The Karasor Page 10

  They had to wait several minutes while another boat unloaded its cargo into the ship’s bay. When it was their turn, his pilot brought them down between the stacks of supplies. Narikin stepped out and dragged his ditty-bag after him. The deck-master approached and asked him for his travel papers. He handed them over and waited patiently while the details were checked. Then the deck-master bowed and called a guard. “Take Prince Narikin to his cabin while I inform Captain Uigur of his arrival.”

  Narikin was slightly peeved to hear his title rather than his rank being used; he was a junior officer now and should have been addressed as such. However, he made no comment. The guard picked up his bag, slung it over his shoulder and headed through the double-doors out of the bay. Narikin had to run to keep up.

  The ship was packed with three times the normal number of crew. The bases between Awa and Sarillon were to be reinforced and hundreds of foot-soldiers were being transferred from their quarters on the moon. They were wearing armour and carrying weapons, talking loudly as they queued for billets on the lower decks. The corridors were also stacked with supplies; cases were everywhere and getting past them was difficult.

  More than once, Narikin lost sight of the guard in the crush. Then they climbed up the stairs to the upper decks where it was noticeably quieter and eventually he was led to the officers’ corridor. The guard unlocked a door and opened it for him, dumped his ditty-bag on the floor.

  The room was bigger than he expected. There was a small shower room with a toilet and sink. There was a fresh tatami mat on the floor. The bed had been made and there was a bowl of fruit on the single table against the wall.

  “Are you sure this is the right cabin?” he asked the guard. “This looks like a senior officer’s cabin to me...”

  But the guard was already leaving. As the door closed, he heard the key being turned in the lock. Puzzled, he stood for a moment in the middle of the room.

  On the Kyzylagash, he had been happy to share a smaller cabin. He had become used to going to the showers at the end of the corridor and eating in the mess-hall with the other recruits. Now, he wondered if he would be expected to see the captain in formal robes rather than his uniform, with his face covered by the veil.

  He unpacked his bag before somebody came to do it for him. There was a lacquer cabinet by the bunk and a large wardrobe by the door. He checked his camera to see if it had survived the journey through the crowded corridors and was relieved to see that it was intact. Apart from the tantō-blade, it was the most valuable thing he possessed – valuable to Kruvak as well as to him.

  He took the blade and put it on the bed under the pillow. He put his journal and writing materials on the table and his photographs of Amah, his family and Kimidori next to them. He put away his small-clothes in the cabinet and his spare uniform in the wardrobe along with the empty ditty-bag.

  Then he sat on the bed and waited for Captain Uigur to call for him. After a while, when nobody came, he sat on the floor, crossed his legs, and tried to meditate.

  But he could hear too many voices, some shouting, some singing, and the steady din of the soldiers in the corridors below. The pipes in the walls were noisy too; clanging and banging every time somebody ran a tap or flushed a toilet.

  He sat at the table, looked at the book of poetry Subarsi had given him. His brother, Jamadar, wrote well but it wasn’t a classic. His images were too familiar and though the lines flowed with reasonable grace, there was nothing unique about them. He could see why he had changed careers and become a soldier instead. But he wouldn’t tell him that – it wouldn’t be the best way to create a good impression. He picked a few of the best lines and tried to memorise them, writing the ideas down in his journal so he could recite them if he needed to, if the opportunity arose.

  He used the toilet and was thinking about a shower when there was a knock on the door. He heard the key turning and a steward entered.

  He knelt down and bowed until his forehead touched the mat, “Prince Narikin, I am Namaqua,” he said. “I will be attending you on this journey.”

  “I don’t require special treatment; I’m a junior officer in the rangers and I want to be treated as such...”

  “Many apologies, Prince Narikin, but Captain Uigur has ordered me to give you all that your position deserves. It would be inappropriate for me to treat you without the respect due to the son of Shōgun Karasor.”

  Narikin sighed, “Can you at least stand up and look at me while you’re speaking?”

  Namaqua peeked at him from the floor, “My lord, it is not appropriate…”

  “Please thank Captain Uigur for his generosity but I am used to being treated as an ordinary member of the clan. I will take my meals with the rest of the crew and if there are chores to be done I will gladly do my share.”

  The steward was horrified and bowed even lower, “My lord; that will not be necessary. Captain Uigur has ordered me…”

  “Perhaps I may speak with the captain…”

  “My lord, Captain Uigur regrets he cannot see you right now. Maybe later, when the ship is underway…?”

  Narikin sighed, “All right, but can we agree that I have accepted the respect you have shown me and will not require any further demonstrations of your loyalty to my father’s name...?”

  The steward looked up at him again, “My lord...?”

  “I don’t want you throwing yourself on the floor every time you enter the room.”

  The steward was sweating, caught in the dilemma of his orders from the captain and his duty to his prince. He asked, “What do you wish me to do, my lord?”

  “If you won’t stand in my presence then at least kneel and look me in the face.”

  Namaqua sat up but couldn’t bring himself to meet his eyes. “As you wish, my lord,” he said, staring at Narikin’s feet.

  “Will you show me where the mess-hall is and anything else I might need on the ship?”

  Namaqua hesitated, panicked and considered throwing himself back on the mat. “The mess-halls are being used as temporary barracks, my lord. Captain Uigur has given me the honour of providing you with your meals...”

  “All right,” Narikin agreed. “However, I would like to see the rest of the ship when it’s convenient.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said the steward, relieved.

  “When will we be setting off?”

  “We leave for the gate to Clundleby within the hour.”

  “May I go to the top deck and watch as we pass through?”

  The look of panic came back, “Many regrets, my lord, but the deck might be unsafe at this time.”

  “What do you mean ‘unsafe’?”

  The steward kept his eyes on the floor, “Our position with the machines of Clun B is unclear, my lord; the captain has ordered the ship to be locked-down until we are through their system and arrive on Awa.”

  “Perhaps as a special favour, Captain Uigur will let me see the gates from the bridge - would you ask him for me?”

  The steward bowed his head, “Of course, my lord. If there is anything else, please ring the bell…” He pointed to a button next to the bunk.

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine for now.”

  The steward left, locking the door behind him.

  Narikin was disappointed; he had been looking forward to taking a photograph of the gate to Clundleby, hoping it would become the first in a collection of wonders he would be able to show Amah and Chikutei when he returned.

  The gates, the fabled Travira Dansaii, were almost as great an achievement as Evigone itself. Within each frame, the vast distance between star systems was reduced to zero; to pass through was to cross billions of miles instantly and as easily as stepping from one room to another. And yet there was no apparent technology involved; no obvious source of power or even a lever to pull. There was nothing to indicate how they worked.

  There were more gates that joined the Second to the Third Sphere but since the Hundred Year War only a few were open, like the gate from Cl
undleby to Awa. The gate from Pentī Prime to Han was open too but defended by the Taira and his clan couldn’t use it. Because it was their duty to protect the home world, the Taira claimed exclusive access. Narikin’s father had spent years trying to negotiate with them but with no success.

  The frames of the gates were proportionally the same but appeared to be made of different materials. Some looked as though they were made of stone, others of metal and there were even a few that seemed to be made from wood. Some were carved into ornate shapes, swirls or geometric incisions, while others were plain. The gate to Clundleby was silver and in spring, when Pentī was closest, the light of the sun reflected off the surface. Narikin had seen it in the powerful telescope in the palace gardens; just a distant speck no bigger than a spark.

  He sighed and went to the table. He wrote in his journal, bringing it up-to-date with a description of his journey to the Kyzyl Mazhalyk and a few thoughts on why he couldn’t watch their passage through the gate from the top deck. If the door hadn’t been locked, he might have sneaked out with his camera and taken a picture before anyone noticed.

  He wondered why the door was locked at all. Did they think he would wander off and get lost? It was not unlikely; even though his sense of direction had improved, he knew nothing about the layout of the destroyer.

  A bell rang, announcing their departure from Pentī. He felt frustrated that he couldn’t take a last look at his home and went to the bed, lifted the pillow. He looked at his father’s tantō-blade and wondered if he should use it to order the guard to take him to the bridge. But when he thought about the one-eyed captain and remembered his last reaction, he quailed and put the pillow down again.

  He tried to memorise more passages of Jamadar’s poetry but he kept wondering how long it would be before Captain Uigur called for him; perhaps he would be invited to lunch or for dinner. He put the book down and lay on his bunk.

  It would take half a day to get to the gate to Clundleby and then another to reach the gate to Awa. He wished the cabin had a porthole but it was on an inner corridor.

  He yawned. The early start was beginning to catch up with him but he was reluctant to take a nap; perhaps the captain would change his mind. Perhaps he would invite him to the bridge to watch their exit from the Pentī system.

  Still, there was no harm in shutting his eyes for a little while…

  10 – Clundleby

  Narikin was woken up after sleeping for several hours by another knock on the door. Namaqua entered with a tray.

  “The captain apologises,” he said, “But he is unable to see you today. We are delayed in the Clundleby system and he is negotiating with the machines.”

  Narikin sat up, feeling disorientated, “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “The machines are being ‘difficult’, my lord.”

  “In what way?”

  The steward was reluctant to answer. “They are insisting on an inspection of the ship before they let us pass through their system.”

  “An inspection – will Captain Uigur allow such a thing?”

  “He may not have a choice, my lord.”

  “Perhaps I should speak with them – I have my father’s authority...”

  “We have a passport from the emperor, my lord; it should be enough.”

  “Has this happened before?”

  “Yes, my lord; the machines are worried about smugglers trying to use their gates. They want to make sure we are carrying nothing not agreed upon in our treaty.”

  “Such as...?”

  Namaqua shook his head and stared at the mat, “I do not know, my lord.” Then he begged to be excused and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Like the majority of species in the Second Sphere, the original people of Clundleby (or ‘Clun A’ as they became known) were ultra-aliens. According to legend, the Lords of Wuminger had brought them, along with the Pentī and twenty-four others, in five great arks from another galaxy many millennia in the past.

  Like the Xenoterop, the biological Clun, by accident or design, had disappeared and been replaced by machines. They had even dismantled their planet and turned it into a vast cube of interlocking plates. There was still a debate over their true nature. The Xenoterop had chosen to rid their minds of their bodies and put them into machines, but nobody knew if the ancestors of Clun B had done the same.

  However, unlike the Xenoterop, the robots were peaceful and detested conflict. They specialised in optics, like his camera or the telescope in the garden; gifts to his father after the peace treaty was signed.

  Narikin ate the food Namaqua had brought. Then he practised his exercises for an hour before having a shower. Afterwards, he lay on the bunk again and stared at the ceiling. He was beginning to feel angry; as an ordinary ensign, he might have had the run of the ship. He might even have watched as Captain Uigur negotiated with the machines.

  Theoretically, he could have taken over the command of the ship; the tantō-blade gave him that kind of authority. But perhaps Uigur believed, along with his father, that the son was too useless to be allowed to become involved; wasn’t it easier for the captain to lock his prince in a cabin and pretend he wasn’t there?

  He remembered the sound of the captain’s laughter as he’d been led away in shame and tears. He didn’t still think of him as that child, did he? And yet, why wouldn’t Uigur believe the son was still a weakling and an eternal embarrassment to the clan? What had Narikin ever done to raise his profile higher than a servant to his father?

  Though they had not said it to his face, he knew Subarsi and Nayaika worried his unworldly up-bringing would be an obstacle. But how was he supposed to grow and be the prince they wanted if every captain he met kept him locked away in a cabin rather than let him experience the harsh realities of the spheres?

  And theoretically, he knew how to negotiate too; he had listened to his father talking with his captains at the formal meals held in their honour. Did they believe his ears had been closed as he’d sat at the high table, face covered by the veil, unable to eat or drink in their presence?

  He sighed and lay down on the bunk again. There wasn’t much else he could do. He couldn’t even write in his journal – he had nothing to say.

  He thought about his potting shed in the garden and the equipment he used to make his pictures. It was not much of an achievement but he had managed a certain level of technical skill, on his own, without assistance. Not on a par with leading ships into battle or striking down enemies with a sword, but he knew he wasn’t without intelligence.

  A bell rang outside the cabin and then the captain’s voice boomed through the speakers: “Your attention,” he began, sounding very angry. “In order for us to proceed, I have given the Clun machines permission to come aboard. You will open the doors and allow them to pass unhindered. You will not engage with them. You will not speak with them unless they ask a question. Do nothing to provoke them. If anyone stands in their way I will strike them down personally.” He shouted the last part.

  The speakers clicked and then there was silence. Narikin ran to the door and put his ear against it. He could hear voices in the corridor and footsteps rushing past. Then the key turned in the lock and he stepped back and waited.

  The door opened but the guard filled the frame with his armoured body. Narikin tried to look over his shoulder but he wasn’t tall enough. He could hear people talking and then somebody cried, “One of them is coming...”

  The corridor went silent and Narikin heard a clicking and whirring sound. It came closer and then stopped in front of the warrior. “Step aside,” it said in a tinny voice.

  The machine was three or four feet tall, hovering another foot off the deck. Inside an iron framework, wheels and cogs turned, manipulating arms and levers. It came inside his cabin and Narikin backed towards the bunk. An array of lenses on a short pole swivelled and peered at him, rings turning and focussing on his face.

  Then it scanned the cabin. It paused when it caught sigh
t of the camera on the table. It crossed the room and an arm extended from the frame, turned the camera around gently until it saw its language written on the side.

  “Why do you have a piece of our technology?”

  “It was a gift,” Narikin replied.

  The cogs clicked and whirred, “Who are you?”

  “I am the son of Shōgun Karasor.”

  More clicking and whirring and then, “If this piece of our technology has not been stolen, prove it.”

  Without taking his eyes off the machine, Narikin reached for the tantō-blade under the pillow. As he brought it out, the Clun machine saw the knife and several lethal-looking blades unfolded from its frame. “Stop,” it said.

  “This tantō-blade has my father’s seal; if you permit me to show it to you, I can prove I have my father’s authority...”

  The machine moved closer, “Show me...”

  Narikin presented it to the machine and its lenses zoomed in on the seal. An aerial extended from a box on the side and the cogs froze for several seconds.

  “Confirmed; this is Shōgun Karasor’s seal. However, the blade may have been stolen too.”

  Narikin began to panic, “You also presented my father with an enlarger and other tools necessary for producing pictures; he passed them onto me...”

  “If the camera and the developing equipment was given to you, show us pictures you have taken.”

  “They’re on the table - beside my journal...”

  “Show me...”

  Slowly, Narikin went around the machine and picked up the photographs. On the top was the picture of Tosa and Chikutei. He held it up.

  “What is that?”

  “My dog,” he replied. He found the picture of Amah, “This is my dance teacher...” He held up the photograph of the palace on Kimidori, “This is our home and this...” he showed a picture of his father in full regalia, “Would be impossible for anyone but me to take...”

  The machine extended an arm and, very delicately, with a pair of tweezers that unfolded from the end, took the photograph from Narikin’s hand. It brought it up to its lens and took a long look. “What exposure did it require?”