Empire's Legacy

Chapter 1: Enter, Pursued By a Care

Peleteth Spaceport, in the Nerat system, was one of the most trafficked ports in the sector and the main hub for ships travelling from the outliers towards the central Commissioner planets, and vice versa. Level Five, reserved primarily for government and larger ships, was one of the busiest docking rings on the spaceport, but no matter where you disembarked, it was easy to disappear on Peleteth. It was one of the reasons it was such a popular port. Step off a transport, and the crowds swallowed you in an instant. No one wanted to know who you were or where you were going; no one asked too many questions. For the most part, everyone was too busy with their own lives to worry about anyone else's. As long as people had the right papers, kept their heads down, and stayed out of the Commission's way, no one tended to notice one more inconspicuous, unremarkable passenger moving across the galaxy.

Of course, it helped to have multiple identities.

The smell of hot oil and old engine grease permeated the main promenade on Level Five, seeping through the ventilation grates and winding invisible, insidious tendrils around synthetic clothing fibers that lingered for weeks after departure. Commissioner patrols walked the promenade in pairs, poking the ends of their rifles into stacks of cargo, their faces unreadable behind tinted visors as they watched passengers debark from the incoming ships. Smoke from food stalls and malfunctioning equipment drifted across the ring, settling in a faint haze near the top of the promenade. The buzz of voices provided a steady backdrop of sound, out of which an occasional word or phrase would sometimes emerge; the deck plates rumbled periodically as ships started up and disengaged from their dock, departing for destinations unknown. A steady stream of new arrivals poured through the promenade and made their way to transfer pods or to one of any number of food vendors lining the walls, always mindful of the constant eye of the patrols.

A young woman, recently disembarked an Idyllan transport, stood for a moment and surveyed the promenade before approaching a stall operated by a man whose hand and facial tattoos identified him as hailing from one of the Eratal moons. He served her a plate, but his eyes flickered repeatedly from her face to the pair of guards across the way. Once paid, he shook his head at the next customer and pulled a grate down over the front of his shop before disappearing out the back.

The young woman carried her tray to a mostly empty table in the middle of the promenade, plunking it down and dropping her bag on the deck beside her. Flicking a glance at her surroundings, she slid onto the bench and tore off a piece of spiced flatbread, noting that two guards had been dispatched in the direction of the vendor from whom she'd just received her meal. Though interesting, it was irrelevant; having mentally logged it, she concentrated on her meal, keeping a tendril of awareness on the children roughhousing nearby. Two of them darted behind her, laughing; one tripped over the edge of her bench and fell across her bag. Mumbling apologies, he popped to his feet, but found himself pinned in place as the woman caught his ear between her fingers.

"Looking for this?" she asked quietly, holding up a wallet in her other hand.

The kid's eyes widened, but to his credit, he said, "Glad I found your credits, miss."

She ruffled his hair. "Next time you swipe something, kiddo, make sure your mark isn't a better pickpocket than you."

He nodded and bolted, leaving her to glance through the contents of her wallet before returning to her meal.

"Would you have called for the Commies?"

Her back stiffening, the woman set down her fork and looked up. A tall woman stood on the other side of the table, hands clasped behind her back.

"Make a habit of eavesdropping, do you?"

"Manners dictate that one should not, if it can be avoided," the other woman replied. "But I have good hearing. I'm looking for Amy Jones."

Amy's head came up and she took a better look at the other woman. "I should have known. You're Kitaran. The beadwork."

The other woman swung a chair around and straddled it. "You are Amy Jones, then?"

"Actually," Amy said, carefully tearing off another piece of flatbread and dipping it in the sauce, "it's Doctor Jones. But you knew that."

"Indeed."

Amy popped the bread into her mouth. "Ramina de Sara, isn't it?" she asked around the mouthful. "Glad you found me so easy. I was planning to just turn up at the berth. Always nicer to have an escort." The deck plates reverberated beneath their boots, and they both glanced to the side in time to see a freighter sail past the observation windows. "Or do you prefer Commander?"

"As you wish."

Amy studied her for a moment, her fingers tapping against the table. "I take it you're waiting on me." Ramina regarded her silently. "That's a yes, then." She sighed. "I'm hungry. Let me finish my meal. I'm paying you, remember?"

De Sara stood. "The crew of the Sophia awaits your pleasure, Doctor Jones. Level Three, Docking Port C2."

As she turned to leave, Amy called, "Commander!"

De Sara turned, the beads in her hair clicking.

"How did you know who I was?"

De Sara smiled slightly and didn't answer. Amy watched her walk away, then stabbed her fork at her curried replimeat. Three stabs later, she gave up on the meat, sopped up the last of the sauce, and picked up her bag, a frown on her face. Slinging the strap over her shoulder, she headed off the promenade, and within moments was lost in the swirl of the crowd.

Docking Port C2 housed a small, battered ship. Her oversized engines, tucked tight against her belly, looked disproportionately powerful and out of place attached to a ship of her size. The letters So and a were visible on the hull; the rest of the letters and the registration were obscured by a combination of years of accumulated space junk and what looked suspiciously like weapons residue. Two grappling arms, currently resting in their retracted position, dominated the front of the ship like the protruding elbows of a praying mantis.

Bruch's Violin Concerto No. 1 in G Minor echoed through the ship, the static of the less-than-pristine comm system disrupting the smooth distribution of the sound. Deep in the bowels of the ship, cradled between the twin engines, a big man lay on his back beneath a stripped piece of machinery and hummed to himself, earplugs rendering him happily oblivious to the music around him. A deck above him, a man with short, spiky hair slung cargo across the hold with more force than necessary, ignoring Bruch and singing both parts of a Lorathian love duet at the top of his lungs. And in the middle of the ship, Ramina de Sara stood with her hands clasped behind her back and watched the man seated in the center of the flight deck, his legs draped over the arm of his chair and his chin propped in his hand.

"It isn't that I dislike Bruch," de Sara said at last. "He is no more or less objectionable than any other old Earth composer. My objection is to your unfortunate tendency to playing Bruch ad nauseum when you're worried."

"I like it," offered the third occupant of the flight deck, a lavender-haired young woman with her feet on the pilot's console. "You should play it more often when we're flying, Captain."

"I'll keep it in mind." The captain rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his head sideways to look up at de Sara. "She's not coming, Ramina."

"Patience. She gave no indication of not coming. If we just wait—"

He sat up and swung his legs around until his boots hit the deck. "We don't have the credit to sit in dock any longer. Dammit, Ramina, you should've just brought her aboard."

De Sara raised her eyebrows. "I doubt kidnapping a respected historian would slide beneath the Commission's radar, Morgan."

"Wishful thinking," he said, and then suddenly leaned forward. "Is that her?" He stabbed his finger at the crackling vidscreen in front of the pilot's seat, which showed a figure moving down the corridor leading to the airlock.

De Sara narrowed her eyes at the fuzzy image, and then said, "Yes, I believe it is."

"Thank god," the captain said, and then frowned as Amy stopped in front of the airlock. "What the hell took her so long? Never mind, get down there and collect her. Damn woman probably has no idea how space works." As de Sara nodded and departed, he slouched back in his chair and flicked a switch. "Taz, Benji, flight deck, now. Our benefactor has arrived."