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

  “Ah.” Gwenneth nodded. “Of course. I should have guessed.”

  While they walked across the tarmac, the reviewing stand, chairs, flagpoles, and every other bit of parade finery vanished, leaving a cleared space of several hundred meters around Standfast, whose belly ramp had retracted into the hull. Speakers came to life behind them, surprising the guests.

  “Lannion Traffic Control, this is the Republic of Lyonesse Starship Standfast, corvette, Laurent Lisiecki commanding.”

  “Welcome to the network, Standfast,” a female voice replied. Gwenneth recognized it as belonging to the chief controller, taking a turn at the console for the occasion. “May your service to the republic be long and honorable.”

  “Our identification beacon is active.”

  “Beacon confirmed,” the chief traffic controller replied. “We have registered you.”

  “Standfast requests permission to lift off on a vertical vector to ten thousand meters. At ten thousand meters, she will change her angle of attack to twenty degrees from the vertical until entering orbit at an altitude of two thousand kilometers.”

  “Your flight path is empty of all air and spacecraft up to two thousand kilometers. You are cleared for departure.”

  Gwenneth and Marta exchanged amused glances. The back and forth between starship and traffic control was obviously rehearsed even though it would sound natural to anyone else’s ears.

  “It’ll be okay, Mom,” a soft woman’s voice said, startling Marta.

  She was so focused on pushing away the anxiety at her son riding a new and unproven starship straight up into the sky that she didn’t sense Sigrid’s arrival.

  “I helped build Standfast. If I didn’t think she was perfectly safe for our people, I wouldn’t let Stefan aboard.” The young woman, a close copy of her mother when she was that age, smiled confidently.

  A rapidly growing whine reached their ears as the corvette’s thrusters spooled up, making any further conversation fruitless. Marta reached out and grasped her daughter’s hand instead. Bright streams of light appeared under Standfast’s hull, and as she rose, her landing gear broke contact with the tarmac.

  “We are feet up, Traffic Control.”

  “Acknowledged. Godspeed, Standfast.”

  When she was ten meters above the ground, her landing gear vanished, retracted into the hull. She kept rising on bright pillars of light, straight up into a sky so blue it almost broke Marta’s heart.

  “Passing through ten thousand meters. All systems nominal.”

  Standfast gradually turned into a speck that soon vanished from view, though everyone at the shipyard, and indeed across the settlement area, kept their eyes glued to the heavens. Captain Lisiecki reported each increment of ten kilometers until reaching one hundred, then each increment of one hundred kilometers.

  With the ship no longer visible to the naked eye, the guests in the VIP section mingled while Marta let Sigrid take her around so she could meet her daughter’s colleagues, the people responsible for Standfast’s design and construction. Finally, the report she’d been waiting for came through the hidden speakers.

  “Standfast is in orbit around Lyonesse at an altitude of two thousand kilometers and preparing to take on fuel for the hyperdrives.”

  The enthusiastic round of applause told Marta she wasn’t the only one who’d been tense during the corvette’s ascent.

  “Acknowledged. Lannion Traffic Control is turning you over to the Navy. Fair winds and following seas, Standfast. Lannion, out.”

  — 18 —

  ––––––––

  Stearn Roget, wearing the Order’s loose, black garment and carrying a small valise, stepped off the Phoenix Clipper City of Lannion and took a deep breath of the warm, salt-tinged tropical air. The setting sun’s harsh rays stung his eyes, and he snorted with amusement at his momentary feeling of displacement. When the Clipper lifted off from Lannion Spaceport an hour earlier, it had been in the fresh pre-dawn air. Here, in the Windy Isles, the day was already over. But when the sleek, white shuttle returned to Lannion, it would go back in time and arrive just after breakfast, while he was eating his supper.

  Roget suddenly became conscious of a tall, silver-haired man with a narrow, ascetic face and a prominent nose framed by intense brown eyes watching him intently from the shade of a tiny landing field hut. He also wore the Order’s garment. When their eyes met, the man pushed himself away from the wall and walked toward Roget with long, deliberate strides.

  “I am Erasmus, a postulant at the Windy Isles Priory, and you must be Stearn.” He held out his hand.

  “That would be me. A pleasure to meet you, Erasmus.” They shook, and Roget noted the other man’s sturdy grip.

  “You’re joining our postulant class?” Erasmus asked as he fell into step beside Roget, leading him toward the checkpoint guarding the landing field’s entrance.

  “I’ve not decided yet if I will join the Order. Call me a lay trainee or something of the sort. I’m here to continue my training under a Sister Mirjam.”

  Erasmus nodded. “Our prioress. A remarkable servant of the Almighty. Extraordinarily gifted if I may say so. You will learn much from her.”

  The correctional officer at the checkpoint waved them through after scanning Roget’s identification. Once outside, Erasmus pointed at a collection of low stone buildings partially hidden by vegetation in the distance.

  “Our priory.” He then aimed his finger in the opposite direction. “The penal colony is in that direction. It occupies most of Changu Island and the neighboring cays of this atoll.”

  “It’s charming, I’m sure.”

  Erasmus gave Roget a curious look. “It isn’t when you’re inside the penal colony.”

  “Right. You’d know from ministering to the exiles.”

  “Postulants do not, as you say, minister.”

  “Oh?” Roget glanced at Erasmus through narrowed eyes.

  “Sister Mirjam and her assistants cured two other prisoners and myself of our turmoil as part of an experimental rehabilitation process. We three are now in training to become friars, though we will serve the Windy Isles Priory for the rest of our lives.”

  “Really? How interesting.” As they walked along a crushed seashell path, Roget’s eyes never remained on one spot for long. They took in the shockingly green vegetation, liberally dotted with neon reds and yellows, the spindly trees with fern-like appendages sprouting from their tops, and the bright blue of the lagoon beyond, its surface shimmering under the setting sun.

  “Did you witness Standfast’s departure by chance? We watched the video feed, although it was past midnight here.”

  Roget shook his head.

  “Not in person. Most of us at the abbey saw the same video feed, though once she cleared the shipyard, I watched her fly up into the sky. Mind you, at that distance, she wasn’t much more than a speck. Abbess Gwenneth and Sister Marta were at the launch, though. Marta’s son is Standfast’s first officer, and her daughter was part of the ship’s design team.”

  “I don’t believe I ever heard of this Sister Marta.”

  “She was one of my trainers, and they say she has the strongest mind among the Brethren. I certainly found her impressive, perhaps even a bit frightening.”

  “May I ask why the Order is training you if you’ve not yet committed to joining it?”

  A crooked smile lit up Roget’s face. He tapped the side of his head with an extended index finger.

  “Apparently, I’m the proud owner of an out-of-control sixth sense. It used to run amok, and Sister Marta thinks it’s still not totally tamed, which is why I’m here.”

  “I see.” Erasmus waved him through an open garden door and along a flagstone path ending at the main building’s equally open front door. “You’re blessed with the talent, just like the Brethren.”

  “I’m not sure blessed is the right word for it, but
yeah. Mine is stronger than the normal friar version.”

  “The Almighty has plans for you, my friend.”

  They entered the lobby and Roget blinked a few times while his eyes adapted to the lower level of illumination. When he could see clearly, he spotted a familiar elfin face framed by blonde hair coming down the curved wooden stairs. She stopped half a dozen steps before they ended.

  “Amelia! What a pleasant surprise.”

  Erasmus briefly stared at Roget before turning his eyes on the sister.

  “You know each other?”

  “She was in Dawn Hunter when they rescued me from impending death on Yotai. Lyonesse really is a small world.”

  “Stearn.” Amelia inclined her head, smiling. “Welcome to the Windy Isles Priory. Gwenneth transferred me here four months ago as part of my development as a counselor under Sister Mirjam, who asked I bring you to her office. Thank you for fetching him, Erasmus. You may resume your regular duties.”

  Erasmus bowed at the neck. “Sister.”

  Then, he vanished into a ground floor hallway, his footsteps fading rapidly.

  “You seem more serene than when we last spoke, Stearn.”

  “Sister Marta taught me how to control my mental turmoil — one which I didn’t even know bedeviled me until Sister Gwenneth explained my affliction.”

  She smiled.

  “We knew about that turmoil even before our shuttle landed on Yotai. Trust me, the difference in you between that day and now is breathtaking, and though we might have been the only ones who heard it clearly, it affected everyone around you.”

  “Then I’m happy I’ve progressed, even though I don’t quite understand.”

  “Come.” Amelia turned and climbed back up the staircase. After a moment of hesitation, Roget followed her.

  When they entered Mirjam’s office, Roget decided she was another of those sisters whose age one couldn’t possibly guess. She stood and came around her desk.

  “Welcome to the Windy Isles Priory, Stearn.”

  Something about the physical contact as they shook hands felt a little strange, as if that same hand were brushing against his mind. He shook off the sensation and returned her open smile with one of his own.

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  She gestured at the chairs around a low table in one corner.

  “Please sit. You as well, Amelia.” She took a seat across from them and met Roget’s open, curious gaze. “Marta updated me on your progress. When I mentioned Amelia was doing her advanced training under my guidance, she suggested I let the two of you work together, since you already know each other.”

  “What sort of work will that be?”

  “Amelia is a counselor and helps the condemned deal with their sentences, work through the mental issues that led them into crime and prepare those whose exile isn’t permanent for reintegration with civil society.” Mirjam studied Roget for a few heartbeats. “You don’t seem particularly thrilled at the idea.”

  When Roget didn’t react to her accurate assessment, she added, “And you’re wondering how I figured out so quickly. That’s what we counselors do. We read people so we can guide them.”

  “The talent.”

  “Yes. It makes us more sensitive to the emotions of others. But only members of the Order are trained to interpret what they pick up.”

  “Then why will I work with Sister Amelia? Marta focused my training exclusively on taming my sixth sense.”

  “You won’t be helping the prisoners, although you’ll be observing Amelia. No, this is for your development. Many of the prisoners on this island suffer from diseased minds they cannot control. They may even possess a smidgen of talent — what laypeople would call natural cunning. You will sense them. They will even repulse you. But being in their presence will force you to take the next step and learn how one blocks out the minds of others.”

  Roget nodded in understanding. “I see. I’m here because everyone at the abbey is so self-controlled.”

  “Partially correct. Now that Marta’s teachings put you in touch with your talent, you will find yourself consciously affected by those filled with strong negative emotions if you don’t develop a protective shell. The best place to do so is where negative emotions flow like white-hot lava — such as the atoll where Lyonesse sends its worst offenders.”

  “Do all Brethren pass through here?”

  Mirjam shook her head.

  “No. There are other ways of teaching this skill to those who join the Order. But since you remain undecided, Marta thought a stint here would be an adequate substitute, and I agree. Once I consider you ready, you can leave us and find a place in secular society, if that is your decision.”

  Roget inclined his head. “Understood.”

  “You’ll live with the three postulants now in training and do your daily exercises with them.”

  “The cured prisoners this Erasmus mentioned?”

  “Yes.” Another pause. “You find it hard to believe we can cure sociopaths.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Did Erasmus make you feel uneasy in any way?”

  “No.”

  “And yet he was the angriest, most manipulative and most violent man on the Windy Isles before he volunteered for the experiment. The negative emotions he felt before his treatment would overwhelm you on such close contact. The other two weren’t much different. You’ll be living with them for the next few weeks. Judge for yourself if they seem cured of their antisocial personality disorders.”

  “I will, Sister.”

  “Amelia will take you to Friar Rikkard. He is the priory’s property manager and postulant master for the current class, which will include you for matters other than those involving postulant studies. I will allow you two days of acclimatization before joining Amelia on her daily sessions with the prisoners.”

  Roget stood and bowed his head respectfully.

  “Yes, Sister.”

  She watched both leave her office, wondering what the future held for Stearn Roget. His mind was indeed one of the strongest she’d ever encountered. It would be a shame if he didn’t join the Order. Marta opening his third eye could prove hugely beneficial for the Void and the community at large. He could even, with the right training, join her team and help cure more of the disordered souls living inside Changu Island’s Supermax complex. Many of them didn’t react well to sisters. Perhaps they would accept a friar who possessed the same capabilities.

  Mirjam mentally shrugged. Roget would do as he must. The Void giveth and the Void taketh away. Blessed be the Void.

  — 19 —

  ––––––––

  Stearn Roget let out a soft gasp as he and Sister Amelia entered the Supermax compound occupying Changu Island’s far end, almost directly across the lagoon from the priory, after passing through a guardroom.

  Amelia glanced at him over her shoulder. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “A darkness is pressing against my mind, I suppose. It’s as if my soul took a deep breath and inhaled a noxious cloud of—”

  When she saw him search for the right word, Amelia said, “Evil?”

  “Yes. That’s it. Evil.” Roget hesitated. “Strange. I’ve never believed in its existence before, but there truly is such a thing.”

  “You and most humans.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “Few can detect its manifestation in sentient beings, and thus, the majority long ago stopped believing it exists. Sadly, at the same time, they also abandoned the notion of goodness because one cannot exist without the other. Yet once you abandon the idea some things are truly black or white, morality becomes a gradation of gray with no absolutes and no limits to human depravity.”

  “With Dendera’s vengeance being the ultimate expression of such limitless depravity, right?”

  “Just so. Clinicians would tell you she suffered from a severe fo
rm of antisocial personality disorder. Still, if she was a psychopath, she was also an utterly evil being, the product of a corrupt dynasty. Most who suffer from the disorder live reasonably normal lives and don’t engage in criminal activity, let alone genocide. But the ones you’ll meet in here, for a variety of social or environmental reasons, gave full expression to their disorder and crossed the line into committing horrific acts. They cannot feel regret for what they did, and they don’t fear consequences.”

  Roget studied his surroundings as they walked. A two-meter tall, wire-topped stone wall separated the Supermax compound from the medium and high-security parts of the Windy Isles main penitentiary complex. Within, it resembled a miniature military installation — single-story barracks in neat rows, a dining facility, several other buildings, and an exercise yard, currently devoid of life. Amelia led him to one of the structures set apart from the barracks.

  “There are two broad varieties of extreme antisocial personality disorder,” she said, continuing her discourse, “the psychopaths and the sociopaths. We don’t deal with psychopaths because, despite our best attempts, there is no cure for the genetic abnormality in their brains. The ones condemned to exile will die behind prison walls. Sociopaths, on the other hand, have a reasonably normal brain, meaning they can differentiate right from wrong at a subconscious level. Our treatment seeks to amplify that ability and grow it. None will develop true empathy, but reversing the damage caused by social and environmental stressors will, hopefully, suppress their depraved instincts and let them act more like ordinary people.”

  “The evil I’m picking up comes from the psychopaths?”

  She shook her head as she reached for the door.

  “No. Even the best of us can’t sense much from their minds. We suspect the genetic abnormality provides a sort of built-in defense against mental threats. However, maybe because they cannot recognize the existence of good or evil, they feel no turmoil. There’s another theory that posits psychopaths are human vessels devoid of souls, and what we sense with our talent is, in large part, the soul. What you sensed upon entering the compound were the disordered emanations from sociopaths, who know, at some level, what they did was wrong even if they don’t understand. If you belong to the soul theorists, you might say theirs are blackened and tattered beyond human recognition.”