Chapter 7
“In deep waters, a calm surface may hide treacherous currents that lie beneath.…”
Legacy Mandate by Emperor Yung I
Twenty hours later, Inga and Saef strolled through the airlock onto the quarterdeck of the Goose, a ten-thousand-ton inter-system freighter filled with Sinclair-Maru agricultural products. The days of starships wearing the Family crest were long gone, but the Goose operated under a long-term Sinclair-Maru lease, so it still provided safe, anonymous transport to Coreworld and its capital, Imperial City.
It struck Saef, as he stepped onto the Spartan companionway, he probably carried as much sheer credit value on his personal luggage as the ship’s entire cargo was worth. With an Imperial QE comm, a kinetic body shield, and a crate of exotic fab materials, he should feel like a wealthy new Fleet captain, not the cash-strapped provincial that he knew himself to be.
The heavy sense of mounting responsibility threatened to choke him, and Saef fought down the weight, finding the Deep Man even as he made his way into the ship.
Saef’s UI chirped as the Goose granted him user access to their internal Net, and with that access came a glowing wireframe overlaying his vision. It was no Fleet-level interface, but at least it allowed Saef to see the layout of the ship superimposed upon his natural sight.
A greeting from the captain followed, chirping his UI with a friendly message, and visual routing to their humble staterooms.
Inga paced quietly alongside, her head turning as she sized up every detail. She held a food bar in one hand, munching, and in the other she grasped the leash of her dumb-mech that scampered along behind carrying their substantial luggage. She wore her cloak like a perpetual uniform, always concealing her slender form beneath its dark fabric, one arm or the other emerging when called upon.
So far Saef really knew very little about her, his first crewmember.
Except that she must have the metabolism of a weasel, he thought to himself.
It was rare to see her without something edible in hand, at least in the brief time that he had known her.
They had departed Lykeios in the old family execu-jet, clambering from the manor’s airfield, slowly toward orbit via the jet’s mag-drives (figuratively sneering at so-called “escape velocity” along their leisurely way).
The Goose had done the rest, dropping down the well into a lower orbit to fetch the two passengers and their varied cargo.
Now, Saef knew from his System Guard service, it would take a day or two of flight-lane jockeying on both ends of a quick N-space transition. That would bring them near Coreworld, to the massive orbital platform, Core Alpha, fixed at the top of the tether-way above Imperial City.
That is where everything changed, where the first of the Sinclair-Maru Family for many long years would receive a starship captaincy in Fleet. Even aside from the potential bounties of war, a starship captain possessed regular access to N-space during required transitions, and access to N-space, properly managed, equaled wealth.
“What do you think of Goose so far, Commander?” Inga asked as they approached the staterooms, situated in a short, dim corridor adjoining a tiny galley.
Saef actually thought the Goose an outmoded, colorless slug of a ship, but after a moment’s hesitation he said, “For a freighter, it seems to have some rather nice features.” He knew the godlike listening powers available to a starship captain, and formed his words with this in mind.
Inga stopped beside their doors, the dumb-mech clattering to a halt on its six legs and easing to the deck right beside her. She gave Saef one of her wide-eyed, expressionless looks for a bare moment, and an encrypted text message chirped into Saef’s UI. Inga’s bright smile flashed, and she turned to her door.
Saef read the message: AND YOU THOUGHT YOU HAD NO SKILL IN POLITICKING!
Saef found himself amused and somewhat impressed. It took a rare talent for someone to compose a message solely within her UI, with no visible muscle movements—not even her eyes—in less than two seconds.
“I look forward to a more technical opinion at some point, Commander,” she said, opening the stateroom and herding the dumb-mech within. She snatched Saef’s travel case from the pile of luggage on the mech’s back, and set it at his feet.
“How long were you on Hawksgaard?” Saef inquired, thinking about how many vessels she had likely surveyed in her life.
Her smiled revealed the tips of her pointed white teeth. “It seemed like a thousand years, Commander.” Her door closed.
Saef sighed, thinking that she could stand to learn how to properly answer a question.
Another text message chirped into Saef’s vision: I’LL BE BORED TO TEARS, it read. HAVE ANY WORK FOR ME?
Work?
Saef thought about that as he hefted his travel case and stepped into his own small stateroom. He did have that stack of Fleet ratings seeking berths. Sorting them into some sort of order that he could sift for potential crew was a task that he didn’t much welcome.
It was a moment’s effort to pipe this crew file through Goose’s private Net to Inga’s implant. He included the personal note: LOOKING FOR CREW. SORT INTO SOME SORT OF ORDER, IF YOU LIKE.
Inga’s response was near instantaneous: WONDERFUL!
Saef had no idea if that represented a genuine sentiment or merely sarcasm. He shrugged to himself. The weight of his cares already piled so high, what was one more concern?
After getting situated in the small stateroom, Saef began his own work, sifting through his much smaller digital field of potential bridge officers, even as he moved in the practiced steps of his shipboard exercise routine. The names and personnel briefs floated before his eyes in a stream of data, as a rivulet of sweat poured off his body. He wondered again if he was truly ready for the challenge before him. So many questions, so many unknowns…
For the first time in his life he found himself regarding heavyworld officers with anything other than a mild degree of respect. Their names, their blunt features leaped out to him as the information flickered across his vision. Every one of them now represented a potential enemy, and a potential source of intel so desperately sought by Imperial Security.
Though only about two percent of the Imperium’s population, heavyworlders comprised nearly a fifth of Fleet officers, and more than half of all Imperial Marines. To exclude all heavyworld officers from whatever command they gave him would send a startlingly obvious flare into the firmaments of Fleet.
Also, it seemed likely that his cursed “spy” job might be doomed from the start if he didn’t have some heavyworlders aboard to observe.
Saef’s work, both physical and mental, paused as he received an incoming voice call: Claude Carstairs.
Saef thought for a moment before accepting the call.
“Disaster averted!” Claude announced in place of a greeting.
“What?” Saef asked.
“And you didn’t say a word,” Claude continued unchecked. “Just like the time when I thought body paint was all the rig. You said nothing. Nothing! Remember, old fellow? And I made cursed cake of myself.”
“What did I say nothing about this time, Claude? There are so many things I don’t say that I don’t quite recall.”
“The kilt.”
“Beg pardon?”
“My fabulous kilt. It was going to be my…my—damn! There’s a word for it…My own signature contribution to fashion. What’s that word?”
“I really have no idea, Claude.”
“Well…one of those. But my poor legs,” Claude mourned. “They really don’t pull it off. Look rather paltry dangling about down below, if you can credit it. You always said I should muck about more in the high-grav, like you.”
“That’s true,” Saef agreed.
“I say!” Claude exclaimed. “The kilt! It would be perfect for you. You’ve got the legs for it, and the way you go slashing about with your beastly little sword, no one would dare laugh at you.”
“I don’t think so, Claude.”
“Oh, but you must. Think of the immortality a fashion leader enjoys. Think of that frumpy, boorish family image you have hanging about your neck like a…a…a rhinoceros!”
“Albatross, I think, is the word you’re looking for, Claude.”
“What? Daresay you’re right. About your neck!” Claude declared. “Frumpy, bellicose, backward, boring—”
“I get your point, Claude.”
“—old-fashioned, almost bestial. Poof! Gone…With your new look…the new Sinclair-Maru look.”
“Uniforms, Claude, remember? I’m set for life.”
“Oh yes,” Claude said in a dejected tone. “That’s right. And I take it you’re not coming to my party?”
“Uh…no,” Saef said. “I’ve got to head to Imperial City for my commissioning.”
“Right away? Off to duty and glory and a damned fine uniform, eh?”
As Claude spoke, Saef felt a slight shiver in the deck beneath his feet. Artificial gravity concealed their acceleration beautifully, but the initial engine burn transferred through the deck in these old “tin-can” spacers. The Goose was leaving Battersea orbit.
“Well, yes,” Saef said. “Hopefully glory, and yes, very soon.”
“Ah, Imperial City!” Claude said. “I haven’t been there for years. As I remember, the parties there are scandalous. Scandalous! Delightful place. I shall visit you.”
Saef almost laughed. “Remember, Claude, I’ll hopefully be off on Fleet business most of the time.”
“Of course, of course. Dashing about, saving people, blasting things. Such fun! And when you return, you’ll find me waiting. And I’ll be dressed amazingly.”
“But not in a kilt.”
“Gods no! I haven’t the legs for it, I tell you.”
Saef smiled. “I look forward to it. Send a message ahead and I’ll clean a piece of floor for you.”
“Not likely. I’ve seen your quarters—Oh! I almost forgot to tell you. Today, some poor sod moving into your old quarters at command school had some sort of remote explode his face. Boom!”
Saef felt the smile slide from his own face. “How strange.”
“Strange?” Claude demanded. “Downright uncivil, I say. Good thing it wasn’t your face that exploded, eh? Scowl and all, it’d be a waste.”
“I agree,” Saef said. “I am rather attached to it.”
“Daresay. A uniform—even a Fleet uniform—wouldn’t look at all right without it.”
“I really couldn’t agree more, Claude.” Saef shook his head, thinking. “I really must be going, my friend.”
“Oh very well, old fellow,” Claude said. “Keep the kilt in mind, will you? Just marinate on immortality.”
“Mortality will certainly be on my mind.” Saef ended the call.
After a moment of contemplation he resumed his exercise, but he did not return to his staff work. Instead, he contemplated the unpleasant subtleties of assassination; another weight upon his shoulders.