A Conflict of Orders (An Age of Discord Novel Book 2) (18 page)

Four weeks…

And from Linna to Geneza was a trip of four weeks’ duration. But
Tempest
would actually arrive about the old capital world fifty-two days after departing Kunta’s home world. During that time, who knew what had happened on Shuto? Or how the Serpent had fared in his bid to take the Imperial Throne? Rinharte had received an update from
Vengeful
at Kunta, information gleaned by Ormuz during a trip to the nomosphere. Apparently, the Serpent was currently besieging the Palace. The Imperial Navy could do nothing since he had seized Imperial Admiralty Fort and now controlled the Navy Accounting Mechanism. It was not a threat which would have stopped Rinharte and she was privately disgusted that the Lords of the Admiralty thought so much more of money than they did defence of the Throne.

She leant forward, pressing her midriff against the railing, but could not see Kordelasz. Troopers and marines were busy practicing formations in the open area between the barracks blocks. But any one of those green coats could have been the marine-captain. Her attention was abruptly drawn to a crowd gathered before the armoury abaft of the field-kitchen. One figure in green stood out, head and shoulders above those about him. Boat-Sergeant Alus. And so the smaller figure beside him also in marine uniform must be Kordelasz. But what in heavens where they doing?

Rinharte left her vantage point and clattered down the ladder to the deck. Kordelasz should have learnt by now that the armoury was not going to be breeched. It was designed to be impregnable. And there was likely nothing of any use to them inside it. She had told him repeatedly to leave well enough alone and concentrate on his duties, but…

As Rinharte descended the ladder, her anger increased. She reached the troop-deck and marched stiffly across it. She strode through the formations of troopers, disrupting their drill. When she reached the knot of people gathered before the armoury’s entrance, she barked,

“Mr Kordelasz!”

He jerked round, startled. When he saw Rinharte, he grinned sheepishly. “Rizbeka—Ah, ma’am,” he said.

“A word.” She walked to one side and waited impatiently, arms crossed tightly across her bust. Her mood grew stormier when she saw the approaching Kordelasz’s expression. There was no worry there, no remorse.

Reaching her, he leaned close and confided, “One of the stokers found a gas-cutter in a store-room and he thinks he can use it to cut through the lock on the armoury door.”

Rinharte pulled her head away from his. “Why do you continue to disobey me?” she demanded. Although she had not meant it to, the question came out as a hiss.

The marine-captain blinked. “Ma’am?”

“I have asked you repeatedly to leave the armoury alone and tend to your duties. And now I find you… I find you
here
…” She swung out an arm. “Here,” she repeated; and almost spat, “With an
audience
.”

“Rizbeka —”

“You will address me as ‘ma’am’,” she said coldly. “Or Captain Rinharte.”

“Ma’am —”

She cut him off: “Mr Kordelasz, we are on our way to a battle, a
land
battle. And you will be fighting in it. If you and your marines are not familiar with the necessary tactics by the time we arrive at Geneza, you will be of no use to us. You may even be a handicap. And the men you are responsible for? Their deaths will be on your hands.” She tried to keep her voice flat and commanding, but she was not succeeding. “Garrin, I’ve told you again and again to see to your men. Why must you treat me with such disrespect?”

He was shocked, she saw. And hurt. Could he not understand that his men were in his care? That their survival depended on him?

“I trust my men to do their best, ma’am. I’m surprised you should think otherwise. You know I’d back any one of my marines against a regimental in battle.”

“The Winter Rangers need to see you drilling, Garrin. We can’t afford any resentment. And I need you to follow my orders. If you undermine me at every turn, then you’re encouraging the same behaviour in those under you. I won’t have it.”

“But we’re about to break into the armoury,” Kordelasz protested. “We’ll find out what’s in there!”

Rinharte opened her mouth. She had been about to say, “The means is not justified by the ends,” but… The Admiral had mutinied in order to safeguard the Imperial Throne. Did that end justify her actions?
Vengeful
had attacked merchantmen when in need of supplies. Civilians had died—No; had been
killed
. Because the Admiral would not be deflected fom her course. Such tactics had caused the Admiralty to call her a “terrorist” and perhaps in part the label was deserved.

The marine-captain was being obtuse. It was his nature and Rinharte should be used to it by now. Her anger had splashed off him without effect, because he was about to succeed at the task he had set himself. She could not afford to lose him nor his trust. Punishment would do just that. She sighed, no longer angry. Later, perhaps, in the privacy of her cabin Rinharte would think back over this conversation and grow angry once again at her failure to communicate with Kordelasz. But for now…

“I’ve yet to be convinced of the importance of the armoury,” she said.

“There’ll be weapons in there.
Field-pieces
.” He said the last with relish.

“There could equally well be nothing whatsoever,” she returned.

He shrugged. “We won’t know until we get the door open.”

“And this stoker thinks a gas-cutter will be sufficient?” Armouries were not designed to be easy to penetrate.

Kordelasz nodded eagerly. “He’s been cutting away for a couple of hours now. He should be through to the lock workings soon.”

“And then?”

The marine-captain’s sheepish grin reappeared. “He apparently has experience of locks. He was a thief before being press-ganged.”

“Indeed.” Rinharte pushed past Kordelasz and stepped towards the crowd before the armoury. The marines moved quickly out of the way, pulling the slower troopers with them. She found herself standing behind a kneeling stoker. He had a gas-cutter sporting a white-hot flame to the metal a few inches to the right of the lock. He had already cut most of the circumference of a circle some nine inches in diameter.

As she watched, he drew the gas-cutter around to meet the point of his initial cut. Once the heated metal had cooled sufficiently, he wrapped his cuff about his knuckles and lightly punched the cut-out. It fell inside the door, and banged and clattered its way downwards amongst the innards. Lying on the decking at the stoker’s side was a canvas-wrapped bundle. He knelt, carefully untied the thongs holding it wrapped, and unrolled it. Rinharte did not recognise any of the tools revealed. One resembled a crowbar, but for some odd bends in one end of the shaft. Others were more like the implements used by jewellers and watch-makers.

The stoker removed four of his tools and laid them carefully, almost reverently, on the decking before him. Taking the first—a wooden handle, from which depended a flexible and extensible spring-like shaft, hooked at the end—he carefully fed it through the hole in the door and down into the lock’s inner-workings. A second tool followed the first. Soon, he had the handles of all four dangling from the hole he had cut.

Next followed a series of actions which mystified Rinharte. The stoker alternately fished, prodded, pulled and twisted each of his tools’ handles, several times, in no discernible order. He swayed and nodded as he worked. She was reminded of a musician, particularly when he cocked his head to listen for the sounds generated by his ministrations.

Whatever he did, he was eventually successful. Fifteen minutes after making the hole, he shuffled back on his knees, took all four handles in both hands and gave them a yank. Something within the door gave out a muffled thud. He dropped three handles, and slowly twisted the one remaining in his hand. A series of muted clicks followed, one after the other, echoing out of the hole like an unfolding clockwork mechanism.

Finished, the stoker rose to his feet, and turned. He had a grin on his face. It fell when he saw Rinharte. “Ma’am,” he said.

“Report to Lieutenant Maganda for punishment,” Rinharte told him. She would not have one of her crew disobeying her orders.

The stoker ducked his head and hurried away.

“Was that really necessary?” Kordelasz asked quietly. “I gave him permission to crack the lock. In fact, I asked for his assistance.”

“Take care, Garrin,” she replied. “You knew my feelings on this matter. I could just as legitimately take your brevet promotion from you.”

“But we have the armoury open!” he protested. “That must count for something.”

“Perhaps. If what we find inside is of use.”

Kordelasz gave her a puzzled look. “Weapons. That’s what will be inside: weapons.”

Rinharte chose not to answer. An armoury certainly contained weapons in the normal course of events. But what was normal about
Tempest
? They had found her abandoned in orbit about the Linna system’s gas giant, her original crew lying brain-dead in sarcophagi. There could be anything inside the armoury. Weaponry was what she hoped to find. But she did not know what she
expected
.

“Well,” she said testily. The marine-captain’s excitement was beginning to affect her. “Open the damn door.”

Kordelasz stepped forward, put a hand to the door’s handle and yanked it down. The bolts withdrew with a resounding “clunk”. Leaning back, the marine-captain used his body-weight to swing the armoured door open. No sooner had he cracked its seal —

“Dear lords!” swore Rinharte. She could smell…
corruption
. Something had died in the armoury.

The marine-captain blocked his nose with a sleeve and continued to swing the door wide.

The first thing Rinharte saw was empty racks. And through the grating to the deck below, yet more empty racks. There did not appear to be a single hammer or axe in the entire armoury. There were certainly no field-pieces.

“No carronade,” Kordelasz said sadly. And then: “Damn.”

Rinharte moved past him. She held her breath against the stench, although it was already beginning to dissipate. From the comments behind her, others could smell it now. The lack of booted feet drumming against the decking told her that even the drill had been interrupted. She stepped inside. The armoury was most definitely empty. But there was something on the lower deck…

She crossed to the ramp and walked down it slowly, keeping her eyes on the object on the floor. It looked like a bundle of cloth. No, as her position changed, she saw it for what it was.

A body.

Kordelasz was at her shoulder. He peered past her. “Ugh,” he said. “It’s been mummified.”

“The armoury was hermetically sealed,” she replied in a murmur. She stepped off the ramp and crossed to the corpse. A man, wearing a naval officer’s uniform. His features had shrivelled and his skin clung to his skull like parchment. He possessed an unnatural greyish pallor and his hair had turned wispy and pale. There was no obvious cause of death, no wound or injury. Dropping to her haunches, she looked closely at the insignia on the coat the body wore. A single thick ring about the cuffs: a mate, then. And a sextant above a pair of crossed cannons. Gunnery. She rose to her feet, walked around the corpse and squatted once again.

“His sword is missing,” Kordelasz remarked.

Rinharte looked up, heard scuffled feet on the grating above her. Boat-Sergeant Alus was up there, with a small crowd of marines and troopers. “Does anyone know any death science?” she called.

Lots of shaking heads.

“Boat-sergeant, call Lieutenant Maganda and ask her to send someone who professes to know something relevant.”

“Ah,” said Kordelasz. He was over by a rack. He bent to the floor and straightened holding a sword. “This will be his, I warrant.” He held it up for Rinharte to see.

She nodded. Regular Imperial Navy issue.

She bent her attention back to the body. The crest on the man’s upper sleeve seemed familiar: a temple-front of four columns and a triangular lintel, another column on its side on the ground before the façade. She had seen it somewhere before. And recently.

As she rose to her feet, frowning still as she tried to marry the crest with a ship’s name, it came to her.

“Dear lords!”

She knew the vessel now:
Puncheon
, a destroyer. Her captain was from Makarta Province and fascinated by the vanished Lisanï culture. He had named his warship after a famous ruin. He had told her as much when he had been aboard
Tempest
. For a briefing.

“Garrin,” she said. “This man is an officer of one of the destroyers in the fleet.”

“Which fleet?”

“
Our
fleet. The Admiral’s fleet.”

“Then how did he get here? By the looks of it, he’s been dead for weeks.”

“No.” Rinharte shook her head. Could he not understand? “Garrin. He was here before we took
Tempest
. So he must have been aboard when the clones were crewing her. He must be part of the Serpent’s conspiracy.”

“They could have killed him and left him here,” Kordelasz suggested.

“Captain Korinthan would have mentioned it. He said no such thing.”

“Ah.” The marine-captain was nodding now.

“We need to tell the Admiral.”

“How?”

A good point. While in the toposphere, ships were incommunicado. They could not even see other ships, even if they were travelling the same route. Each vessel using the topologic drive was effectively in a universe of her own.

“We reach Obok in a week. We must tell her then.”

Alus returned ten minutes later with a middle-aged steward in tow called Smarwi. When Rinharte asked if he knew anything of the death sciences, he replied:

“I was assistant in a mortuary, ma’am, ‘fore the Quota got me.”

Smarwi’s job may have entailed no more than storing cadavers or hosing off examination slabs after autopsies had taken place, but he had picked up quite a bit of knowledge during fifteen years in the profession. And death science was a discipline that had not changed much in the millennia since the Genezi had carved out their interstellar empire.