Erin's Sword: Book Two: Destiny

By Chris Blake

There is a proverb that states that anything that is set in stone, will inevitably erode. Language, like life, is sometimes hard to define. For how can one explain meaning without more words, and what is there to interpret the first one? It seems to be in the nature of humanity to search for loopholes, and then explore them. The actual wording of the Gene Convention has been found susceptible to such exploitation. But perhaps that was intentional, for language, like evolution, cannot stand still.
Destiny itself was a case in point. It was once a massive heavily mineralised asteroid on the periphery of the Forbidden Zone, apparently named by a long deceased and forgotten exploratory mining entrepreneur, who felt destined to become mega-rich. He discovered its high rare mineral composition, and saw its potential to supply guaranteed quantities of high-quality ore to the premier manufacturing planets for exclusive lines of production, and make himself exceedingly wealthy in the process. Unfortunately, however he became the target of a hostile takeover, and did not manage to experience the fulfillment of his vision. In any case by the end of the Quincentennial Wars all of its high-grade deposits had long been mined out. What was left over besides its name and its reputation was a low-density outer core riddled with gigantic opencast pits, massive caverns and plunging rifts; all ideal places to hide. The skilled workers, particularly the miners, left to follow their trade on viable nearby leases. All that remained were the traders, dealers, speculators and mendicants. Because of this and its bad location in a quadrant avoided for its extreme danger, Destiny became a magnet for the fringe dwellers of the Jene Alliance, those who had drifted into the shadow world of the black economy. It particularly attracted Scavengers, who consistently managed to twist and corrupt the intent of the Principles, without actually breaking them. On Destiny they could hoard and hide their stolen inventories and requisitions, and run diverse black-market operations from hidden fortresses and compounds with little chance of discovery or prosecution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Blake
• Release date: Jun 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463437186

Chris Blake

Chris Blake lives in the South West, not far from Tintagel Castle, rumoured to be the home of King Arthur. Ever since he was a little boy Chris has always dreamed about travelling through time. He likes watching Doctor Who and looks forward to the day that time-travel is possible as he’d love to visit all the places in his books. In the meantime Chris will keep writing his own adventures. Chris has an old black cat called Merlin.

Book preview

Erin’s Sword

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BOOK TWO

Destiny:

Trading Hub on the Edge of the Forbidden Zone

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Text Copyright 2019 Chris Blake

All rights reserved.

Published by Smashwords

Cover image by RCMatthewsArtist

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Table of Contents

Book Two: Destiny: - Trading Hub on the Edge

Prologue:

Chapter 1. Destination

Chapter 2. The Chase

Chapter 3. A Long Voyage

Chapter 4. Six months later

Chapter 5. Interview One

Chapter 6. The Cradle

Chapter 7. The Sixth Principle

Chapter 8. The Conciliar Convention

Chapter 9. Hardly inspiring!

Chapter 10. Not another power outage!

Chapter 11. What in all the heavens?

Chapter 12. We have been discussing

Chapter 13. Greetings Master Acolyte

Chapter 14. What is this planet Central?

Chapter 15. Merciful heavens!

Chapter 16. You don’t know?

Chapter 17. Well that was a revelation

Chapter 18. The witch is refusing to land

Chapter 19. Well that hardly helps us!

Chapter 20. For the benefit of the record

Chapter 21. After the events on Destiny

Chapter 22. The hostile reception

Chapter 23. Art’s metamorphosis

Chapter 24. I sent the old emergency code

Free sample chapters of the sequel

Appendices:

About Chris Blake

Other titles by Chris Blake

Review request

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Prologue:

There is a proverb which states that anything that is set in stone, will inevitably erode. Language, like life, is sometimes hard to define. For how can one explain meaning without more words, and what is there to interpret the first one? It seems to be in the nature of humanity to search for loopholes, and then explore them. The actual wording of the Gene Convention has been found susceptible to such exploitation. But perhaps that was intentional, for language, like evolution, cannot stand still.

Destiny itself was a case in point. It was once a massive heavily mineralised asteroid on the periphery of the Forbidden Zone, apparently named by a long forgotten exploratory mining entrepreneur, who felt destined to become mega-rich. He discovered its high rare mineral composition, and saw its potential to fulfil all his dreams. Unfortunately, however, he became the target of rumour, and disappeared from history in mysterious circumstances. A succession of speculators and contractors worked the claim with varying degrees of efficiency, and by the end of the Wars all of its high-grade deposits had long been mined out. What was left over besides its name and its reputation was a low-density outer core riddled with gigantic opencast pits, massive caverns and plunging rifts; all ideal places to hide. The skilled workers, particularly the miners, abandoned the tailings to follow their trade on viable nearby leases. All that remained were the traders, dealers, speculators and mendicants too indebted to start anew. Because of this and its poor location in a quadrant avoided for its extreme danger, Destiny became a magnet for the fringe dwellers of the Jene Alliance, those who had drifted into the shadow world of the black economy. It particularly attracted Scavengers, who consistently managed to twist and corrupt the intent of the Principles, without actually breaking them. On Destiny they could hoard and hide their stolen inventories and requisitions, and run diverse black-market operations from hidden fortresses and compounds with little chance of discovery or prosecution.

From: The Editor’s Notes

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Chapter 1. Destination

B’lanche stood on the aft-deck for what seemed an eternity, staring into the space once occupied by Purgatory. The planet was completely gone now, totally obliterated. It had been their home of a sorts for a while. In the Acolyte’s case a temporary attachment, one of many in the long list of appointments expected in his career, so it was of course a shock, but not debilitating. He was not sure what exactly it had been to her, there were too many intangibles and links to the past. But to ARTIFICE he was certain it had been the place of the birth of its consciousness, and the domain of all of its previous life. B’lanche was absolutely still and silent, but the blade at her side was quivering and humming softly. The Acolyte wondered at it, what it foreshadowed, what indeed it all meant. So many questions unanswered, so many lives lost. He knew it was pointless to ask anything direct of her. The Institute trained in subterfuge, not sincerity. But perhaps her perspective was merely a blend of a reality he simply could not at present envision. Time might tell; if he lived to hear it.

ART remained in the recliner, comatose.

Where are we headed? the Acolyte asked of her to break the silence. It was grating on him, too much quiet after so much action, but if he believed anything now, it was that she had some kind of plan to proceed.

She turned at length to face him. We’re going to the seat of all Knowledge, she informed him. T’og would have prayed to the Oracle, but to me that is mere superstition. I am travelling to something finite, and very real. I am going to the Cradle.

That’s insane! ART was shocked into consciousness. The Cradle has been off-limits for centuries. Have you a death wish? After all you’ve just done?

The Acolyte was surprised by the vehemence of ART’s reaction. He himself had heard of the Cradle, but only as a myth, almost faerie from his infancy. It was said to be an artefact from the time of the Creators, its function long since corrupted, its origins forgotten. It was colloquially known as the Cradle of Nightmares, or the cradle that rocked. It orbited somewhere in the shadow world of the Forbidden Zone, now unmapped, its existence lost.

How much of your memory have you brought with you? B’lanche asked ART.

I’ve processed most of the ship’s structure into molecular recall banks, admitted ART, making sure to avoid any interference with ship’s functions. I didn’t attach planetary supervision files, prison records, any administrative or maintenance functions. I did not think that I would need them. It turned pensive.

Can you access the co-ordinates for the Cradle? asked B’lanche.

Why would I? asked ART. I do not want to lose what I have saved of myself.

She turned to the Acolyte. Can you access the Institute’s Archives for me? Look up the Cradle?

I’ll block him, said ART.

B’lanche faced it, her eyes hooded, but the Acolyte could see she was masking her anger. Consider what you have lost! she said carefully, and consider what you might become. Can you not see that you have incidentally excised most of the poison of your past? You are now almost free!

I do not intend to self-destruct, replied ART.

Life and freedom imply risk, said B’lanche. Find the courage to live. You will never be truly free until you clear yourself. The Institute will hunt you down.

We will not find the answers at the Cradle, argued ART, It pre-existed Purgatory for centuries, millennia even.

Precisely, said B’lanche. It is of the old technology, well before the time of molecular sentients.

And your point is? asked ART.

It is always wise to have a back-up plan, B’lanche was measured, If you can’t clear yourself, where in all the galaxy can you hide in relative safety.

ART turned inward, processing silently. An insane artefact from the Ancient Days, off-limits for centuries, defended by the most lethal weaponry the Creators could devise, most of it prohibited even today?

B’lanche nodded.

Can you get me in? ART demanded.

I have a plan, replied B’lanche. And some experience in dealing with large mad objects.

If that was meant to be funny, said ART, I must have just lost my sense of humour. What’s in this for you?

A secure base for starters, said B’lanche. And then once you insert yourself, access to all the archived knowledge of the Ancient World. I want to be able to continue my research. I want to be able to mount a legitimate defence, based on historical precedent. Have you heard of ‘The Hidden Principle’?

I have heard rumours, ART was noncommittal, But the Institute would hold that sort of information as part of its mandate as the judiciary, said ART. It might be easier to infiltrate the Grand Inquisition than attempt the Cradle?

The Institute might have never been informed, replied B’lanche. The system was set up that way by the Creators; checks and balances to withstand the vagaries of time and politics.

If the Institute was never informed? queried ART, What would be the point of its enactment?

Perhaps there are other powers in the universe? hinted B’lanche.

You know more than you are saying? hazarded ART.

I do not know enough to unequivocally save us, replied B’lanche.

Look up the Cradle, ART said to the Acolyte, decision computed.

As the Acolyte crossed to the ship’s computer console to enter a search, he passed the main radar screen. A blip was following them. He cursed out loud.

There’s a ship coming after us, he said. He felt an odd combination of unease mixed with guilt, and realized that it was because he was in law now an accessory, and as such answerable to the Inquisition. His stomach churned.

What is it? ART asked B’lanche.

She ran a configuration check on the incoming outline. It’s an Institute pursuit ship, she deciphered.

* * * * *

Chapter 2. The Chase

ART shifted to flight controls in a blur of motion, its fingers flying over the console panel. I should never have left the ship’s computer independent, it sounded annoyed with itself. I am losing response and reaction time.

It’s amazing how the threat of the loss of freedom focuses the mind, especially if it is so newly won, commented B’lanche, hardly sounding worried at all.

Go to full thrust! cried the Acolyte, feeling the onset of panic himself, now being a potential accessory to all sorts of probably heinous crimes.

Space loon! hissed ART, what do you think I am, an embryonic chip? That was the second thing I did, but its still gaining! The first was to raise our shields.

That’s impossible, isn’t it? the Acolyte in desperation turned to the calmness of B’lanche. How can it be faster than us? We’re in a pursuit ship ourselves? Then realisation set in. They’ve come after us with their latest model, haven’t they? They’ve come utterly prepared. They’ve left no chances undefended. He felt suddenly resigned to his inevitable fate; it had been wildly optimistic, almost infantile to think they could outwit an institution as profoundly omnipotent as the Institute. He had somehow unwittingly been seduced by B’lanche’s charisma.

Run an outline configuration check to confirm class and model, B’lanche was laconic.

It’s a Class IX, same as us, ART’s reply was almost instantaneous.

Run an exterior diagnostic check, said B’lanche.

It’s holed in places, structurally breached, ART’s response was slightly slower.

Run a life support check, continued B’lanche.

Not running, ART was immediate.

Check for living organisms, said B’lanche.

None extant, ART was slower. This is impossible, a paradox. How can an unmanned ship be after us, and overtaking us if it’s the same model?

Perhaps the propulsion units have been upgraded to higher specifications? suggested the Acolyte, still feeling paranoid.

Compute an algorithmic projection to estimate pursuit’s probable catch up time with ourselves, said B’lanche.

Computer suggests that pursuit is slowing? ART was sounding puzzled. It will not be able to overtake at current rate. Is it tracking only?

Holding back for reinforcements, suggested the Acolyte.

Slow and open ship-to-ship communications, said B’lanche.

You’re mad! snapped ART, you’re giving up our only advantage!

B’lanche ignored it and went across to the comm. panel herself, You’re ignoring a Fourth Principle directive at the peril of a programming shutdown, she informed the sentient.

I don’t think so, ART was openly hostile; I think you’ll find that got left behind with all my hardwiring on Purgatory. You did offer me freedom, didn’t you? Now deal with the consequences! It moved to intercept.

B’lanche unsheathed her blade. ART hesitated. B’lanche opened the comm.-link.

Pursuit One to incoming, she spoke, Do you read me? Come in if cognitive.

Static crackled and filled the bridge. B’lanche repeated the message, still calm.

Enough of this nonsense! said ART. Lower shields and take it out. We carry torpedoes and space mines. It’s already damaged. Let’s finish it!

You really have escaped your programming? the Acolyte was troubled, wondering what this portended for their future association.

Not necessarily, B’lanche was still laconic. Diagnostics declared pursuit to be lifeless, remember? This is not a valid test of the Principles. It can set no precedent because there is no life at risk!

ART advanced a step, just outside the reach of B’lanche’s weapon, now extended into its full sword length. You cannot damage me, it said. For I am the ship, and without it you cannot survive.

But I can swallow your extraneous structure every time you project yourself, said B’lanche, darting forward so fast it was hard to process the movement. Her blade flicked out and slashed off part of ART’s outstretched arm. The dismembered limb fell into the sweep of the returning sword’s backslash and seemed to be sucked into the energy force emanating off the humming blade.

Do you not yet know what this is? she asked the stunned construct. This is all that is left to me of my bond-companion. This is a seraph blade. Not that we are allowed to talk about it apparently. It is an instrument of the prosecution. It will download the memories of the accused to confirm their guilt. How many of your secrets do you dare expose to public scrutiny? And it will eat your molecules every time you come out to play. How much matter can you afford to lose? We are in deep space now. Your capacity for replication is finite.

The Acolyte felt compelled to step between them. This is an impasse, he declared. You need each other. We all need each other, he corrected to include himself. The background static crackled again. The Acolyte felt the tension in the bridge almost vibrate in tune with the static. Neither of the opponents