The Good of the Order

At stiff attention, Jacovy clasped her hands behind her as the conqueror faced her. He stood nearly as tall as Lord Gavrick, and but for the silver spirals on his epaulets, he was dressed in black from neck to toe, including gloves. He moved with muscled grace and confidence and the authority of one accustomed to unquestioning obedience. She stiffened further. Under short waves of blue-streaked black hair, his face, vaguely handsome, seemed chiseled of ivory and his sapphire eyes glinted in speculation. He looked at her and she at him and it seemed that time suddenly stopped or life itself distilled to the essence that was this meeting. Selene-senses tingling, Jacovy clenched her jaw. The robed man seated at the Hashim’s right elbow glanced up from his node monitor. He was as slender as she, though not as tall, his red hair graying, his hazel eyes rimmed by spectacles, and his person decked in odd silver jewelry: a roped torque many layers wide and wrist cuffs of the same, all inscribed with the same symbols adorning the entrance. He must be important. Twixtworld shifted. He is High Lord Magistrate Boone Richardson, the Hashim’s “right arm of justice,” very important. In a graveled monotone, he introduced her. “Deborah Dianne Jacovy, Your Excellency.” “Princess of the Old Realm,” the Hashim said, his baritone resonating as from Twixtworld itself. Holding her gaze in a silent prompt, he waited … and waited still. Finally, Jacovy answered. “That I am.” “Ygg Sentinel, are you?” He studied her, his blue eyes as hard as crystal and as clear. She stood straighter. “Merely so trained. Though I’m as good as any man.” “Evidently.” Also, evidently, the Hashim had report of her eclipsing the pacers sent to “retrieve those Sentinels in the field.” Jacovy leveled her eyes. “So who are you and what do you want?” He arched a thick black brow. “I am Karlon of Xapetus, Hashim of the United Order of Planets and new liege of the Seven Worlds of Falaeria. What I want is your allegiance, Princess Jacovy. Henceforth, you will serve me for the greater good of the Order in whatever capacity you are deemed fit. Swear now.” “Not so fast, Karlon of Xapetus—” He nodded to the nearest soldier. “Terminate.” Jacovy rolled, snapping Selene-power to her fingertips, substance from intent, and firing what hopefully looked like a demi-pistol, though the energy beam ripped from her hand alone. Two Order soldiers fell, but by her intent, only unconscious. Others lunged. She bounced and rolled again, just like on the high wire, in swift, smooth arcs. Pistols flashed. She dodged a stream of deadly white light, and again forming substance from Selene-intent, winked out the lights. The computer “heartbeat” roared in protest and recovery. Her own heart thundering, she bolstered her intent, and in the tenuous darkness, crawled across the metal floor to the exit. Stratus Guards framed the solidly closed door as more soldiers converged on her. She snapped again, and shuddering as though to deny her, the door reluctantly hissed open. Light streamed in from the corridor, illuminating everything, including her. The Stratusans dropped, their robes crackling with crimson static, but Jacovy rolled out, and with another snap, burst through the surprising sting of an unseen energy field that would have netted an ordinary soldier. She hit the corridor running. Expanding her Selene-sight, she sprinted down the strangely vacant passage. The convoluted route by which she had come to the Hashim now appeared as a grid map before her Selene eyes. Many turns lay ahead, many doors now—“intruder alert!”—closing automatically. She suddenly heard the whining alarms, the pounding of boots against metal behind her, the search galvanizing, the “heartbeat” thundering in background cadence. She must hurry, but whither? No one in sight. She closed her eyes, and lowering her arms in a rapid arc, snapped, winking out as, by her Selene-will, she bent time and thrust aside space. She supposed that she glowed softly blue, her body limned in purest silver, as she moved out of the alien ship’s corridor and into a small closet piled high with spare parts in a support services bay of Pavilion hangers. She paused to catch her breath, and death sentence on her head, considered her options. Only one rang true: sail out and find Mjollnir, find Lord Gavrick. If they somehow joined forces, warrior lord and Selene princess, perhaps they could defeat this tyrant. But she laughed at herself; Twixtworld had shown her the conqueror’s might, his legions vast and cohesive. Lulled by centuries of decadent ease and leisure upon the labor of others, Falaeria proper had nothing, the Seven Worlds had nothing, that would best such an army. But she could at least warn Gavrick; together they could plan something. **Treason is a true death sentence—** The Hashim’s baritone whispered into the closet and into her mind like Selenese. **—action ill-advised.** --- Warrior Lord Gavrick sat tall in his pillar seat. Something was wrong. He asked again, “No response, Ensign Eldorad?” “No, m’lord.” The trainee comm specialist glanced up anxiously. “No response from any command post.” Even the veterans fidgeted. The Ygg lord barked, “Convene senior officers in the Bridge Briefing Chamber.” In the BBC, sequestered from trainees who might panic, Gavrick surveyed his half-dozen officers hastily assembled. He kept his comments brief, his conclusions as foregone as standard operating procedure. “As of now, we assume the Seven Worlds are under attack and that Mjollnir may be Falaeria’s last hope. To your posts, men, and try to keep the youngsters calm.” “Aye, m’lord. Aye, m’lord.” Silently, battle-ready, they shot for home and upon Kingdom perimeter encountered the alien fleet. The bridge fell silent, nay, the entire ship stopped breathing. “Must be billions of them,” Bosco murmured in his boyish squeak. Gavrick studied the black and silver horde, as thick as … locusts. Jacovy’s vision. He clenched his fist. His heart sank. He saw tens of thousands of dreadnoughts, hundreds of thousands of mid-size battle cruisers, and millions of uniscoot-class fighters. There would be hundreds of millions of men. Hailing signal chimed. Unsurprised, he flipped his gaze. “They see us, m’lord.” Eldorad repeated the obvious. “Open Comstreak.” The bridge rumbled with an alien basso, firm, matter-of-fact. “Commander of battle cruiser Mjollnir, acknowledge and identify.” Gavrick hit his comm button. “Mjollnir. Lord Wilhelm Gavrick, High Command, Golden Branch, Sentinels of Ygg, Kingdom of the Seven Worlds of Falaeria. Identify yourself.” “Battle cruiser Terminus, Fleet Admiral Constantin Criznai, Star Command, United Order of Planets. The Kingdom is now under Order control, Hashim Karlon of Xapetus, presiding.” Again, Criznai spoke firmly, asserting command without crowing. “Lord Gavrick, you will surrender immediately and accept escort back to Falaeria. Acknowledge.” Everyone turned to him, astonished “say-it-ain’t-so,” in their eyes. The Ygg lord growled under his breath. He pressed his comm button. “My men?” “If our objective had been to kill you, Lord Gavrick, we would have already executed.” Gavrick nodded to himself. He had known that, but his trainees hadn’t. Now he could fight, go out in a blaze of glory and look the martyred hero to his handful of too-willing-to-die young men—for the ten seconds it would take Criznai’s fleet to blast Mjollnir out of existence—or he could surrender, face the new liege, buy time for his men and himself to decide. With Jacovy’s face in the forefront of his mind, sad, but not disapproving, he hit the comm button again. “Admiral Criznai, Mjollnir surrenders. We await course heading and further orders.” His men gasped, whether in relief or disgust depended on the man, but Warrior Lord Gavrick sat tall in his pillar seat. He need not justify his decision to anyone.