The landing had been even smoother than Markov had expected. The Albatross sat quietly on one of the designated landing pads. He made his way quickly through the open hatch in the middle of the flight deck, and followed the narrow mesh walkway as it descended towards the landing bay below. He stepped down from the lower hatch and glanced around while he tried to find his bearings.
'General Alexander Markov,' a deep voice said from everywhere and nowhere.
Markov looked up at the ceiling and turned to find Lord Hades standing beside him. At six feet, five inches tall, his imposing stature was difficult to ignore, but until he had spoken, Markov hadn't seen him at all. Had he been there all along?
A thick brown robe hung from Lord Hades' wide shoulders, reaching almost to the ground. His black goatee beard had been cut short, forming a tight black fist that protruded from his wide round jaw. The top of his head was almost shaven, leaving the thinnest layer of stubble covering his large white skull. Markov felt like a schoolboy beside him. He stood with his arms hanging by his sides and made a conscious effort not to tug at his jacket collar.
Lord Hades' piercing green eyes regarded Markov like a snake watching a rat. A collection of old, white scars left a biography of violence written across his pale, ageless face. Markov had often wondered just how old he was. It never seemed like a good time to ask. He had only met Lord Hades twice before, the most recent occasion being when Lord Hades had visited the Southern Territories for a status report, just after Markov had taken command of Alma Station. Markov didn't want to remember that occasion. It hadn't gone well at all.
'Lord Hades,' Markov said in a neutral tone. 'I am here to serve.'
Lord Hades leant forwards, grasping Markov's hand in an iron grip. His eyes shone like emeralds embedded in a rock face. 'The Commanders are waiting for you on level one-forty,' he said, his voice sounding like crushed stone and rumbling thunder.
Markov nodded. He knew that Lord Hades would be straight down to business.
'They will ask you what has become of Gail Thompson,' Lord Hades said.
Markov maintained a neutral expression. 'What should I tell them?' he said. 'Did you have something in mind?'
'Tell them I have taken her. She will not be returning to this place. She has betrayed us all. That's all they need to know.'
'Yes, Lord Hades.'
'You are to take command here, Markov. There will be no more Admirals. All the commanders report to you now. Make it clear to them, and rule them well. We put our trust in you to do what is right.'
Markov nodded slowly. He could feel the weight of Lord Hades' gaze bearing down on him. His words already felt like rocks piled upon Markov's shoulders, but his shoulders were wide and strong. He would do what needed to be done. Intense green eyes bore into him. Markov lifted his chin and returned an even gaze. He could feel icy fingers probing inside his mind and he knew from previous experience just how dangerous that could be.
'You can count on me, Lord Hades,' he said.
Lord Hades turned and walked away.
Markov hesitated, rubbing a hand across his jaw. 'Lord Hades, I wanted to apologise again for what happened in the Southern Territories.'
Lord Hades acted as though he hadn't heard. He strode towards a small archway at the back of the landing bay. When he reached the arch, he ducked his head and disappeared up a narrow staircase inside.
Markov stood alone in the landing bay. He let out a long, slow breath, and made a conscious effort to loosen the tightness in his chest. The icy fingers had retreated from his mind after Lord Hades had left the landing bay. Markov had a vague recollection of their conversation, but he couldn't help feeling that more information had been exchanged than the few words that had been spoken. It wasn't the first time that he had felt such sensations in the presence of Lord Hades. It wasn't enough to choose his words carefully; he had to choose his thoughts carefully as well.
Markov straightened his back, glancing around the landing bay. He was relieved that nobody else had been there to witness his arrival. Meeting Lord Hades had never been an easy experience. He took a couple of steps forward, and then hesitated when he heard a clicking noise down near his feet. A small droid scuttled across the floor on six short legs. It sped away from him, dragging three long flexible tubes behind it. Markov watched as it attached two of the tubes to the tips of the Albatross' flexible wings. Chuckling to himself in a deep base voice, he eased his hand away from his impact pistol. It was just a maintenance droid. It would take him a while to desensitise himself from his experiences in the Southern Territories. Here, in the White Spear, a noise on the floor could be just a noise. It didn't have to mean death. Markov smiled to himself. His time in the Southern Territories had taught him many things. Everyone had to die sometime. He had learnt to take one day at a time. He had made it his policy to assume that he would still be alive tomorrow. For most of his life that assumption would prove to be correct. What use was it worrying about the one time that he would be completely wrong?
He walked towards the far end of the landing platform and approached a row of three Air Route booths. He hoped that he would be able to remember how to use them. It had been four years since he had last stepped foot inside the White Spear and it seemed like a lot longer. When he reached the nearest Air Route, he paused in front of it and rubbed his chin.
Each booth consisted of a rectangular frame embedded in the wall. The frame was taller than an average man. It was covered by a smooth white panel and was as wide as Markov standing with his arms hanging loose by his sides. When he tried to touch the panel, it split down the centre, sliding open to each side. Markov didn't remember seeing a join on the panel before it had opened, but he recognised the white padded cocoon of the booth's interior. It looked like an upright coffin. He grimaced at the thought, and stepped inside, placing his back against the cushioned lining.
The doors slid closed, trapping him inside. He found himself staring at a row of three blue lights that hovered directly in front of his face. He couldn't tell whether they were part of the inner surface of the door, or whether they had been projected onto his retina from somewhere else. The lights turned red one by one, and as the last one completed its transition, he remembered what happened next. The booth descended at such an extreme velocity that his head was thrust up against the padded ceiling. His thick neck muscles strained against the pressure of the acceleration webbing as it contracted around him, holding him in place. His arms and legs felt as though they might float away, but after a few seconds he felt his body swaying from side to side, and then the sensation was reversed. The pressure on his shoulders disappeared, and his neck relaxed while his whole body weight rammed down through his legs. The force was such that his legs would have buckled beneath him if not for the acceleration webbing that held him tight against the booth's internal padding. His blood rushed towards his feet, and his cheeks sagged down towards the lower part of his angular jaw. The souls of his feet pressed hard against the floor.
Markov held his breath as the three red lights switched to green and the door split down the middle in front of him. He wobbled on his feet as the webbing disengaged, and stumbled out of the booth, halfway across a corridor. He wondered where he was. A light tingling ran across the top of his head as he tried to focus his eyes on a single point on the opposite wall. He stood that way for a few seconds, wavering on his feet until his inner ear could work out which fucking way was up. Finally he took a long slow breath to steady his spinning thoughts and felt confident that he wasn't going to throw up. Now he remembered the Air Route System. He hadn't missed it at all.
After a little investigation, Markov realised that he was on level one-forty, over five hundred meters below the level that he had been standing on a few seconds earlier. He was also further towards the back of the White Spear, judging by the yellow and blue bands on the nearest wall plaque. He tried to recall what the colours meant. Yellow for north facing? Blue for security clearance level? He wasn't sure. He would have to remind himself about the tower's internal wall plaque colour schemes later on. He rubbed his chin and tried to work out whether he had come to the right place. When he turned his head, he realised that a man was standing nearby, watching him.
'General Markov?' the man said without expression. He was a thin man, beyond his middle years, and he wore a grey all-in-one suit. A badge on his collar suggested that he was some kind of administrative assistant.
'Yes,' Markov said.
'My name is Mr. Donald. I'm to take you to the commanders. They have gathered in the Orange room, as instructed.'
So Lord Hades had already prepared a meeting for him. Markov approved. There was no time to be lost. It would save time speaking to all the commanders at once. 'Lead on,' he said.
Donald ducked his head in acknowledgement. He set off down a long black walled corridor at a brisk pace. Markov did his best to walk in a straight line behind Donald's rapid moving feet. The Air Route was going to take a while to wear off. He still didn't understand how it had known where he wanted to go. There hadn't been any kind of input console to select what level he wanted. All he knew was that somehow it had brought him to the right place.
Donald was pulling away from him. Markov quickened his pace. The flooring was made from polished black stone, and the ceiling looked like some kind of black ribbed composite material. Small sparkling crystals embedded in the walls filled the corridor with bright white light. After a dozen paces, Markov could feel the ground growing solid beneath his feet. The blood in his veins seemed to be flowing in the right direction again. He rolled his shoulders and clicked his jaw. Looking ahead, he noticed a red marble archway at the end of the corridor. It curved high above an ornate white door. The door was covered in carvings of scenes from history, and it was wide enough for several people to pass through at once. Donald moved quicker than Markov had expected, arriving at the door well before he had a chance to catch up with him. The old man waited beside the closed door, his dark eyes gazing down at his soft grey boots. His short black hair was combed back and heavily oiled. Markov wondered whether Donald might be older than he had first thought. He looked pale and drawn. He certainly didn't look much like the usual combat trained athletes that Markov was used to dealing with.
Walking slowly, Markov listened to his boots echoing on the polished stone floor. When he reached the end of the corridor, he stopped in front of the door and adjusted his jacket while he admired the fine carvings on its surface. The ancient sculptures depicted a series of scenes that were both beautiful and disturbing. Strange shapes moved in formations, and men lay on the ground, their mouths open in torment. In the centre of the carved scene, one man stood alone, his silhouette looking as formidable as the despair that surrounded him. It was General Anault Wolfhammer. Straightening his back, Markov prepared himself for what he was about to do. When he was ready, he nodded. Donald swung the door open, and Markov stepped into the Orange Room.
It was the largest meeting room in the White Spear, over thirty metres across at its widest point. The room was roughly oval in shape, and dominated by the largest crystal table that Markov had ever seen. Light sparkled across its surface, multiplying the reflections of the commanders that sat around it. The table was as beautiful as the rich marble floor on which it sat. The polished sepia marble was riddled with delicate veins of black, red and white. Behind the crystal table, a reinforced glass wall offered stunning views across the hills and farmlands to the North. The Great Lakes were just visible on the dark horizon. At this time of night lakes Rezworth, Dumolt and Yorin were little more than moonlit puddles in the distance, but Markov had visited them as a boy, and he knew just how beautiful they were. Lake Rezworth was the largest of the three lakes, at just over eight kilometres in diameter. Its smaller cousins sat a few hundred metres to either side, separated by small hills. It was too dark to see the orange groves that surrounded the lakes. Even their shadows were lost in the darkness.
Markov inhaled deeply, taking in the impressive views. General Wolfhammer had sat in this same room during the Fless Wars, over four hundred years ago. This was where he had formulated his plans while gazing out towards the distant orange groves. It had been Wolfhammer that had given the Orange Room its name.
Markov forced his thoughts back to the present time. He turned his attention to the rows of blank faces that stared back at him from the opposite side of the crystal table. The commanders of Central Command were rising to their feet. He recognised some of them from the profiles that Lord Hades had sent him. He remembered some of their names too, but he only knew one or two of them from personal experience.
One of the commanders stepped around the table and approached him with a smooth smile. 'General Markov, welcome to the White Spear. I am Commander Mark Lance. I'm one of the senior officers here. I'd like to take this opportunity to offer you our full support and to assure you that we are ready to serve.' He stepped forwards, offering his hand in greeting, but his subservient posture looked contrived. A thin film of sweat glistened across his forehead as he leant forwards, his hand hanging in the empty space between them. He looked like a man who was trying to look more relaxed than he felt, and he broke eye contact almost as soon as he had finished his short monologue.
Markov didn't respond. Sometimes silence was the best way to reveal the true character of a man. Anyone could respond to words, but accepting silence wasn't always so easy. All the commanders were on edge. He could see expectations in the eyes of every one of them. They wanted him to tell them that everything was going to be okay, that they had done a good job and the lords were proud of them, but it wasn't going to be like that. That wasn't why Markov had returned.
'All commanders are of equal rank,' Markov said.
Lance's expression soured. 'Of course. I wasn't suggesting my rank was above that of any other commander. I just meant that I've served as a commander for many years. Admiral Thompson always said I should put myself forward for General one day.'
Someone coughed loudly at the end of the table. Markov turned his head, but he was too slow to make out who it had been. Some of the commanders whispered to each other under their breath. They held their silence when they noticed him looking at them. It didn't look as though Lance's carefully choreographed speech represented all of their views.
Markov heard quick footsteps behind him. When he turned, he saw another commander entering the room. He had seen the man's profile before, like many others, but he couldn't remember the name to match his face. He was tall and athletic, but he didn't have the muscle mass to match Markov. His hair was longer than most male commanders, reaching almost to his shoulders at the back. The front had been brushed back so it lay flat across the top of his head.
'Apologies for being late,' he said. 'I just returned from a combat operation in the city.'
'So I see,' Markov said.
A patch of dried blood stained the side of his face. He looked as though he had picked up a few bruises too, but he wasn't complaining about them.
'What's your name, Commander?' Markov said.
'Drefnig. Commander Gary Drefnig.' He stood a little straighter as he mentioned his name, and his keen blue eyes took in everyone around the table with a single glance. Markov noticed that many of the other commanders looked at Drefnig with respect in their eyes. Lance wasn't one of the many.
Markov nodded and gestured for Drefnig to join the others behind the table. He had read some good things about Drefnig. Lord Hades had pointed him out as one of the men that he could trust.
Lance was still standing with his left hand hanging in empty space. He frowned and exchanged glances with a woman standing at the end of the table before lowering his hand by his side. Markov gestured for him to follow Drefnig and sit down. He tried to recall the name of the woman that Lance had been looking at. Two names came to mind. It was either Commander Susan Kemp or Commander Maureen Kendle. He would have to browse through the crew profiles later to refresh his memory. All crews had their allegiances and divisions. This one would be no different from any other.
'Sit down. All of you,' Markov said.
When they had all taken their seats, he sat in a large padded chair, facing them across the crystal table. He glanced down at the table's sparkling surface, watching the multiple overlapping reflections of the faces opposite. Most of the commanders waited, looking annoyed or confused. One or two realised what he was doing. They returned his eye contact through the table's crystal surface.
Commander Alice Penning's eyes were curious. She had tied her blonde hair back in a tight pony tail, but a few curly strands hung loose around her ears. She had a short pointy nose that was surrounded by a sprinkling of freckles that multiplied in the distorted reflections of the table's crystal surface. She was lightly built for a commander. Her delicate features couldn't have seen many combat operations. A nose like that wouldn't stay pointy for long.
Drefnig was watching Markov too. He sat with his shoulders relaxed, smiling with a twinkle in his eyes. He looked as though he might be trying not to laugh. Markov didn't see what was funny about the situation. He narrowed his eyes and sat in silence, waiting to see who would speak first.
He lifted his head, gazing over the commanders' heads through the tall reinforced glass wall behind them. On the right, he could see the vertical landing pads that covered the top of Tower Two. The black tower wasn't as tall as the White Spear, but it was still an imposing structure in itself. From this close, Markov could see at least five proton cannons mounted along its armoured sides. Each cannon was pointing down towards the Grand Plaza below, but he knew they could be turned in any direction, if required.
Air support was provided by the Wasp Drones that perched on top of the tower. The drones were lightweight attack vehicles with semi-transparent wings that vibrated in the wind. Pale lights glowed from bulging green eyes on each side of the drones' heads. More drones would be waiting inside the tower's central cargo lifts, and several of the other black towers had fleets of their own.
On the left, Markov could see the top of Tower One. Gamma ray emplacements covered its sides, and strange blue lights flashed across its roof. There were no Wasp Drones on Tower One, but he could make out small figures moving back and forth as they unloaded cargo from a flying crate carrier.
He forced himself to ignore the interesting views outside. He would have plenty of time to inspect the other towers later. Instead, he turned his attention to the many sets of eyes that stared back at him across the crystal table. Nobody had spoken to fill the silence. Some of the commanders looked impatient. One or two looked as though they might be getting angry. It would be interesting to make them wait a little longer, just to see how they reacted, but Markov knew that it was time for him to make his next move.