Zaskar tapped the console, shutting off the display. He didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, but perhaps they were that desperate. His fleet was dying. And its crew was dying too. Discipline was steadily breaking down—internal security had logged everything from fights to a handful of unpopular officers being murdered in their bunks—and he didn’t dare try to crack down. His crewmen were too ignorant for now to realize just how bad things really were, but he knew it was only a matter of time. The squadron was well on its way to collapsing into irrelevance. The Commonwealth wouldn’t have to lift a finger to destroy them. They’d do that for themselves.
He took a breath, tasting something faintly unpleasant in the air. The air circulation system was starting to break down too. He’d had men cleaning the vents and checking—and rechecking—the recycling plants, but if their air suddenly turned poisonous . . . that would be the end. It wouldn’t even have to be that poisonous. An atmospheric imbalance, perhaps an excess of oxygen, would be just as bad. A spark would cause an explosion. Hell, merely breathing in excess oxygen would cause problems too.
The hatch hissed open. Zaskar looked up, already knowing who he’d see. There was only one person who would come into his ready room without ringing the buzzer and waiting for permission to enter. Lord Cleric Moses stood there, his beard as unkempt as ever. Zaskar couldn’t help thinking there were more flecks of gray in his hair than there’d been yesterday. Moses was nearly two decades older than Zaskar himself and hadn’t had the benefit of a military career.
And he isn’t even the Lord Cleric, Zaskar reminded himself, dryly. He just took the title on the assumption that he was the senior surviving cleric.
The thought brought another wave of depression. Ahura Mazda had fallen. The Tabernacle had been destroyed, and the planet had been occupied . . . if the wretched smugglers were to be believed. Zaskar wanted to believe that the smugglers had lied, but . . . he’d been there, during the final battle. He was all too aware that the Royal Tyre Navy had won. And his fleet, the one that should have fought to the bitter end, had been all that remained of the Theocratic Navy. He sometimes wondered, in the dead of night, if it would have been better to stay and die in defense of his homeworld and his religion. At least he wouldn’t have lived to see his fleet slowly starting to die.
“They found nothing, it seems,” Moses said, taking a seat. “They didn’t even find any worthy women.”
Zaskar snorted. Some of his officers had suggested, quite seriously, that they leave Theocratic Space entirely and set out to find a new home somewhere far from explored space. But his fleet’s crew consisted solely of men. Kidnapping women was about the only real solution to their problem, but where could they hope to find nearly a hundred thousand women? Raiding a midsized planet might work—and he’d seriously considered it—yet he doubted they could withdraw before the occupiers responded. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure he could punch through the planet’s defenses. His fleet was in a terrible state.
“No,” he said.
“And they heard more rumors,” Moses added. “More worlds have slipped from our control.”
“Yes,” Zaskar said. “Are you surprised?”
The cleric gave him a sharp look. Zaskar looked back, evenly. The days when a cleric could have a captain, or even an admiral, hauled off his command deck and scourged were long gone. Moses had little real power, and they both knew it. Speaking truth to power was no longer a dangerous game. And the blunt truth was that the Theocracy had alienated so many locals on every world they’d occupied that the locals had revolted almost as soon as the orbital bombardment systems were destroyed.
Moses looked down. “God will provide.”
Hah, Zaskar thought. God had turned His back. We need a miracle.
His console bleeped. “Admiral?”
Zaskar stabbed his finger at the button. “Yes?”
“Admiral, we just picked up a small scout ship dropping out of hyperspace,” Captain Geris said. “They’re broadcasting an old code, sir, and requesting permission to come aboard.”
“An old code?” Zaskar leaned forward. “How old?”
“It’s a priority-one code from four years ago,” Captain Geris informed him. “I’m surprised it’s still in our database.”
Moses met Zaskar’s eyes. “A trick?”
Zaskar shrugged. “Captain, are we picking up any other ships?”
“Negative, sir.”
“Then invite the scout to dock at our forward airlock,” Zaskar ordered. “And have its occupant brought to my ready room.”
“Aye, Admiral.”
Zaskar leaned back in his chair as the connection broke. A priority-one code from four years ago? It could be a trap, but outdated codes were generally rejected once everyone had been notified that they were outdated. The Theocracy had been so large that it had been incredibly difficult to keep everyone current. And yet, four years was too long. It made little sense. The code dated all the way back to the Battle of Cadiz.
“They wouldn’t need to play games if they’d found us,” he said, more to himself than to Moses. The scout could be crammed to the gunnels with antimatter, but the worst they could do was take out the Righteous Revenge. “They’d bring in a superdreadnought squadron and finish us off.”
“Unless they want to be sure they’ve caught all of us,” Moses said. “The Inquisition often watched heretics for weeks, just to be certain that all their friends and fellow unbelievers were identified.”
Zaskar smiled. “We’ll see.”
He couldn’t help feeling a flicker of shame as the guest—the sole person on the scout, according to the search party—was shown into his ready room. Once, it would have taken a mere five minutes to bring someone aboard; now, it had taken twenty. He dreaded to think of what would happen if they had to go into battle. A delay in raising their shields and activating their point defense would prove fatal.
Their guest didn’t seem perturbed by the delay, or by the armed
