The Jai'Tal Conspiracy: The Salamander Man, #2

By Duncan Lane

The spectacular sequel to The Morq'Dar Betrayal

On planet Casimeer, an elite few have achieved great wealth through exploitation, corruption and treachery; meanwhile many of the indigenous Salamander people struggle in abject poverty.

Ulrich De Vrei used to be one of the elite, until he lost everything. Now his only goal is vengeance against those who ruined his life.

Vadim is one of the Salamander, and an old foe of the De Vrei family. He was once a rebel leader, but is now an outcast known as the Ghost of the Swamp.

Inexplicable visions, a mystic child, and a series of grisly murders draw both Ulrich and Vadim into a complex web of intrigue. At the center of it all is Jai'Tal – The Water of Death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duncan Lane
• Release date: May 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781393432050

Duncan Lane

Duncan Lane was born and raised in England, but later moved to California. He is married and has two children. His degree in engineering initially led to a career in hi-tech. He wrote his first novel in his spare time (midnight to 2a.m.) over the course of several years. When it was published, he promptly quit his day job. He now has multiple novels and a screenplay to his credit. He currently lives and writes in San Francisco.

Book preview

Prologue

Morq’Dar, the largest alluvial on Casimeer, is sometimes called the Keeper of Souls. The beast-god, lurking within its mud dome like a giant, tentacle-covered stomach, has a collective consciousness drawn from the minds of those it consumes—eternal life for the righteous. But not all its victims are so fortunate; some are shunned, condemned to oblivion while their bodies slowly dissolve. Even the strongest will cannot overcome the isolation imposed by the collective mind unless something external intervenes....

Commander Querin was dead—everyone knew that—even he knew it. He was floating in a misty white haze; alone, so very alone. Time held no meaning, but something was happening. Something was disturbing the infinite blankness of death.

Move, run, fight! Nothing; no movement, no response. Perhaps he no longer had a body. He didn't seem to be breathing and sensed no heartbeat. He could see nothing, only swirling white.

A memory came: a curved knife blade, glowing red-hot, descending to his eyes. Yes... there had been torture; days of writhing in agony and screaming curses at his foes until they cut out his tongue. His death had been long and slow, the pain excruciating; though now pain was just a word, a forgotten sensation that held no meaning.

Sounds intruded into his thoughts, something like the distant gabbling of a flock of geese, or perhaps the muttering of a crowd of people. Then a single small voice spoke.

Father, is that you? Have I found you?

Querin could utter no response.

Father, come to me. I need you.

The mist around Querin parted; he plunged into cold dark water, swept deeper and deeper at an impossible speed. Creatures came—thousands of them swimming all around him in a vast undulating swarm. They were glistening, green squid-like things with trailing tentacles. Their bodies pulsed as they took in and expelled water to propel themselves along, and with each pulse, the three trailing tentacles convulsed like grasping fingers. They were alluvial larvae. In life, he'd only ever seen them in their adult stage, rooted in their mud domes. Why was he seeing these larvae now? Were these the children of Morq'Dar? Had the beast-god, the largest of all alluvials, swum free in the flood and spawned these offspring?

The profusion of larvae thinned and disappeared. A lone small figure hung in the water ahead—a pale gray naked boy, with webbed hands and feet, his thin chest rising and falling as streams of bubbles rose from the gill slits on his neck. The child stared with sad, baleful eyes, slowly shook his head, turned and swam away.

Querin blinked and everything was gone; he was alone again in the white mist, but consciousness remained.  Alluvials, Morq'Dar, Flood; the words bounced and echoed around his mind. Flashes of images, sounds and emotions jolted his memories. The flood: a surging torrent crashing down a rocky valley to inundate his beloved swamp. Those Salamander scum caused it; they’d blown Fissure Peak Dam to flood the swamp so they could claim the gold beneath it.

And the floodwater had been toxic; deliberately polluted with plutonium intended to ruin Jai'Jeun—the Water of Youth. The wealth of Casimeer was founded on exporting Jai'Jeun; people across the galaxy would pay anything for the promise of increasing their life expectancy. Had all that been destroyed by the flood?

His own history crystallized in his mind. He was Commander Querin, leader of the Legiac Army for the House of De Vrei. He pictured a castle, a dark, hulking, stone-walled fortress rising from the waters of the swamp—home to Baroness De Vrei and to Ulrich, the illegitimate son he'd sired with her. It all came back to him now: the years spent mentoring Ulrich in the stern military code of the Legiac, guarding him, guiding him to adulthood, but never revealing their true relationship.

Life had been good, until someone on far off Primus grew jealous of the wealth and power created by Jai'Jeun. They sent a spy to Casimeer to foment trouble between the three noble houses, Strome, Palomar, and De Vrei, and to arm the Salamander rebels. The Baroness had been assassinated, Ulrich had declared war on the other noble houses and the Federal army had arrived to crush his Legiac forces and impose martial law. A stage-managed coup by the powers back on Primus to take over the Jai'Jeun business. They'd got what they deserved—Jai’Jeun polluted and unusable.

Vadim. That was the name of the Salamander who’d double-crossed everyone.

Everything on Casimeer had been wrecked. The economy ruined; the Baroness dead; Senator Strome, killed by his scheming wife, Aveena; Count Palomar, the fat, conniving bastard, imprisoned on charges of treason. Only the Salamander had won, but at a huge price—the flood had destroyed all the Salamander villages in the swamp and shattered their traditional way of life. That much Querin knew, but what had happened since the flood?

Did the Salamander now control all gold mining in the swamp? And if so, which faction: the SWP, with their communist ideals, or the religious fanatics of the Morq'Dar Army? The two groups loathed each other and would never share the wealth generated by the gold mining. The battle for control would be bloody.

And what of Jai'Jeun? Was the Water of Youth once again flowing? How much time had passed since the flood? And who... who....

Querin’s mind began to falter. He heard a deep sighing sound and words came, muttered and overlapping, as if spoken all around him.

Sleep. Rest once more. Your battles are done. Sleep. No need to fight.

The voices crowded in on him. The abyss of oblivion awaited. But why should he obey the urging of others? He was a Legiac commander.

I am the leader; it is you that will follow my orders!

His thoughts silenced the voices. The minds around him seemed to draw back, as if stung by his words. Then whispered conversations began, hundreds of them, in an unintelligible turmoil of ideas and emotions. Fear, adoration, hate, love, all jumbled together—some directed at him, but more at the boy who had woken him, the mysterious Salamander child searching for his father.

Anger and frustration rose in Querin. What did some Salamander brat matter? It was his own son, Ulrich, that mattered. He’d devoted his life to raising and protecting him. At their final parting, Ulrich had sworn a Legiac oath of vengeance against those on Primus behind the plot that ruined life on Casimeer. Had he succeeded? Had he died trying?

Ulrich De Vrei, my son, where are you?

Chapter 1   

Ulrich stood quietly, arms folded, staring at a steel hatchway. It was battleship-gray with a high threshold, low head clearance and a four-spoke wheel at the center to seal it shut. A narrow trail of rust on the wall below the hatch and an occasional drip indicated some imperfections in the seal. A small puddle was forming on the concrete floor. Ulrich’s right hand drifted up to the amulet he wore on a cord around his neck. His fingers stroked the smooth metal. He glanced up at the clock above the door again—only a minute had passed since he last looked.

Someone brushed against his elbow. A female cadet mumbled a quiet sorry, gave him a brief smile and quickly looked away. The room had filled up; about thirty cadets were now crammed into the small waiting area, though there was a little halo of space around him. Another student entered from the door at the back of the room and muttered a comment that generated some nervous giggles. Then everyone lapsed back into silence.

All the cadets wore black combat uniforms, but with no weapons or body armor. Most were men, though perhaps ten were women. The woman next to Ulrich could have passed for a fifteen-year-old boy. She was as tall as him, but slight. She had short-cropped wispy ginger hair and a pale complexion; her combat jacket looked a size too big. He knew the type: academically brilliant, reasonably athletic, and probably near the top of her freshman class. She'd do well until late in her second year, then she'd fail the assault course, get badly injured during combat training and probably transfer to flight school. He'd seen it all too often during his three years at the COR Academy. She was never going to make it in the Covert Operations Regiment.

He glanced around the room, sizing up the chances of the freshman class. Perhaps two of the women would make it to graduation, but then again, at least half the men would also flunk out. And if today didn't go well, he might be among them. His heart began to beat faster. He was still stroking the amulet at his neck, but now his fingers were stiff and fumbling. He shoved the necklace down under his white t-shirt, zipped his jacket up to his chin, and checked the clock again; not long now. He licked his dry lips, closed his eyes and concentrated on blankness. A woozy fatigue born of weeks of sleepless nights engulfed his mind—

Sanchez, Sanchez, wake up, boy!

The instructor was standing right in front of him; all the other cadets were at attention. Ulrich snapped to attention, too; at the COR Academy, he was Oscar Sanchez.

Yes, Sergeant!

No time for daydreaming, boy, you need to focus. It’s your last chance to pass this class. Alright, everyone, I know Sanchez is here, let's make sure I have the rest of you.

The instructor began calling out names and checking them off on his clipboard as each student responded with a smart: Here, Sergeant.

Ulrich resumed staring at the steel hatchway. He’d taken the test twice before and flunked both times. Three years of rigorous training—he was in the top two in every class except this one. He had to pass the test this time or all his other work would be for nothing.

Is it as hard as they say? whispered the young woman cadet next him.

Panic and die, stay calm and live, Ulrich muttered, as much to himself as to her; a chill ran through his body at the thought of his previous failures.

The instructor finished his roll call and the room fell silent. A loud clang and hiss from somewhere beyond the steel hatchway made everyone jump. A green light above the door began flashing, then went on solid.

All right gentlemen, and ladies, the instructor said. I'll go over the rules one last time. You enter the chamber, wait for it to flood, then open the outer door and exit into the dive tank. Swim across to the far wall and up to a keypad mounted about one third of the way up. Enter your eight-digit security code; that will arm the escape button at the top of the tank. Swim up to that button and press it to open the adjacent hatch and exit the tank. However, when you press the button determines your grade. If you press it immediately, you will fail. If you wait thirty seconds for the indicator to turn green, you get a C grade. If you wait a further two minutes for it to turn amber, you get a B. If you wait a further two minutes for it to turn red, you get an A. You will be underwater the whole time. This test is to see how well you can relax under pressure. It is easy. I expect everyone to pass. Who’s going first?

As senior student here I claim that right, Sergeant, Ulrich said.

Hmm, I'm glad to hear you’re up for it, Sanchez.

A hint of a smile flickered across the stern face of the instructor as he shouldered his way past the students and began spinning the wheel in the middle of the door to unseal it. It opened with a wheeze as the pressure equalized. Students had to shuffle out of the way in the small waiting room as the dripping door swung inward. The instructor stepped aside and motioned for Ulrich to enter.

Your final test awaits, Sanchez. You just need this for graduation. Don't screw it up this time.

Ulrich managed a wry grin as he ducked through the entrance into a tiny steel chamber. The door clanged shut behind him and he could hear the instructor cranking the wheel to seal it once more. He was alone. There was barely enough room for him: his shoulders almost touched the chill bare steel walls on either side; his close-cropped black hair was brushing against the ceiling; his back was against the door through which he had entered; and his chest was only a few centimeters from the wheel in the center of the outer door. It was every bit as claustrophobic as he remembered. His heart was pounding in his chest.

Remember your training, he whispered to himself. Calm your breathing. Relax your body.

It took a few moments, but he could feel his heart rate slow. It was just like when Querin had taught him to shoot on Casimeer. He’d been only five years old and so excited to fire a laser rifle for the first time. He’d snatched every shot and missed every target. Querin had calmed him down, made him try to hold the gun steady on the target, and shown him how the sights bounced a fraction with each beat of his heart. He could hear the voice of his mentor. Slow down your breathing, think about slowing your heartbeat, watch the bounce of the gun subside; then, when it’s still, squeeze the trigger. He had obeyed perfectly and scored a perfect bull’s-eye.

Ulrich continued his slow, steady breathing, relaxing his neck and shoulders, easing away tension. Calmness was vital, but time was passing, and the water would be coming soon. He set about unsealing the door in front of him. The wheel turned easily, but he knew there was no point in trying to push the hatch open yet—the pressure on the outside was too great. A high-pitched whine gave him a split-second of notice that the water was on its way. He grimaced. Icy cold water exploded out of hidden nozzles dotted around the walls, and the lights went out. He shivered in the darkness as one of the overhead jets doused him from above. Water began pooling around his feet, then his ankles. He could feel the clammy press as it squeezed the cloth of his pants against his legs. The first time he had taken the test he had almost panicked at this stage. It was easier now that he knew what to expect, but still horrible. The water rose to his waist, and the pressure of the remaining air increased as it squealed its way out of a vent above him. He took a breath, closed his mouth, held his nose, and tried to force air into his ears to relieve the pain in his eardrums.

When the water reached his chest, he began to take slow rhythmic breaths. He let himself float upward, tipping his head back to get a last few deep breaths before the space got too small. Waiting too long had been why he failed first time. He had tried to get one last massive gulp as the final pocket of the air escaped—instead he had taken in mostly water. He felt a strange detachment as he remembered the terrible gagging, choking struggle to open the door. He'd made it through but passed out. This time was going to be different. He took his last breath while there was still plenty of room and sank down to wait patiently for the remaining air to escape. In a few seconds, it was gone, and he slowly pushed open the door and floated out into the dive tank. He was at the very bottom. A dim light shone from high above at the top of the tank. The rescue diver floating next to the door gave him an okay sign.

Ulrich pushed off gently and swam to the far side of the tank, then let himself rise, carried up by a slight current. He let a small stream of bubbles escape from his nose as the air in his lungs expanded. He relaxed and let the current carry him up to the small keypad and display mounted on the wall above. The current had been why he failed the second time he took the test. He had made it out of the escape hatch that time but had been too anxious. He had swum hard and fast diagonally up toward the keypad. The current had caught him and carried him too high, forcing him to swim back down. He'd grabbed onto the keypad upside down and tried entering his escape code. He messed it up twice before pulling himself around and entering it correctly. By that time, he had been almost out of oxygen. He had made it to the top of the tank but could not wait for the green indicator before pushing the escape button. The few seconds it took for the hatch to open had been too much. He’d succumbed to the burning strain in his mouth and lungs and taken a breath full of water. The instructors had hauled him out gasping and retching. Not drowned that time, but mortally humiliated.

This time it all seemed so easy. He drifted up to the keypad and held onto it lightly as he entered his escape code. The display flashed CORRECT. He pushed off and swam gently up to the top of the tank. There was no air gap, just water, then steel. He hung vertically and used his hands against the roof to walk himself over to the escape button. He waited patiently for it to turn green.

After a few seconds, the light came on. He was feeling minor discomfort, but nothing significant. It was less than a minute since he’d taken his last lungful of air; in the training pool he’d regularly managed five minutes. The roof of his mouth was beginning to tingle, and he was starting to feel a strong urge to take a breath, but he could ignore that. He closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly forward, trying to achieve a meditative state to separate his mind from what his body was feeling.

An unwanted name drifted into his thoughts, Jai'Tal—the whispered name that had been haunting his dreams lately. Normally, it was accompanied by nightmarish visions of death and destruction, pain and suffering. This time, though, it brought something different. A feeling of excitement and a vision of swimming through a dive tube—one with rough rock walls lit by luminescent algae. Somewhere up ahead a light glowed. He swam forward and the light grew brighter. The dive tube seemed to end in a golden glow.

Ulrich opened his eyes a fraction and saw that the escape button was now amber. Two minutes had passed. He closed his eyes again and returned to his vision. He swam forward and found that the golden glow was coming from curtains woven of gold wire that hung across the end of the dive tube. The weave was loose, like chainmail, allowing water to flow in and the light from whatever lay behind to come out. The current in the tube pushed him gently up against the golden curtains. He reached forward and parted them. He could see a golden staircase rising up before him, leading up to the shimmering surface above him. Jai'Tal. The name whispered through his mind like a breeze. He began climbing the stairs toward the surface.

He opened his eyes again and saw that the escape button was now red. He vaguely knew that his body was struggling as his oxygen ran out. He could feel the laborious, pulsing thump of his heart. It seemed amazingly slow, but he didn't care, he wanted to return to his vision. He closed his eyes once more and was back on the underwater staircase. He climbed up in slow motion. It seemed to take forever before he broke the surface. There were still more stairs above him, but he could see golden walls rising on either side. The walls were ornately decorated and inlaid with jeweled borders. He climbed higher and a golden altar appeared. He was in a golden temple. Jai'Tal. Just a few more steps and he would be able to see everything.

Rough hands grabbed him, hauled him up out of the escape hatch, and dumped him unceremoniously on the floor. The instructor, the same man who had put him in the tank, glared down.

Died again, did you, Sanchez?

On the contrary, Sergeant, Ulrich replied. He stood, smiled and smoothed down his jacket and trousers sending rivulets of water to the floor. I'm perfectly fine, thank you.

Then why didn't you push the button when it got to red?

I thought I'd hang around a bit longer and see what other colors it might turn.

You smart-assed little bastard, you could have blacked out at any moment.

But I didn't, so I assume that means I passed the test?

Don't bank on it. The results will be posted tonight. The Sergeant stormed off.

Ulrich watched him go and realized he was not sure which exit he should use. He had only ever exited the room on a stretcher before—once barely conscious and once technically drowned. It was a sparse industrial room with a profusion of pipes and gauges on the walls. A control room with mirrored glass filled one wall; presumably, that was where technicians monitored the progress of cadets in the tank. There were exit doors on each of the other three walls.

How do I get back to the dorms from here?

'Take the door on your left, responded a voice from a speaker grill beneath the mirrored control room window. Follow the corridor to the first staircase and that will bring you out onto the main concourse."

Thanks, Ulrich said, turning to go but then pausing. How long was I down there anyway?

Eight and a half minutes. The Sergeant was really worried. How did you do it?

Jai'Tal, Ulrich replied with a smile and left.

In the control room, a figure dressed in a dark red combat suit leaned forward intently. Colonel Rip Bastien, head of Alpha Squad Seven, had come to view the progress of one of his star pupils, but now he had something far more urgent on his mind. What did he say?

I didn't catch it, sir, replied the technician next to him. Would you like me to replay it?

Yes.

The man hit the rewind button on his video system and the image of Ulrich leaving the room reversed. He hit play.

How did you do it? asked the recorded technician's voice.

Jai'Tal, came the reply.

Again. Zoom in on Sanchez and amplify those last words, Bastien commanded.

Ulrich's face loomed large on the screen and the words Jai'Tal boomed out.

Does that mean something to you, sir? the technician asked.

It certainly does. The question is—what does it mean to young Mr. Sanchez? Bastien stared pensively at the frozen image of Ulrich on the screen, then abruptly stood up. Call the Vice President's office. Tell them I'm on my way over and need to see him as soon as possible.

Vice President Cheroux found pleasure in paperwork. He had been irritated at being called away from a lavish State dinner, but his mood was improving. He was in his office, seated at his massive mahogany desk making notes in the margin of a document. He preferred using pen and paper to electronic devices, partly because he enjoyed the feel of quality paper and the way ink flowed from the nib of his old-fashioned fountain pen, but mostly because no one could hack into them.

There was still one annoyance—the faint sound of chanted protests creeping in through the windows. He pressed a button on the underside of his desk. Steel shutters hissed down, curtains closed, and recessed lights glowed into life.

Better. He returned to studying the document: the President’s latest bill to be submitted to the Senate, once again increasing the sanctions on the Outer Ring. Sanctions—a useless blunt instrument when drastic surgery was needed. But the bill was well written, a nicely crafted piece of legislation, which was pleasing. His only quibble was the use of the term ‘Outer Ring’. The name had been coined by a journalist, and despite being totally inaccurate, it had stuck and was now the de facto term for the rebellious group of eleven colonized worlds at the edge of the known galaxy. The distant cluster of five stars around which the various planets orbited did form a vague circle when viewed from Primus, but that hardly justified the name. It somehow seemed to legitimize their desire to break away from the rule of Primus, as if remoteness gave them some special privilege.

Someone knocked on the extravagant double doors of his office; three gentle taps, barely audible, the sound almost absorbed by the plush carpet and rich draperies. He picked up the cap of his pen, placed it over the nib, and screwed it on in a series of fastidious quarter turns before setting it down and responding to the knock.

Come in.

His secretary poked her head around the door. Colonel Bastien is here, sir.

Well, show him in, I haven't got all night.

The woman ushered Rip Bastien into the office and withdrew. Bastien was still attired in his red leather so-called combat suit; more like something a degenerate musician might wear. Cheroux gave him a thin smile.

Not a formal visit?

I used the private side entrance.

Sit. Cheroux indicated either of the two blue-upholstered wingback armchairs in front of his desk. Bastien settled into the one on the right with a friendly nod.

Cheroux always found the confident relaxed manner of his spy chief irritating. It was also irritating that he could find out so little about him. Even his age was a mystery—all records of his early life had been expunged. Most people guessed him to be in his forties, though the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth and eyes suggested that he was older. Cheroux considered Bastien to be a skilled leader, a brilliant strategist, paranoid about security, and very likely a psychopath. Not a bad set of traits for the head of COR, the largest spy agency on Primus, but it made him hard to trust and even harder to like. And on top of all that, he was fit, strong and handsome. His appearance always made Cheroux aware of his own physical shortcomings as a portly, pallid, balding bureaucrat. He adjusted his rimless glasses and fixed a cold blue stare on his visitor.

What is so important that I had to leave a State dinner?

Jai'Tal.

What about it?

One of my cadets used those words today after he passed the underwater escape test. I assume the National Security Service monitors will have picked it up. They have virtually the entire campus bugged. Their computers will have found those words in among all the other audio streams. It’s undoubtedly bubbling up through their layers of bureaucracy. I thought we should be the first to inform the President, rather than letting the NSS do it.

Cheroux nodded. He let the jibe about the NSS go—it was true anyway. Of course, the COR had bugs in all the NSS offices too, but that was all to the good; the COR was loyal to him. Have you questioned the cadet yet?

No. I wanted to alert you first and discuss the right approach. The cadet goes by the name Oscar Sanchez.

That's an interesting turn of events, Cheroux replied. We will have to be careful how we handle this. How long do you think we have until the NSS will be ready to inform the President?

They're probably ready now, though I doubt they will try to interrupt the State dinner.

Hmm... then I must return at once to the dinner and inform the President before they get to him. We need to be in control of this situation.

"Should I make Sanchez