Silent Order: Iron Hand, Page 2

  “Captain,” said the pseudointelligence.

  “Maximum security on the ship,” said March. “Some Machinist goons just tried to mug me. Not sure if they’re true believers or hired help.”

  “Any identification?” said Vigil.

  “Yeah,” said March. He flipped open the wallets. Some credit notes, which he claimed for himself. There were ID cards, which he was sure were fake. Nonetheless, he pulled out his phone and ran the camera lens over them, sending the images to Vigil and the Tiger’s computer system. “Run these through our database and see if you find anything.”

  “Acknowledged,” said Vigil.

  With that, March pocketed the wallets and decided to use their money to buy himself lunch while he waited for his call.

  March strode down the corridor until he found a lift heading from Ring Three to Ring One. He stood with a crowd of bored-looking cargo handlers and various starship crewers until the lift came to a halt. His gloved left hand drew a few stares, but no one commented. Cybernetic replacements were common, since even the best medical science sometimes could not keep the immune system from rejecting cloned limbs. But given how many wars Calaskar had fought against the Final Consciousness, those with cybernetics tended not to flaunt them while within the systems of the Kingdom.

  Especially those who, like March, had once been part of that Final Consciousness.

  Sometimes if he closed his eyes, he could still imagine the thunderous chorus of the Final Consciousness filling his thoughts, bestowing him with certainty and purpose and direction…

  March hated lifts. They gave him too much time to think.

  Finally, the lift deposited him on Ring One. The outer three rings of the station were for docking and cargo. The second ring housed industrial workshops, power plants, weaponry, shields, and other station utilities.

  The inner ring housed lots and lots of shops.

  March emerged from the lift and entered one of the commercial concourses of Ring One. It looked like a massive three-story mall with balconies running along the walls. Most of the businesses catered to the crews of the ships that came and went from Antioch Station – repairs, supplies, upgrades, weapons, and restaurants. Screens mounted here and there displayed films from the Ministry of Information, showing a pretty woman in a dark jacket discussing the history of Calaskar while arguing that a parliamentary monarchy like the Kingdom was the best system to prevent both anarchy and tyranny. A church of the Royal Calaskaran Church occupied part of the second level, and despite the time of the day, there were already many worshippers. March had no doubt there was a well-regulated and licensed brothel tucked away in a discreet part of the station, but he had no wish to visit one.

  He made for one of the cheaper restaurants. Calaskaran nobles and naval officers preferred to dine at more formal restaurants that followed the rigid manners of the Kingdom’s upper classes. The restaurant that March chose was a bar that happened to serve food. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, the filters in the ceiling giving off a loud whine as they struggled to keep up. Crewers and enlisted men sat at the tables, eating and drinking and laughing. Over the bar hung a picture of King Alexander XVI of Calaskar, and if anyone offered the King an insult in a place like this the offender would be lucky to escape with nothing worse than broken bones.

  “What’ll it be?” said the bartender, a middle-aged man in an apron.

  “Bacon, eggs, coffee,” said March. “A private booth, if you’ve got it.” He tapped the phone at his belt. “Expecting a call.”

  The bartender nodded and pointed to a booth in the corner as March handed him some bills adorned with the portrait of a long-dead King of Calaskar. March seated himself, checking the booth over. No one could overhear him here, and he did a quick search for listening devices. Nothing stood out to him, and the noise of the crowd would drown out any microphones.

  Still, best to be careful. Those men had been waiting for him at the airlock.

  A moment later a pretty waitress arrived with his food. Sometimes places like this relied on androids to cut costs, but it was hard for a robot to compete with the charm of a pretty girl. Out here, the bacon and the eggs had been grown from Rustari algae protein in a hydroponics lab’s vat, and the coffee had been vacuum sealed and shipped from one of the farms on Calaskar, but it was still better than the food aboard the Tiger. March thanked the waitress and picked up the fork.

  Naturally, that was the moment that Censor chose to call.

  March sighed, put down the fork, and drew his phone from his belt. The call was coming from the Tiger, and the Vigil reported that the call had arrived from the entangled-tachyon communications relay on Antioch itself. Quantum entanglement tachyon technology was the basis for any faster-than-light telecommunications. It was also hideously expensive. March wondered how much these calls cost Censor and decided he didn’t want to know.

  He waited until the confirmation flashed on the screen, and then accepted the call and lifted the phone to his ear.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Captain Jack March,” said a familiar male voice, dry and cool with the accents of the Calaskaran nobility. “I trust you are well?”

  “Well enough, sir,” said March.

  “Good,” said the man known as Censor, the head of the Silent Order, the leader of the Calaskaran intelligence services, and possibly the most dangerous man in the Kingdom of Calaskar. “We have a great deal of work to do, Captain.”

  Censor had recruited March into the Silent Order, and ever since then, Censor had been his handler and had given him assignments. March had never met the man, had never even seen his face. For all that March knew, Censor might not even be a man – software voice masking had been available for thousands of years. Given that the head of the Silent Order was a prime target for Machinist cells, it made sense for Censor to hide his identity.

  “I’m ready, sir,” said March.

  “Excellent,” said Censor. “Are you familiar with a place called Rustbelt Station?”

  “I am, sir,” said March. “It’s in an unnamed system – NB8876X, I think. The Kingdom claims it, but there are no habitable planets and no colonies. The station used to be an asteroid mine, but the mine played out. Now it’s a place off the beaten track that caters to people who do not want to be found – smugglers, pirates, criminals, exiles.”

  “And privateers,” said Censor.

  “And privateers, sir,” said March. “I have been there three times. Twice since I joined the service, and once from my time...before.”

  His right hand held his phone, but his left arm of metal ached a little at the memory.

  “Very good,” said Censor. “You’re familiar with the station, which is why we have chosen you for this task. Another question. Are you familiar with the names Roanna Vindex and Thomas Vindex?”

  “No,” said March. He thought for a moment, staring at his food. His stomach rumbled, but there was no way he would eat while on a call with Censor. “The name sounds familiar, though. A noble house of Calaskar?”

  “Correct, Captain,” said Censor. “One of the oldest and most powerful of the Kingdom. In the aftermath of the collapse of the Fifth Terran Empire two thousand years ago, the Vindex family was one of the first families to settle upon Calaskar, and they have played critical roles in the history of our Kingdom ever since.”

  “Yes, sir,” said March, connecting the dots. “I assume there is a reason that two members of a noble family would find themselves in a place like Rustbelt Station?”

  “Yes,” said Censor. “Nor is it a good one. I fear they have been dabbling with a cell of Machinists sympathizers.”

  March felt something in him grow cold. “Then this is a termination assignment, sir?”

  “Not necessarily,” said Censor.

  That wasn't the same as saying no.

  “Roanna and Thomas are twins, and are close as often happens with twins,” said Censor. “It seems that Thomas fell in with the Machinist sympathizers, as s
ometimes happens with bored young men possessed of more money and time than wit. Lady Roanna possesses better sense and went to retrieve her brother. Apparently, she succeeded in convincing her brother to break away from the Machinists, and they both fled from the cell's meeting place somewhere in uncharted space. Unfortunately, they have run out of funds. They were able to secure passage on a smuggling ship heading for Rustbelt Station, but will be unable to go no further. Roanna contacted her father for help, but we intercepted the request.”

  “Then you want me to fly them home,” said March. “With respect, sir, it seems that an Alpha Operative would be better employed elsewhere.”

  “An Alpha Operative is deployed where the Silent Order sees fit,” said Censor with mild reproof. “As it happens, this situation requires an Alpha Operative. The cell took Thomas's defection badly, and they have decided to kill him. He knows too much. Enough to get them all imprisoned or hanged. To save themselves, they have to kill both of the Vindex twins.”

  “Is this cell competent?” said March. “To be honest, sometimes these Machinist cells are the bored children of rich men playing at being rebels.”

  “That is true,” said Censor. “And sometimes the cells are the sort who can plan a terrorist attack like the Orbital Shipyard Bombing or the incident at the Outer System Dock. I’m afraid that the Vindexes’ friends fall into that category.”

  “I see, sir,” said March.

  “Alpha Operative March,” said Censor, and March felt himself sit up a little straighter out of habit. “This is your official assignment. You will proceed at once to Rustbelt Station and await the docking of the Fisher, the smuggling craft holding the Vindexes. There you will intercept the Vindexes, and convince them to come with you. To persuade them, you will say that their father Lord Vindex hired you to take them from Rustbelt Station. Once they are aboard your vessel, you will take them to Antioch Station and deliver them to the offices of the Royal Calaskaran Navy. Do you accept this assignment?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” Censor’s voice was satisfied. “Relevant data is being sent to your ship’s pseudointelligence. Do you have any questions?”

  “Yes, sir,” said March. “I think this mission might have already been compromised.”

  “How so?” said Censor.

  “When I arrived at Antioch Station to await orders,” said March. “I was attacked at the airlock. Three men.”

  “Did you kill them?” said Censor.

  “No, sir,” said March. “Didn’t want trouble with station security. I took pictures of their IDs. They’re in my ship’s computer system. The pseudointelligence will share the images.”

  He lowered his phone and hit a few commands on the display, telling Vigil to send the images, and then put the phone back to his ear.

  “Ah,” said Censor a moment later. “Yes, these men are known to the Silent Order. The two followers are unimportant. Local hired muscle. They will get arrested by station security sooner rather than later. The leader, though, the fellow with the scar. He’s an extremely dangerous high-level operative for the Machinists.”

  “Why hasn’t he been killed yet?” said March.

  “He’s too slippery,” said Censor. “He goes by a dozen different names, but his most common alias is Simon Lorre. Most likely he intended to assassinate you but underestimated you instead.” A dry note entered his voice. “It has happened before.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said March.

  “And at the moment the Final Consciousness and the Kingdom are technically in a state of peace,” said Censor, “but you know as well as I do that they assassinate our operatives whenever possible.”

  “And a new war is only a matter of time,” said March. “Sir, it’s also possible that the Machinist cell realizes that the Vindex twins are backing out, and are trying to capture them.”

  “Your conjecture is entirely accurate, Captain,” said Censor. “You asked why we sent an Alpha-level Operative on this mission? You have your answer.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said March. “I will depart at once.”

  “Very good, Captain,” said Censor. Again, that dry note entered his voice. “Be sure to finish your eggs first.”

  March grunted. “How did you know I am having eggs, sir? I paid in cash.”

  Censor laughed. “You are a man of simple tastes, Captain.”

  “There are worse things, sir,” said March, looking at his gloved left hand. He had eaten no eggs when he had been part of the Final Consciousness, only meal packets of flavorless paste. There had been no coffee, only water. And there had been the colossal voice of the Final Consciousness in his skull, filling him with its implacable purpose and its desire to enslave all humanity. “There are far worse things.”

  “Indeed,” said Censor. “And our work is to keep those worse things from happening. God go with you, Captain. Do not make contact until you have mission results.”

  “Yes, sir,” said March, and Censor ended the call.

  March returned his phone to his pocket and contemplated his mission. He had joined the Kingdom of Calaskar, but he had never much cared for the nobles, at least for those not in the military.

  Still, he had his mission, and he would execute that mission.

  First, though, he would eat his meal. Censor might say March had simple tastes, but he did like the taste of vat-grown eggs.

  Chapter 2: Rustbelt

  After his meal, March left the bar and took the lift back to Ring Three.

  Censor had told him to leave as soon as possible, and March always followed orders to the best of his ability.

  That said, he had to make some preparations first.

  He might have been an Alpha Operative of the Silent Order of the Kingdom of Calaskar, but his cover was a privateer, the captain of a small, well-armed trading vessel. A cover had to be maintained. March looked for a cargo heading towards Rustbelt Station.

  Fortunately, after he logged into the station’s network, it did not take him long to locate a cargo. March found a load of prepackaged meals, the kind of sealed and nano-prepared food that kept for centuries, scheduled for transfer to Rustbelt Station. The job paid just enough to meet the costs of traveling to Rustbelt Station and turn a small profit, and it was exactly the kind of cargo an independent freighter captain would take. Even better, the meals were to be delivered to a man named Constantine Bishop who owned a restaurant and bar on Rustbelt Station called the Emperor’s Rest.

  March knew Bishop well, and he also knew that Bishop was the local head of the Silent Order’s branch on Rustbelt Station.

  He accepted the job, and the station’s cargo office scheduled a time to load the meals on the Tiger later in the afternoon.

  After that, March busied himself preparing for his trip to Rustbelt Station. His housekeeping was often lackadaisical, so he hired a set of cleaning drones and set them loose on the ship. He restocked the ship’s stores with food and drink, and made sure the oxygen and water supplies were topped off and the life support ready. No doubt the Vindexes were used to more luxurious accommodations, but if they had wanted luxury, they shouldn’t have gotten involved with a Machinist cell.

  Their comfort wasn’t March’s mission. Their survival was his mission, and March cared about the mission most of all. The Final Consciousness had made him that way, and the trait persisted, even if he had broken free and transferred his allegiance to the Kingdom of Calaskar.

  While he made the preparations, March kept a careful eye out for any trouble. If this Simon Lorre had been sent to assassinate him, the Machinist agent might try again, or he might attempt to sabotage the Tiger. After the failure of his first attempt, he might hang back and watch to gather more information. That was what March would have done in his position.

  Yet he saw no sign of Lorre, nor of anyone else watching. Despite its excellence as a cover story, it was regrettable he had to take that cargo to Rustbelt Station. It advertised that March was going there. On the other hand, security
on Rustbelt Station was much lighter.

  If Lorre showed up again or attempted to interfere with the mission, March would simply kill him and dump his body into empty space. He knew what crimes the Machinists had committed on the worlds they had enslaved. March had no qualms about killing Machinist agents whenever they crossed his path.

  And if the Vindexes were Machinist agents…

  March dismissed that thought. That was for Censor and the others in the Silent Order to decide.

  By late afternoon, the preparations were complete. March returned to the Tiger’s flight cabin and started the preflight checks.

  “Welcome back, Captain March,” said Vigil. “We are departing for system NB8876X?”

  “That’s right,” said March.

  “I have begun calculating the entry point for our first hyperspace tunnel,” said Vigil. “I estimate it will take approximately three and a half days to reach NB8876X and Rustbelt Station, depending on local conditions, and a total of fifteen hyperspace jumps.”

  “Acknowledged,” said March, running through the checklists. All the maintenance had been completed successfully, and he started warming up the fusion drive and the ion thrusters.

  “Additionally, your employer left a collection of files for your perusal during his call,” said Vigil.

  “I’ll read them while we’re in hyperspace,” said March.

  He finished the preflight preliminaries while Vigil used most of the ship’s computing power to calculate the hyperspace tunnel. Once he received clearance to leave, he undocked from Antioch Station, spun the Tiger around, and headed for the vector that Vigil’s calculations indicated. The fusion drive, the gravitics, and the inertial absorbers all showed green, so March turned his attention to the hyperdrive. He fired up the dark matter reactor and the dark energy resonator. Hyperspace was filled with macrobes, energy creatures that could possess living human minds, and without a resonator to keep the macrobes away, the crew and passengers of a starship in hyperspace would suffer macrobe possession, followed immediately by homicidal insanity and dark energy-based mutations.