3212 A.G. (After Gods), Deep-space shipping lanes.
Deep space was hauntingly beautiful. Distant nebulas colored areas blue, red and green. The stars twinkled brighter here than in any other place in the universe. Engine trails from the massive shipping transports warped space, reminiscent of heat waves pouring off hot concrete. Planets hung like giant jewels, sparkling when the light of suns struck just right. Best of all, it was silent. None of the chatter and din of civilization penetrated these deep reaches. It was the perfect place for less-than-savory men.
Ursal Prowl stood on the deck of a rundown cruiser, hands clasped behind his back. His face was unnecessarily terse. Past humiliations had driven him here to the end of the universe. Any purpose he’d once had was stolen, ripped out of his chest and crushed under the Inquisition’s heel. Rage swelled, but without a proper target, Ursal was forced to contain it lest he be consumed.
“Inquisitor, a Draxian supply ship has dropped out the hyper lane. It should be within range in a half an hour.”
Ursal turned at the deep thunderous voice addressing him. Geres Auk was an unwilling transplant from Crimeat. The giant man was tall, heavily muscled and menacing without doing anything. Once employed by the late Baron Scura, Geres was a placed agent for the dark council of Lethendweil and Ursal Prowl.
Ursal nodded. “Very well. Call the ship to general quarters.”
Geres passed a glared back over his shoulder. Running lights switched red, and a warning klaxon alerted the crew. Ursal was only slightly impressed. Even pirates needed to be proficient in close-quarter battle drills, perhaps more so than the Prekhauten navy.
“Orders?” Geres asked.
The disgraced Inquisitor sighed, reluctant to peel his gaze away from the tranquility on the other side of the viewing glass. “Target engines and life support. Boarding parties detain. Kill only if necessary. We’re here to disrupt supply lines, not murder half the citizens in the universe.”
The big man frowned, disappointed. He was a violent man by nature. Being forced to stay the killing blow infuriated him. “Perhaps our orders are changed. The men are pirates. A little bit of killing is expected.”
“We are not having this conversation again, Geres. I have my orders from Vau Prime. No unnecessary killings. We’re not murderers, despite what you and these godless bastards might believe.”
“As you say, Inquisitor,” Geres relented.
He stormed away. Ursal knew blood was going to be spilled, regardless of his instructions. As Geres was so fond of reminding, these men were pirates.
Shuttles hauled cargo from the crippled cruiser for the remainder of the day. The crew, the ones who survived, were shoved in escape pods and jettisoned into space. Ursal was benevolent enough to activate their homing beacons and put them on a trajectory for the nearest uninhabited moon. Pirates gunned down thirteen men and women and swore they had been forced to defend themselves against the dangerous crew attack. Bullshit. These men killed because they could. How lawless I have become. At one time, I swore to defend the universe from scum like this.
Ursal kept his spot, watched as the battle ended almost too quickly. Flames sprouted each time a torpedo struck, only to be extinguished by the vacuum. A handful of bodies tumbled away. They were sucked out and lifeless before they understood their fate. Ursal hoped his death came so swiftly, though he knew it wouldn’t. The Inquisition was hunting him. Time was as much his enemy as those who were coming. Ursal was generally unparticular about who would eventually arrive to end his life, but his deepest desires wanted it to be Tolde Breed, the hero of the Inquisition.
Hero, he scoffed. The man was a fossil needing to be put in a museum and forgotten by all but little children seeing history for the first time. Whatever good Tolde had contributed was long in the past, certainly decades before Ursal was even born. He had tried to play nice when the Senior Inquisitor had arrived in Vaade. Tried and failed. Tolde was too entrenched in the Inquisition mindset. Too deeply rooted to idealistic principles and the need to prove himself worthy of his own legend. Tolde was a fool. History was unkind, a lesson they would both soon discover.
The battle lasted but a handful of minutes. His pirate crew was too well versed at their task and made quick work of the cruiser. Boarding parties were away moments after the first barrage of torpedoes fired. The move was risky and delicate. One mistake, and ten lives would be snuffed out. Fortunately, the pirates were seasoned professionals. Ursal continued to be amazed by the proficiency with which the pirates operated. They returned without a single casualty to their ranks.
His eyes tracked the listing movements of cargo shuttle as it disappeared under the hull. He’d seen enough. It was time to speak with the pirate leader. Ursal adjusted his battered brown jacket, a far cry from the tailored linens of the Inquisition, and stalked across the command deck. Pneumatic doors hissed open as he passed into the belly of the pirate cruiser. The long unwinding passage reminded him of being swallowed by one of the massive snakes on Prielth. He found the captain exactly where he expected, in the galley pouring a fresh glass of blood wine.
If the pirate cruiser Shrike was like a snake, its captain was the reason. Ursal despised the man. He and all of those like him should have been hunted down and exterminated, not allowed to thrive in deep space. Another fault of the Inquisition, he fumed.
“Ah, our disgraced Inquisitor comes to join me!” Vicente Blackheart laughed to his crew. His eyes lit up in humor.
Ursal frowned. It was an old joke. “I’m no more an Inquisitor than you a good man, Vicente.”
Blackheart’s face darkened. “No need for insults, Prowl.”
“I merely responded in kind,” he replied curtly. “What’s the take?”
Blackheart shrugged. “Mostly spare parts for drive engines. We took the food and supplies, but not much else is good for us.”
“Sell the parts like you always do.”
“Naturally,” Blackheart agreed. “But my men are getting tired of running down cargo haulers when there are fat merchant ships running out there. The major banking systems use lines not too far from here. We could do with a juicy target.”
“We are not here to engage in robbery.”
Sharp laughter bounced from the walls. “Of course we are; don’t be daft. This is a pirate vessel, Inquisitor, not a ride for disaffected political refugees. If you care to debate this, I will have you tossed in the nearest airlock.” He leaned forward, all mirth gone. “Try me.”
Ursal studied the pirate, swallowing his distaste. Vicente Blackheart was a thin man with few assets. A long forked beard hung to his chest, the color of blackest space. A white scar ran diagonally down his face. The scar tissue was puckered and foul looking even after so long. His hair was close-cropped with only the tinniest speckles of grey poking through. His knuckles were scarred, his hands abnormally long for a man so diminutive. There was small satisfaction in knowing the feared Vicente Blackheart barely stood an inch above five feet.
Ursal decided he needed to take care of Vicente before the opposite happened, but now was not the time. A coded message from Vau Prime had come in during the battle.
“That’s not why I am here.”
Leaning back, Blackheart cracked his knuckles. Small, he was every bit vindictive and evil. “Well?”
Ursal smiled tightly. He was also impatient. “I have new orders. We’re heading to Occanum. There is a large Prekhauten fleet about to deploy, and we are to intercept and harass.”
Blackheart’s eyes bulged. “We are, eh? What exactly do you think the Shrike can do against an entire fleet?”
“Last I heard, you were a feared pirate captain, the scourge of deep space,” Ursal goaded, appealing to Blackheart’s vanity. “I’m sure you can come up with something viable to ensure we survive.”
“Of course. We don’t go,” he replied quickly. “Merchants and supply runners are one thing, but even I don’t have the stones to take on an entire fleet of Prekhautens. Find yourself another ship, Inquisitor.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that easy. We all have a role to play, Vicente. Yours is to follow orders, or did you forget where your loyalties lie? You’re being paid handsomely for the freedom of movement through the shipping lanes.”
“You’re asking me to commit suicide,” Blackheart growled.
“I’m not asking anything. You have your orders, Captain. Make this ship ready to depart within the hour.”
He waited until Ursal was at the door before asking in a threatening voice, “And if I don’t?”
Ursal smiled. “Then you and the lives of every man on this ship are forfeit. Your charter will be revoked, and I will see you hung for treachery. You have one hour.”
Vicente Blackheart watched Ursal disappear back down the main corridor, no doubt going to inform his masters of this latest flare-up of insubordination. He looked down at the empty cup of blood wine, frowning.
“Why don’t you slip a knife between his ribs and be done with it?” Therill, his First Mate, offered.
The thought crossed his mind more frequently the longer they worked together. Blackheart only shook his head. “If we do, then we’ll have that bastard Auk to deal with. He won’t go down so easily.”
“All men die, with the proper amount of persuasion,” Therill said.
Vicente Blackheart liked his First Mate, but the man scared him half to death. He wasn’t sure who to be more afraid of, a broken Inquisitor or the Shrike’s second in command. For now, he settled on Geres Auk. Something about the man was unsettling.
“The time will come when our new friends find themselves at the end of their rope, but not now.” He stewed over Ursal’s ultimatum. “Secure all cargo and prepare for departure. We’ve overstayed our welcome.”
Therill stiffened. His dark skin shimmering under the artificial lights. “Your orders, Captain?”
Blackheart sighed. “You heard the man. We’re heading for Occanum.”
Though I doubt we’ll live to tell of it.
“You play a dangerous game,” Geres Auk admonished quietly.
He despised being trapped onboard the Shrike. Space felt like a coffin, constricting and oppressive. Geres longed for the open steppe with a strong wind caressing his face and neck. He’d never been to space before. Geres found it all very unimpressive. Limited variety drove him past the point of boredom, left him feeling void of the necessary qualities in life. Worst of all, he wanted to kill Therill. They’d butted heads on the very first day and weren’t interested in making amends.
Ursal stifled a yawn. “What other kind of game is there? We’re trapped, Geres. I was sent here to distract the Conclave from finding the Three. Apparently we failed.”
“Why send one ship into the middle of an entire enemy fleet? Your masters don’t want us to survive, Ursal.”
“No, it doesn’t appear so, does it?” Ursal commented dully.
“Do you believe we have been betrayed? It was only a matter of time. We are too dangerous out here,” Geres persisted.
Ursal sat stunned. The subject of betrayal hadn’t occurred to him…yet. He wanted to believe his superiors on Vau Prime still needed him. The only clear thing was that the universe was changing more quickly than anticipated. Treachery was about to become the currency of the day. For a moment only, he considered abandoning these pirates, his mission and even Geres so that he might disappear and find a new life. Ursal reluctantly admitted that nothing good had happened since he was taken out of the hangman’s noose all those years ago.
“We’re supposed to be dangerous. They are counting on our ability to drive as many pirate gangs into frenzy as we can. The Prekhauten navy has a finite number of vessels they can throw at us before becoming non-mission capable. We bide our time while our enemies stretch their ability to mass against us. That’s always been the plan,” he concluded.
“I grow weary of staying on this stinking ship,” Geres ground out, disappointed with the tone of the conversation.
Ursal nodded crisply, satisfied he’d managed to quell Geres’s rising anger. “Have faith, Geres. I’m not foolish enough to tackle an entire fleet without a little help.”
Geres’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve been building a fleet of my own,” Ursal smiled. “We’re going to war.”
Geres Auk smiled genuinely for the first time in a long time.
Matthias sat in the cockpit of his tiny one-man craft, lost in thought. Sharp eyes watched as the Shrike made quick work of the supply ship. Impressed, Matthias still felt nothing but disdain for the act. Questions sprang to life. The action was fast, decisive. It was over in a matter of minutes and reminded him of a very professional assault by Prekhauten Marines. He frowned. Something wasn’t right, but what remained beyond him.
Very few Guards abandoned their bonds and oaths to take up a life of crime, making the scene playing out before him disturbing. Pirates were generally unorganized profiteers tending to stick to shadows and backwater systems far from the central power hub of Vau Prime. Granted, he was in deep space now, but this particular crew was leaving a string of burned-out hulls stretching halfway across the universe. The trail seemed to be aimless, no general direction prevailing. Matthias didn’t like that. Everyone had motives, and these pirates struck with brutal efficiency. They were after something, but what?
A body drifted by, arms and legs hooked, a stark look of surprise forever frozen on her face. Matthias winced as the body struck the nose of his craft and bounced off into space. Other bodies drifted away, a silent graveyard forever forgotten. He almost envied the speed with which their deaths arrived. The alternative he was forced to endure pushed him beyond the fragile limits of his imagination. Matthias was a doomed man whose executioner was in no great rush to drop the axe. Days blended until anonymity threatened to consume him. Until that day came, he vowed to continue his quest to discover the truth in an increasingly deceptive world.
Much had changed since he’d battled beside Tolde Breed on Crimeat. A sergeant major at the time, Matthias had been a rising star among the Prekhauten Guards. He’d accompanied Tolde on the first mission to recapture Amongeratix after the escape from Keltoo. They’d lost most of his squad and would have been killed as well if not for the Blood Witch they’d picked up at Hawker’s Gate. Matthias had nothing but foul memories of that mission, often waking in sweat and with the shakes.
The campaign on Lethendweil had proved the crescendo of a brilliant career. He’d taken his men up against fellow Guards and won, albeit at cost to the Conclave. Too many Guards were killed in the efforts to quell the rebellion and bring the rogue Inquisitor to heel. Matthias blamed himself, and, not surprisingly, so did General Strannan and the rest of the Prekhauten command.
Arresting officials arrived during morning parade ground formation and placed him in cuffs. Hundreds of Guards watched in shock as their leader was unceremoniously led off to the waiting black air car. No one spoke to him despite the unending series of questions and demands. Matthias was thrown in a cell and forgotten long enough for his hair to grow out. A thick beard in need of shaving itched his jaw. He was half-starved and nearing dehydration.
Inquisitors came for him after what he figured was a three-week stay. They escorted him down a long corridor of plain granite. Matthias immediately recognized his surroundings. He was trapped deep within the bowels of the Conclave’s secret detention facility, far underground and seldom referred to. Until now, he’d believed it to be just another myth whispered back and forth. He was taken into a small square chamber with one white light hanging from a high ceiling. An examination table took up most of the middle of the chamber. Matthias spied his uniform hanging on a peg on the far wall and grinned wryly. He was doomed.
They cleaned him up and dressed him in his best parade uniform. Again, his questions were shunned. No one spoke to him, treating him like a traitor. A Phallalian surgeon came in, dressed in sterile colors and lacking personality. He inspected Matthias methodically for defects and injuries. Satisfied, he nodded to the Inquisitors and departed. They replaced him in shackles, reminding him of the last sight he’d had of Amongeratix before he and Tolde had left the Conclave prison on Prophet Isle, and marched him back down the corridor and into a massive bowed room.
Matthias looked up at the semi-circular table, all of the chairs empty save one. He’d expected a full military tribunal and court martial, not General Strannan lounging casually on the Cardinal Seniorus’s chair. His scars stood out in the pure white lights. Matthias ignored the rest of the room, having no desire to see what the condemned saw before being executed. His mind raced with confusion. There was no reason for his being here. He’d performed his duties to the fullest of his ability and brought down an insurgent cell responsible for murdering scores of innocent civilians.
Davith Strannan dismissed the guards with a wave. “Sergeant Major, you should know I take no pleasure in this.”
“Then why am I here, General?” he asked defiantly.
Strannan shook his head. “I may be the head of the Prekhauten Guard, but I am only one man. There are factions within the Conclave and Inquisition that saw what you did on Crimeat as total failure. This is purely political. Backstabbers and weaklings vying for power. My hands are tied.”
Matthias felt cold dread spread through his body.
Strannan slid to his feet, hands clasped behind his back. “The Conclave wants me to slap you in irons and lock you away down here for the rest of your natural life. Don’t ask me why. You’d think that Inquisitor pal of yours should get the blame. Huh.”
He lifted his eyes. “What happened to Tolde?”
Strannan paused, careful not to convey the wrong message. “He was transferred to the Office of Heretical Persecution. The man got a damned promotion, and I’m supposed to abandon you.”
A promotion? Tolde is a Hunter now? Matthias’s head swam with unending twists and possibilities.
The general stopped a few feet away and deftly unlocked the shackles binding Matthias’s wrists. They fell with a menacing clatter.
“Listen to me, son. I’m not going to keep you here for no reason, but I can’t let you stay on active duty. Those damned priests would have my hide. I have a special assignment for you.” His tone dropped to a faint whisper.
“Sir,” Matthias said cautiously.
“I need you to deploy out past Prielth. You’ll get your official orders once I can get you clear of Vau Prime. This is a close-hold operation, Matthias. You will report directly to me. No one must know of this, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
Strannan placed a huge hand on Matthias’s shoulder. “Good. There is a tunnel leading out of here behind that desk. Take it. You’ll find an air car waiting for you.”
Matthias had to force himself to walk away slowly. A day later, he was in space heading for a rendezvous with pirates.
The Shrike jumped into the hyperspace lane, leaving Matthias alone with the twisted wreckage of the supply ship. He gunned the engines enough to ease into the debris field and began searching anything that might give him a clue as to the attacker’s true identity. Maneuvering his craft around to the port, Matthias saw the torpedo damage and sucked in his breath. The blast pattern was similar to Prekhauten munitions, the kind used on the capital battleships. Impossible. How could pirates get a hold of such tech?
He mulled over Strannan’s words. More than ever, he was convinced the general was keeping something back. Corruption was more noticeable than before, and Matthias feared the worst. The insurrection on Crimeat proved relatively insignificant in the scheme of the universe but showed things were not well. A rot festered in the heart of the ruling orders. Open rebellion might spread like flames.
Matthias punched in a code and waited as the ship computed the Shrike’s destination. He looked again at the damage. These pirates were not acting alone. A series of short beeps broke his attention. Matthias set the coordinates to his own navigation and followed.