Fortunes of the Imperium Page 2

  “. . . Item 54H, clause the second, the punishment for those who are found in possession of dangerous narcotics not strictly prescribed to a member of the crew and without an import license is death. Item 54H, clause the third, the punishment for smuggling dangerous foodstuffs that are not strictly for the use of a member of the crew and without an import license is death. Item 54H, clause the fourth . . .”

  “Turn it off, honey,” Rafe said. “Just acknowledge that we accept the terms, same as always. Then it’ll quit blabbering.”

  “Is there anything that isn’t punishable by death, Dad?” Lerin asked.

  “I haven’t heard of anything,” Rafe admitted. M’Kenna laughed.

  At least she had the satisfaction of clocking in to the trading station orbiting Dilawe 3 ahead of the Faroe. The officials took their manifests by electronic transfer while the ships were still en route. With a little pushing, Rafe managed to find out that they were second in line to check in behind Sword Snacks IV. That cheered M’Kenna. The moment Rafe had the ship secured and popped the airlock, she ditched her emergency gear, jumped down the ramp and headed for her distributor’s office, physical manifest in hand. The custom was a throwback to the ancient days of transport, when waterborne ships powered by wind reached their ports of call on Earth, and had never been rescinded, though powers that be knew the traders tried. Even though it was the middle of the night, station time, at least one executive with the power to accept her shipment would be on duty.

  She heard footsteps pounding the deck behind her. She opened up her long stride and poured on the hustle. No one was getting past her!

  Every door on Dilawe Station was made to withstand an internal or external blast equal to five megatons, but most of the businesses installed a window that looked out on the corridor, completely negating the safety measure. It meant that M’Kenna could see a low-intensity blue light in the window of Wittlock Enterprises. She slid inside and palmed the door locked. The slim, redhaired man behind the counter looked up from his keyboard.

  “Hey, M’Kenna. Glad to see you.”

  “Here,” she gasped, thrusting the chip with the files on it plus a sample of the dry goods to him. He timestamped the chip by inserting it into his console, then handed it back to M’Kenna. The manifest lit up on twin screens, one facing him, and one built into the counter M’Kenna leaned upon. Wittlock scanned it, looking for expiration dates. M’Kenna knew perfectly well he wouldn’t find any.

  “Nice work. We can still accept a hundred percent of what you brought in.”

  “Excellent,” she said. But Dale never made it that easy for her, not even on an unobstructed run. “And the price? What we agreed on before we left the Core Worlds?”

  Wittlock put on a crafty expression. “Well, no. We can’t really do that. You were late. . . .”

  “Do not try that on with me,” M’Kenna snapped, aiming a finger at his nose. She knew her eyes were flashing. By the expression on the executive’s face, he didn’t want to tangle with her, but he was a bureaucrat. He couldn’t help but try.

  “I’m sorry, but Wittlock Enterprises has had to deal with delays and complaints . . .”

  “Every one of which we have heard about for three months!”

  “. . . So in light of the expenses we’ve had to incur, we’re assessing you a penalty of two point five percent.”

  “Of net?”

  He chuckled, as if she had made a great joke.

  “Of course not. Gross. Deducted from your payment.”

  The frustration of the entire journey came pouring out of her. “One percent,” she said, her voice echoing off the perforated ceramic ceiling of the office. “That is my first and final offer. You need our stuff. The powers-that-be alone know when you’ll get another shipment, considering how screwed up things are at the frontier crossing!” M’Kenna mentally crossed her fingers, hoping that the Faroe wasn’t carrying the same mix of goods on board. But it didn’t matter. She had arrived first.

  Wittlock pursed his lips. “All right. One percent. But off the top.”

  “Fine.” M’Kenna entered her private code on the contract. Her image appeared on the document along with her biometrics. Wittlock added his, and a red disk lit up between them. Signed, sealed and delivered.

  “Thanks,” Wittlock said. “Always a pleasure. You folks are the best.”

  “And don’t you forget it,” M’Kenna said, but she was so pleased she winked at him.

  M’Kenna was able to relax at last. In fact, she strutted back to the ship, passing on the way the frantically racing crews from Sword Snacks IV, Faroe and all the others.

  With a triumphant flourish, she opened the hatch of the Entertainer and stepped in with her palms raising an imaginary roof in the multi-purpose room that acted as dining hall, entertainment center and whatever else was not a bunk or bath.

  “A little applause, if you please. We have full acceptance of cargo, signed and sealed, and that space-weasel Wittlock only took one percent!”

  Her entire family, Rafe and all four children, sat huddled together on one of the long bench seats that folded down from the bulkhead. The tank display was blank except for a body-sized image of the Uctu’s green and yellow Autocratic Seal. Rafe looked as if he was in shock.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “We’re in trouble.”

  “What happened?”

  “The authorities have put us under arrest. They’re accusing us of smuggling.”

  “Smuggling what?” M’Kenna asked. “Our ship was searched when we reached Station 46. We couldn’t have brought in an orange peel.”

  “Smuggling a skimmer-sized warship. An armed scout.”

  She gawked at him.

  “That’s impossible! There isn’t one unaccounted-for crate in our cargo bays!”

  Rafe shook his head as if trying to convince himself.

  “It isn’t in the cargo bay. It’s in our waste tank. They’re not lying. I saw it myself.”

  M’Kenna felt for the nearest bench and sat down. Her two smaller children came and nestled into her arms. She clutched them tight, though inside she felt numb.

  “But how? How could it get in there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Lerin, huddled against his father’s side, was wide-eyed and sober.

  “We’re all going to die.”

  CHAPTER 1

  I crept out of the Taino Central Constabulary with, I believe, a creditable chastened expression on my face. Very little can bring one so low as the walk of shame in broad daylight, except if it should be in the company of one’s own conscience brought to life and embodied. My aide-de-camp, Commander Parsons, held my upper arm as if to prevent it removing itself from the rest of my torso and fleeing. I rather wished it could, and take me with it. I am very tall, but Parsons is somewhat taller, with remarkably dark eyes, and possessed of an austere expression that would cause even an angel to search its heart for any sins it might have committed. Parsons is also an old family friend, so I have beheld that expression more often than I care to think about.

  “Perhaps you will reveal the reason that you flew your racing flitter in between the pillars of the charity art exhibit, Lord Thomas?” he asked.

  “Well, my cousin Xan rather dared me,” I admitted. “In fact, he dared me to the fifth power. It was a challenge I hardly liked to ignore. And,” I added, with a hopeful look added to the shame on my face, “he went first. I wasn’t the only one to crash into the sculpture. Several of us impacted with it.”

  The austerity of his countenance did not soften.

  “It was a tribute to the Emperor’s late mother.”

  “I know! It didn’t look a thing like the old girl, though. In fact, it looked like a wad of yellow sponge, magnified three or four thousand times. Modern art is an insult to one’s intelligence. If you don’t guess correctly as to the artist’s intention, then you are ignorant. If you just happen to be right, you probably commit illegal acts of art on your ow
n time.”

  I glanced at Parsons in search of a twitch of amusement, but in vain. No continental shelf full of ice could have been more glacial. I looked away, seeking something more pleasant to behold. The sunlight caused my pupils to contract painfully. I had noticed before how bright natural daylight appeared after a night’s incarceration. Something about the illumination in the cells, perhaps. My head pounded so loudly that I feared I was yet again disturbing the peace. I massaged my temples with shaking forefingers. My chest and thighs had been bruised from forceful impact against my flitter’s comprehensive safety harness, and I had a purple lump on my forehead from the crash itself. This edema felt tender to the touch. Perversely, of course, I could not help but probe it now and again to confirm. To distract myself, I gazed at my surroundings, trying to convince myself they had become more beautiful overnight.

  And yet, the city of my birth needed no public relations specialist to enhance its attractions. Taino, capital of the Core Worlds of the Imperium, lay in a natural, high-sided valley surrounded by wind-and-water-etched cliffs of white and rust sandstone. As if to add that pop of color so beloved of decorators, muted green moss had been daubed in streaks, stripes and swags all over those cliffs. Above all hung a marvelously clear sky of the most enchanting blue with the faintest hint of turquoise. Here and there, a white cloud dawdled, and I could see the contrails, also white, from the morning arrivals and departures from the Taino spaceport downriver. I inhaled a great gust of air, still cool before the burning heat of a summer day descended.

  “Here, my lord.” Parsons steered me toward a hovering skimmer. I glanced with a measure of hope at the controls, but they were locked into a thick cylinder twinkling with small lights and gauges.

  “I suppose the robot won’t let me drive,” I said, with little hope. “It’s such a beautiful day. I’d adore a quick zip over to the Highclerc Cliffs and having a look out over the spaceport.”

  “Your ban on operating a motorized vehicle took effect at midnight last night,” Parsons reminded me. “It will last for the next sixty days. SK902 will be your chauffeur until the ban expires.”

  “Well, that’s dreary!” I declared, but I swung into the rear passenger seat. Parsons, with more dignity, ascended and took the place beside me. The skimmer lifted off. With gratitude, I watched the looming building of the Constabulary disappear behind me. “Where are we going? This is not the way back to the Imperium Compound. I had hoped to change out of these clothes. They are less presentable than I wish them to be.”

  “We have a different destination. Your mother is disappointed in your lapse of memory.”

  “Oh, no,” I chided him. “That is impossible. I have all important dates and facts listed in my viewpad.” I patted my hip, to which my pocket secretary had been returned by the warder on my departure from custody. “It’s not her birthday, nor my father’s, nor their anniversary, nor the natal days of myself, my brother or my sister. It is not Accession Day for my cousin the emperor, or any other day of importance. It was, in ancient times, the feast of the shoemakers Crispin and Crispian, but according to my star chart, that is a lucky day for me.”

  “That is not what you have forgotten, my lord.”

  “Then, what?”

  “The dignity of the Fleet.”

  I sighed, a trifle derisively, if I am to be honest.

  “Oh, that.”

  Parsons’s tone did not change one iota.

  “Yes, that.”

  “Why should that enter into the equation? Half my cousins were behind us on air scooters.”

  “Because none of them is the son of the First Space Lord. None of them is still a serving officer. And they are not escaping the exploit unscathed. I believe that Lord Xanvin’s father retrieved him from the cells shortly before I arrived.”

  “Ugh,” I emitted, with sympathy. “That probably means a few days on his hands and knees cleaning out whisky vats with a toothbrush in the family’s fabled distilleries.” It was his father’s favorite punishment. That led me to realize my own fate had not been revealed. “Er, Parsons? My mother didn’t hint at a penalty for me, did she?”

  The hoped-for twinkle made a brief cameo appearance. “No, my lord.”

  I blew a gusting sigh of relief. “Well! The shoemaker patrons are looking out for me!”

  “No, my lord,” Parsons repeated. “There was no hint. She stated your punishment outright. You will start today on habiliment therapy for Uctu environmental hazards. You will be leading a small but important diplomatic mission to the Autocracy, to commence within two weeks.”

  “Really?” I asked. I beamed. That sounded like an honor, not a punishment. The shoemaker patrons had indeed come through. I leaned back in the skimmer seat, well pleased with life. “Lead on, Commander!”

  It seemed only two hours later that I was walking through the streets of Taino at a sixth of my former size. There had, in fact, been an interval of four days—a discreet blackout, if you will. I had just emerged from a medically-induced coma to spare me some of the more heinous side effects of the inoculations, vaccinations and other treatments I required on my first visit to the Autocracy. Those which I retained upon waking were gruesome enough that I wondered how much worse were the ones that occurred while I slept. With every step, I experienced a wave of nausea and giddiness that swamped most other sensations. My head swam so that the landscape around me tended to wash up and back in my vision like ocean surf. It was difficult to tell if the buildings were actually rushing toward me or not.

  It was fortunate that my crew—I liked to refer to them as my crew, though they were only assigned to me when a mission called for my specific involvement, as now—had decided to accompany me on my first outing from the travel medicine facility. Ensign Miles Nesbitt, a large and stocky fellow with beetle brows that I would have sworn were walking impatiently to and fro on his forehead, held onto the arm on the side of the wayward buildings. My other side was protected by my good friend, Ensign Kolchut Redius, an Uctu with coral-scaled skin whose parents had immigrated as youths to the Imperium.

  The most curious of the side effects was the difference in size I had undergone. I kept glancing up at my compatriots. I hadn’t realized from previous encounters how large the pores were in Ensign Miles Nesbitt’s skin, nor the intricacy of each of Redius’s scales, nor how gleamingly white were the teeth of First Lieutenant Carissa Plet or the fur of Indiri Oskelev, ensign, Wichu and demon pilot. The latter, in fact, steered us up the street, as Lieutenant Philomena Anstruther stayed behind us, possibly to catch me if I fell.

  “Why, or perhaps I should ask, how did they manage to shrink me? And why are your arms so long?” I asked, in a querulous tone I would more usually associate with my elderly great-uncle, Perleas.

  “No longer than before,” Redius said, with the breathy squeaks his species used to indicate it was laughing. “Perception yours!”

  “I suppose you don’t have to go through the same treatment,”

  Oskelev snorted. “We already have, Lieutenant.”

  “It’s part of basic habitation,” Anstruther said. “We have all undergone treatment to prevent ill effects from the biomes of major space-going races. You never know whose ship you might have to board without working hazard suits . . . sir.”

  This final sentence faded down to silence as I regarded the speaker with admiration. The final member of my coterie was a shy girl with thick, dark hair and startling dark blue eyes. Her skills in information technology probably rivaled my own, though her retiring personality undoubtedly would hold her back from otherwise well-deserved promotions. I had taken it on as one of my responsibilities to ensure that her efficiency and innovation would come to the attention of those of higher naval ranks. No sense in wasting extremely competent personnel when I so seldom made use of them myself.

  “Thomas, please,” I said. “As long as you are so much taller than I, it would be a friendly gesture if you would dispense with naval formality.”

  She
reddened, a charming trait of hers. “Thomas.”

  “How long will this proportional dystopia last?”

  “It took me three days,” Nesbitt admitted. I let out a cry of protest. “The doctors said it was longer than usual. You shouldn’t be more than a day. We’ll look after you, my lord.”

  “Well, thank all powers for that,” I said, with genuine relief. “In gratitude, allow me to take you all to lunch. I know a very smart new café with excellent food not far away. . . .” I glanced up the street, which seemed to be ridiculously longer than I remembered.

  “Which one?” Oskelev asked, impatiently, holding out her viewpad, always the pilot.

  “Social Butterfly,” I said. Picking up on my voice, the graphic appeared on the enormous vid screen. Oskelev pointed ahead and to the right. Her arm stretched forward into infinity.

  “Six hundred meters. You’ll make it.”

  My team sounded as if it had faith in me. I wish I shared it. I hesitated as I reached an intersection. The signal changed so that the ground-level vehicles wafted to a halt, leaving the way clear. Yet, I did not dare to step off the curb. It seemed to be dozens of meters high. Intellectually I knew it was less than the depth of my boot. I hesitated, one foot hovering over the abyss.

  “Come on, my lord,” Nesbitt coaxed me. He held out an enormous hand that filled my vision. I reached for it. To my astonishment, my hand seemed almost as large as his. I could have covered my entire body with it. Together, we stepped into the depths. My boot sole hit the pavement long before I thought it would. The force of it landing sent juddering vibrations up my leg and into my hip. Somehow we managed to cross the street. Every bump in the terrain took on epic proportions. I stumbled as I attempted to dodge a huge pink monument obstructing my way. My friends righted me.

  “When did they erect that?” I asked, appalled. “It’s nearly as ugly as the sculpture they dedicated to my late great-somethings-aunt!”

  “That’s just a piece of gum, sir,” Anstruther said.