smuggling and piracy, the time, more than a thousand cycles ago, before the hypha had been united, before the finalization of Regulation. The chamber’s purpose was to provide an area off the vessel’s scanned grid for secret cargo to be carried—and to serve as a brig where dangerous passengers or crew might be tucked away during transport. Malako—and most captains, he was well aware—used the chamber to smuggle home bits of stolen technology from conquered species, technology they would later sell on the Souk, the Shiro black market, to supplement their income and provide incentive bonuses for their officers. The practice was endemic to the Sporata and considered by officers as necessary to buy the necessities that a reasonable standard of living required back in the Shiro. The Administration was known for constantly underpaying the military and transferring the lion’s share of Depletion energy credits to the upper-level bureaucrats of the departments and committees.

I’ll finally be putting the holding chamber to the use for which it was intended,
Malako thought. He nodded his head in the direction of the hole in the deck. “Put him in there,” Malako said.

The guards dragged Transel kicking and squirting imprecations to the chamber and, with a quick shove forward, forced him in. Before the receptor could claw his way up, Malako touched the opening toggle again with his foot, and the deck plate—half a hand thick—slid shut, immediately cutting off the flow of Transel’s words. Blessed silence returned to the bridge.

“You two are dismissed,” Malako said. “I do not believe our unfortunate former receptor will require further restraint.”

“Thrive the Administration, sir,” the guards answered in unison. They saluted, turned, and left the bridge.

Malako walked over and stood on top of the holding chamber covering. He wondered if he would be able to perceive the motion of Transel below. He was sure the DDCM officer was kicking up quite a fuss down there in the darkness. Malako had no intention of letting the receptor out until he’d successfully completed this mission and returned to the Shiro. Transel would be able to survive for several
tagato
without sustenance. Guardians were a tough species, bred for the starkness of space. And after that?

Whatever he says or does either won’t matter or I’ll be dead,
Malako thought. In either case, Transel was finished as a threat to derail Malako from his desire. His destiny. His pleasure.

To hunt down and destroy the traitor Ricimer.

His friend.

The Poet had provided the answer. Whether or not Malako could decode the Poet’s message, he had no doubt that the humans were somehow complicit in the disappearance of the
Guardian of Night
. Ricimer was behind the Poet, and the Poet had been attempting to relay information to a human vessel of espionage, a vessel Malako had been ordered by Transel to destroy.