The Ring of Ritornel

Book 495: Gateway Essentials

by Charles L. Harness

Genres: Hard Science Fiction; Space Opera

Synopsis

A science fiction novel of revenge and retribution set against a background of galactic civilisations.

Release date: July 30, 2015

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 192

Sample

Chapter 1

 

“Magister,” said the captain deferentially but firmly, “I will take you no farther. We are now well beyond the danger point, and we have yet to close the quarry.”

The young man in the simple blue tunic smiled. “Your jaw is set hard, Captain, and your face is pale. Are you afraid?”

Captain Andrek studied his guest with blunt honesty. He found such chill hauteur vaguely disquieting in one who had barely attained his majority. This, he presumed, was the consequence of centuries of ancestors accustomed to command. The young man’s dark, humorless eyes held a striking presence; he wore no ornament of rank, or badge of authority, nor had he need of any.

The captain thought briefly of his own background, and knew there was no comparison. For generations the Andreks had given their share of professional men to the advancement of their corner of civilization: military men, physicians, advocates, artists, even theologians for the temples. The captain had a tremendous respect for the nonviolent professions, but he loved space and—some said—danger, and was happiest in action and combat. He had long ago reconciled himself to the probability that he would be killed in service. Yet, now, when the moment seemed clearly upon him, he was shaken. It was all wrong. This was not a proper way to die. Furthermore, he was totally unaccustomed to this brute clash of wills. He did not know how to deal with it. Still, a direct question had been put to him, and he had to try to answer it.

“Afraid, sire? I served with your father in the Terror mop-ups. After he died, I served your uncle, the Regent. Next week, after your coronation, I hope I will be privileged to serve you, as I have them. Until now, sire, no Delfieri has asked me whether I was afraid. And until now, I have not been afraid. But now … Yes, sire, I am afraid—that you may not return from this hunting trip. And it is a great fear.”

“I have given you a direct order, Captain.”

The officer stood mute.

It was suddenly becoming clear to the other officers and crew that in this conflict between two personalities, the irresistible force, whose very whim was the law of the Home Galaxy, had finally met an immovable object—their captain. And it was equally clear that this kind of thing had never before happened to the young man in blue. At first, he was too astonished to be angry. Even when he got over his surprise, he was still not angry; only logical.

“Captain, you are right on one point. We are running out of time. But the trail is hot. It is now or never, for I can never come here again. You will proceed as ordered, or I will have you shot for mutiny.” His voice was almost casual.

Captain Andrek, not commonly given to the use of adjectives in his thinking, now found himself indulging in strange imagery, and he considered his own mental processes with mingled fascination and amazement.

Throughout his long career in the League navy, death had been a very personal and intimate companion. His wife (whom he had adored while she lived) had wryly named death his mistress. This had puzzled him. He had always accepted death as a condition of his life, but had never (he thought) actively sought her. There were rules about death in the service. All his life he had followed the rules. He had been faithful to his contract with death, and it had never occurred to him that finally death would be unfaithful. She was sometimes cruel (he’d often wondered whether he would die screaming), but at least his own death ought to be a phenomenon directed exclusively at him, and in which he would play a vital role. And now this. Death by default. Death was bored by him—if it noticed him at all. It was a farce, a silly playlet without merit or point, a chance encounter between strangers. Death was not scintillating; death was a mindless oaf.

He thought of his sons. Omere the poet—the strange one. And Jamie, the logical one, not yet in his teens. From here on in, they would have to take care of each other.

He looked around calmly at the shocked faces of the under-officers, then spoke to the lieutenant. “If I am killed, it is nothing. But get the ship out of here, quickly.”

The young man in the blue tunic nodded to his aide. “Huntyr, kill him.”

Huntyr was a big man, yet quick and nervous in his movements. He had none of the ponderous gentleness that often accompanies a big frame. His face held more cunning than intelligence. And it was a subservient face, which frankly drew its substance from the young Magister, thereby being pleasantly released from personal judgments and choices between moral values. Captain Andrek wondered where Oberon had picked him up. The association seemed to reflect some subterranean malignancy in Oberon’s own mentality, and augured ill for his approaching reign.

Huntyr started to draw his biem.

The young man frowned. “Not the biem, you fool. It will not fire in the Node area.”

“Sorry.” Huntyr replaced the biem, drew his slug-gun in a smooth motion, and fired. Captain Andrek staggered against the ward room wall, clutching his chest. There, he floated up slowly in a weightless heap. Blood circled a neat hole in his shirt over his heart.

Oberon sighed. “Get rid of him.”

Two ratings finally clacked on magnetic shoes over to the corpse and shoved the body ahead of them into the pilot room.

“Lieutenant,” said the young man to the nearest stricken face, “will you accept my orders?”

Just at this moment, parts of the lieutenant’s cerebral processes were jammed, awry, and other parts were whirring senselessly. Nothing inside his head seemed to mesh, grab, or take hold. Nothing like this had ever come up in the classrooms at the Academy. However, his ultimate reaction, while not textbook, nevertheless promised survival.

“Yes, sire,” he whispered.

“Good. What is the latest on the quake?”

“Time is still oh-seven-hundred.”

“Probability?”

“Oh-point-eight-nine. Up two-tenths, sire.”

“Have you ever been in a quake, Lieutenant?”

“No, sire.”

“Do you know anyone who was ever in a quake?”

“Yes, sire. That is, I knew them before …”

“Before they were killed in the quake, you mean.”

“Yes, sire.”

“Xerol is a very strong little ship, Lieutenant, specially built. It’s supposed to resonate with the wavelength of the quake.”

“Yes, sire.”

“But you don’t really believe it, do you?”

“I believe Xerol is strong and specially built, sire. And it might even resonate. But a space quake is like a living thing, sire, contrary and capricious. It might not vibrate at the predicted frequency. Or it might start out at the right frequency and then change to another one. Those physicists at the Node Station are sometimes wrong. And if I may make a point, sire, they left the station two days ago.”

Oberon laughed.

“If I am concerned,” said the lieutenant, “it is not for the ship, or myself, or the crew.”

Oberon frowned. “Let’s not go into that again. Now, if you would help me into this suit.”

“Of course, sire. Yet—” He hesitated. “May I speak freely?”

“Please do.”

“The Magister is proving a thing that does not need to be proved.”

“You are oversimplifying, Lieutenant. You perceive only limited sets. After my coronation, there shall be no more hunting. The last of the Delfieri will belong to the state, body and soul. So, in this last hour I must get enough hunting to last the rest of my life, for I shall never enter the Node again. When I grow old sitting at the Twelve-Table in the Great House, I want this to remember, and to think back on.” He paused, musing. “Do you know the son of the late Captain Andrek, Omere the Laureate?”

“Only by reputation, sire.”

“Omere has written an epic for my coronation. He will soon program it into the great computer, for delivery with full orchestration at the proper time in the ceremonies.”

“It is known, sire,” said the officer cautiously.

“How can an epic be written for a man who has reached his majority and done nothing?”

“Omere writes for your being the crown, sire. Not for doing anything. It is not necessary to do anything.”

Oberon brushed that aside. “It may be something of an advantage never to have done anything,” he said dryly, “and there may be even a degree of notoriety in this. Yet it can be carried too far. I would like to justify that epic. Omere is the greatest poet in all the Thousand Suns. I have heard a pre-run of the tape. It makes my skin tingle. I think to myself, am I this Oberon of whom he sings? Oh, to own a brain like that! I would rather have written the epic than slay the krith. When I am crowned, I think I shall attach him permanently to the Great House, whether he will or no.”

He turned to the raman at the scope. “Report,” he said softly.

“Eighteen kilometers. Course steady. Closing, one kilometer per minute,” The raman’s voice took on an uneasy edge. “Sire, the mass confirms at twenty-one hundred kilos. It is probably a krith.”

“Of course it is a krith,” murmured Oberon. “The most vicious of the cryotheres.”

The lieutenant broke in. “Shall I load the bow guns, sire?”

“Certainly not.” Oberon picked up his helmet.

“May I assemble a rifle party to accompany you?” said the lieutenant unhappily.

“No.” Oberon pulled his helmet down over his chest and locked his visor. “Cut engines in five minutes.” His voice took on a mocking metallic quality through the intercom. “And stop sweating. It makes me nervous.”

“Sire, we have to be out of the Node within the hour …”

“I know. Now cease this concern with trivialities and attend to business. As soon as I leave, activate the tractor beam and stand by to focus out a line on the meanest creature ever hauled out of the Node.”

The lieutenant gave up. “Yes, sire.” He opened the inner door of the space lock, helped Oberon into the cramped chamber, and spun the hatch shut behind him.

A few seconds later Oberon floated free of the little ship, and the exhaust of his suit-jet twinkled in an ever-lengthening trail ahead of the ship. He gave himself twenty minutes to find and slay the krith, ten minutes to rendezvous with the ship, and lock the tractor beam, and a final thirty minutes to get Xerol out of the quake area.

The ship disappeared behind him into the black depths of the Node.

Oberon looked about him into dark nothingness and felt a sudden awe. He was at the center of creation. He pondered this. The universe expands. Hydrogen is continuously created. Yet the density of matter remains a constant—about one proton per cubic meter. Which means that space must also be continuously created. Where does this new space and new matter first greet the universe? As far away from existing matter—which is to say, the galaxies—as possible. This locus is the central area between the galaxies. And where the galaxies appear as groups or clusters, this locus is at their center, their Node. So space is born out of the womb of the Deep, and begins life at the Node.

How strange, the Node! Here, at the geometric center of the Twelve Galaxies, the expanding universe gives birth to new space, amid titanic birth pangs, vast quakes in space that release unimaginable energies. And strange life-forms come to feed on those energies, and stranger life preys on that life. At the bottom of the life cycle are the ursecta, minute creatures like the plankton in the great seas of his home planet, Goris-Kard. The ursecta in turn are the staple diet of larger creatures, and these in turn are eaten by still larger. And at the top of this pyramid of cryotheres are the great carnivores, and of these the most dangerous is the winged spider, the krith, fast, cunning, terrible.

He looked about him. The darkness was total. This was not surprising. The Node was the point in space farthest from matter in this part of the universe: the central point of the vast hypothetical dodecahedron formed by the twelve faces of the local cluster of galaxies.

From here, the individual galaxies—each over three million light-years distant—were barely visible as hazy points of light. He turned over slowly and looked about him. One by one he picked out the twelve. “Overhead” was a pinpoint of light, the Home Galaxy—at this distance, not detectably different from its spiral neighbor, Andromeda. By twisting his head he found the others. In all, three spirals, six ellipsoids, and three irregulars. Actually there were four irregulars, if both of the Magellanics were counted. But everyone—including the Magellanics themselves—considered the twin clouds as one. Twelve in all. Alea completed.

Even as he stared, something blotted out the points of light ahead of him. And then something long and sticky struck his side and coiled like a whip around his waist, where it clung. The great arachnid was trying to truss him up in a web before closing in. But he was prepared for this, and cut the strand ends immediately. And then another filament hit him, and another. For a few seconds he was very busy with the knife.

Finally free, he checked his scope hurriedly.

The krith filled the plate. It was charging.

Despite his thermals, Oberon suddenly felt cold.

He lined up the cross hairs of the slug-gun. The creature had to be hit in the body. A wing shot was worse than useless. When the metal pellets penetrated the chitinous shell of the body, they provided nuclei that immediately crystallized the beast’s already supercooled body fluids. The horrid creature would be converted instantly to a frozen statue, and could then be hauled back to Goris-Kard for dissection and mounting.

He fired. Even as the recoil turned him head over heels, he knew the shot had hit a wing.

And then something gashed him painfully in the leg. Frozen spatters of his own blood clattered against his helmet. He turned wildly to fire again. But his port body jet had been hit. He spun in a crazy arc. The cross hairs wouldn’t line up. He was hit again—in the back—hard. A filament coiled around his gun and jerked it loose from his hands. The krith was trying to kill him so that he would freeze. After that, he could be hauled away to some distant webby lair and there be eaten at leisure.

But just as he had resigned himself to death, he heard urgent voices on his phones, and sensed that guns were firing all around him. Huntyr and the lieutenant had followed him, and had witnessed his humiliation. Before he blacked out, he cursed.

They revived him on board. He glared up at Huntyr’s white face and managed a harsh whisper. “I told you not to follow me.”

The aide gestured helplessly. “Sire, we had to come after you. Just after you left, the lieutenant received a revised estimate of the quake from the computer-broadcaster at the Node Station.”

“Really?” His eyes shifted to the lieutenant. “Well?”

The lieutenant licked his lips and looked at his watch. He spoke with difficulty. “It’s due in two minutes, plus or minus thirty seconds.”

Oberon looked over at him curiously. “What are you doing about it?”

“I’ve called the Group. They’re sending two flights—one to come into the quake zone. The other will stand outside. After the quake, the second flight will come in also.”

“I see. You don’t think either flight can do anything?”

“Not really, sire. We’re still very close to epicenter. If we get out, we won’t need either flight. If we don’t get out, the first flight will get hit the same as us. In that case, the second flight will come in afterward for what is left of us.” The young officer knew he was not saying it properly, but he rushed on. “And now, sire, if I might make a suggestion, we want to get you inside this special emergency suit, with foam sealant.”

“I suppose so. Pass the word, suits for all hands.” Oberon sighed. “A frustrating day.” He reached into the blue folds of his tunic and drew out his necklace with its pendant, the golden dodecahedral die of Alea. Each face bore a number, from one to twelve, and each number was a sign from Alea. He unfastened it and held it in his palm a moment.

“Perhaps Alea will say how it shall be with us.”

Huntyr’s face was ashen. “It is sacrilege to call idly on the goddess!”

“Whether I call idly is entirely up to Alea,” said Oberon calmly. He let the die float away and took the foam suit from the lieutenant. “When the quake comes, Xerol will be her die cup.”

“It’s Xerol, all right,” said the rescue commodore softly. Not being given to superfluities, he added only mentally, or what’s left of her.

The search beam from the patrol launch stroked the stricken ship from stem to stern. There was no movement.

The commodore barked into the communicator. “Lock on, midship, by that break in the plates. I want four men with torches to slice out a hole big enough for a stretcher party. On the double. They’ll save time if they work next to the crack in the hull. When you get inside, spread out. I’m coming in with you, and I’ll start with the pilot room. Call me there if you find anything.”

He was not surprised at what he found inside Xerol. The portable searchlights showed havoc everywhere. The quake must have continued for some time after it had broken the spine of the ship and let in the awesome cold of space. Men had been quick-frozen and their bodies cracked like whips. As he worked his way up to the pilot room an occasional arm or leg floated past him, and his stomach began to writhe.

The door was jammed, and they had to burn it off its hinges. Inside, he saw Captain Andrek, not even suited, and slumped queerly on the wall. The whole thing was incomprehensible. The captain was a splendid officer, with an impeccable record. It had been his duty to protect the Magister, but he obviously had failed in his duty. Perhaps the captain was lucky. Had he lived, he would face a summary court-martial and certain death.

Just then he got an urgent call on the communicator. “Commodore! Calling from sick bay!”

He didn’t get it at first. “Sick bay?”

“Xerol sick bay, sir. Looks like we’ve found the Magister. His chest is crushed, but he may be alive. And another chap, a big fellow with his head banged up. Sealant still oozing out of their suits, no pulse, but body temperatures within permissible limits.”

“Stretcher them out of there. I’ll alert our own sick bay to get ready. Anybody else?”

“No, sir. Everybody else was killed. We’ll need a fair-sized burial detail.”

“No time for that, Sergeant. We’ll send a tug out later for Xerol. You get the Magister on board within three minutes or you will never see Goris-Kard again.”

“Yes, sir.”

The commodore met them on the catwalk. It was indeed the Magister. The other one, the big man, he did not recognize. And the Magister’s chest, as reported, was indeed crushed. Jagged red pieces of rib bone had punctured the suit. Foam had evidently covered some of the protruding pieces and had then broken away. The commodore’s stomach was bothering him again. As the sergeant hurried past, he held out his hand and gave the commodore something. “What is this, Sergeant?”

“An Alean die, sir. It’s gold. Must belong to the Magister.”

“What number was showing?”

“Number one, sir.”

The commodore, a practicing Alean, felt his flesh crawl. One, the sign of the false god Ritornel, and disaster at the Node. It had to be. “Carry on, Sergeant,” he growled.

 

Chapter 2

For a long time the vibrations and the flashing lights seemed only a part of Jimmie’s dream. In the dream, he was at the Node, the crossroads of the universe, and the gods were dicing for his life. At each roll of the die, a great space quake would crash through his body, and in his head the lights would go on and off.

Jimmy finally woke up, and when he did, he was awake all over. He didn’t have to stretch and cough and groan the way Omere did. He turned off the alarm button on his night table. The bed ceased its rhythmic insistent shaking, and the ceiling lights stopped flashing and came on full. Jimmie didn’t even have to look at the clock face. He knew that it was four in the morning, and that Omere wasn’t home. Because if Omere were in bed, Jimmie’s alarm would automatically have been deactivated. Therefore Omere wasn’t home.