Baldwin's Legacy: The Complete Series Page 16

  “Captain, they’re out of range,” Ven said slowly.

  “Damn it, Ven, I can see that!” he shouted, making Junior Officer Zare jump in her seat. “Constantine, any sign of your other version out there?”

  The AI stood near Thomas, his arms long at his sides. “No, Captain. I am not able to access…”

  “I knew this was going to happen. Keep searching, and notify me when something changes,” Thomas ordered.

  “Captain, we have scarce knowledge of the wormholes. There is no means to predict what occurred, or if they even made it through. I suggest…” Constantine began to say, and Thomas lifted a hand to cut him off.

  “I’m done with suggestions for today. I’ll be in my office. Only disturb me if you find signs of Cleo,” Thomas said. “On second thought, I’m going for a walk.”

  He stood, leaving the bridge, upset at himself for his reaction. This was it. He was going to have to return to Nolix with his tail between his legs. If he was lucky, they’d spare him a trip to prison, opting for a dismissal or at best a demotion.

  This was not the way he’d planned on beginning his role as captain of the Concord’s flagship. He walked past the guards and into the elevator. Maybe a cup of coffee would help clear his mind. Thomas tried to understand why he’d allowed such a risky maneuver, and it clicked.

  The Statu. They were the enemy. Thomas had grown up under the care of his grandparents, and rarely had a day gone by without the old admiral talking about them. Everything about his life and career had been centered around the Statu. Constantine had taken on command of his vessel two years into the War. In the early years, so many good ships and captains were lost to the battles, until the Concord clued in how to fight their adversaries successfully.

  Tom’s grandfather had gone on to command the same Concord cruise ship for four years, until the last battle, the infamous Yollox Incursion. The ship had been repaired, but he was promoted after that fight, the War finally over. There were numerous openings over the years, and many promotions happened in short order. Tom knew the history books well. The Concord allowed entrance to another ten planets in the first five years after the War.

  The Concord stated it was a measure of goodwill to the worlds that had helped them in the time of need, supplying food and materials for the War, but Tom was aware of the truth. His grandfather had spoken out of turn one night after a few too many cocktails. He could still picture the man, resplendent in his formal admiral’s uniform, so many stars etched on the breast, he could have been a constellation.

  Tom had been ten or eleven, wearing a suit. His hair had been slicked, and Tom had hated it. He remembered trying to undo his tie an hour into the event, much to his grandmother’s chagrin. The fireplace was roaring, real wood crackling. It was an old world remnant, but Constantine had always had a penchant for that kind of thing. The guests had left, the servants were cleaning up the dining area, and his grandfather asked Tom if he wanted to go to the sitting room. It was unusual, because Tom was never allowed inside. He nodded, happy for a rare glimpse behind the curtain.

  Constantine led him into the room, the fire already lit, and he pointed to the red leather chair, indicating for Tom to sit. He did so, staring at everything with wide eyes.

  “You know what just happened?” Grandfather had asked.

  Tom shook his head. “We had dinner?”

  The older man laughed at that before coughing. He bent over, and little did Tom realize that it was the first sign of the lethal Lekni infection that took so many lives from War survivors.

  “What happened was a bunch of tight-assed suck-ups want me to run for Prime,” he said, and Tom was shocked.

  “The Prime?” he asked.

  “The one and only. Can you imagine? A human Prime? The Concord would never stand for it.”

  “Why not?” Tom asked, curiosity filling him. His grandfather rarely spoke about such things around him, and he swelled with pride at the inclusion. He tried to watch what he said so he didn’t come off as a dumb kid.

  “I understand you’ve learned about the Founders, as everyone does. Humans were lucky to be included, believe me. The Concord could have done it without us, but we were a force too powerful to ignore. Humans... the others saw us as a pest at first. Were you told that?” Constantine asked.

  Tom blinked, watching his grandfather fill a tumbler with brown liquid, some sloshing over the ledge to land on the pristine wooden floors. “I didn’t know. Why were we pests?”

  “Because the moment humans had the ability to traverse the stars, nothing was ever good enough. We needed more. More ships, more planets, more resources. None since the Callalay had such drive. When we were discovered, there was no turning a blind eye to us.” Grandfather took a long drink, coughing a little after swallowing.

  “And that’s when the Concord was created?”

  “That’s right. The Founders.”

  “But why won’t they let you be Prime?” Tom asked, still not following.

  “We’re too new. Too fresh. The others have been trading and talking for thousands of years. We’re the infant of this whole thing,” Constantine told him.

  Tom nodded, pretending to understand. “But they all love you. You’re a hero.”

  His grandfather filled his glass and crossed the room to stand in front of the fireplace. He was so close, Tom worried a spark would catch his uniform on fire. “A hero? I’m no hero, son. No.”

  “But…”

  “But nothing.” He saw the old man was unsteady on his feet, and Tom stood, offering his arm. With a grunt, his grandfather accepted and took a seat beside him. “They want to expand again. Let more worlds into the Concord.”

  Tom was unsure what to do with the sudden change of subjects. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “Yes. For the Concord, it is. But that doesn’t mean it’s good for everyone else.”

  Tom had never heard his grandfather saying anything negative about the Concord before, and it worried him. “Why?”

  “Post-War, we let in ten worlds. Can you name them?”

  Tom couldn’t. He thought hard, but he didn’t think they’d learned that in his lessons. “I can’t recall.”

  Constantine slapped a knee with his palm and leaned back in the seat. “That’s right. Because the Concord doesn’t want anyone to remember them. There’s an old saying in the Code. Strength is rarely manufactured or grown; it is curated carefully and selectively.”

  Tom closed his open mouth, even more confused.

  “It means that things like the Concord didn’t become strong on their own. They used those planets’ resources and left them to rot. They stole their people as bodies to fill the roles of servants and maintenance crews. They mined their worlds, building up the Fleet again, and when it was all done, they moved on.

  “If you want to find a Fengothian these days, you’re going to have to hit a backwater world called Rekva, because their own planet was destroyed.” Constantine drank slower now, his hand shaking slightly as he spoke.

  “Why would the Concord do that? What about the Code?” Tom asked, upset at the words he was hearing. He’d grown up believing in the Concord, and his grandfather often made him study the Code.

  “The Code is strong, it’s valid, but too often, people twist words to suit their own needs. Either way, I won’t be running for Prime. Pha’n from Callalay will be the winner. I can already tell,” he told Tom.

  “Why?”

  “Because she has the most contacts in the Concord. Because she believes in a strong Fleet, and she was there…” He coughed again. “She knows too much.”

  Tom didn’t question his grandfather, and they went on to speak of nicer things, like Tom’s inclusion into the junior Academy coming up in a few months.

  The elevator notified Tom he was on Deck Four, and he exited it, lost in his memory of that moment so many years ago. That was why he’d reacted the way he had with the Statu, and that was why he couldn’t let them get away with taking the
ore and the slaves from the Concord’s newest partner. Years ago, the Concord had been stripping worlds of precious materials, and they still were. Tom wasn’t going to let Greblok go down like this, not because of the Concord. Admiral Hudson would pay for his dismissive remarks.

  If only there was a way to confirm if Cleo had made it safely through the wormhole – and it hit him like a slap to the face. Tom ran back to the elevator, ordering it to head to the residence deck. He raced through the hallway to the room he’d seen only a couple of days ago with Treena Starling. It didn’t grant him access, and he hastily used his override code, the door to Starling’s room sliding open.

  The lights were dim, and for a moment, he didn’t even hear the gentle humming of the machines maintaining the real Treena Starling. He moved slowly, nervous beads of sweat clinging to his skin. “Be steadfast, be vigilant, be strong. The Vastness welcomes all,” Tom whispered out of habit.

  There she was, on the bed, slightly turned to the side. Her eyes were closed, and he glanced at the computer readout. The wires plugged into the back of her head were lit up, but that didn’t mean anything. He crossed over to the computer screen and scrolled to the diagnostics of the artificial vessel she was controlling on the expedition ship.

  “What do we have here?” he asked himself, trying to make sense of the readouts. There it was. Running at ninety-nine percent efficiency. From what he could tell, the artificial body Treena Starling was controlling was operational, meaning Cleo was either traveling through the wormhole or they’d emerged on the other side.

  Tom slunk to a seat beside the bed as his eyes rested on the frail woman, and he wondered if Treena did the same. Her real body was so frail, nothing like the strong woman he now knew as his commander. He needed to place a body in this room, but it had to be someone he could trust with Treena. Nee’s nurse Kelli, perhaps.

  Now that he was confident they weren’t destroyed, he relaxed for a moment before he remembered the cryogenically-frozen beings claiming to be Statu, encased in his ship. It was time to interrogate the being and find out what the hell was going on.

  ____________

  “This is food?” Penter asked, picking up the bowl and setting it down hurriedly. Some of the slop dripped over the edge onto the metal table. Thousands of Bacals were inside the space, each eating their rations for the day.

  There were barrels of water along the outer walls, and Brax assumed this was all one spark of illness away from turning into a cesspool of filth and death. The slaves drank the gruel from the bowls, not being given any utensils. A few of the people attempted to speak to the armor-wearing Statu, but not once did Brax hear a reply.

  No one made a move against their captors, not since the first five had been killed as an example. The smell inside the huge room was overwhelming, far worse than even the room on the ship had been. Brax was amazed at how quickly an advanced race could become nothing more than despondent animals in a pen. It was terrifying. Some part of him clung to the hope of rescue by the Constantine crew, but he knew it was a long shot.

  Brax sighed and ate the rest of the flavorless food. Abbil was beside him, her hair pulled into a long ponytail. She was a tough woman, but that was about all he knew of her.

  “Abbil, you said you were in town watching the Regent’s speech. What did you do for a living?” Brax asked her.

  She didn’t even look up from her bowl. “I’m a teacher. I suppose I was a teacher,” she said.

  “I don’t think you’ll ever stop being one, then,” Brax told her. “Just like Penter here will always take his training as a guard with him everywhere he goes, right?”

  “That’s right.” Penter nodded firmly. “I thought you looked familiar. Did you teach at the Northern Institute?”

  Abbil smiled finally at the mention of the school name. “Don’t tell me I taught your children,” she said.

  “No. My kid wasn’t old enough yet. I did security there a few seasons for extra pay,” he told her, and she nodded.

  “I worked at my husband’s bakery on weekends.”

  “Not uncommon for our people to work every day of the week, is it?” Penter asked, and Brax found he was enjoying the normal conversation, even if the setting was dire.

  “I imagine that won’t change now that we’re… slaves.” Abbil pushed her half-full bowl away.

  “You should eat it,” Brax suggested. “You’re going to need the energy.”

  “So I can do what?”

  “I…”

  “Be a slave for these masked freaks?” Abbil appeared ready to sound off, so Brax grabbed hold of her arm, keeping her in the seat.

  “Shhhh. We’re going to figure this out. Together. I need you to stay calm and listen to me. I’m going to get us out of this,” Brax said quietly. She resisted at first, but he felt her posture go slack; her arm dangled loosely beside her.

  An alarm rang out, three quick blasts of a terrible noise, and it was over. Penter stood up and peered around the room. “I guess that means the dinner party’s over.”

  They’d been forced to sleep in confined areas of about one hundred people, with no pillows, no blankets, no anything. Brax stretched his sore back and glanced to the exits, where the armed guards were. He counted the Statu inside the space and thought there were only two dozen or so. If he could procure a gun, he’d… What? He closed his eyes and told himself to stop trying to escape so soon. He knew nothing about the place.

  With slaves cowed like this, the guards might become complacent in a month, maybe even a week. Then he would have a better sense of where they were, what the routine looked like, and perhaps even uncover a weakness or two around the encampment.

  The people were filing out of the room, the distinct sound of crying carrying to his ears from multiple directions. The man in front of Brax was moving slowly, his feet dragging as he shuffled along. Their home had been destroyed, their spirits broken, and Brax couldn’t blame them for reacting this way. He wasn’t ready to give up quite yet, though. These people needed some strength, and he was going to be there to provide it.

  They eventually exited the table-filled room and headed outside. It was bright again, the blue star sweltering in the cloudless sky.

  “Looks like we get some outside time,” Penter said. There were more of the Statu on the outskirts of the structure the slaves ate and slept inside.

  “Stay close to me. I think they’re separating us into work detail groups,” Brax said, and Abbil stood directly beside him, Penter behind.

  The Statu headed towards them was short, his suit rougher and more patched than most of the others. He had a gun in his grip and a three-foot-long metal wand in his left hand. He motioned for their group to stand together, and he shoved a few standing Bacals away, another Statu waving them over.

  When it was done, Brax counted one hundred even in his group. Abbil and Penter had stayed with him, which gave him some relief.

  Soon there were groupings of a hundred each spread out along the stampeded grass. Sweat was pouring off Brax’s bald head, and he rubbed it, the stubble growing longer than it had in years. He missed the routine of shaving it, and thought about his sister, wondering how she was dealing with his disappearance. If he knew her, and he did, she’d stop at nothing before learning where he was and what had befallen him.

  It was a solace as he stood in the heat, the sun angrily beating down on them. The slaves reeked of filth, unable to shower in the last week as they were penned like livestock. Now they were expected to go to work, and he waited as he saw the hovering platforms arriving from somewhere far away. They were specks in the sky, growing as they thrust forward, lowering to the grass, one before each group.

  Brax was the first to step on from his company, the others instantly deferring to him. He tried to keep his head up, his posture tall, as a sign of hope to the other slaves, but he also didn’t want to appear cocky to the Statu. That would be a sure way to end up dead. He doubted they’d have any qualms about shooting him or shoving him
over the edge at a thousand feet.

  Their group gathered on the platform, and two armed guards joined them. Other groups had already lifted from the ground and were moving away. The surface shook and lurched upwards, the thrusters loud and irritated-sounding. Abbil clutched Penter’s arm as they roared into the sky, and Brax tried to see over the horizon, guessing at a destination.

  Each of the groups was heading in different directions now, though Brax noticed three others staying close to the one he was traveling on. They picked up speed, and the wind threatened to bowl him over. A man screamed at the edge of the platform, and Brax saw him stumble toward the short rail. He pushed past Penter and grabbed the man by his grimy collar, keeping him from tumbling to his death.

  “Thank you,” the man mumbled, getting to his knees so he wouldn’t fly away. Others took heed at his near miss, and soon they were all sitting on the platform, waiting to land.

  The trip took at least a half hour, and Brax’s nerves were fried along with his eardrums by the time it began its descent. The strange transport was shaking violently as they settled to the ground, and it flicked off as they landed, the entire world seeming to go silent as the three other transport decks powered down around them.

  Brax took in the sights, seeing mountains of raw materials piled around an open field.

  “What do you make of this?” Penter asked him.

  Brax saw another building beside the materials. “It seems we might be here for the long haul. See that?” He pointed to the structure. “I think we could be staying in there.”

  “Great. I wonder if they have room service,” Penter said with a smile. Brax really liked the guy, and was glad someone else was keeping their cool during this trying time.

  “What do you think we’re doing here?” Abbil asked.

  “I think we’re about to find out.” Brax stepped off, taking the lead, and followed one of the guards toward the open field.

  It quickly became clear what they were there for. Behind the fifty-foot-tall stacks of materials sat the beginnings of a chunk of a Statu warship, like the one that had attacked Greblok. This was an arm, or the rough husk of one. The materials were dark and metallic; a dozen crude robots gleamed in the heat.