Imperial Night (Ashes of Empire, #3) Read online

  DeCarde inclined her head. “Something interesting came to my attention via one of my colleagues a few days ago. The sisters in the Windy Isles Priory are doing more than just giving the exiles spiritual, medical, and psychological support. They cured three of the worst sociopaths condemned to the Windies for life, men we brought here in Tanith.”

  Morane cocked a skeptical eyebrow at her.

  “Did they now? Why am I finding out through you?”

  “I’m sure it’ll be mentioned during the next cabinet meeting. The men are now postulants and will, in due course, become friars in the Order.”

  Hamm scoffed. “And won’t the good sisters be surprised to find their throats slit when one of these miraculously healed friars backslides.”

  “Gwenneth seems convinced enough she formally absolved the Correctional Service of responsibility should any of the three commit an offense while living in the priory.”

  “Are the rest of the exiles for life lining up to become friars and sisters after miraculously finding the Almighty?” Sirak asked in a comical tone. “Talk about a get out of jail scheme.”

  “They’re not getting off the Windies without a presidential pardon, which I won’t sign. That means they’ll remain at the Windy Isles Priory for the rest of their lives, ministering to the other prisoners.” Morane popped a morsel of blue cheese in his mouth and chased it down with ruby red port wine, the kind he enjoyed most. “How did they come up with a way of deprogramming sociopaths without lobotomizing them when medicine has been stumped for fifteen hundred years? Counseling doesn’t help develop empathy in uncaring individuals.”

  “I don’t know, and neither does anyone else outside the Order. When questioned, Gwenneth invoked the patient-healer privilege. But she’s confident of the results. Didn’t she mention this experiment during one of her visits to Vanquish Bay, sir?”

  “No, which is passing strange. We often engage in metaphysical discussions over a late-night dram of single malt, so you’d think the matter would have come up, considering they’ve probably been working on it for a long time.” He took another sip of port. “Why use those three hardened criminals who should have died on Parth long ago and not Lyonesse natives for the experiment, I wonder. If you’re developing a new procedure, wouldn’t it be easier if you experimented on less extreme cases?”

  Since no one could answer his question, Barca nodded at Nate Sirak.

  “Your turn.”

  “At this rate, it seems likely our Void Ships won’t carry out salvage and reconnaissance missions beyond the Lyonesse Branch for years, if not decades, seeing as how the rest of the old empire has become a cesspool of pestilence. Besides, we’ll need more patrol vessels in case intruders bypass the wormhole network. As a result, I’m placing the Dawns on regular patrol duties, albeit with half the expeditionary crew strength since they’ll stick closer to home port. It means those who’ve been on post-cruise furlough the longest are being recalled a little early. Dawn Seeker and Dawn Runner will join 1st Squadron in two weeks. Dawn Mercy and Dawn Glory will join 2nd Squadron three weeks after that.”

  Sirak paused for a taste of his port.

  “Once Dawn Hunter is cleared from quarantine, and provided she presents no maintenance problems requiring time in dry dock, we’ll change the crew and send her out. She’ll join 3rd Squadron, which will guard both of Corbenic’s wormhole termini, in case of an enterprising barbarian skipping the Arietis wormhole via interstellar space. I’m keeping Dawn Trader in reserve once she finishes her duties as a deep space virus laboratory. That’ll give us five more armed FTL ships capable of discouraging intruders. So far, the reasons for the reassignment of the Void Ships aren’t public knowledge, but eventually, we’ll need a rationale so we can squash rumors. After twenty years of Void Ship cruises into the former empire, turning the Dawns into regular patrol vessels and halving their crews will make tongues wag.”

  “Point taken, Nate,” DeCarde said. “But making the news public is the president’s prerogative.”

  “Of course. I’m just taking advantage of having him among us informally to pass on a message.” Sirak glanced at Morane. “As he knows, navies sail as much on rumors as they do on antimatter-powered hyperdrives. The trick is ensuring those rumors push our ships in the right direction.”

  Morane gave him a nod. “Noted.”

  “Anything else?” Barca asked.

  “No, sir. That’s my contribution for this week.”

  She turned to Devin Hamm. “Anything from the Ground Forces?”

  “Nothing much, though I’ve asked my planning staff to consider purely fictional pandemic scenarios involving large-scale quarantines — just as an intellectual exercise.”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  Hamm gave her an ironic, albeit seated bow. “Thank you.”

  “And what about Support Command, Atman?”

  “Same old, same old, General. Standfast and Prevail are still on track for their appointed launch dates. Construction of the components for the next two is also moving along. Assembling them once Standfast and Prevail clear their slips will be quick. Say what you want about Hecht Aerospace, they do an outstanding job. Now, if we could convince the senate to green-light construction of the orbital shipyard, we might finally think about building frigates. I can even suggest a historical name for the first one, something I found perusing the history of the human-Shrehari war eleven centuries ago. It would fit with our Navy’s pugnacious self-image.”

  “I think the current crisis might finally convince our esteemed senators it’s time we took the next step in building our infrastructure,” Morane replied. “But again, no promises. We politicians prefer focusing on the present instead of a future well past our time in office, no matter how vital it might be for the republic’s survival.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  Barca turned her eyes on Morane. “Anything more you’d like to add, sir?”

  “No.”

  “In that case, since our guest of honor is a former naval officer, I’ll propose the toast while seated.” She picked up her glass of port. “To the Republic of Lyonesse.”

  The three service chiefs, DeCarde, and Morane, imitated Barca.

  “To the Republic. We shall prevail.”

  — 14 —

  ––––––––

  “All hands, now hear this.” Lieutenant Commander Kuusisten’s deep voice over the public address system instantly silenced a mess compartment filled with crew members accustomed to hearing the first officer make routine announcements. Whenever Kuusisten took over, it meant more important news than usual. “The government lifted our quarantine. We will shortly resume our trip home.”

  Deafening cheers erupted spontaneously. Kuusisten must have expected them because he waited for almost half a minute before continuing.

  “I know the last eight weeks loitering within two wormhole transits of Lyonesse after being away for so long sucked. But if we weren’t the sort who can deal with prolonged boredom and uncertainty, the Navy wouldn’t have selected us for Void Ship duty, right? But that’s done. The medicos declared us free of the Barbarian Plague. The duty watch will go to cruising stations. FTL jump in five minutes.”

  A dozen crew members hastily downed their teas or juices, jumped up with newfound energy, and dropped their meal trays off on the way out of the mess. No one wanted to spend a minute longer than necessary at Outer Picket.

  “I guess I’ll finally set foot on your sanctuary world, Sister.” A faint, yet unmistakably sardonic grin danced on Stearn Roget’s lips. “I was wondering whether that would happen before we died of old age.”

  He and Cory sat at one of the corner tables, enjoying a second mug of tea after yet another reconstituted breakfast.

  “It is your sanctuary world now as well,” the latter replied. “And if nothing else, our delay has given you the chance to heal in a controlled environment, and I daresay
you healed faster than you would have on Lyonesse.”

  Roget inclined his head by way of acknowledgment. “I’ll defer to your greater medical expertise, but why?”

  “For two reasons. One, because Dawn Hunter’s environmental systems create a more antiseptic atmosphere and two because you faced no outside distractions and could concentrate on Katarin’s teachings. Daily meditation, coupled with mental discipline exercises, helps the flesh heal by calming the mind. She says you learn at an extraordinary rate.”

  “Katarin is a skilled instructor.”

  “One of our best. You’re fortunate to learn from her instead of a regular postulant master. She usually works with sisters intent on becoming counselors and psychologists.”

  “Isn’t her job being a starship counselor?”

  Cory made a so-so hand gesture.

  “The Defense Force is not a long-term career choice for us. Counselors, chaplains, and healers from the Order generally serve in regular Navy ships for two years before moving on. Void Ships are part of the Navy but separate from the fighting squadrons and aren’t continuously in commission like warships. The Navy crews them only for missions, and that’s when the abbey sends its strongest volunteers, preferably those with prior service in a warship. Most of us go on one long-range cruise in our lifetimes. But a few, Katarin among them, did two or three over the years.”

  “And you?”

  “This is my first and almost certainly my last. The Void Ship missions won’t continue, not if there’s the slightest risk of them bringing back something like the Barbarian Plague. If the government kept us quarantined for eight weeks even though we’ve known for over a month that the incubation period is twelve to twenty days, it won’t let our starships leave the Lyonesse Branch for years, perhaps even decades. Certainly not until this virus and any other released from plundered bioweapon labs burn themselves out.”

  “Meaning Lyonesse will—”

  The one minute to jump klaxon sounded three times, followed by the officer of the watch’s verbal warning.

  “—become an autarky.”

  Cory nodded.

  “In a nutshell. We can only thank the Almighty he gave us over twenty years to prepare. A deadly pandemic in the early days of the republic might have destroyed us.”

  “Oh, well.” Roget shrugged. “It’s not like I was contemplating a Void Ship mission at some point. I’m done crossing the wormhole network looking for salvage, and I suppose that in time, I’ll accept the idea of never seeing Scotia again.”

  “As did those of us who settled on Lyonesse with Jonas Morane or who immigrated before the empire collapsed. We still remember the friends and family we left behind, but Lyonesse is our home. And it is now yours.”

  The jump klaxon sounded again, and then, the universe twisted into a psychedelic mess so nauseating, Roget wished he would have skipped breakfast. But the sensation faded as quickly as it came on.

  “What happens when we get there?”

  “You’ll come with us to the abbey where Sister Gwenneth will test your suitability as a postulant. If she agrees, which is likely, you’ll start training under a friar appointed as a postulant master. Later on, we’ll figure out what your path should be and make sure you receive the right education, either at the abbey, the university, or as an apprentice.”

  “Do I get a say?”

  “Of course, but by that time, your choices will agree with your superiors’ determination. Right now, you’re merely a vessel filled with potential, albeit somewhat older than the usual postulants. Your training will turn that potential into abilities which will serve the abbey and the community.”

  Roget glanced at his empty cup as if wondering where the tea had gone, then up at Cory again.

  “What if I don’t want to become a friar?”

  She gave him an encouraging smile.

  “We’ll cross that bridge once Sister Gwenneth meets you. However, Lyonesse is a vast planet with less than three million inhabitants. It offers rewarding work for everyone. The abbey will find you a job and a place to live.”

  “If you say so.” He glanced at the time readout on the far bulkhead. “And I’m due for a class with Sister Katarin in five minutes. Thank you for being my breakfast companion.”

  “Always a pleasure.”

  **

  “That is our home.” Sister Katarin, a pleased smile on her face, glanced at Stearn Roget, who stood in front of the mess compartment’s main display along with several off-duty crew members, watching Lyonesse’s image as Dawn Hunter made her final approach. “We’ll be on the ground by this afternoon.”

  “And not a moment too soon.” Able Spacer Barrand’s face took on a comical air of longing. “I can’t wait to breathe fresh air after over a year in this tin can.”

  “It looks peaceful. Untouched.”

  “Lyonesse is mostly untouched.” Barrand pointed at the display. “Ninety percent of the settlements are within a hundred kilometers of Tristan’s southern shore, roughly from there to there. No one lives on Isolde.”

  Roget gave him a curious look. “Why?”

  “Too hot, too stormy, and with too many deadly native critters.”

  “Yep,” Ordinary Spacer Carp said. “And we dump our deadly critters on the Windy Isles, which we’ll see when we do our orbital pass before landing.”

  Another crew member snorted derisively.

  “Good luck with that. If it’s midday in Lannion right now, it’ll be nighttime there. We might see a few lights if we’re lucky.” He slapped Roget on the shoulder. “Make it your life’s goal to avoid the Windies, my friend. Other than Correctional Service people, only the worst criminals go there. Most don’t come back, and you can’t escape.”

  “Don’t forget the Order has a priory on Changu Island,” Katarin said. “We take care of the inmates’ and correctional staff’s medical and spiritual needs.”

  “Of course, Sister. Forgive me. I avoid thinking of the Windies.”

  “I figure you should try harder, considering your habits.” Barrand’s quip drew amused chuckles from his comrades. “Navy personnel aren’t exempt from exile.”

  “All hands now hear this,” Lieutenant Prusak’s melodious voice on the public address system cut through the banter. “Secure for landing stations. I say again, secure for landing stations.”

  “We might not even do a full orbital pass at this rate. But who am I to complain?” Barrand grinned at his mates. “Talk to you lot again on the ground.”

  The spacers filed out of the mess while Katarin beckoned Roget to follow her. “Protocol for off-duty crew and idlers is strapped into your bunk during landing maneuvers.”

  “And what if my gut tells me the thrusters are failing? Where do I hide?”

  She gave him a reproachful look.

  “This isn’t the Antelope you keep damning, and Alwin Kuusisten isn’t Euclid Barnett. We’ll settle down on the Lannion Base tarmac as gently as can be. I’ve done more landings in a Void Ship than I care to remember, and none of them ended with so much as a lurch, let alone a bump.”

  “From your lips to the Almighty’s ears, Sister.”

  Katarin allowed herself a rather worldly snort. “I’m sure the Almighty would rather I keep my lips to myself.”

  **

  “Wow.” Stearn Roget’s head moved from side to side as he took in Lannion Base’s vast expanse when they stepped off Dawn Hunter’s belly ramp. “This is something I thought I’d never see again. A working, undamaged spaceport.”

  Four Void Ships were neatly parked at one end of the tarmac, watched over by aerospace defense emplacements both on the ground and on the heights above. Phoenix Clippers, along with shuttles and military aircraft sat in orderly rows at the other end. Uniformed personnel, on foot and aboard ground vehicles painted a dull gray, went about their daily business.

  “This is the Lyonesse Defense Force’s p
rimary base. Most of the installation is inside and beneath the cliff, as you might note from the doors and windows. It was home to an imperial Marine regiment and a naval supply depot long ago. The base has grown a lot over the years. Back when we first arrived, there wasn’t enough room on the tarmac for five Void Ships, let alone space left over for the smaller craft. They burned a lot of extra rooms and corridors into the cliff as well. If ever you’re interested, perhaps we can arrange for a tour once you’ve finished your training.”

  “I’d like that.”

  A smaller ground car, this one painted black, broke away from the row of parked vehicles and headed toward them.

  “The Almighty be thanked. Our ride is here,” Sister Milene said in a tone oozing relief. “I, for one, cannot wait to enter the peace and calm of the abbey.”

  The car glided to a stop beside them, and doors on either side opened as if by magic. A bearded but youthful face popped out on the left, grinning.

  “Hail the exploring heroes come home unscathed by the evils of a fallen galaxy.”

  “Landry! You’re a sight for tired eyes,” Katarin replied in an affectionate tone. “This is Stearn Roget, who we picked up on Yotai. He might join the Order.”

  “Welcome, Stearn Roget. Now hop in. Sister Gwenneth awaits.”

  They complied, and within moments, the car was speeding across the tarmac, headed for Lannion Base’s main gate. Roget turned back to study the imposing installation through the rear window until they turned off the primary east-west road and onto a secondary leading away from Lannion. After a brief but silent trip, they spied a sign marking the boundary of Lyonesse Abbey’s land grant and passed through fields heavy with ripening grain swaying gently in the breeze before sighting a cluster of gray stone buildings, a few up to three stories high.

  What started as an assemblage of old shipping containers when the Brethren rescued by Jonas Morane’s 197th Battle Group first moved out of Lannion Base’s disused barracks, became, over the years, an imposing replica of a pre-spaceflight Earth monastery, but with every modern convenience. Katarin pointed out and named the various structures for Roget’s benefit: administration, dormitory, cloister, refectory, school, hospital and, separate from the main complex, the agricultural and mechanical annexes.