Silent Order_Fire Hand Page 3

  His mouth twisted with contempt as he remembered Michael Tank’s rantings. Yes, the Final Consciousness promised to make mankind a race of gods, free of class and background and religion, but nonetheless, the Iron Hands and the Overseers and the Questioners and the Cognarchs all received special privileges.

  March put the old, bitter thought out of his mind. Brooding would not improve the flavor of his meal, and however the cooks at Mallister’s prepared the vat-grown food, it tasted quite good.

  And for once, the call came after he had finished his meal and was sipping his second cup of coffee.

  March picked up the phone and saw what he had expected. The call had come from the Tiger’s communications array, but it had originated from the Antioch system’s tachyon entanglement communications relay, which meant it could have come from anywhere in Calaskaran space that had tachyon-based communications equipment. Of course, that narrowed it down to about seven different star systems, each of which had billions of inhabitants and hundreds of space installations.

  He had never met Censor, the head of the Silent Order, and he likely never would. The man (if he really was a man) was simply too good at hiding.

  March accepted the call and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello.”

  “Hello, Captain March,” said Censor’s dry voice. “It seems that you have been busy.”

  “Yes, sir,” said March.

  “Your errand to Adhemar Station?” said Censor. “Did it go well?”

  “It did, sir,” said March. Likely Censor already knew everything that had happened on Adhemar Station, but he did like his Alpha Operatives to give their own reports. “I spent a month tracking Michael Tank’s cell and identified all the members. Once they gathered for a meeting, I overpowered them, left them restrained, departed the station, and called security. They were all arrested soon after.”

  “They were,” said Censor. “Our friends in the Ministry of Justice tell me that Tank himself will likely be executed, while his co-conspirators will be sent to a penal colony for the remainder of their natural lives.”

  “Did they know anything useful, sir?” said March.

  “They did not,” said Censor, a hint of irritation in that dry voice. “Even by the standards of the Machinists’ usual dupes, Tank and his lot were particularly ill-informed. Tessa Morgan seems to have been the most capable member of the cell, and you know what happened to her. The cell seems to have been nothing more than petty harassment on the part of the Machinists, albeit petty harassment that would have cost a great many innocent lives. Naturally, we’ve ensured that the news media will run with this – the vile depravity of the Machinist agents plotting to murder toddlers while thinking of themselves as bold revolutionaries.”

  “It’s not propaganda if it’s true, sir,” said March.

  “Indeed not,” said Censor. “But you and I, Captain, we have seen the truth. We know the Machinists for what they are. But others in the Kingdom have not enjoyed the benefits,” his voice got even drier on the final word, “of direct interaction with the Machinists, or seen the ravages they have brought to the worlds they conquered. I am afraid that it is simply the nature of humanity that there is always a measure of discontent in the human heart, no matter the circumstances. There are always weak-minded men, and to such men, the words of the Machinists, their promises of brotherhood and justice, are always alluring.”

  “At least until such men are fed into the Machinists’ protein processing plants,” said March. Sometimes collaborators were rewarded when their worlds fell to the Final Consciousness. But more often than not, the collaborators had outlived their usefulness.

  “But many Machinist agents are masters of persuasion. One of the roles of the Silent Order is, therefore, to keep the true nature of the Machinists before the public. The plot on Adhemar Station is a perfect instrument for that.” Censor let out a sigh. “And thanks to you, no innocent lives were lost. Well done, Captain March.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said March. He was surprised by how much the compliment pleased him. March trusted his judgment more than anyone else’s, and the opinions of others meant little to him, save for how they might affect his performance on a mission.

  But he did respect Censor.

  “Now to other matters,” said Censor. “You are on Antioch Station?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Nor have you taken on any other cargoes?”

  “No, sir.” March was a little surprised. Censor tended not to ask him so many questions before assigning a new mission. “I knew you would call, so I haven’t taken any cargoes or commissions for the Tiger.”

  “Very practical, as always,” said Censor. “Captain March, I shall be blunt. A delicate matter has arisen that needs resolution, but I am not entirely certain you are the right man for the job. The matter needs a surgeon’s scalpel, but while you are an entirely excellent blunt instrument, you are nonetheless a blunt instrument.”

  “If I’m not the right man for the job, sir,” said March, “why are we talking about it?”

  Censor sighed again. “Because, as ever, we are short-handed, and you have some experience with the location in question. Tell me, have you ever heard the name Dr. Adelaide Taren?”

  “No, sir,” said March.

  “Truly?” said Censor. He sounded a little surprised.

  “Should I have?”

  Censor paused for a moment. “You don’t watch any…recreational videos, dramas and comedies and things of that nature?”

  “No, sir,” said March, his confusion increasing. “Should I have?”

  “Probably not,” said Censor. “I’m afraid this is an area of our Order’s work where you have little experience. Specifically, the task of keeping a handle on popular entertainment and the news media.”

  “I admit I have little knowledge of popular entertainment,” said March. “It seems frivolous and unimportant.”

  “From your perspective, it would,” said Censor. “However, I’m afraid that another of the truths of the human soul is that it speaks in the language of stories. A musician or an actor or an artist in the right time and place can wield a tremendous amount of influence. Historically, that has been one of the Machinists’ favorite tactics in suborning the civilizations they have enslaved. They subvert the actors and the musicians to their cause, get them to speak in favor of the Machinists’ ideas, and they weaken the civilization’s will to fight. And when the civilization falls, the actors and the musicians are sent to the labor camps along with everyone else.”

  “I see,” said March. He had never given the matter much thought.

  “That happened on your own homeworld of Calixtus,” said Censor. “Before the Machinist conquest of that world, the Final Consciousness embarked on a long-term program of winning supporters among the influential. The Machinists succeeded in getting the entire entertainment industry on their side, and they brought the support of much of the government. When the Machinists invaded, the will to fight was lost, and I am afraid you know the rest.”

  “Yes,” said March. He remembered Calixtus very well. He remembered the labor camps, the corpses dumped into carts to be taken to the protein rendering plants. He remembered the executions, the landscapes strip-minded to fuel the Final Consciousness’s war machine. He remembered the soldiers taking him to the command center, where they ripped away his humanity and made him into something else.

  His shoulder hurt.

  “I’m afraid that is why we don’t usually send you on missions of this sort,” said Censor. “Your skills lend themselves to the admirable execution of traitors. Unfortunately, a subverted entertainer needs to be discredited and exposed, not simply killed.”

  “Yes, sir,” said March. “So, is this Dr. Taren an actress?”

  “Actually, she is an archaeologist.”

  March blinked. “An…archaeologist, sir?” He had not expected that.

  “She started as one, anyway,” said Censor. “A specialist in xenoarchaeology, focusing on
the extinct races that inhabited this region of space before humanity arrived. She authored a series of books that sold well, which she parlayed into a video series and several documentary movies. Dr. Taren was blessed with a degree of natural charisma, and her books and videos are quite popular.”

  “And she has been helping the Machinists?” said March.

  “This is one of the rare instances when your cynicism would be unwarranted,” said Censor. “She is a Beta Operative of the Silent Order.”

  “She is?” said March, surprised.

  “While at university, she suffered a personal tragedy in a Machinist terrorist attack,” said Censor. “We recruited her soon after that, and she has proven highly effective at ferreting out Machinist agents among both the entertainment and academic circles of Calaskar. I suspect, Captain March, that she hates the Final Consciousness just slightly less than you do…which means, of course, that the Machinists want her dead just as badly as they want you dead.”

  Understanding came to March. “Which is where I come in.”

  “That is correct,” said Censor. “Dr. Taren holds a research chair at the Royal University on Calaskar, and recently the University sponsored her most recent project, an archaeological dig on a barely charted planet called Xenostas.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” said March.

  “Not many people have.”

  “And that’s an odd name for an uncharted planet,” said March.

  “It is, in fact, a word from the language of the Kaltrili,” said Censor. March had dealt with the Kaltrili before, and they looked like a combination of an armadillo and a locust. They breathed sulfur dioxide, not oxygen, which meant they rarely came into conflict with humans over habitable planets. The Kingdom of Calaskar had fought a few wars with the Kaltrili, mostly about remote systems with rich mineral deposits, and those wars had been brief, mostly bloodless, and quickly concluded. The Kaltrili tended towards isolationism, and so long as other races ignored them, they were happy to return the favor.

  But like the Ninevehk, they were native to this portion of the galaxy.

  Not many races were native to this portion of the galaxy because most of them had gone extinct countless years ago. Scientists and scholars all had their own theories about what had caused that disappearance. March supposed that Dr. Adelaide Taren subscribed to one or another of those theories.

  But thanks to the Custodian, the insane alien AI that ruled the Eschaton system, March knew exactly which one of those theories were true.

  “What was she looking for on Xenostas, sir?” said March, a flicker of unquiet going through him as he thought of the Wraith devices that the Machinists had built.

  “She was excavating a city built by one of the extinct races,” said Censor. “It was also partly a commercial enterprise. Dr. Taren brought a film crew with her and plans to turn the expedition into a documentary series – interviews and so forth. Likely she will also write a book about it.”

  “This extinct alien race,” said March. “Does this have anything to do with the Wraith project?”

  There was a long pause.

  “We do not believe so,” said Censor. “No, we believe this is an attack of opportunity. Before Dr. Taren left Calaskar, she arranged for a high-level Machinist sympathizer to be exposed. He was arrested, and we dealt a severe blow to the network of Machinist sympathizers within the University. Likely the Machinists are taking an opportunity for revenge. Your task, Captain March, is twofold.”

  “First, to keep Dr. Taren alive?” said March.

  “That is correct,” said Censor. “Preserving Dr. Taren’s life is your first priority. She is a valuable asset to the Order, and we look after our own. Second, she is traveling with a large number of people – research assistants, other professors, graduate students, the production crew for her intended documentary, and the private security she hired for the expedition to Xenostas. Almost certainly there are one or more Machinist collaborators among them. You will need to expose and identify them. Dr. Taren herself will be of great assistance in this.”

  “Yes, sir,” said March, though he had his doubts. He had a disdain for both academics and media personalities. He thought them liars who made their living by selling deceptions and false information. It might have been a prejudice, he knew, but he had rarely seen anything to contradict that prejudice. Most likely Dr. Taren was a pretty face with little enough in the way of brains who had built a lucrative media career on her good looks. Though March would make his own assessment of Adelaide Taren when he met her. “Where should I meet Dr. Taren?”

  “In the NB8876X system, at Rustbelt Station,” said Censor.

  “Oh,” said March. He felt a headache coming on. “It’s possible I will not be welcome there, sir.”

  “Undoubtedly Administrator Heitz remembers your last visit,” said Censor in a dry tone. “Nevertheless, it must be there. Dr. Taren’s expedition is traveling aboard a modified freighter named the Shovel, and they hired two Ronstadt Corporation gunships to provide security. The Machinists are waiting for her there. They have contracted the assassination to the Graywolves mercenary gang, and the only viable hyperspace route from Xenostas to Calaskaran space goes through NB8876X and Rustbelt Station. The Graywolves and the Machinists know that Dr. Taren will have to stop at Rustbelt Station, and they plan to ambush her there.”

  “Very well, sir,” said March. “I will do what needs to be done.”

  “The head of the Silent Order branch on Rustbelt Station should have already smoothed things over with Administrator Heitz,” said Censor. “Given the importance of Rustbelt Station to our clandestine operations, it seemed likely you would need to return at some point, so the Sigma Operative in charge of the local branch has already paid the necessary bribes.”

  “I’ll have to buy him a drink, then,” said March. Of course, Constantine Bishop would insist that March buy the drink in his own establishment, the Emperor’s Rest, the nicest restaurant on Rustbelt Station.

  Granted, that wasn’t saying much.

  “The Sigma Operative has been instructed to coordinate with you on this matter,” said Censor. “You’ve worked together before, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Though depending on how quickly you get to Rustbelt Station, you might arrive before the message.”

  “Yes, sir,” said March. “I will set off for Rustbelt Station as soon as I can acquire a cargo for plausible deniability.” And to pay some bills, of course. The Silent Order was tightfisted when it came to cash.

  “Do so,” said Censor. “Remember, your first priority is to get Dr. Taren to safety. Even if you find it necessary to take her on your vessel while the rest of her team follows, do whatever is necessary.”

  “And if she doesn’t wish to leave her team, sir?” said March.

  “Persuade her,” said Censor.

  March had never been ordered to kidnap an archaeologist if necessary, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.

  “But that will probably not be necessary,” said Censor. “Based on your psychological profile and past experiences, you almost certainly just experienced an initial negative reaction to my description of Dr. Taren…”

  “It will not affect my duties, sir,” said March, because Censor was right.

  “Of course not,” said Censor. “If it did, you would not be an Alpha Operative. But Dr. Taren is quite competent and will see reason. I am sending you a briefing packet of materials related to her. I suggest you familiarize yourself with them. The information will prove useful.”

  “I will, sir,” said March.

  “One final matter of business,” said Censor. “Before she departed Calaskar, Dr. Taren was given a code phrase that would identify an Alpha Operative that approached her, should it prove necessary. Only Dr. Taren knows that code phrase, and you should only use it when you are alone with her to identify yourself. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” said March.

  “Very good. The phrase is ‘the bomb was locat
ed in the drive shaft.’”

  March nodded, committing the phrase to memory. Odd choice for a code phrase, but he didn’t make these decisions. “I have it, sir.”

  “Good,” said Censor. “Her counterphrase is ‘the surgery was never forgotten.’ The task is in your hands now, Captain March. Do your utmost to rescue Dr. Taren and identify any Machinist collaborators in her immediate circle. She is a valuable part of the Order, and we need her returned alive.”

  “I will, sir,” said March. Whatever he thought about Dr. Taren and academics in general was irrelevant.

  He had his orders, and he would carry them out.

  Chapter 3: Gunships

  March spent the rest of the day on Antioch Station, preparing for his flight to the NB8876X system and Rustbelt Station.

  The first step was to find a cargo. That would give March a cover story for flying to NB8876X, and would also provide some needed funds. Once March logged onto the station’s network, it did not take him long to find cargoes heading for Rustbelt Station. The first was to take a load of sealed meals to the Emperor’s Rest Bar & Restaurant on Rustbelt Station, the proprietor one Constantine Bishop. March accepted the job and arranged for the cargo to be loaded. Hoping to stack some jobs together, he also accepted a cargo of medical supplies, a second of machine parts, and a third of some hydroponics components. That would fill the Tiger’s cargo bay, but it would more than pay for the cost of the trips and leave quite a bit left over.

  Sometimes doing the business of the Silent Order got expensive.

  March also spent money on the usual preparations for a long interstellar journey. He topped off the Tiger’s supplies of water, oxygen, and foodstuffs, and hired a set of cleaning drones to go over the living quarters of the ship. While March kept his possessions and tools in good order and made sure the ship was running, he did not always pay attention to proper housekeeping. It was possible that he might need to take Dr. Taren and some of her team on the Tiger, and best to clean up for guests. The fact that March wanted to do so amused him because he cared nothing for what Dr. Taren or her team might think about anything.