The Prodigal Sun - Sean Williams, ebook
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THE PRODIGAL SUN
EVERGENCE 1
SEAN WILLIAMS & SHANE DIX
For Peter McNamara, Patrick McNamara, Andrew Stunnell, Peter Stunnell and everyone
involved in the Cogal project, without whom this book would not have been possible.
"Violence can only be concealed by a lie, and the lie can only be maintained by violence. Any man who
has once proclaimed violence as his method is inevitably forced to take the lie as his principle."
— Alexander Solzhenitsyn
Page 1
"Darkness is looking back and saying: 'I have been deluded from the start; it has all been a mistake'."
— Hubert van Zeller
Prologue
The pillow-shaped capsule tumbled end over end through the gulf between stars. Every point of its
four-metre length showed evidence of age: its matte-grey surface was pitted from micro-impacts; the
molecules of its ablative shield were scarred by radiation; gravity waves from distant black holes spiralling
inevitably to collision had warped it from true. Had it been noticed by any passing ship, it would have
been ignored as flotsam, for after millennia of exploration and trade such drifting junk was common in the
galaxy. It wouldn't even have been worth the effort required to destroy it.
Had it been noticed ...
Junk it may have appeared to be, but it was far from that. A detailed analysis of the skin of the capsule
would have revealed that nothing — not even radiation — penetrated deeper than five centimetres. It had
retained its structural integrity despite the forces tugging at it. And, had its density been measured, the fact
that it was hollow would have become immediately obvious.
As it tumbled through the void, sensors within monitored the frequency and intensity of incident radiation.
It emitted nothing, yet analysed in minute detail everything that fell upon it. Data was collated and
processed. Three-dimensional maps were drawn, on which the course of the capsule — past and future
— was plotted. Options were considered.
The capsule had passed through numerous governments and territories during its long journey: from the
Giel, remote and aloof in the Perseus Arm, to the Bright Suzerains tucked hot and hardy close to the
galactic core. There was hardly a solar system in the Milky Way that had not been colonised or explored
at least once by the Human race in all its forms. The descendants of the apes who had once reached in
wonder for the night sky now owned the stars. They were the sole heirs of a galaxy ripe for the taking.
Decisions were made.
Patient exploitation of the local magnetic field brought the capsule to the boundary between two nations:
one an unwieldy alliance that had outlived its usefulness and was already dissolving under the weight of
administration and ennui; the other a small but heated theocracy bursting like a boil from its parent's side.
Stray emissions — some almost certainly decades out of date — carried reports of occasional conflict,
harried officials, rising tension ... The capsule didn't care much for the details, just as long as there was
friction, an ambient heat it could exploit. Who fought whom was irrelevant. There was only one Right and
Wrong it cared to recall, for it was this duality the capsule existed to serve.
It was a seed looking for soil in which to germinate. A seed that had come a long way and waited a long,
long time to bear fruit. A seed whose interior became increasingly active the more certain it was that the
end of its journey was near ...
PART ONE:
Page 2
MIDNIGHT
1
COEA
Midnight
'954.10.30 EN
0235
Morgan Roche was trapped, and she knew it. Trapped by orders, by circumstance, by the bracelet
around her left wrist, and by the stare of the wide-shouldered, middle-aged man standing in front of the
main viewscreen of the frigate
Midnight.
"We have discussed this before," he said, frowning down at her from his elevated position. The captain's
podium normally remained flush to the floor except during battle, but Proctor Klose preferred it at its full
one-metre extension. Surrounded by the half-light of the bridge, with its flashing displays and blank-faced
officers, he reminded Roche of a half-finished statue — so full of self-importance that, had she not been
so frustrated, she would have found him laughable. "Has anything changed since then, Commander?"
"No, sir," she replied. "All I ask is that you reconsider your decision."
Klose shook his head. "Call me inflexible, if you like, but I see no reason to entertain the whims of my
passengers."
"It's more than a
whim,
Captain," she snapped.
"No, Commander," said Klose, the ghost of a grin hovering at the corners of his mouth. "It is not. What
you request is clearly outside your jurisdiction."
"Not necessarily." Her free hand betrayed the half-lie by adjusting the tight-fitting neck of her uniform,
making her look nervous. When she realised what she was doing, she returned the hand to her side. The
cord connecting the bracelet to the valise brushed against her leg as she straightened her posture, but she
had learned long ago to ignore it.
"Without access to the relevant information," she said, "I am unable to determine where my jurisdiction
lies in this matter. Perhaps if you would explain your reason for denying me access to the capsule, then I
might understand."
Klose's frown deepened. "I am not required to explain anything to you, Commander. Need I remind you
who is the commanding officer of this vessel?"
"No, sir." Roche gritted her teeth on an angry retort.
"Then I think that concludes our discussion." He turned to face the viewscreen.
Roche remained where she was, unwilling to let the matter rest — although she knew that technically he
was in the right. But there was more than the life capsule and its contents at stake. There was a
principle.
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"Captain ... "
Klose sighed. "Yes, Commander?"
"Forgive me for saying this, but your manner seems to indicate a resentment of my presence aboard this
ship. I hope you have not allowed your feelings to cloud your judgment."
Klose faced her once again, his narrowed eyes displaying an indignation that told Roche her remark had
hit home.
The captain of the
Midnight
outranked Roche, but
her
superior officer — and, therefore, her mission
— outranked
his.
In the course of their voyage, the unassuming valise she carried had become a focus
for every slight, real or imagined. That she carried it because of the cord and bracelet ensuring its
permanent attachment to her person, rather than out of any real choice, he seemed to have forgotten.
Orders were orders, and she had less choice than he did, if only in the short term. But the basic fact, the
one the captain detested, remained: Klose was just a donkey for the courier on his back.
The situation might never have become a problem had it not been for the length of time available for
circumstance to rub shoulders with resentment. In six weeks, the gentle but constant friction had
generated enough heat to spark flame. The matter of the capsule and its mysterious occupant, although
trivial in itself, was the catalyst of a much more significant reaction.
"On the contrary," replied the captain, responding to her comment with frosty politeness. "It is not I who
has allowed emotions to interfere. Frankly, Commander, I would say that your curiosity has gotten the
better of you."
"I'm an active field agent for COE Intelligence," she retorted. "It comes with the job."
"Nevertheless." Klose folded his arms. "The most intelligent thing for you to do right now is let the matter
rest."
"With respect, sir — "
"Commander, the simple fact of the matter is that I am not permitted to allow you to place yourself in a
situation that is potentially dangerous."
"I'm quite capable of looking after myself."
"I don't doubt that, Commander. But I think you underestimate the risk — "
"How can I underestimate him if I know nothing
about
him?"
"'Him'? You seem to have learned too much as it is."
She ignored this. "If you would simply let me view the science officer's report — "
"Which is classified."
"My security rating is as high as yours, Captain." It was higher, in fact, but she didn't press the fact. "At
least give me the opportunity to use my position as I have been trained to do."
Page 4
 Klose sighed in resignation. "Very well, then. I will consider letting you view the report, but only after we
have arrived at Sciacca's World and off-loaded our cargo. In the meantime, your mission — and mine —
is best served by you returning to your quarters and remaining there."
"But — "
"Shields detecting micro-impacts." The voice came from somewhere behind Roche, but Klose didn't
take his eyes from hers to acknowledge it. "Captain, we are brushing the halo."
"Please, Commander," he said evenly, gesturing at the exit from the bridge. "Or will I have to have you
removed?"
Roche fumed silently to herself. Klose's promises to 'consider' or 'review' the situation had proven
worthless before, and she doubted that this time would be any different. But she had to admit that he did
have a point. The
Midnight
was about to insert itself into orbit around one of the most hazardous
destinations in the Commonwealth of Empires; he and his crew needed to concentrate on their work
without distraction.
Refusing to concede defeat by speaking, she turned away from Klose and moved toward the exit. The
door slid aside with a grind of metal on metal, but instead of stepping through, Roche stopped on the
threshold and turned to watch the goings-on of the bridge. It was both a show of strength and a
demonstration of her independence.
The main screen displayed an image of Sciacca's World. The grey-brown orb floated in the centre of the
screen, with the ring of densely packed moonlets that girdled the planet's equator glistening in the light
from the system's primary. The occasional explosion flaring from some of the larger rocks made the
miniature asteroid belt look deceptively attractive from the
Midnight's
distance. Roche knew how
dangerous it could be. Some of the moonlets were over ten kilometres in diameter; one slip near
something that size would rip the
Midnight
in two.
Apart from the belt, what really struck her about the view was something that might have been lost on
the average deep-space tourist. Few people outside military service would have noted the absence of
orbital towers girding the planet; if they had, it was doubtful they would have understood the significance
of the fact. To Roche, the planet appeared uninhabited, with nothing but a handful of navigation stations in
orbit and the pocket asteroid belt to keep it company — like a reef holding all but the most determined at
bay; a shoal around a desert island.
<They call it the Soul — not the shoal,> said a voice deep in her skull, intruding upon her subvocal
thoughts. <The origins of the name are clouded, but one recurring folk myth from the planet's inhabitants
asserts that the band of light — as the asteroid belt appears to those living on the planet — is composed
of the souls of people who have died in captivity. The myth of transubstantiation from the mortal to the
sublime is common to many repressed societies — but the image is still evocative, don't you think,
Morgan?>
The voice fell silent. No one else on the bridge had heard it speak.
"You can go to hell too," Roche whispered, and walked out.
The Retriever Class Frigate
Midnight,
one of the few ships to survive the Ataman and Secession Wars,
had been built around the 43rd-generation anchor drive common in the years '212 to '286 EN. Shaped
Page 5
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