25

 

“Up and about already? I’m impressed.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Troop Lieutenant Triantaa was sitting on a chair with a data-pad on his lap, neck still heavily bandaged. Lined up to his right on metal pallets were five combat shells. Most of the troop and a few engineers were gathered around them, checking and re-checking the innumerable parts and systems. Even though there were still seven days until the Viceroy’s visit, Vellerik wanted to make sure they were ready. He hadn’t chosen who would accompany him yet, so most of the men were doing their best to put themselves in contention. It would be a long day in the shells, and the previous training sessions had focused solely on stamina tests. Having participated in some himself, Vellerik now realized just how badly he had let himself go. His legs still ached.

“So how are we doing?”

“As you requested, sir. Four plus one spare—the five with optimal performance records.”

“Remember what I said about reliability—that’s the key. Those engines and systems will be running for three, maybe four hours.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the fuel?”

“Apart from the reserve pods, we will have another ten barrels transported onto the Viceroy’s ship along with the spare shell. If necessary, you will be able to refuel at one of the mines.”

“Did you work out the overall distance?”

“If the schedule remains as is, you will cover almost nine hundred kilometers.”

Vellerik took a moment to absorb this. They had never used the shells over such a distance.

“I’m sure they’ll perform well, sir. The engineers are on top of it.”

“What’s the cruising speed of the Viceroy’s ship?”

Triantaa moved a finger across the data-pad screen. “It’s a Mark 6 Conveyor—somewhere around two hundred fifty.”

“Those shells are going to get very hot.”

“The engineers will recreate those conditions in the tests, sir. Have you thought about armament yet?”

“If I had my way, it would just be disruptors, but apparently the Count would prefer something that can be seen. We’ll go with the assault cannon—just be sure to keep the ammo packs light. “

“And the missile module, sir?”

“Then we won’t have weight for the deflector fields.”

“Are you likely to need those, sir?”

Vellerik conceded with a grin. “The biggest danger is either an in-flight malfunction or one of us getting sucked into that conveyor’s air intakes.”

“Sir, I think the best configuration might be two on either side, parallel with the rear of the ship. A minimum proximity of one hundred meters is recommended.”

“Make it one-fifty.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How are you feeling?”

“A little sore, sir. Not too bad. The surgeon says I can start proper exercise in a week or so.”

“Good.” Vellerik watched the men congregate around one combat shell to detach a leg. Once they had laid it down, the engineers opened an access panel.

“Have you met the Viceroy before, sir?” asked Triantaa.

“No, but I remember hearing him speak once at some function. He was just a regional governor back then.”

“Of the Tennaren Plains, sir?”

“I think so, yes. You seem to know more about him than me.”

“I’ve not had time to do anything much but read, sir.”

“Wasn’t he sent there to get the place in order after some… incident?”

“Yes, sir. That was eight years ago. The weapons testing facility. There was a communication breakdown—seventy infantry out testing masking tech got caught by a stray gas capsule. One of them was a distant relation of the Emperor.”

“Ah yes.”

“Viceroy Mennander ran the facility for four years—some major advances were made and not a single life lost.”

“Family?”

“He is a member of the Duss-Viskar clan, sir.”

Of the twelve clans that controlled the Domain, the Duss-Viskar were known for their interest in exploration and trade.

“Well, they seldom miss an opportunity for advancement. I wonder what he has his eye on next.”

“Perhaps a more central quadrant.”

“Perhaps.”

“Sir—” Triantaa hesitated.

“What is it?”

The lieutenant glanced warily at the nearest troops and lowered his voice. “Sir, I overheard a few conversations while I was in the infirmary. The surgeon seemed to think you might be leaving.”

Though he had not wanted to tell the men until the last possible moment, Vellerik knew Triantaa could be trusted.

“That’s right.” He liked the young lieutenant, and he felt he owed him an explanation. “I suppose… I’ve had enough.”

Triantaa seemed surprised, and Vellerik saw disappointment in his eyes. He did not want to be pitied.

“Captain, it has been an absolute privilege to serve under your command.”

“Thank you. I trust you will not mention this again until I tell the men.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Can you walk for a bit?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s have a look at these shells, then.”

 

 

The garden was housed in a disused cargo bay toward the rear of the Galtaryax. Vellerik had only been there once before; he usually preferred his quarters if he craved peace and quiet. But on this day, something made him walk past his own door.

Just inside the entrance, two engineers were dispatching maintenance drones in various directions. Before they noticed him, Vellerik heard one moaning that the Viceroy probably wouldn’t even come near the place.

He wasn’t generally one for artificial re-creations of the natural world, but this was actually done rather well. Danysaan had insisted on it, having read some research about how it boosted staff morale and productivity. Vellerik was surprised the Count hadn’t had it stripped out—surely another unnecessary expense.

Upon the walls were convincing vistas of a lakeside scene. Under-foot were earthen paths that followed circuitous routes through banks of grass and beds of plants and flowers. There was even an audio track of appropriate sounds. Vellerik was most interested in the water: the circular pool of clear, fresh-smelling water.

Pushing aside a particularly expansive frond of grass, he discovered Marl standing over the pool, utterly motionless, as ever almost entirely covered by his cloak. The head didn’t move as the yellow eye turned.

Vellerik couldn’t resist. “Feel like jumping in?”

Marl did not reply.

“I suppose that doesn’t really merit a response.” Vellerik had little desire for a conversation with him, but—having walked all that way—he didn’t want to leave either.

He sat down on a bench apparently made of archaic-looking stone. Touching the surface, he realized it was in fact some kind of moulded plastic.

Marl continued to face the water while he spoke. “It helps you, Captain, I suppose—to think of all those you conquer as primitive—savages, animals.”

“Perhaps. Can’t say it ever particularly occurred to me.”

“Do you know how far back Drellen history goes?”

“I must confess I don’t.”

“In some of the most ancient caves, there is evidence of language dating from two hundred thousand years ago. We were writing while the Vitaari were still walking on all fours.”

“I suppose one might argue that we rather overtook you.”

“I suppose.”

“And if the Drellen had moved off their own world first—would they have left other peoples alone? Acted peacefully?”

“Who knows?” said Marl.

“I am not entirely ignorant of history. One of the reasons your people lost was infighting.”

“The Vitaari had a long time to learn how to conquer. You turned us against each other.”

“That’s politics,” said Vellerik.

“And you are just a soldier—who does as he is bid.”

“Exactly. Like you.”

As he turned, Marl ran a scaly hand across his head. Vellerik noted how long his fingers were, how dark the nails.

“What will you do, Captain? When you leave.”

“I will go somewhere a little like this—except it will be real.”

“Alone?”

“No. Don’t expect any more detail than that.”

The display of triangular teeth on the rare occasions the Drellen smiled was always alarming.

“How old are you, Marl?”

“Thirty-one of your years.”

“Is that young or old?”

“Males generally live to around fifty.”

“Then—like me—you are over the hill and coming down the other side. What will you do? Remain with the Count?”

“Yes.”

“I hope he pays you well.”

“Well enough.”

“I have a strong suspicion that you hate him.”

“You are wrong. I have good reason to hate every Vitaari, but the Count has shown me kindness. And loyalty.”

“I haven’t seen much evidence he is capable of demonstrating either of those traits. Surely, you must see that he keeps you only for what you can do for him?”

“I do not have to explain myself to you, Captain.”

“True.” Vellerik watched a cleaning drone suck dust from the ceil-ing. “Where is the Count? I’ve hardly seen him these last few days.”

“Preparing for the Viceroy’s visit.”

“Ah yes. Menus, drinks, his outfit. That type of thing.”

“I think it is you who hates him, Captain.”

“Soon he will be nothing more than a memory.”

“I am sure there are other memories you will find less easy to forget. From what I have observed of you, you are rather more prone to guilt and regret than most Vitaari.”

After a long moment of silence, the Drellen walked away along the edge of the pool. Vellerik had to credit him with landing that one, but he could not allow him the last word.

“Oh, Marl—about the Viceroy’s visit.”

“Yes?”

“Try to keep that blade of yours sheathed. We wouldn’t want any mutilation or disemboweling that might put our esteemed guest off his dinner.”

“You do your job, Captain. I shall do mine.”

 

 

Feeling the need for physical activity, Vellerik took an elevator down to the practice range.

Thankfully, it was empty. Sensing his ID card, the system screen flickered into life. Vellerik selected his preferred program, then used the same card to access the weapons rack. As the transparent cover retracted, he picked up the Mark 8 Assaulter. Apart from the fact that it contained no live ammunition, this version was identical to his own weapon, currently housed with scores of others in the loading bay.

Vellerik waited for the door to open, then walked into the large cubic chamber. It was a rudimentary version of the ranges found in Colonial Guard facilities and Fleet ships but would suffice for his purposes.

“Start.”

The two target drones detached from the wall, then each projected a black, humanoid figure. The figures began to move: circling around him, darting left and right, shifting up and down, swooping closer or pulling away.

The system spoke. “Sequence F, program 2. Sixty targets sixty seconds. Three, two, one... begin.”

The weapon even sounded and jolted like the real thing. Every hit registered as an orange flash. If it was in a vital area, the black figure would explode, then reappear. Vellerik made no attempt to keep track of his score. He just moved and aimed and fired.

He had been running drills on this type of range for more than four decades; he reckoned he must have totted up thousands of hours. Thirty years ago, he would regularly score ninety percent or above: that was for one-shot kills; anything else was considered a mistake. Ten years previous, he was still at over eighty percent—more than what most of the young men in the troop could manage.

He only just got his last shot away before the sixty seconds elapsed. Standing there, fingers aching, slightly dizzy, he waited for the bad news.

“Score: one-shot kill percentage—sixty-five.”

Vellerik cursed. It had to be because of the drug, even though he hadn’t ingested a thing since destroying the box.

“Restart sequence.”

He lifted the weapon again, then realized he wasn’t ready.

“Pause.”

Vellerik went and leaned on the wall and took some deep breaths. On the other side of the room, the targets hovered side by side, ready to start.

“Continue.”

Now reacquainted with the movement and rhythm of the sequence, he did a little better. But the final score still appalled him; he couldn’t believe he had fallen so far so fast. He took a longer break and went to drink some water before returning.

Once back at the range, he completed three more sequences. Not one score exceeded seventy percent.

When he heard the last one—sixty-eight—he felt like swinging the gun into the wall and smashing it to pieces. But his anger faded as he returned the weapon to the rack. He glanced at the scores again, then deactivated the display. He stood there in silence for what seemed like a long time.

By the time the door of the range shut behind him, he realized it didn’t matter anymore. He did not intend to ever fire a weapon again.