The Iron Admiral: Conspiracy (3 page)

Medical labs? It seemed strange but what did she know? “I’m sure that’s fascinating.”

“It is, very. Look, I’m about to start my shift. Can I walk you home?”

“Thanks, I’d be grateful.”

He pushed himself up off the bench. “Where are you staying?”

“Up at the mine.”

“Easy. The labs are up there, too.”

They walked together out of the settlement and its climate membrane into the humid heat beneath the

trees.

“What are the labs for?” Allysha asked.

His face lit up. “It’s fascinating work. We’re looking at some of the venomous critters on this planet, particularly the karteks and thranxes.”

Those. Allysha had seen them in the orientation on the flight to Tisyphor. Karteks were large, bipedal beasts with long, strong forearms sporting three wicked-looking claws that contained poison. And

thranxes; those things were enough to cause a person to have nightmares; a creature about a meter long, heavily-spined and with a barbed tail that it could lift over its back.

She pulled a face and he laughed. “They’re not very nice, no. But they’re interesting. Kartek venom is a neurotoxin—it affects the nervous system. It doesn’t hurt much at the time but it will kill you in the end.

And thranxes use a particularly virulent form of necrotoxin.”

“Necrosis—that means death doesn’t it?”

“That’s right, but it’s death at a cellular level. Thranx venom kills the cells and liquefies them. It’s a particularly nasty way to die. The victim is sort of dissolved internally.”

Urrk. Disgusting. They hadn’t told her that in the orientation. “What possible beneficial use could you make of that?”

“Oh, venoms can often be used to make beneficial medicine. That’s what we’re doing; experimenting to

see what works.”

They’d reached the mine. Jarrad allowed Allysha to enter the main drive first. She breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped into the tunnel. Amazing how much cooler it was in here, even without climate

conditioning.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs that led to her quarters Jarrad said, “It was great to meet you. Maybe we could catch up for a drink tomorrow or the next day?”

She smiled at him. “Sure. I’d like that.” And she would. Maybe it was time to make a few friends,

distance herself from Sean. It would be nice to have someone else to talk to. She waved and ran up the steps, two at a time. At least she had a friend; it felt good.

She opened the door and the lights came on. The ptorix art seemed somehow to be a little more visible, as though the intricate patterns were trying to push through the veil of whitewash, to be seen and

understood. The mine manager lived here; generations of mine managers. What stories could they tell

about this place? What story could the last mine manager tell?

The past tugged at her. Van Tongeren and his crews had demonstrated total ignorance and disdain for

anything ptorix. Maybe this apartment had more to reveal to someone with the eyes to see.

Allysha studied the walls, looking for the paired, swirling patterns the ptorix used to indicate cupboards.

Ah. There on the wall in the living room. She pressed the two openers and the door slid back, revealing several stone shelves. Damn. Nothing but scuffed dust. If there had been anything there, it had been

taken. She moved on to the bedroom.

The wardrobe filled most of one wall. She peered around the other walls, straining to find door symbols through the whitewash, to no avail. Sighing, she plonked down on the bed. There had to be something, at least a wardrobe, but if it was behind the grey monstrosity, she wouldn’t be able to get to it. Damnation.

So disappointing. She glanced around the room once more.

A swirl, just above the bed head. Yes. Elated, she shoved the bed aside.

The door slid open at her touch. Just an empty wardrobe. She fetched a chair from the dining area and stood on it so she could see the back of the high shelf. Nothing.

Feeling obscurely disappointed, she jumped down from the chair. It slid across the stone floor into the wardrobe. Something went click on the back wall. A gap appeared. A tremor of excitement slid down

her spine. Oh, wow. A secret cupboard. She peered inside.

A fine patina of dust covered a long, thick box and three books, all with tooled covers. She lifted out the box, black and grey bone, richly inlaid with red and gold dancing figures. Inside, a silverghabra nestled in deep red cloth. The musical instrument resembled a candelabrum with four branches, each with a

complex pattern of holes. She’d heardghabras played at the University back home in Shernish. The

musicians used all their tentacles with amazing dexterity to extract complex melodies. Well… melody

was

probably not the word she would have used, but the ptorix loved the performance. She held theghabra in her hands and imagined the mine manager playing the instrument. She wondered how good he’d been.

She laid theghabra back in its box and moved on to the books.

Two were printed, but in a font that emulated hand writing in the flowing style educated ptorix used.

They were classics, Lumarax’sJourneys and Pelesaar’sConceptions of Paradise . She hadn’t read them,

but her dear friend Xanthor had told her about them. She examined them carefully, fingering the pages.

This stuff was paper. She had seen paper in the ancient text collection at the Shernish University library, but it hadn’t been so fine. The Pelesaar volume was illustrated, the images beautiful, evocative and

poignant in this setting, showing the endless cycle of life, death, decay, rebirth and at the cycle’s end; paradise. Life eternal in the ancient caves in the universe’s core. She bit her lip. So sad. Had the

long-dead manager found that Pelesaar’s vision of the afterlife was correct? She would keep these to

give to Xanthor when she went home.

The third book was a diary.

The mine manager had written his name inside the cover—Fyysor.

She began to read.

At first the entries were mundane. Fyysor missed his mate on Chollarc, but he would only have to be

here for another year and then they could return to… She strained her eyes. Marex? She wasn’t sure. He commented on the day’s activities, what had happened in the mine. He vowed to improve the food,

following complaints from the miners. She turned page after page, forcing herself to read every word, even though the content became repetitious.

Ah, a highlight. One person was caught pilfering and was summarily dismissed. Fyysor felt sorry for the miner’s family, but rules were rules. A few pages later, a kartek had found its way into a tunnel; they shot the beast, removed the carcass and blocked the tunnel. A miner had encountered a thranx and was stung, but thankfully the victim survived. The settlement’s elderly star ship went out of service. The settlement would be isolated until repairs were made. Fyysor was vexed. Parts had to come from the Khophirate

and the delay was likely to be weeks. Outposts like Tisyphor were always last on the list.

A few days later, Fyysor reported a strange illness. Allysha felt a pang of foreboding, a tendril of dread uncurling in her stomach.

Havvrox is very ill. After surviving the thranx, he seemed to be fully recovered but for a slight cough. But today, he complained of pain and irritation. I had my doubts but sent him to the doctors anyway. As well I did. He has severe pain in his center but the doctors tell me that their drugs have no effect. It is disturbing that they have no idea what is causing his illness.

The next day Fyysor commented again.

Havvrox is much worse. The doctors say his flesh is rotting. He growls with pain and vomits ichor.

Chollarc cannot help us. Our only star ship is still unusable. I hope the Khophiran doctors have more knowledge than ours.

The next case occurred on the following day. Two, in fact. Miners in the same work group as Havvrox,

showing similar symptoms. Oh, buckrats. Her heart thudded. This was it; this was why the planet was

abandoned.

The doctors told me Havvrox had died. I went to see the body, as a manager must. The doctors warned

me the smell was bad but I had no idea anything could smell so awful, like festered wounds. What words can I use? It was as if Havvrox had dissolved into himself, a shrunken carcass. The room was foul with blackness. I had workers fetch out the remains and burn them. Three others have now shown signs of

this pestilence. I don’t know what to do.

And so it went on. Fyysor spoke to the mine administrators on Chollarc. She could almost hear the

desperation in his words, feel his helplessness as his people succumbed.

Prenzen says the humans cannot help. He will contact the Khophirate. I think it means that he will keep this secret from the human authorities on Chollarc. I suppose that’s sensible. There is enough panic.

Another page of horror. A team of doctors was sent by the Khophirate, as the situation on Tisyphor

deteriorated. Fyysor was full of hope but his optimism was short lived. The Khophiran doctors had no

answers, no cures; they had never seen an illness like it before. They quarantined the planet, prevented any of the now panicked miners from leaving, and insisted that those who were not infected should

remain separated from the others. Mining, of course, ceased. The ship that brought the Khophiran

doctors left without them. And every day, more bodies were removed and burnt.

Blinking away the moisture gathering in her eyes she turned another page.

I have closed off the medical center so that the stink no longer penetrates the tunnels where the people live. This peaceful mine is now a place of anger and fear. Earlier today I saw a group making a sacrifice to Lhyra. I thought that superstitious nonsense had died out long ago. Do they really think a demon of the caves can cause a pestilence?

And here at last a description of how the illness progressed.

The first sign of the illness seems to be a cough. About five days later, the soreness begins and with it, the pain. Breathing is difficult, the patient vomits ichor. From that time, death comes quickly. They told me that when Ghooren learned he had become infected, he killed himself. I fear he will not be the last to take that option. And I must admit, it is more merciful.

Tears trickling down her cheeks, she read the next entry.

I have a slight cough, a soreness in my air pipes. I would like to believe it is nothing and it will go away but I am afraid. I know there is nothing the doctors can do. Already a third of my people are dead or dying and no one—not one—has contracted the disease and lived. Even the doctors are now patients in

their own hospital. I know that I will die. I hope that we have done enough to ensure that this dreadful illness does not spread to Chollarc or the Khophirate.

Amarina, I will not see you or Tanryn or Ghensor or Zetanar until we meet again on the other side. I

know that you will never read these words but perhaps in some way you will hear the strains of my

ghabra in the night. Think of me fondly, my dearest, and pray that this pestilence should finish here, where it started.

She closed the book. Sitting on the edge of the bed she let the tears flow. What if this had been

Shernish? Xanthor and Cartya, Ceta, Farex, Bartok, all dead. Panic in the streets; neighbor against

neighbor. What a truly awful way to die, eaten up from inside, in terrible pain. The medical rooms must have been horrible, caked with black ichor, stinking and rotten.

With trembling hands Allysha collected Fyysor’s treasures and laid them reverentially in the polyplast wardrobe. She would take all these things with her when she left and bring them to Xanthor. Perhaps he could find Fyysor’s family and return his belongings.

She undressed, crawled into bed and stared up at the ceiling. Fyysor had lived here. She wondered

where he died. Here? Had he rotted away in the medical center like the others or had he taken his own life before the end?

Her eyes closed.

She walked through a marketplace, bright and cheerful, awnings and pennants snapping in a breeze from the sea. She recognized it instantly; Shernish portside where boats bounced next to the wharf and

fishermen heaved baskets of wriggling silver fish to the porters to carry to the trestle tables. Blue-furred ptorix farmers trumpeted their wares, waving fruits and vegetables in the tentacles at the end of each of four muscular arms. ptorix shoppers, seeming to float in their conical robes, passed up and down

between the stalls. And then suddenly the wind changed. Dark clouds gathered and thunder rumbled. A

howl went up, voices raised in agony as their blue fur blackened. They seemed to melt, all of them,

dissolving into their clothing while the roadway ran with stinking black sludge.

A cry of anguish echoed in her skull as she jerked upright. Her own voice.

Shernish. The thought of that virus going through her home town… Xanthor, Ceta, Bartok, Farex; all

dead. The students at the university, their teachers.

A nightmare. Her chest heaving, she fought for breath.

Jarrad sat at one of the tables in the square outside the tavern, already armed with a bottle of white wine and a couple of glasses.

He stood as she approached. “Hi. Lovely to see you,” he said.

She snorted and looked down at her black pants and grey shirt. “I didn’t bring any nice clothes. It’s the best I can do.”

“It’s very nice. You’re very nice.” He smiled. “I thought outside would be better.”

That was true. Sounds of laughter and loud conversation drifted through the open doors of the ‘Miner’s Refuge’, occasionally drowning out the music. Several other people also sat at the outside tables,

probably for the same reason. Soft lights floated in mid-air, providing gentle illumination. In the warm darkness, the planet’s sweet, earthy background smell was even more evident.