Ghosts of Innocence

Chapter 1

Mouth dry, Shayla Carver swallowed a sour taste at the back of her throat. An orbiting battle station, one of many surrounding the Emperor's home planet, Magentis, filled the nearest viewport of Chantry Bay's forward lounge. A mushroom forest of defensive batteries, domes blackened by centuries of conflict, studded the outward face of the fortress. The Imperial crest was barely visible on its dulled and scarred flank.

As it receded behind them, Shayla murmured a mantra to ready herself for action. But she couldn't rid herself of the unwelcome thought: that station was too damned close. They could blow us to Space and beyond when they realize what's happening.

No. The mission planners had discussed this possibility. The big plasma cannons were all facing away from the planet. They can't threaten us now.

Shayla forced her head back against the hard wall of the lounge, feeling the roughness of the hangings behind her. A tiny knot in the fabric pressed into her scalp. The pinprick pain helped steady her thoughts.

She breathed deep and surveyed the lounge through half-closed eyes. She counted at least sixty passengers scattered in groups amongst the benches and circles of stools and armchairs cluttering the coarse, grey carpet. People of all ages and races, resplendent in uniforms or formal dress denoting their professions in readiness for landfall.

Excited chatter barely masked growing tension as they approached their rendezvous with an orbiting reception base. A round-faced woman, wearing the crimson headdress of a planetary ambassador, paced the length of the lounge and brushed yet another imaginary speck from the sleeve of her robe. Even such a dignitary wasn't exempt from stringent interrogation before setting foot on Magentis.

But the knot in Shayla's stomach had nothing to do with security screening. Once more she mentally rehearsed her movements, awaiting her cue.

A diamond-bright spark separated from the expanding disk of the planet. The reception base.

According to the schedule, starhopper Chantry Bay should have slowed and docked.

It didn't.

A few puzzled gazes followed the sunlit jewel of the base as it flashed past the viewports. Shayla saw the first glimmer of comprehension in some faces. Decades of terrorism had sensitized the public psyche to unannounced deviations from schedule.

A coterie of scribes and administrators on the other side of the lounge looked up from their scrolls and notepads and stared at each other, styli wavering in their hands. External communications had died. Right on cue.

The lights flickered, then failed. Through the lounge's forward viewpoint, the daylight side of Magentis flooded the cabin with an aquamarine glow.

An eerie silence fell, the ever-present hum of machinery now deafening by its absence. Shayla closed her eyes, barely breathing. In the back of her mind she'd started a countdown at the first flicker of the lights. Eight and a half minutes until they hit atmosphere. Unless the navy caught them first.

Shalya squeezed her eyes even tighter shut, counting steadily, as bedlam erupted.

Sabotage!

Terrorists!

The Insurrection!

A wet crash and a shriek. Someone had toppled the samovar bubbling in the center of the room.

A groan and a sour whiff of curdled milk told Shayla that the jolly, mustachioed bureaucrat opposite her had brought up his lunch. He'd spent the last hour enthusing over his duties in the Office of Corrections, in charge of the public punishment stalls for the eastern end of the Bay of Jorka. His dedication to human suffering had made Shayla sick.

A hand squeezed her knee through the heavy embroidered textile of her robes. She opened her eyes a crack to see a worried face gazing at her. Not Scolt again, she groaned to herself. Not now.

She glanced around the lounge, then took his hand in hers. Scolt had taken unwelcome interest in her for the whole week-long flight. Another time, in another life, she might have returned the interest, but even out of uniform the emerald tattoo on his forehead and his preening arrogance had marked him out as a member of the Imperial Color Guard. Not a good bedfellow for a woman with treason on her mind.

Shayla had no time to waste. She gazed into his eyes, smiled, and finally did what she'd been longing to do the whole flight.

She broke his fingers.

As he shrieked in pain, Shayla slipped around the end of the bench and into the main corridor leading from the back of the lounge into the depths of the ship.

She squeezed into a crush of people jamming the short ramp up to the command deck. The captain, face ashen in the planet's ghostly light, faced the scared and angry crowd, trying to restore calm. Shayla felt a twinge of pity. The crew must have been shocked when the normally-secure door to the command deck had opened. The malicious code she'd inserted into the ship's command system had been designed by her twisted genius brother. Shayla was confident it couldn't be bypassed, but her mission planners had figured that the crew could do with some distraction to hamper any attempts at troubleshooting or communications.

She pressed her back against the wall and pushed past the edge of the crowd.

A figure in the gloom caught her eye. A young girl, eyes wide, clutched a stuffed toy lion tight to her chest. Shit! I thought this ship was for Imperial staff only!

Shayla glanced back towards the lounge. Through a gap in the press of bodies she saw that Scolt was already on his feet, his face twisted into a snarl. Damn, that was quick. She would have only moments more to get away from him.

Leaving the planet-lit lounge behind her, Shayla felt her way in lengthening shadows down the ship's central passageway. She melted into the deeper gloom of a doorway as someone stumbled past, then continued on her way.

She reached the door to the master kitchen. It was sealed, but its keypad accepted Shayla's command to unlock.

A hoarse voice called through the opening, At last! What's going on?

Half blinded by the brilliance of a hand-held glowtube, Shayla aimed a straight-fingered jab at the sweat-soaked chef who'd been trying to open the door from the other side. She slipped through the door as he crumpled with a wheeze, windpipe crushed. She kicked the glowtube aside and turned to lock the door again. The lamp's light spilling into the corridor would have been visible the length of the ship.

The door snapped shut, cutting off a shout and the sound of running feet. Scolt! That was close.

Shayla ducked and rolled, robes flapping, as a skillet clattered off the wall above her head. She counted two more figures in the dancing shards of light and mess of reflections off polished metal and ceramic.

She dispatched the nearer crewman as easily as the first, and focused on the one remaining occupant. Military training? He faced her in a fighting crouch. He was the pan-thrower, and now he'd found a broad and heavy kitchen knife. Out of practice though. He looked worried, backing into a corner, knife wavering in front. No match for an assassin trained in the Firenzi Special Service.

Shayla approached quickly, forcing him to act. When he lunged, she moved with the speed of a striking mantis, catching his knife hand and using his own momentum to draw it safely past her. She pivoted away, his forearm gripped tight in front of her, and brought her hip hard onto his outturned elbow. A loud crack told her the knife arm posed no further threat. She released it and continued turning, whipping around behind him and breaking his neck.

Shayla returned to the door. It sounded quiet outside. She pulled out her notepad and accessed Chantry Bay's command system. The security logs showed Scolt's identity alongside the Imperial seal and the insignia of a Lieutenant Colonel. So, he had tried to open the door to follow her, but her lock had held.

For now.

The command deck was disabled, communications blacked out, all guidance under her control bringing the ship onto a carefully planned course. But freezing the door codes was a last minute detail, and Shayla now wondered how secure those locks were. What if Scolt had higher level access codes?

She retrieved the glowtube and checked the kitchen for any unwelcome surprises. Empty.

She checked the doors and hatches to the servery. Still sealed, but the logs revealed that Scolt had tried here too. Damn him. He was proving to be too smart and persistent by half, even for a member of the Imperial elite.

No time to do anything about it. She had to get into position.

Shayla hurried to the far end of the kitchen and into the rows of storage lockers behind. She counted down the doors, then opened one and felt inside. She pulled out neatly stacked packets of rice, tossing them aside, until she found a backpack fastened to the locker ceiling just within reach. The agent on the ground crew had done his job well.

She continued through the storage section till she came to a service hatch. The hatch led into a narrow corridor, a steep companionway, then a cramped loading bay.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Shayla threw off the bulky clerk's robes and tunic that concealed a skintight pressure suit. She buckled the pack onto her back and double-checked the fastenings. She clipped her notepad to the straps across her chest, and donned gloves, helmet, and visor. The head-up readings from the ship's systems reassured her that she still had a few minutes to go.

And she was still alive. They hadn't been blown out of the sky. The downward trajectory had been chosen with care to aim for a vast and unpopulated area of swamp and forest. Chantry Bay would be tracked, and when she veered off course someone would have to decide whether or not to destroy the ship. Shayla had judged that they would elect to let it crash into the middle of nowhere rather than risk deflecting it onto one of the surrounding cities.

There was a tiny control pad on the shoulder strap below her left collarbone. Shayla fingered the touch pads. A cascade of silvery fabric tumbled from the pack to the floor behind her, half supported by a network of veins woven into its thickness. The veins merged into ever thicker branches converging on a pair of hand grips, then flowed around behind her to join onto the pack.

She took the grips in her hands and flicked the shimmering robe out behind her, then stepped backwards over the hem and sat on the fabric with her back to the outer loading hatch.

Two minutes to atmosphere.

Shayla drew her feet close in and folded the robe loosely around herself. She tapped the controls at her shoulder. The edges of the material slowly zipped shut in front of her. She had a working knowledge of the molecular processes in play, but the sight of the fabric smoothing and sealing itself into an airtight bag fascinated her.

From the strap at her other shoulder, she pulled a mouthpiece on the end of a short tube. There was a tiny scrubber and oxygen generator built into the harness. She kept the mouthpiece in her hand, and crossed her forearms in front of her, curling up closer still.

Time to say goodbye. In her mind, Shayla performed the brief ritual of release that she always used when switching identities. Libby Hollis, the clerk in the Imperial logistics corps that Shayla had been impersonating for the last week, was laid to rest. Now she was simply Shayla Carver again. For a while, at least.

One minute.

An alarm flashed in the corner of the visor.

Shayla fumbled the notepad from its clips in the confines of her bubble, and unfolded it, flipping the stylus out of its holder in one smooth motion.

The captain was using his access codes to override her locks. She activated a jamming agent. Secrecy was no longer relevant. Just disrupt them for a little longer.

Too late. The door was open.

A blow sent Shayla reeling. A yelp told her that her assailant had come off worse. His fist had connected with her helmet. She held tight to her notepad, but she'd dropped the stylus.

Hold her! We need her alive. Scolt's voice.

Shayla groped beneath her for the stylus.

Arms tried to pin her, fumbling for purchase on the slick folds of fabric. She kicked, aiming by guesswork, and connected with something soft.

Got it.

Once more, encircling arms restricted her movements.

Shayla jabbed the stylus upwards over her shoulder. A curse, and she was free again.

Do it now!

A voice somewhere in the back of her mind screamed at her: we're too high up. But the sensible faction had already lost out to the tyranny of the immediate. Acting without conscious thought, stylus tracing brief stokes across the notepad as if with a will of its own, she overrode the planned sequence and activated the launch command early.

Shayla curled into a ball, notepad clutched to her chest, and ignored the hands trying once more to pull her to her feet.

Ship's telemetry showed the outer hull temperature already soaring. A distant clangor echoed through the hull. White noise rose to a rushing roar, smothering all other sounds.

The loading bay door blew outwards. Escaping air propelled Shayla into the upper stratosphere. Her gauzy shroud snapped taut into a luminous bubble under the pressure of the air trapped inside. She resisted the urge to gasp in agony at the sudden decompression, and forced herself to keep her mouth open and airway clear while her lungs vented. After a few seconds she clamped her mouth tight around the rebreather and let a trickle of oxygen diffuse back into her lungs.

Her suit absorbed most of the pressure change, but she felt as if her eyes were going to burst.

How high am I? Black dots clouded her vision as she tried to read the display on her visor.

Burning agony pierced her shoulder. Shayla twisted her body away from the pain and glanced around. A tiny needle of white fire lanced through the air in front of her eyes. Dammit! The stylus must have pierced the fabric. The material was tough, but if the hole spread she was dead.

In her supine position, Shayla secured the notepad back in its clips, careful to keep her arms and legs tucked away from the walls of her cocoon, and away from the torch hissing past her ear.

The plasma of re-entry glowed through the veined skin as she plunged through thickening air. The inside of the bubble was like an oven.

This is madness!

Shayla rehearsed her next movements. Before she had time to reconsider, she reached for the handgrips, her shoulder once more in the path of the intruding fire. Trembling fingers squeezed the controls on the grips. The trailing edge of the bubble split open and eased outwards, spreading to slow her descent and revealing a dazzling circle of blue above her.

A thin shriek escaped her lips around the mouthpiece as she kept hold of the controls, braking her fall as much as she dared.

When she could stand the pain no longer, she relinquished her grip and curled into a tight ball, allowing gravity and friction to do their work.

The stench of charred flesh recalled childhood nightmares, and the flight from her doomed home on Eloon twenty three years ago.

As you sow, thus shall you reap. An ancient text came to mind. She blinked away tears and set her mouth in a grim smile.

Weak and nauseated, Shayla felt the roasting temperature subside. Watching the speed, altitude, and temperature displays, she breathed more easily, still relying on oxygen from her mouth unit but thankful for a gradual return to a livable pressure.

Her visor display clocked down the altitude.

At twelve thousand feet she removed and stowed the breathing unit. She flexed her limbs, testing the mobility in her tortured shoulder, and took hold of the hand grips.

Ten thousand. A shock wave buffeted her. A low, drawn-out rumble told her that Chantry Bay had hit the ground some miles away.

Five thousand. Still arrowing downwards like the piece of meteoric debris she was trying to emulate.

At two thousand feet she spread the canopy further to stem her speed.

At five hundred feet she squeezed and twisted the grips. The support structure woven into the fabric flexed. The re-entry bubble split open like a flower and reformed into flight configuration, flipping Shayla over onto her front. She cupped the wings spreading out on either side and slowed her descent to a shallow glide, skimming the upper reaches of the forest canopy.

A multi-colored whirling of wings erupted from a nearby tree as Shayla's scream echoed through the forest. The outstretched wings tugged at her burnt flesh.

She panted hard, and then clenched her teeth against the pain. She had a small medical kit in her backpack. Inaccessible unless she landed, and then she had no way to get airborne again.

She had no choice but to continue. She had to distance herself from the crash.

Keep sight of the mission. For every agent the Insurrection placed on Magentis, another twenty died on the way. And of those, only one in twenty survived their first month.

Shayla angled the wings, hugging the treetops.

It took years to establish credentials solid enough to pass border security. She didn't have years to spare, but she did have a plan. The Leading Council said it couldn't be done, but they had nothing to lose. And she was here!

A maneuver to catch an updraft yanked at her shoulder. Shuddering, Shayla swallowed back the urge to vomit.

One in twenty.

I am not some damned statistic.

Chapter 2

Sentries on either side of the door to the security operations center came to attention. Imperial Chief of Security, Chalwen ap Gwynodd, straightened the tunic of her uniform as she approached. Red-rimmed eyes peered briefly back at her from a rough and ruddy face mirrored in the armored plastic of the door before it slid aside.

Chalwen's massive silhouette eclipsed the light from the corridor, hushing the buzz of conversation in the cavernous room ahead. She pursed her lips and surveyed the terraces of desks and lecterns rising towards the back of the room. She, in turn, felt a hundred and fifty pairs of eyes assessing her. Measuring her mood.

She paced, slow and steady, to the nearest aisle and began to climb.

A whisper behind her didn't quite escape her keen hearing: Essence of Unity, this is going to be rough.

Chalwen paused near the top of the aisle, and turned, ignoring the quaking personnel nearest to her. Vast wall displays stretched in an arc across most of her view. A map of Magentis to the left. To the right spread the inhabited worlds of humanity. In between was a schematic of planetary border security.

Chalwen glared at the livid starburst denoting a security breach. Lips pressed tight and nostrils flaring, she pointed a stylus at the starburst and watched information flow across the face of her notepad. Starhopper, inbound from Tinturn, fifteen crew and one hundred eighty three passengers.

Impotent fury rekindled in the back of Chalwen's mind, the same fury that had greeted the news brought by an attendant fifteen minutes ago. But, for now, her rage boiled inside a prison of cold logic and determination.

She continued up the aisle, each heavy step echoing through the expectant hush.

Her office dominated the apex of the operations room, with broad windows giving a panoramic view of everything below.

When Chalwen entered, her personal aide, Florris, turned from preparing tea and bowed low. Her division chiefs were already there, standing at attention. She locked eyes with each in turn. Paul Malkin, border security. Fleur Trixmin, intelligence. Henri Chargon, internal affairs. Each returned her gaze, unflinching.

Still without words, Chalwen watched Florris pour tea for the four of them. When she finished, Florris stepped back, hands clasped in front of her, head bowed but upturned eyes on Chalwen, waiting. A curt nod from Chalwen, and Florris backed from the room, closing the door.

At ease, Chalwen growled. She threw herself into a deeply cushioned chair, ignoring its ominous creaks.

Her inner circle of commanders took their cue and relaxed. Safe from disapproving scrutiny, the normal management culture of Empire was temporarily suspended. Paul settled in another easy chair. Fleur perched on the edge of Chalwen's desk, legs kicking idly. Henri picked up a cup of tea and stayed standing, turning his back on the rest of them and gazing out of the window across the expanse of the security operations floor.

Chalwen pursed her lips and eyed her commander of border security. Paul? This is your patch. Speak to me.

Routine flight inbound. You've got all the stats, point of origin, complement and so on.

Notable dignitaries? Fleur said.

A newly-appointed ambassador from Kallis.

Fleur sniffed. Poor farming community. Nobody the Emperor would be interested in.

Chalwen's eyes narrowed. The governing body there has been notified?

Paul nodded, then took a deep breath. "Perimeter clearance okay, then Chantry Bay broke contact and diverged from approved flight path. Mai bin Mellion was the duty officer for that quadrant. She followed protocol and called all available units to bear, including ground-based batteries. When she got the trajectory plot, she took the call to let her crash instead."

What's the heaviest unit we have up there right now? Chalwen said.

"Inside the perimeter we have five Implacable-class. Lots of smaller units, but nothing with firepower to completely vaporize a starhopper in that short time. There would have been lots of debris, some of it big."

"I don't like having our planetary space so bare. I said it would be a problem. I'll seek an audience with Admiral Kuvar and insist he pull back a couple of Sword-class ships."

He won't like that. Fleur's voice gave the impression that everything in life amused her. "They're his favorite tool for showing the flag around the provinces. There's nothing like a Sword hovering overhead to remind people how grateful they are to their Emperor."

From the corner of her eye, Chalwen saw Henri frown. Fleur's tone would have earned anyone else a public lashing, but she routinely delivered insolence with such disarming innocence that it was simply accepted as her way with words. And her loyalty and competence were beyond question.

So, she came down in Horliath, Chalwen grunted. Nothing of value there. Fair call.

Paul grimaced. Assuming she was powered down and without guidance, yes.

You don't look happy. This was something other than a technical failure.

There's a lot to this that doesn't make sense, but we can be certain this was not accidental failure.

Explain.

Tracking telemetry showed she was not without power.

Go on. Chalwen's voice was a low growl.

Drive and guidance appeared to be merely inactive, not dead. They still had a grav field running. And communications were being aggressively blanked.

Chalwen nodded and relaxed slightly now she knew she had a human adversary to pursue. Accidents were always so much more difficult to explain than an honest conspiracy.

A fly buzzed across the room in front of her. It flew towards Fleur. A lightning movement, and the buzzing stopped.

Chalwen tore her gaze from Fleur's clenched fist. So. Sabotage then. And of course you've got investigation teams out picking up anything that might give us a clue as to the cause. But I sense something more than just bringing down a ship.

Just as we lost contact, Paul said, "she made a small course correction that brought her around to Horliath. Mai managed to backtrack her trajectory and project the original point of impact. Before Chantry Bay broke contact, she was approaching straight at Henriss Garden."

For a few seconds there was complete silence. Blood drained from Chalwen's face. Henriss Garden. Seventy million people. And the home of the Emperor's favorite winter palace. Fingers of blackness crept into the edge of her vision. Was that the intent? Use the ship as a missile against a city?

I said it didn't make sense. If that was the target, why change course?

Maybe the captain regained some kind of control, said Fleur. But her expression said she didn't really believe it.

Chalwen sat silent, trying to regain her focus. A wingless fly struggled across the polished surface of her desk. Unlikely, she said at last. But if not, that leaves us with the equally unlikely idea that someone deliberately laid waste to a hundred square miles of equatorial rainforest.

She broke off and her eyes swiveled to Paul, simmering anger showing for the first time. What fucking moron—

Authorized such an approach path? Paul interrupted wearily. The docking controller in question is under investigation. No space-side approach is supposed to pose a direct threat, but approved paths can sometimes mean costly diversions for incoming ships. Controllers are always under pressure to cut corners.

Cut corners? Chalwen's voice shook. "Not on my watch, mister. I want an audit of the last six months' records. Any bad practice to be disciplined. She pursed her lips, then added, I suspect this was just sloppy work with no real connection to the crash, but make an example of this controller. Ten lashes. In public. How could he think to let a ship approach straight at a major city?"

Understood, Paul said. I'll continue investigations, with Henri's help. I want to be sure there's nothing deeper here. It's not unheard of for people to take bribes. That approach line might not have been accidental.

And then again maybe we've been spooked by co-incidence. Maybe the ship itself was the only target after all. Chalwen stood and stomped over to the sideboard where her tea sat neglected. We can speculate all day but we need to know the how, the who, and the why. She took a sip and returned to her seat. Fleur, any of this show up on your radar?

Not a hint. Fleur's voice was uncharacteristically grim. I have a whole team working round the clock going over all sources with a nit comb. There might be something we missed, or some correlation which will only become clear after the fact.

She slipped off the desk and bowed low, I will of course tender my resignation ...

Cut the crap, Fleur.

What, no ritual disemboweling? Fleur pouted, but settled back on the edge of the desk. Okay, nothing concrete I'm afraid, just speculation so far. Paul's right. There's a lot that makes no sense. On the surface this has the hallmarks of the Insurrection. They've brought down three ships in the last three months, but all in outlying systems. Nothing this close to home. This could represent an escalation, but ... She frowned and shook her head. "This is too subtle for them. They have the resources but usually go for brute force. Planting a pulse bomb, or blinding the ship with a plasma beam. This kind of sabotage has always been beyond their reckoning. It just doesn't feel right."

Chalwen grunted. Fleur's irreverent manner concealed a mind like a scalpel. Her instincts proved sound nine times out of ten.

Fleur continued, One of the Grand Families might have the know-how to subvert a ship's command systems, but they have no interest in destroying ships. They target individuals for leverage.

Could we be looking at some kind of alliance then? My brains and your brawn kind of thing? Paul wondered.

"Not on my watch, mister! Fleur's return to characteristic flippancy told them she was on firm ground again. That's always been our biggest nightmare, and we pay minute attention to who's getting into bed with whom. Besides, the Insurrection are as ideologically opposed to the Families as they are to us."

Fleur's mouth twisted and her brow creased. She shook her head, baffled. This has the feel of something new, some player in the game that we haven't met before. But believe me, I intend to become acquainted.

I have another item to consider, that may or may not be relevant. Henri Chargon spoke for the first time, his voice little more than an oily whisper. One of my own agents died on board. Last week he reported suspicions of one of the passengers. He only filed a preliminary report. I understand he had nothing specific to offer, just gut feeling, but he was in the process of following up discreetly.

Does this passenger have a name?

Henri consulted his notepad. Libby Hollis.

Could this passenger have compromised the command systems? Paul asked.

Are you suggesting a suicide mission?

Makes more sense than remote or pre-programmed sabotage. This looks like a command system breach, but those systems are completely secure and checked before departure. I'm confident they can't be broken into from outside. It must have been someone on board.

Agreed, said Chalwen. But again it might be nothing more than co-incidence. Follow up on Libby Hollis, Henri. See if there's anything to implicate her in this. And interrogate the service crew at Tinturn. Thoroughly. They exchanged knowing looks. "If anyone tampered with Chantry Bay before she set off, that crew are either involved or incompetent."

Chalwen stood abruptly and paced the office. Her division chiefs eyed each other. They knew better than to interrupt her train of thought. Eventually she turned to face them.

"Henri, here is the official line. Chantry Bay was sabotaged and intended as a missile against the Palace of Butterflies at Henriss Garden. Whether this was a suicide mission or rigged remotely I'll leave to your discretion. The captain regained enough control to divert to Horliath. He died a hero. Your official investigations have three days to reach this conclusion."

Chalwen scowled. "Find someone involved in this. Positive proof preferable, otherwise a plausible connection. If all else fails draw on your archives for someone we've left on a long leash up to now and bring them in. We