Tides of Maritinia Read online

  Dedication

  For Mom

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Warren Hammond

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  Dear Reader:

  Nine years before the publication of this text, after several months’ worth of contentious debate, the University of Maritinia made the decision to convert the voluminous journals of Jakob Bryce (also known as Colonel Kell) to a form more easily understood by the Maritinian ­peoples.

  Please know that any and all fictionalizations were made for the sole purpose of enhancing the narrative’s readability. Absolutely every effort has been made to preserve historical accuracy.

  Danii Mmoro

  High Chancellor

  University of Maritinia

  CHAPTER 1

  I was an assassin.

  And a virgin.

  I didn’t mean to say I’d never had sex; stabbing flesh with flesh was the best kind of stabbing there was.

  I was a virgin because I hadn’t knifed for real. Never put blade to skin and loosed a river of blood. Never sliced through muscles and organs. Never drove a blade deep to the core.

  Never put my lips to the flame and blew out another’s soul.

  Never until Maritinia.

  Kneeling on the restaurant’s rooftop, I scanned the watery horizon until I spotted a few slivered strokes of brown against the endless sprawl of rolling emerald and gold. The boats came from the Empire’s Ministry, sunlight glinting off five domes at the horizon’s edge.

  This was the last flotilla of the afternoon. He would be on one of those boats. My target. Colonel Drake Kell.

  My throat was dry. Strange that it could get so dry on a world that was nothing but water. I tried to tell myself it wasn’t fear. But it was.

  I wiped sweat from my forehead. Again. Pol must have noticed.

  I replied, my words traveling down the little channel in my thoughts. That was how I communicated with the consciousness living inside my skull. Pol was what I called him. Short for Political Officer.

  he said.

  I sucked in a deep, calming breath and tried to believe he was right. He should know. He’d been through this before. Countless times. For centuries, he—­or one of his many duplicate consciousnesses—­had been coaching operatives like me. More than a coach, though, he was a companion and a comrade. A confidant. A source of strength.

  No way I could do this without him.

  Crouching to stay hidden, I moved away from the wall, shoes crunching on broken tile. From the corner of my eye, I spotted a crab disappearing under a roof shingle. This planet was infested with the damn things.

  A few more steps, and I’d moved far enough that nobody would see me if they looked up from the quay. I stood straight and stretched my arms to the cloudless sky, muscles gleefully unknotting.

  I paced back and forth. Had to get the blood pumping. Get the circulation circulating.

  Feeling refreshed, I moved back to the whitewashed wall, dropped back down to my knees, and checked for crabs before propping my elbows on the stone.

  Chin resting in my right hand, I looked to the east. The flotilla was closer but still a long ways off.

  Of course he did. He saw through my eyes and heard through my ears.

 

 

  I knew. The Sire’s wisdom had been drilled into me all my life. I was from Korda, home world of the Sire. A world at the center of an empire of ten thousand worlds.

  I’d traveled a long way to get to Maritinia, an ocean-­covered planet on the farthest fringe of the Outermost Ring. Like all the other worlds in the Outermost Ring, it was too far from the Empire’s Core to be controlled at gunpoint. The Empire was far too vast to station armies and fleets in every corner.

  A more clever solution was required: population control by means of technology control.

  For the Maritinian ­people, that meant no technology. None at all. No plastics or metals. No electricity. No computers or robots or engines. Nothing beyond wheel, pulley, and lever.

  Assert technological control and with it came political control. Such was the wisdom of the Sire.

  I said with a grin.

 

  Yes. They had the squiddies. I supposed that was better than paddling. Not much faster, though.

  A small contingent of roughly one hundred of the Empire’s finest soldiers and administrators could manage a tech-­restricted world like this one. It led to a remarkably stable system. It had worked since the Empire’s founding three thousand years ago.

  But not anymore. Not here. Maritinia had gone rogue.

  And one of my mission’s numerous goals was to find out why.

  But first the traitor had to die.

  If only those boats would hurry up. Infuriating things moved like drugged snails.

  The waiting was the worst part. So much nerve-­wracking, hair-­pulling, crazy-­making time to fuss and worry. Fourteen months since the Eyes and Ears of the Empire gave me my orders. Fourteen months. Maritinia was that far.

  But those fourteen months were the easy part—­I was training. I was doing. I’d made landfall eight days ago, though. Eight days with nothing to do but wait. And watch the tide go in and out. And think.

  A sharp pinch made me jerk my elbow away from the wall. I rubbed the sore spot and looked down to see a pair of pincers retreating under a stone. Damn crabs got me again.

 

  I unbuttoned my sleeve and reached inside to rub the skin near my elbow.

  I missed Korda. Illustrious home of the Sire. A civilized world. We’d tamed that fickle Mother Nature millennia ago. Smothered her by blanketing the globe with so many cities that they’d merged into one enormous metropolis that wrapped the entire planet in stone and steel. It was a beautiful place. A testament to the engineering skills of the Empire.

  Looking to the setting sun, seeing the swaths of pink and purple sweeping the s
ky, I supposed this place had some natural appeal. But as far as I was concerned, it was the kind of appeal best appreciated in a painting.

  Turning my gaze eastward, I saw that the flotilla of skiffs was finally getting close. Wouldn’t be much longer now.

  I felt the tension in my gut, springs winding tighter and tighter.

  To distract myself, I turned my attention to a pair of barges coasting in from the north. They rode low in the emerald water, their holds pregnant with kelp. Gliding to a stop, the barges were boarded by sweat-­soaked Jebyl dockhands, who began the tough work of wrestling sopping bails of kelp down bamboo ramps to the pier, where woolly mammoths flapped their ears while awaiting their cargo.

  I always knew that life in the Outermost Ring was different, but this world, with its winds and rains, and its rotten-­fish stench, and its disfigured beggars, and barefoot children was so . . . so . . . crude.

  At times, I wondered if the Empire should even bother retaking this planet. But all the ten thousand worlds served their purpose. The Sire smiled upon those who contributed, no matter how small. How these ­people could’ve shunned Him, I didn’t know.

  The sun dropped below the watery horizon, the cool of dusk already on the air. Me, I was still sweating.

  Sun departed, the rolling swells of the sea had lost their sparkle, and emerald water faded to a mosslike green. The golden kelp fields could hardly be called golden anymore. More like brown mustard now. And the domes of the Empire’s Ministry in the distance had lost their luster, brilliant silver dimmed down to the dull gray of concrete.

  It was as if the sun had pilfered this world’s only riches on its way out.

  Only the skyscreens still shone brightly, the stern-­faced Admiral Dii Mnai—­the self-­appointed ruler of Free Maritinia—­looking down on Maringua, his capital city. The man was a mystery to us. After seizing control, he’d severed communication with the rest of the Empire, and we’d not had much information on him beforehand. For a world like Maritinia, there had never seemed a need.

  The voice came from deep inside my head.

  I jerked my eyes back to the docks. Eyes on the docks.

  asked Pol.

  I did. Colonel Kell was easy to spot, his walking pace seemingly twice as fast as anybody else’s. Of course, to me his bustling stride was normal. Kell was from Korda just as I was, his internal metronome forever swinging at a citified tempo. I watched him and his two guards move along the quay, coming in my direction.

 

  Dread welled up from deep inside. Brittle nerves felt ready to snap. But I swallowed hard and answered in the affirmative. I can do this, I told myself. I can.

  My knees creaked and cracked as I stepped across roof tiles and down a set of stairs that led to a meandering marketplace. I strolled past the first two fish stalls before turning right and exiting onto the quay just in time to fall in step about ten feet behind the colonel and his guards.

  Kell moved with authority, head up, shoulders square, each step perfectly placed. His bootheels clacked sharply on the stone, precisely the way you’d expect of a lifelong military officer, one who clearly still knew how to handle himself. He was a real man, this Kell, a decorated veteran of the Secession Skirmishes, commander of dozens of ops, a true leader, and later a diplomat.

  I was no match for Kell. My training wasn’t good enough or long enough. What in Sire’s name had I gotten myself into?

  Until fourteen months ago, I was just an Analyst Second Class, a fancy title for a simple bureaucrat. A pastry-­eating, coffee-­and-­cream-­drinking, clock-­punching pencil pusher complete with a wardrobe full of nothing but dark-­toned suits that needed to be let out an inch per year.

  A lifelong slacker foolishly trying to live up to Daddy’s expectations.

  I was a pretender. A fraud . . .

 

  I slowed down, taking one step for every two of my hyper heartbeats. Letting Kell reel out a ways, I allowed the crowd to swallow every bit of him except for his cap, which bobbed regularly into view.

  From experience, I knew early evening was a busy time on the quay. Tethered boats would take on supplies. Wheelbarrows full of fish would head for the markets, eel tails hanging over the edges. Herds of mammoth would be shepherded into their stables by gangs of young boys adept at the most deaf-­making whistling I’d ever heard.

  But tonight all that commotion was invisible to me.

  The only thing I could see was the traitor’s cap.

  The only thing I could hear was the insistent hammer of my heart.

  The time was near. Time to do the job I was sent to do.

  Assassinate the colonel.

  Nobody could see me do it. Nobody could ever find his body. Because once he was dead, I was going to take his place.

  Meet the new Colonel Drake Kell.

  CHAPTER 2

  “My firstt ru le for killing a man: Dont call it murder. Finnd a word that will go soffter onthe consceincce.”

  –JAKOB BRYCE

  The crowd was thinner here. I could clearly see Kell and his guards now. I watched their backs, the traitor and his protectors. The guards were in full uniform, dark blue with turquoise piping, a sharp contrast to Kell’s beige-­and-­gold livery. Kell had some nerve donning the official uniform of the Empire, defiling it further with the emerald green scarf of the Free Maritinia Republic wrapped about his neck.

  The quay angled slightly away from the sea, thus becoming a street. As far as I could see stood block after block of squat, stone buildings, the entire city resting atop a broad stone platform raised over the sea. So focused on my quarry, though, I was barely aware of the restaurants and bars lining both sides of the avenue, their pitchmen hawking good eats and better prices.

  The trio turned left and approached a two-­story residence with a tiled roof and white walls—­white except for the bottom third of the first floor, which was painted blue in the style of Maritinia’s capital city.

  As was their routine, the guards took up positions on either side of the entry while Kell went inside.

 

  I said, trying to sound certain, willing it to be so. It had taken me a day to get my bearings, but for the past six nights, I’d been spying through Kell’s bedroom window from a neighboring rooftop.

  Six nights straight, the colonel had followed the same routine. He’d appear in the upstairs bedroom shortly after entering his home. He’d settle down on his sleeping mat with a drink, and nap for ninety minutes before waking up, downing the remainder of his drink, and heading downstairs, presumably to shower and shave. Soon thereafter, I’d see him exit the house to go to the club for dinner.

  I was nearing the residence myself now, acutely aware of the firerods slung over the guards’ shoulders. I continued past the residence without making eye contact, half expecting crackling purple fire to electrify my back.

  Eyes straight ahead, I kept moving, short breaths puffing in and out until, a few minutes later, I arrived at a set of stairs that led down to a dock.

  I strode up to Beleaux’s boat and gave it a kick, startling the Jebyl fisherman out of his nap. Seeing me, he smiled, his face striped with wrinkles. “I didn’t touch your things as you ask-­ed,” he said, his voice thick with provincial charm, always enunciating the “ed” at the end of a past-­tense verb as if it were a separate word.

  “Where’s the squid? I told you I didn’t want to row.”

  “Yes, of course you did. I think she’s eating.” Leaning down, he rapped on the boat’s hull several times. “I rent-­ed you the best squiddie of the school.” He knocked again, and a rust brown tentacle appeared over the boat’s rail, then another on the
opposite side. More tentacles came stretching up out of the water, briefly exposing their tight-­packed rows of suckers before slithering down the boat’s sides and across the floor like fast-­growing tree roots. The boat creaked as the tentacles, eight of them now, squeezed down. “See? She’s a strong one.”

  “Good.”

  Grinning with a set of dingy teeth, he said, “You must bring a guide. Beleaux will take care of you.”

  I shook my head no.

  Beleaux complied with a shrug and climbed up to the dock. I hopped down into the boat, careful not to step on the cablelike tentacles. Checking first to make sure my supplies were indeed on board, I told him to untie the boat, then I poked my head over the prow to look at the beast, a broad dark shadow just under the surface. I looked into the creature’s white eye. “Go.”

  The skiff lunged forward, then slacked for a moment before kicking ahead again. Like a slow rowing stroke, the cephalopod moved the boat ahead in regular spurts. It was the damnedest thing, this living motor.

  When I looked back, Beleaux waved good-­bye. I returned the courtesy.

 

 

 

  A chill tickled my spine.