The Prodigal Sun (3 page)

“
Between
the freighters?” Roche frowned, concerned.

“That’s not what worries me. What if they’re freebooters? We’ll be at a disadvantage should one of them take a shot at us. It goes against everything I learned in Tactics.”

Something in the Box’s tone suggested that it was playing devil’s advocate, rather than honestly defending the captain.

“Captain Klose is—”
A fool
, she had been about to say, but thought better of it. He had traveled this route many times, after all, and knew its dangers better than she. A course correction would cost them energy and delay their docking at Kanaga Station. Why
should
he give way, when he was so obviously in the right? Besides, fears of freebooting and other forms of treachery seemed naive even to her.

“—just doing his job, I guess,” she concluded with a sigh, and settled back into the chair to watch the approach. The red circles on the navigation display drifted apart, widening like a mouth to swallow the
Midnight.
Although she was no longer protesting, she was unable to quell the flutter in her stomach.

// continuing hostilities forced intervention on the behalf of the Commerce Artel. The long-running dispute between the Hierocratic Kingdom of Shurdu and the Pan-Rationalist Alliance of neighboring Zanshin flared into open warfare two months ago, following racist comments made by Hierocrat Kaatje Lene in response to a plea for peace from his opposite number, Provost Hemi Felucca. The exacerbation of inter-Caste tensions as a result of these comments has been cited by concerned observers as a major contributing factor to the current situation. Some have even suggested that the comments were made deliberately, in order to incite war. Exactly why the Hierocrat would do such a thing remains a mystery at this time, although some delegates have not ruled out interference from an unknown third party keen to see war between the two nations.

Meanwhile, on a more cheerful note, an explanation has come from High Human Interventionist, the Crescend, regarding a garbled transmission received from the homeworld of the Jaaf Caste—which, it turns out, has successfully Transcended to the status of High Human, not been annihilated by the nova of their primary star as was first thought. Concerned friends and business associates can contact //

A brisk rap at her door startled her from both the view and IDnet’s incessant patter. She stood automatically and straightened her uniform. The moment her hand left the contact pad without canceling her link to IDnet, an inactive screen mounted in the wall above the workstation flickered to life, continuing the display of the
Midnight’s
approach.

“Who is it?” she called into the intercom.

“To be honest, I was hoping you might be able to help me answer that question.”

Her hand hovered over the switch that would open the door. The voice had been male, deep and articulate, but the statement itself suggested anything but conviction. “If this is some sort of joke—?”

“I assure you it’s not.” There was a moment’s pause before the man on the other side of the door spoke again. “Look, my name is Adoni Cane, but that’s about all I can tell you. Everything else is just—” Another pause. “Please, I need to speak to you.”

Roche removed her hand from the switch and checked the name in the ship’s datapool; it didn’t register. Although she was no rigid stickler for standard military procedure, as Klose was, there were some broad guidelines she simply wouldn’t break. Admitting a mysterious visitor at her door in the middle of a potentially dangerous maneuver while on a priority mission was one of them.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m going to need a positive ident before I let you in. Come back later, when we’ve docked, and maybe we can discuss it.”

Symbolically turning her back on the door, she switched off the intercom.

With a hiss, the door slid open behind her. Roche’s left hand was instantly on the cover of the valise, slamming it closed, while her right reached across the narrow work space for her service pistol. The grip slid smoothly into place as she snap-turned to face the intruder.

Her breath caught in her throat.

His skin was very dark, almost chocolate-brown, and he was tall, a full half-head taller even than herself, with strong shoulders, a wide chest, and powerful hips and upper legs. He was dressed in a simple grey shipsuit, and its narrow fit accentuated the impression of power. He reminded Roche of an oversized Surin war-dancer—exuding a rare physical presence that went beyond simple strength—except that he appeared to be completely hairless. And looked like a Pristine Human, not an Exotic.

The smooth dome of his skull was lit by the overhead door-light as he took a step forward into the room. The flow of muscle beneath his shipsuit was powerful, oddly graceful, and potentially very dangerous.

Roche reacted with alarm. “Hold it right there,” she barked, gesturing with the pistol.

“I don’t understand,” he said, raising his hands placatingly. “Why did you let me in if—”

“
Me
let you in? I told you to go away. The door was locked.”

Despite the pistol trained on him, his eyes betrayed not the slightest hint of fear.

“I didn’t open it.” He glanced over his shoulder at the door, which remained open, then back to her. “If you want me to leave—”

“No, wait.” She grasped the handle of the valise and lifted it off the desk. “I want to know what you’re doing here.”

He lowered his hands slightly and took another step inside. The door slid shut behind him. “I was told to see you.”

“See
me
? Who told you this?”

He shrugged. “Somebody spoke to me through the security intercom in my cell. He told me that when the doors opened I was to come here to you, to these quarters. He gave me directions, but no name.” His face, when the light caught it, displayed a genuine puzzlement. “I’m sorry I can’t be any more specific than that.”

“You said you were in a cell,” said Roche, keeping the pistol trained upon him. “What happened to the guards? Didn’t they try to stop you?”

“I suppose they should have. But when the door opened, there was no one there.”

Suspicion made Roche apply slightly more pressure upon the trigger. “Conveniently allowing your escape.”

His eyes dropped to the muzzle of the pistol; when they met her own a second later, he was smiling. “If ‘escape’ is the appropriate word. After all, no one ever told me why I was locked up in the first place.”

“You’re not a transportee?” she asked, although something about his manner had already convinced her of that. He didn’t seem like a petty criminal: too self- possessed, perhaps, or too confident. And despite the absurdity of his tale, he didn’t seem to be lying. Roche’s curiosity began to outweigh her sense of caution.

“I don’t know what I am,” he said. “All I know is that I awoke a week ago and have been confined to a cell ever since. I have no memories of a time before that. All I have is my name.” He shrugged. “I was told that you would be able to help me.”

“
Help
you? In what way?”

He offered his hands, palms up, to demonstrate that he had no answer to that question either. If she wanted answers, she would have to deduce them herself from what scant information he had to offer.

Roche swallowed her frustration with difficulty, kicked the chair to him, and indicated for him to sit. Keeping the pistol trained carefully on his chest, she retreated to the far corner of the room to think.

Adoni Cane.
If he wasn’t a transportee, then he could have been a passenger, but then why didn’t his name register in the datapool? He
had
to be lying. But why? She could ask the Box to investigate the mysterious message that had led Cane to her; it would have been recorded by security monitors, if it existed at all. And if it didn’t—

Her hand instinctively tightened on the valise as she realized the stranger’s intentions. Before she could express her concerns to the Box, the AI’s voice cut across her train of thought:

She blinked and subvocalized:

Roche swung her gaze to the screen. It showed an overhead view of the
Midnight’
s bridge, from cameras mounted above the access locks at the rear of the chamber, and took in most if not all of the hemispherical sweep of workstations.

Klose was standing on the podium, his first officer, Terrison, with him; both were studying the forward displays. There was a superficial impression of calm about the scene that belied the tension in their stances. Roche could tell at a glance that they and the other personnel on the bridge were operating under unusual pressure. Something had gone wrong.

As she watched, Janek, the tactician, turned from her station to face Klose and Terrison.

“Ident confirmed,” the tactician said. “Dato warships. Four of them.”

Roche slipped her hand onto the contact pad to overlay the navigation display in one corner of the screen, hardly believing what she was hearing.
Dato
ships? From where? The Dato Bloc had no business this side of the border.

A moment’s glance showed her what had happened: the three Eckandi “freighters” had deactivated their sophisticated camouflage systems, revealing the truth beneath. A dreadnought and three raiders, plus at least a dozen tiny fighters, swooping free of the dreadnought even as she watched.

// disturbance within the sector under Olmahoi control has both puzzled and concerned COE observers. Reaves in neighboring systems have reported surges in epsense II

Roche irritably killed the IDnet and swore softly to herself. Cane leaned closer; out of the corner of her eye she saw him echo her frown.

“Trouble?” he asked.

“You might say that.” Mindful that her pistol no longer covered him, she waved him back. “We’ve just cruised straight into an ambush.”

“Is there conflict between your people and the owners of these ships?”

“Are you serious?” She saw no indication of irony in his composed features. She had never met anyone who wasn’t at least vaguely aware of the political realities of the region. “How long have you been imprisoned here?”

“Seven days, as I said.”

“This really isn’t turning into a very good day for me,” she said, shaking her head. Then, returning to the screen before her, she added, “Officially the Commonwealth of Empires and the Dato Bloc are at peace.” She focused her attention on the ships on the screen. “But I get the impression that this isn’t official business.”

“Could it be a mistake?”

She glanced down at the valise. “Unlikely.”

The Dato ships had assumed a tight arrowhead formation and were powering up their drives to meet the incoming frigate. Alert strips above the door to her room flashed to amber simultaneously with the light in the tank. A sterile voice announced an order for provisional battle stations.

“Four against one,” mused Cane, studying the formation intently. “Not insuperable odds. Why hasn’t the captain—” He stopped in mid-sentence and glanced at Roche quizzically, as though suddenly remembering her presence. “You’re an officer. Why aren’t
you
on the bridge?”

“I’m just a guest, noncombat.” She turned to study him in return. If the impending battle concerned him, he didn’t show it. Even his voice echoed the easy strength and confidence of his physique. “What were you about to say? Do you know something about this?”

“Nothing.” Klose’s voice had taken Cane’s attention back to the screen, and Roche followed it at once.

“Any communication?” the captain had asked.

“None, sir.” The officer glanced up from his console. “They are not responding to our signals.”

“Janek: ETA?”

“Three minutes, sir,” replied the tactician without looking up. Then she leaned in close to her console. “Sir, that dreadnought—”

“What about it?”

“It’s not a dreadnought. Configuration reads way off.” She leaned in close again. “It could be the ship we’ve heard rumors about—the new Marauder.”

Roche studied the image forming on the screen. The ship
did
look different: a large dolioform drive facility connected to seven pointed nacelles by a complicated web of what looked like threads but were probably access tubes and girders made small by distance. Streamlined mouths at either end of the drive flashed red as the ship maneuvered; smaller spiracles on five of the nacelles were inactive but open, obviously weapon bays or fighter launchers ready for action. The ship looked like nothing Roche had seen before, but she could tell just by its appearance—an ominous cross between a spider and shark—that it was designed for speed and resilience in battle.

“Broadcast full battle alert,” announced Klose, his voice booming. “Seal the bridge and all compartments! Prepare for defensive maneuvers!”

“Too late,” mumbled Cane. “Much too late.”

“What is?”

“The captain should have attacked the moment he saw them.”

“Not Klose.” She grimaced bitterly. “He’d never risk a diplomatic incident on the off chance there’d been some sort of misunderstanding.”

“What do you think?” The approaching Dato ships glinted in Cane’s eyes. “Does this look like a misunderstanding to you?”

“They haven’t attacked us—”

“But they will,” Cane interjected calmly. “And if the captain waits any longer—”

A groan from the bulkheads interrupted him. The view in the telemetry display shifted suddenly as the
Midnight’
s engines kicked into life, thrusting the ship along a different course. Life support dampened the violent shift in momentum, leaving a lingering sense of disorientation in its wake.

Roche blinked and shook her head. Cane seemed entirely unaffected, although she realized with alarm that he was standing much closer than he had been before. If he had wanted to overpower her, he could have done so easily during the maneuver. The fact that he hadn’t did not reassure her. That she had let him get that close in the first place—