Crossroads, p.1
Crossroads, page 1
CROSSROADS
OPERATION MARRAKESH
BOOK 5
BLAZE WARD
KNOTTED ROAD PRESS
CONTENTS
Prelude
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Read More
About the Author
Also by Blaze Ward
About Knotted Road Press
PRELUDE
Log: Directorate Cruiser, Tactical Transport Marrakesh (CTT)
Station: Horwin
Attached Special Mission Modules
A) Cargo
B) Cargo
Mission: Extended Exoarchaeology with Special Mission Shuttle
Project: C51-C9O55M33
Security Clearance: 2+
1
Captain Padraig Boru smiled as he glanced over at Squire Taggart, seated next to him on the bench in the waiting lounge of the A’Zedi Intelligence Services main Bureau.
The benches themselves were hardwood, polished by generations of uniformed bottoms. The tile was old and showed indications that it had been handpainted in mauve, about one tile in five across the floor and waist-high on the walls. It brought him comfort, the way it and his dress uniform blended together.
Many of the same folks behind the counter. All civilians, in brown or blue for the most part, so that you didn’t mistake them for sailors. Older, as well, generally middle-aged, with an air of composed sternness that hardly ever smiled.
A door opened on the far side of the counter and the Permanent First Secretary, Madam Mariami Gelashvili, stood there, smiling wryly as she spotted the two of them, alone on this side of the room, separated by a great barrier of old, polished wood.
“Captain Boru, Squire Taggart, if you would join me?” she asked.
Like that was a question, given that she had ordered them to arrive here today to discuss whatever Marrakesh’s next mission was.
Padraig rose. Nyssa Taggart had shaved her deep bronze head entirely, rather than having the buzzcut that was normally the minimum allowed. And she’d gone ahead and polished it with something to the point that it gleamed.
She also smiled more than she used to, so Padraig considered that outcome a win as he followed her down the row to the aisle and through the gap in the counter.
Madam Gelashvili’s office hadn’t changed since he’d last been in it six weeks before. Just enough time for Marrakesh to have a quick overhaul and the crew to all get some liberty after their most recent mission.
Lots more smiles there, as well. Padraig had the sort of crew these days where he expected to get jealous hate mail from his fellow captains.
Luck of the draw, certainly, but at least the Fleet had recognized that they had captured lightning in a bottle and left the crew mostly alone, though Padraig knew that he was due to lose some of his people in a year or less, unless some strings got pulled.
Tomorrow’s problem. He followed Taggart into the office and they remained standing as the Permanent First Secretary settled.
“Be seated,” she said amiably. “Boru, close the door.”
He closed the door, then sat, settling as she watched them with the most bemused expression Padraig had ever seen on the woman. Normally, she was businesslike and professional. Today, she seemed on the verge of laughter.
“Sorry,” she said after a moment. “Normally, the missions we send you on tend towards the serious, even dangerous end of things, Captain. This one might be rather a letdown for your crew.”
“Personally, I prefer quiet missions, First Secretary,” Padraig replied. “Marrakesh is a Tactical Transport. I prefer not having the weight of the entire Directorate on our shoulders.”
“This one should be more tame,” Gelashvili nodded. “But I needed to provide some background. Are you familiar with the field of cryptozoology?”
Padraig mouthed the word, but drew a blank.
“Cryptids, Madam Secretary?” Taggart asked. “Space vampires and that sort of thing?”
“I’m not entirely certain, Squire,” the woman nodded. “However, I feel you are headed in the correct direction.”
Padraig wondered if he was about to be part of some practical joke, but the First Secretary sobered and opened a file.
“There are certain elements of society that are perhaps less respected than others,” she began, glancing up from the folder, but held it in such a way that Padraig couldn’t read anything. “And yes, some of them verge madly down into odd conspiracy theories and expectations of creatures with no grounding in science whatsoever. That does not stop them from believing. Or at least grifting a good ducat along the way.”
She paused and looked up. Padraig merely nodded and listened. This woman was the Permanent First Secretary of A’Zedi Intelligence Operations. The senior-most civil servant in the building, above whom were only political appointees who came and went.
“Intelligence maintains quiet threads of contact into that world,” she continued. “Folks like that might be harmless, but they might also take some of their madness too seriously and need to be dealt with.”
Padraig noted Nyssa’s shudder at what dealt with might entail, but they were all spies these days, and some things you didn’t talk about in polite company.
“In fact, we even solicit grant writers to apply, because that lets us keep tabs on things,” their boss said. “Recently, something came up. More importantly, it appears to be interesting enough that it was brought to my attention. Something of a longshot, mind you, but even then, we maintain time and budgetary flexibility to explore such things. That’s where you come in, Boru. How well do you know your ancient history?”
Padraig perked up. History hadn’t ever been his thing in school. He’d thrived on mathematics and physics, originally hoping to make a career in the Navy as an engineer, until they’d slotted him into a command track.
“Probably not enough, Madam,” he admitted. “Easily remedied, if you point me to the right source materials.”
She nodded. Smiled even, like he’d passed some unexpected quiz.
“Before the Sovereign Collective Directorate of A’Zedi, there was Riffrost,” she said. “Legally, the United and Free Worker’s Cooperative of Riffrost. What we know of today as A’Zedi, Traisa, and Wronlori all spun off from Riffrost when it came apart, though even as late as that, the region that would become our Directorate was more of the barbarian swamps than anything. Still, the founding of A’Zedi came about because of Riffrost imploding.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded.
That much he knew. Most students managed that.
“Before Riffrost was Naara,” she continued. “The Naara Mercantile Coalition originally, but it had evolved into a rather nasty theocracy by the end. The outer portions of Naara, socially rather than geographically, rebelled and split off, eventually forming Riffrost and a few other places after a century or so of uncivil war, with the rump turning into what is today the Holy Imperium of Copez. We’re talking a stretch of roughly nineteen hundred years from the original founding of Naara until now.”
She paused.
“With you so far,” Padraig nodded.
There would be more, but he could absorb this, turn Nyssa loose on the deeper details, and have someone recommend a couple of books he could read to become enough of an instant-expert on the topic for this mission.
That was the secret to command. Become that instant expert, then forget the details when you’re done and move on to the next topic and the next mission.
“One of our contacts in that rather exotic and perhaps seedy realm claims to have been able to translate an ancient datacore that contains calculations for the current coordinates of a world,” she said in a heavier voice. “Said world supposedly contains the remains of one or more ancient starships. Given the timeframes, it is presumed within my department that any such finds would be at a lower level of technological advancement than A’Zedi and our current neighbors maintain. However, we cannot be certain. The contact submitted a grant proposal to travel to this world and investigate. We’ve decided to escalate things significantly, because he envisioned some old tub of a freighter, leaking atmosphere and barely able to make Ghost-space to travel there. I’m sending Marrakesh, but you will continue to pretend to be old, worn, and the last of the M-class boats still in service. That lets you examine anything you find, Boru. And I trust your judgment to handle it properly, if it does turn out to be a prob
It was Padraig’s turn to shudder. That was a lot of light-centuries to travel.
“Which direction?” he asked her.
“Spinward from Traisa somewhere,” she replied. “Rimward from Wronlori. The middle of nowhere, on all our maps. That’s all we have at present, as the gentleman in question isn’t entirely willing to share more until the expedition is underway. Partly, that’s his own personality. Partly his history.”
“Oh?” Padraig asked.
“Professor Nicodemus Whitlaw,” she nodded. “According to my files, an exiled Wronlori exoarchaeologist. Most recently, he’s been living in A’Zedi, haunting libraries and parts of the social fringe, where he has managed to survive on donations, grants, bullshit, and the occasional consultation on fencing of stolen goods.”
“Stolen goods?” Nyssa perked up.
“Looted antiquities,” Gelashvili nodded. “You need an expert to identify such things and properly value them for sale. There is an entire black market subculture there, as well, which is why Intelligence Operations maintains those contacts. You never know when something interesting might come up.”
“And this might qualify?” Padraig’s confirmed.
She nodded. Then shrugged.
“We can’t be sure,” she admitted. “It does, however, look good enough to send an old transport overloaded with food to investigate, with the understanding that it might turn into a full archaeological dig at some future point, with major universities getting involved and government backing. I rate the possibility as one in seven, but even that one leaves enough uncertainty that it must be investigated. And you will be a significant distance from any safe base, operating on your own in areas that have not had any sort of formal census in decades if not centuries at this point. We honestly have no idea what you might be facing. A simple freighter might vanish without a trace if something happened. I expect Marrakesh to give a better accounting of itself if it comes to that.”
“Understood, First Secretary,” Padraig said. “Sounds like I have some homework to get ready. “When will this Professor Whitlaw be reporting aboard?”
The smile was back. He didn’t like it.
“That’s the interesting part, Captain,” she offered. “He demands that you come to him to meet first. In his setting and context, as it were. Possibly, for you to understand him better, but I’m willing to bet that he wishes to score some points on his associates by showing that he really does have a mission, a grant, and financial backing.”
She closed the file and handed it across the desk.
“All the information you need is in here, and electronic copies will be transmitted to Marrakesh with more research and background material added after we’ve been able to filter from the space vampires bits,” she said. “You’ll be meeting him in situ, as it were, three days from today.”
“Uniformed?” Padraig asked sharply.
“I leave that up to you, Captain,” she nodded. “Review the files, meet the Professor, then make your arrangements to depart, knowing that we will be loading two Cargo Pods with as much food and basic gear as we can stow, to allow you to remain in the field as long as possible. There is the potential for resupply later, though if you find something truly interesting, you’ll probably be joined by a full squadron and possibly a mobile base. Again, you will ascertain the needs based on the situation and inform me. Anything else?”
“Not at present, sir,” he said. “I’ll file a set of questions once I read the material, and possibly after I meet this man.”
“Dismissed, then, Captain, Squire,” she said, watching them rise. “And good luck.”
Padraig nodded.
Sounded weird. But that was an improvement over fighting. His was a Tactical Transport, not a Line Cruiser.
And he had a lot of homework to do, it seemed.
2
Padraig had decided to dress in mufti for this…whatever it was. Basic civilian clothing, with blue slacks, white pullover shirt, and a black jacket he occasionally wore when out on an autumn day off duty on some planet.
He wasn’t armed, but he had sent Lead Expert Cameron Farrell ahead, his senior security crew member from Marrakesh. And she hadn’t transmitted any message to abort the meeting, so Padraig was crossing the landing lot and approaching the front door.
Night Eyes Brewing was the place, with a pair of animalistic eyes done in a green faded down towards yellow, pupils vertically slitted like a cat or something, on a black background. No other hints as to what kind of creature it might represent, but Padraig had spent two days deep diving into that other world.
He didn’t want to say he might have pulled something rolling his own eyes at some of these peoples’ beliefs, but he didn’t want to lie either. Some folks apparently needed something to believe in, and not all of them fell into any of the various organized religions out there.
Or maybe cryptozoology was its own religion? Hard to tell. Stories of the ancient Spider Goddess whose hyperspace webs originally linked all worlds. Or the Intergalactic Plasma Space Dragons who laid eggs on various worlds in the form of an Aurora or Australia Borealis. The supposed godlike being that lived at the exact center of the galaxy, watching everyone and everything. Tentacles in space that appeared and captured starships, making them vanish entirely.
Padraig had spent too many years in the hard confines of the military, with all its emphasis on realism, to wander off on such flights of fancy, but he supposed that he was a bad judge of what people needed emotionally.
He entered the bar, unsurprised that the lights were set dimmer than usual. And no sportsball events on any of the video screens. Instead, old movies, with the main one showing some sort of monstrous flying creature in the process of destroying a city on some world, though the sound was turned down.
Cameron Farrell was at the bar, ignoring some of the folks sitting near her to concentrate on a beer and watch the room in the bar mirror. She was armed. And extremely dangerous. He felt safer already.
Padraig moved to an empty table and climbed up onto a stool, though he could have just as easily stood at it. A waiter appeared from somewhere, putting a glass of water and a menu in front of him.
“Get you anything?” the man asked.
Padraig paused to study the man, but couldn’t identify the costume or maybe uniform he was wearing. Looked vaguely military, with crimson with strange tags and patches.
“Coffee,” Padraig decided.
Beer might be nice, but he had no idea what Professor Whitlaw would be like, other than an academic exiled from Wronlori who had somehow made it this far, then existed in A’Zedi space despite the two nations being at war again. Or still.
The waiter nodded and departed.
A man detached himself from a nearby table and walked closer. Farrell locked onto him, but Padraig didn’t think the man noticed.
Dressed in cheap pants and jacket. And not the Professor. Too young, for one thing. And weirdly proportioned, like a stick figure that had stepped out of the screen, with a build like a toothpick someone had stuck a grape onto. Weird eyes.
Probably make one hell of a good character actor if he wanted, since he had serious That Guy vibes going on, but the man smiled as he got close.
“Stranger?” the man asked.
“Meeting someone,” Padraig replied in a friendly tone.
“Oh?” the stranger asked. “Who?”
Padraig studied the man but didn’t sense any serious hostility. And Farrell could be on him in about four steps if she felt the need.
