I
The ship sliced through the dark, roiling, impure aether of the warp.
Captain Rufys Garamonde was stood solidly on the bridge of his ship, studiously avoiding the urge to pace. The desire was less than meaningless, anyway; nothing was currently happening. The viewscreen above him lay dormant, his crew of servitors working silently, but for the constant susurrus of clicks and whirrs their movements caused. Their quarry lay far away, somewhere in the darkness of space. No incident would be occurring anytime in the near future.
His first mate, Sorwensen, was abed. No point them both being up. They would operate in shifts until they had apprehended the object of this hunt. If they did.
No. Rufys was determined he would not ruminate. He would not let his mind wander without purpose into dark places. He certainly would not continue the debate he had lost back on Cestius V, continuing to create new and more devious counterarguments. He would -
"Captain." Rufys swiveled to the mechanical voice.
"Yes?"
"Internal communication for you."
"Patch it through."
A short beep, then a lilting voice came through the speaker on the servitor's mouthpiece. "Captain? This is Whit." Ah, yes, the specialist. He had boarded the ship half-asleep, begging a nap before they spoke in order to adjust his internal clock. Not seeing that it had mattered much, Garamonde had acquiesced to the request.
"Yes, Whit?"
"I have awoken, and would be happy to meet with you at your earliest convenience."
"Ah, of course. Please, come to the bridge. We'll speak in my command quarters."
"At once, Captain."
A few moments' diversion would be good, Garamonde decided. Speaking with Whit would allow him to focus on something besides the futility of their current endeavor.
Whit was blessed - or cursed - with pale, delicate features. His cheekbones were the only exception to this rule. They jutted out sharply, highlighted by his oil-black curls of hair that cascaded down to his eyes. Whit's eyes wandered as he spoke, but when they zeroed in on Garamonde's steady, calm gaze, it was with the passion and certainty of youth. They did so now to underscore his point.
"I must most strenuously urge you not to underestimate our target."
"I am not underestimating him. In fact, I think his chances of success in eluding us are near perfect."
"Defeatism does not suit a naval officer, Captain Garamonde."
Rufys gave a belabored sigh and composed himself. He waited until he had poured another two fingers of amasec before responding. "You are correct, Whit. I apologize for being overly familiar. Please, tell me more of this … cult he started."
Whit ran a hand through his unruly curls, which accomplished nothing but to expose his forehead for a brief moment. He rolled his cup of amasec between his palms. "The Bloody Eye? It's less a cult and more a … theology, for want of a better word."
Whit continued, gaze moving from his drink up to Garamonde's line of sight as he spoke, becoming more comfortable as he rattled on. "He has no admitted followers, only viewers. He broadcasts his beliefs on public channels at preset times. Until last year, everyone on Cestius wrote him off as either a harmless crackpot, or some sort of underground performance artist."
"Or some … misguided but well-intentioned zealot?"
"Just so."
"But you say he has no followers? Yet someone had to help him to carry out the massacre, surely."
"Yes, but nothing human. He has ways of contacting dark forces to assist in his endeavors. Had we known that at the time, of course, we would have imprisoned him sooner. The way events played out is … regrettable."
Rufys snorted. "Sometimes I feel as though life consists of little but amassing a pile of regrets upon which we attempt to scout for something better. By the time we're able to spy that fabled better land, we find we have no way down from the tower we've built ourselves."
Whit smiled. "You are possessed of a singularly melancholic humor, Captain Garamonde."
Rufys waved the remark away as if it was a small biting insect. "Please, call me Rufys."
Whit curled his lips up at one corner. "Would that not be 'overly familiar' … Rufys?"
Rufys barked a sharp laugh. A moment of silence fell, and Rufys ran a hand over his beard stubble before finally sighing and sitting up straight. "Is there any merit to the possibility that Kenek can do what he claims? Open a new Eye of Terror?"
Whit pursed his lips, which seemed extremely red juxtaposed with his pale complexion. "It … seems unlikely, but the first Eye of Terror was, we believe, man-made - or … well, without getting into too many specifics, it is not a natural occurrence. With the help of dark powers, without the interdiction of agents of the Emperor, repeating the process is theoretically possible."
"But you could say that about anything!" Rufys sputtered.
Whit merely shrugged and sipped at his cup.
"These … dark powers at his disposal. What form could they take? What should we be prepared for? He must know we're after him."
Whit opened his mouth, then thought better of something, and finally settled upon saying, "Prepare for anything, Rufys. Kenek is … not just a bloodthirsty madman."
Garamonde snorted. "Well, thanks. I'll certainly sleep sounder now."
"More soundly," Whit muttered, but it was halfhearted. He raised one shoulder, a lazy shrug. Garamonde shifted uncomfortably in his seat as Whit sipped his drink. "My advice is to watch his transmissions. Get a feel for the man. If we are to bring him in, you'll need to understand the way he thinks."
"Seems bloody useless, if you ask me. The man intends to enter a black hole. No matter the damage he's caused in the past, it will mean certain death."
Whit finished his amasec. "That could be one of the less terrible outcomes, yes. But as I'm sure your superiors have told you, what is far more preferable is if Kenek returns to Cestius in chains, an example made of those who oppose the Emperor's will."
"Yes, yes, I've already heard that argument made ad infinitum." Garamonde looked to the window, frowning.
Whit's voice grew softer. "And there is, of course, the other possibility. Whether he were to open a gateway to another Black Fleet or not, it is possible he might open the way for something terrible and … unknown … to come through."
Garamonde gave a grunt of disgust. "Tales to terrify children, Whit. Nothing more. All he's sailing into is certain death. I'd bet my ship on it."
"Let us hope that is the case." Whit stood. "For now, I shall return to my quarters. I will have some of the vids Kenek made sent to you. Watch them. Let me know what you think. Let's get this bastard so we don't have to find out who would win that bet."
"Aye." Garamonde stood as well.
He watched Whit leave, noticing the way the young man's finely cut trousers clung tightly, defining his slender calves. Suddenly Garamonde was painfully aware of every ill-fitting corner of his own uniform, last tailored five years and fifteen pounds ago, and he felt utterly, painfully old.
