Tides of Maritinia (5 page)

 

CHAPTER 6

“KWuba and Jebyl, Maritinias' two castes. One the ariastocaracy. The other teh worker bees. All know their place. Such is the wisdon of the Sire.”

–
J
AKOB
B
RYCE

I
looked at my guards, who sat across from me, facing sternward, firerods on their laps. The guards were new. A shift change must have come at some point during the night. Based on the silk scarves neatly folded in their pockets, both were Kwuba, their faces fixed in soldierly scowls.

Looking past them, I could see the Ministry. On the water for ten minutes already, and it was still a long way off. The boat lunged and slacked, lunged and slacked to the beat of three squids jetting in unison.

I relaxed into the rhythmic motion, my mind swinging to a similar rhythm, the sweet memory of a passion-­filled sunrise.

I'd forgotten it could be that good. Forgot what it was like to have a physique I wasn't ashamed of. There'd been no need to hide under the sheets, or subtly direct probing hands away from my flabby parts.

It was like I was young again. Reinvigorated.

She was an aggressive lover, and fearing I'd give my identity away by doing something Kell wouldn't, I'd succumbed to her greed. I'd let myself be molded into whatever she needed, let her position my hands. My hips. My mouth.

I let her control the pace. The ebb and flow. She was the moon, and I was the sea whose tide rose at her command.

And I'd reveled in every second. Unburdened by the mission. Unshackled from my responsibilities.

The things she made me do . . .

Unbelievable.

It was strange at first, knowing my political officer could see and hear all, but I got over it. Fourteen months since I'd touched a woman? I got over it in a hurry.

I looked up at the sun and let its hot rays bake my face. For the first time since arriving on Maritinia, I didn't mind the open water or broad sky. I was finally getting used to being outdoors.

It was a gorgeous day, really. A warm breeze textured the rolling water with millions of tiny ripples. Vast fields of golden kelp swayed just below the surface with a natural grace that was totally foreign to my home world of all-­encompassing structures and enclosed spaces.

High over the water, Admiral Mnai's face shone brightly on a massive skyscreen, his austere gaze aimed at the city. His forehead tall and imposing as a prison wall. His cheekbones high as towers. Eyes like searchlights.

The skyscreens were supposed to serve as the Empire's voice. They surrounded all the major population centers to act as the conduit through which the Sire lavished praise when kelp yields were high or meted out criticism when quotas weren't met.

But after transmitting the video of the contingent's slaughter, Mnai had severed all communication with the Empire. He'd taken control of the skyscreens and used them for his own purposes. Used them to scowl upon his population one long day after another. A stifling reminder of who was in charge.

Soon, I lost sight of him as we passed underneath, the boat coasting between a pair of sturdy concrete stanchions that held the skyscreen and surrounding speakers more than three hundred feet in the air. Safely out of reach of the prying fingers of a technology-­deprived population. Such was the wisdom of the Sire.

For the first time since I'd defied his order to kill the woman, the voice in my mind spoke.

A stir of dread soured my stomach. I didn't respond. Didn't want to.

Turning to my right, I watched as we lunged our way past another boat, the deck no more than a broad leather tarp stretched between pontoons made from bundles of sea bamboo. The Jebyl crew—­three of them—­bowed in our direction and touched their fingers to their hearts. Moving my gaze down past the water's surface, I spotted tentacles sprouting from long, tube-­shaped shadows.

I craned my neck to look back at my boat's captain. “Can't we go any faster?”

“I can ask, sir, but the squiddies are a fickle lot.”

“Ask.”

Reaching for a tentacle that stretched across the hull, he gave the taut skin a triple tap—­code for giddyup. Didn't do much good. Best I could tell, our forward lurching continued at the same sluggish pace.

The captain gave me a bow of apology. “I try-­ed, honor-­ed sir. But the squiddies have chosen to heed only Falal today. Please forgive my inadequacy.”

My ears perked at the word Falal. Some kind of cult according to the reports I'd read. I wished I could go back and surf the database more closely, but I'd had to ditch my comm unit when crossing into tech-­restricted space.

Pol's voice was tight as a violin string. 3
, I'll have no choice but to report this to your superiors.>

I dropped my chin into my left hand. I didn't want to disappoint my father, and I knew he'd be reading my mission reports. The old spy was proud I'd finally decided to take the challenge of being an operative. Finally followed in his highly decorated footsteps.

We were a family of spies. Generation after generation of the Empire's eyes and ears. Read an E
3
org chart, my father would tell me, and you might as well be reading the Bryce family tree. We were the Empire's first family of spies. We had a reputation to protect. Even a minor blemish on my record would be sure to earn his ire.

For the guards' benefit, I struggled to keep signs of emotion off my face.

The accusation stabbed straight into my heart, outrage spilling from the wound.

A voice, a real voice said, “Are you okay, sir?”

“What?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, of course,” I said to the guard. “Just thinking.”

“You look ill. Perhaps we should take you back home. Let Sali take care of you. I'm sure you missed her. She was gone so long.”

Sali. That was her name. “No. I'm fine. Really.”

“Very well, sir.” The guard's eyes went back to the sea.

I closed my eyes to let the words sink in.

He'd taught me this lesson many times before. I thought I'd understood. Thought that when the time came, I could do anything the Sire required of me. Anything.

I wanted to argue that, given the circumstances, I'd made a smartest decision possible. But even if that was true, he and I both knew that the original reason I'd balked at killing her had nothing to do with tactics. I'd let my conscience get in the way. I opened my eyes and sat silent, knowing I'd screwed up. Knowing I'd been weak. Knowing I had no choice but to take my medicine.

I didn't speak. My eyes were trained on the approaching domes of the Ministry.

And he was.

I said.

 

CHAPTER 7

“the scariest smotion for a spy? Surprise. Surprisse can't portend to anythng good.”

–
J
AKOB
B
RYCE

T
he squids gave one last push, and the boat surged forward. Tentacles disengaged and slithered away, disappearing over the bamboo rails while the boat glided the last few feet to the Ministry dock. The guards were off the boat first, one of them taking a kelpstalk rope and tying off. I followed sure-­footedly. Couldn't let them think I didn't have my sea legs.

I let the guards lead me along the pier at a leisurely pace. Reaching a pair of weather-­beaten stairs, I stepped up to the island proper. Constructed from slabs of granite, the ring-­shaped island provided a broad walking surface. To my immediate right was a collapsed stretch, sunken stone tipped at awkward angles, green water flowing freely between the lagoon and the sea. To my left stood the five bulb-­shaped Ministry domes. Evenly spaced, they sat directly on the atoll, like freshly pulled onions left on the ground.

Straight ahead, I laid eyes on the lagoon where the Empire's contingent had been executed. Civil servants and administrators. ­People who were simply doing their jobs. Doing their best for this world and its ­people.

Murdered.

Dumped into the water to be ripped apart, bite by barbarous bite.

I skimmed the water with my eyes and saw no sign of the terror perpetrated here. No screaming souls or silver torpedoes of death.

Instead, the still, green water peacefully lapped at the stone.

We walked along the pool's edge, my eyes transfixed by bountiful blossoms of bright coral and so many schools of little fish—­colorful gemstones dancing and darting in a luscious kaleidoscope of amethysts, rubies, and sapphires.

I told my guards to wait, so my eyes could feast some more.

Below the surface, translucent amoebas the size of my hand floated about, the shapeless creatures forming improvised arms as they stretched for food, several with tiny undigested fish trapped like flies inside their gelatinous bodies. Lime-­colored creatures resembling corkscrews spun their way to the surface, then slowly sank back down. Striped eels moved from one branch of coral to the next, coiling and uncoiling while vast clusters of purple and red anemone tentacles swayed to an unheard melody.

Much as I hated to admit this world had anything worthwhile, the lagoon was beguiling. Even the five Ministry domes couldn't resist its bewitching trance, their reflections forever trapped in the pool's emerald-­tinted mirror.

said the voice in my mind.

I tore my gaze away and turned it on Dome 3, its outer shell covered with many thousands of teardrop-­shaped silver tiles that fit together like the scales of a fish, the lowest ones dusted by sea salt and peppered with air barnacles.

Moving again, we headed for the entryway. Flanked by guards, the tall arch mimicked the dome's onion shape. When I approached, the guards touched their fingers to their hearts while my detail peeled off to head back to the pier.

I marched past the guards and into the dome with purpose in my gait, as if I'd done it a thousand times before, heels clacking on polished granite, the sound echoing around the inside of the rotunda. The walls were painted cerulean from foot to shoulder, then whitewashed the rest of the way up, tapering to a point forty feet overhead.

The dome was vacant, except for a shrine dedicated to the Sire, His image in statue form. Raised on a column of rough-­hewn stone, He was surrounded by four shorter columns topped by statues of adoring Kwuba and Jebyl kneeling and bowing.

The Sire Himself had been defaced, the royal robes around his crotch chiseled away. Castrated.

Passing the shrine, I found the stairs exactly where the blueprints I'd studied said I would, a small doorway cut into the dome's back wall, the staircase angling down out of sight. The domes were just for show. The bulk of the Ministry was down those stairs.

At the bottom of the ocean.

I started down, my hand running along the dewy steel rail. The walls were alive with mossy growths sprouting from black trails of slimy seawater. I took the stairs slow, the thought of tunneling below the water weighing heavy on my mind.

A glance at the rust-­eaten seams told me it just might. The air began to taste stale, and I swore at the architect who designed this death trap. I didn't care what the reports said about an underwater construction being impervious to attack. In the end, it hadn't proven so impervious, had it?

Ten steps down, I reached a landing and stepped through an open bulkhead where I faced another set of neck-­breakingly steep stairs carved directly into the reef.

Deeper and deeper I went, more bulkheads with open hatches followed by more staircases. My ears felt the pressure of pumped air that reeked of mildew, and my skin turned tacky with the damp of deep ocean.

I reached the bottom, one hundred feet of impossibly heavy water pressing down from above. With fluorescent bulbs lighting the way, I headed down the steel-­walled corridor, supports spaced every two feet. I avoided the puddles. Puddles where there should be no damn water.

I marched ahead despite the tug of fear pulling at my back. Arriving at a T, I knew the arched corridor to my right would lead to the main rotunda. My feet splashed into inch-­deep seawater, and soon the splashing turned to sloshing as the chilly water rose past my ankles. Passing over a floor drain that was barely visible under the black water, I asked Pol if he was sure the water pumps were working.

The water was up to my knees now.

Not a comforting thought.

A soldier waded from the other direction, his face calm and collected. I hated him. I was tempted to scream at the levelheaded bastard.

A staircase lifted me up out of the water. At the top, the main rotunda opened before me, a broad space with tall video screens lining the far wall, some of them dipped in seawater, but amazingly still working. The screens' moving images hazily reflected off the water. On my side of the rotunda sat many semicircular rows of desks and tables, all of them facing the front, auditorium style. Some were populated by soldiers, many by Kwuba in their formal silks.

A drop of water struck the top of my head, and I looked up at the leaky ceiling, great panes of reinforced glass and riveted steel standing high overhead. I tried to stop myself from picturing the glass giving way, a crush of seawater bringing a watery death.

“We've been waiting for you.” Admiral Dii Mnai stalked up to me, weighty in both size and gaze. “You're late.” His hair was short as a two-­day beard, his tone shorter still.

I swallowed the clamshell in my throat. “Sorry.”

“Come. We must start our morning briefing.”

With water squishing in my boots, I followed his uniformed frame through a door and down a long hall. He walked large, shoulders held high, his rounded girth that of somebody who never denied himself.

I trailed him into a conference room. The floor was dry except for a rusty puddle fed by a streak of water seeping from under the window frame. The table appeared to have been made from Karthedran redwood. A crater of splintered wood sat where the Empire's seal should be. A crime against the Empire. An even greater crime against a fine piece of wood on a world that had so little.

I surveyed the attendees. Based on the bars sewn on their chests, I counted a captain and two lieutenants seated at the table, their navy blue uniforms meshing nicely with the emerald flags wrapped around their necks.

I took a seat at the table, directly across from the admiral.

“Did you come to a deal?” he asked, his moon-­shaped face watching me expectantly.

“What?”

“A deal. Last night.”

I nodded. “Yes.”

His face lit with a wide, gap-­toothed smile. “Good. Most good.”

“The price?” asked the captain.

“I had to take his offer.”

“I thought you were going to bargain him down.”

I shrugged. “He wouldn't budge. Tough bargainer.”

The disdain on the captain's face was painted on thick. “I told you we couldn't pay his price.”

I cringed on the inside.

Mnai laid a heavy hand on the table. “Captain Mmirehl has a point, Colonel. Our funds are limit-­ed.”

I leaned forward in my chair, forced my voice straight as a firerod. “You wanted a good weapons system, and I got it for you.”

Mnai pinched his lips and moved his penetrating stare from person to person in order to gather silent opinions from the group. Captain Mmirehl gave him an eye roll. The two lieutenants shook their heads in disapproval.

Mnai turned his big head back on me. “You're sure this is a good system?”

Wringing some confidence from Pol's voice, I said, “The best.” For all I knew, it really was.

Mnai folded his arms and rested them on his ample stomach. “Do we have the funds, Captain?”

Mmirehl roasted me with a flaming glare. His face was narrow with hollows for cheeks and a beak for a nose. He spoke through his teeth. “We do, but—­”

Mnai didn't let him finish. “Buy it.”

“But—­”

“We must pay it. Air defense is critical.”

“But one missile platform will hardly stop a fleet.”

“They won't send a fleet.”

“You can't be sure.”

My thoughts hustled to incorporate the new fact. I'd bought a surface-­to-­air missile platform.

Captain Mmirehl stabbed the tabletop with an insistent finger. “We kill-­ed their contingent. They will seek retribution.”

The admiral brushed the captain's argument away with one of his big mitts. “They won't send a fleet. Explain it to him again, Colonel.”

I twisted in my seat, my mind scrambling for the right response. “That's not necessary, is it?” I smiled at the captain. “You remember perfectly well, don't you?”

He sneered at me, but answered the question, the words squeezing through his teeth like meat from a grinder. “I remember.”

Relief washed over me.

“No,” said the admiral. “Explain it to him.”

“But he just said he understands.”

Mnai lifted a fist over his head and slammed it down on the table. My heart jumped along with the water glasses, the sound echoing off the steel walls like he'd fired a cannon.

“I told you to explain it to him!” he shouted, spittle spraying from his mouth, a droplet clinging to his chin. “Explain it until the shit-­for-­brains understands.”

Captain Mmirehl's jaw dropped in disbelief. I thought he was going to protest, but his mouth closed, and his face tensed up like he was prepping for a serious lashing.

I looked to the lieutenants, who both sat with their heads bowed, suddenly very interested in their laps.

I fought to keep my voice from cracking. “They won't send a fleet. Maritinia is too far from the Empire's Core. Many in the Empire believe the Secession Skirmishes were a precursor to something bigger. They believe war is coming. It could break out at any time, and if it does, they can't afford to have warships sitting a year away from where the action is.”

“Yes,” said the admiral. “Go on.”

My fingers hurt from strangling the wad of pant leg in my fist. “The truth is this world isn't strategically important. They'll send a ship with a new governor and a new contingent, some extra soldiers. But no fleet.”

“You hear that, Captain? You understand now, or shall I have him go over it again?”

Captain Mmirehl gave a reluctant nod. “I understand.”

The admiral's gap-­toothed smile was back. “And how can they be sure to succeed in retaking this world with a single ship, Colonel?”

I asked Pol.

“Colonel?” repeated the admiral.

“The E
3
will send their agents first,” I said, my fingernails digging into my thigh. “They'll try to infiltrate this government and sabotage it.”

Mnai stared at me, a smile frozen on his face.

I met his stare, unable to escape the feeling he'd noticed something different about me, that he was trying to put his finger on exactly what it was. I could practically feel that thick finger of his probing and prodding me, trying to find what was real and what wasn't.

He lifted his hand, stuck his index finger in the air. “One ship,” he said to Captain Mmirehl. “Just one ship, and when it comes, I shall shoot it out of the sky.”

I let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Let it out slow through my nose.

“Yes, Admiral,” responded the captain. “As you say.”

Apparently deciding the captain was sufficiently humbled, he turned to one of the lieutenants. “Tell me of the Jebyl.”

“We have reports of two demonstrations yesterday, a thousand ­people in Mmangu, three hundred in Selaita. There were no overt displays of dissension in the capital, but we heard several reports of unrest. Gangs of Jebyl delinquents have begun vandalizing Kwuba-­owned stores, spilling salt and knocking over shelves. Anything they can do to make themselves a nuisance. Among other things, they keep griping about being exclude-­ed from the new government.”