Broken Glass (Glass Complex Book 1) Read online

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  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

  About John

  Book List

  Book Details

  BROKEN GLASS

  A Science Fiction Novel

  John Hindmarsh

  Copyright 2011—2014

  by

  John Hindmarsh

  All Rights Reserved

  Explore my other titles at http://www.JohnHindmarsh.com

  Published by

  Rexon Press, Inc.

  Disclaimer

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are entirely fictitious, invented by the author for the purpose of the story. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  License Notes

  If this book is formatted as an ebook, it is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person, unless you are using a reseller’s lending process. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  I want to thank my wife Cathy for her continuing patience, for providing her utmost support, and finally for re-reading many drafts. This book is for Cathy.

  Chapter 1

  Steg gazed down from the castle battlements at the scene below. The ancient town of Castlehome was spread before him, its streets and market place busy with both country and townspeople. A wisp of residual cloud clung reluctantly to the red tiled rooftops while cobbled streets glistened from a light rain shower. Farmers with loaded e-trucks were bringing in their produce and livestock for the market, traders were preparing their stalls setting out local and off-world merchandise, food vendors and dusty bakers were preparing their displays on scrubbed tables; the market atmosphere was growing in intensity. Market day always generated eager activities and ascending excitement for all, young and old.

  To his right, he could see the small seaport where brightly colored sails were being set to catch the freshening breeze. Fishermen had already unloaded their catches for the market and now with the wind favorable, they were heading back to sea away from the chatter and nagging, back to their more demanding mistress.

  To his left, in the distance, he was barely able to make out the rising spires of star ships impatient to return to space. Standing above even the largest of the Homeworld fleet was the visiting Imperial destroyer, its crew and passengers constituting the first goodwill mission from the Western Star Empire—the Empire—for over a century.

  Steg grimaced. The Empire was often careless with its friends and made enemies only too readily. Homeworld was an independent planet, located near the Rim, generally regarded as being too distant from the center of Imperial interests to attract commercial attention or to offer any substantial benefits under the so-called treaty of friendship with the Empire.

  The Imperial representative with his gaudy entourage and military escort had not impressed him. The officers were tight-lipped and their men were dour and taciturn, lacking the open camaraderie enjoyed by the military forces of Homeworld.

  He straightened and turned to watch as the Castle Guard approached at the double on their ceremonial circuit of the castle, laser weapons at the ready and polished chain mail glistening in the low rays of the early morning sun. It was the morning changing of the guard ceremony, colorful and professional.

  Homeworld culture was a purposeful, designed anachronism where concepts of earls and romance from ancient and possibly mythical ages were merged with modern science, weaponry, and equipment. The lifestyle was supported by wealth generated from inter-system trading and also from mining a nearby asteroid belt using automated and nanite-based processes. The planet’s nanotechnology surpassed even that available to the Imperials and Homeworld’s restrictive policy ensured that little of this expertise was exported to possible competitors.

  Steg returned the salute of the stern-faced sergeant at arms as the squad marched by. They were traveling their regular circuit which covered almost a kay along the upper levels of the castle, halting at each station to drop off replacements and collect those who had completed their early morning watch.

  Castle Guard members were drawn from the best military candidates on Homeworld, and were dedicated to guarding Castlehome, and more importantly, to protecting the ruling Earl and his family. The Castle Guard was an elite force with a reputation of fearlessness, whose reputation was reinforced and re-kindled whenever Homeworld took up arms in defense of their planet, its resources, or its shipping lanes.

  As Steg turned he collided with one of the visiting Imperial soldiers. The visitor backed away, reluctant to meet Steg’s gaze.

  “My fault,” the visitor offered.

  Steg nodded and watched the soldier hurry along in the direction taken by the Castle Guards. Fortunately, Steg thought, the visitor’s disregard of decorum had gone unobserved; except, that is, for the blue-robed Acolyte who was watching from across the top of the corner turret. Steg was on a welcome tenday break from his shuttle pilot duties and he was dressed in casual greens without rank or house colors, so the visiting soldier was unlikely to be aware of his unintended insult.

  Steg, at twenty-five, was the youngest nephew of the current Earl and he considered he was well outside the line of succession and thus able to forego Homeworld’s strict rules of conduct. He, like all Homeworlders, followed the code of honor accepted by all who bore arms and that was enough, he considered.

  “Sir?” His reverie was interrupted by an orderly. She was barely in her twenties, fresh-faced, and was preparing for entry into the Castle Guard training course for officers. Her duties as orderly were intended to introduce her into the military structure of Castlehome.

  “Yes, Marcia?”

  “Sir, I have a message from Drill Sergeant Thomas. He said to remind you of the drill session. Before you go off on your wanderings, he said. The training squad’s waiting for you now.”

  “Did he? I guess he said something along those lines but with rather different words?”

  “Yes, sir. You know the drill sergeant.”

  Steg nodded his understanding. “Come on, we’ll see what Thomas has in store for me this morning. Then I may be able to leave this madhouse for a few days.”

  “Sir?” Marcia looked shocked as she hurried along in his trail.

  Steg had not forgotten the drill session, although he had been preoccupied with his concerns about the visiting Imperials. Military training was an almost daily routine for the Guard, for Homeworld’s Defense Force, and for members of the Earl’s family. Even though Steg was on leave, the drill serge
ant never missed an opportunity to include him in his drill sessions.

  At least, thought Steg as he joined the training squad of junior officers, the exercises helped to while away the time until he was back in space. They had just started their warm-up routine when Thomas signaled a stop. A small group of Imperial officers and attendants had entered the drill hall under escort of a junior Castle lieutenant, followed discretely by another blue-robed Acolyte.

  “Drill Sergeant,” called Junior Lieutenant Hall. “Our visitors would like to participate in your training session. A practice bout was suggested. The Empire has some excellent swordsmen and perhaps your trainees will learn something new. What do you think?”

  “Why yes, sir,” responded Thomas. He turned and pointed at Steg. “You. I want a volunteer.”

  Steg stepped forward and stumbled, dropping his practice sword with a clatter.

  “Clumsy oaf,” chastised the drill sergeant.

  “Sorry, sir.” Steg pretended not to see the visitors’ exchange of bored looks as he picked up his sword. They wanted an entertaining show and he would contribute to that spectacle. In his opinion, it would be a benefit if he helped cause the Imperials to downgrade their assessment of Homeworld military abilities and effectiveness.

  “Sergeant, do you think—?” Hall had a worried frown on his face.

  “Yes, sir.” Thomas spoke firmly. “This recruit needs the experience. Sir.” He snapped his heels together to emphasize his point and decision. He did not mention that Steg had been the sword champion of his graduating class.

  “Well, perhaps you are correct.” The junior lieutenant turned to the visitors. “Gentlemen and ladies, would someone volunteer?” One of the visitors waved a languid hand. “Major Varus, your changing room is through there. The drill sergeant will have someone kit you out. Now we can all watch from over here.” He led the small group to a raised gallery. “Unfortunately we do not have many visitors who can show us the more up to date techniques and styles of sword play developed by the experts in the Imperial courts.” He ignored the not so subtle comments and uncomplimentary wisecracks of the visitors as they waited impatiently for the bout to begin.

  Steg also ignored the visitors’ comments. He suspected they had volunteered one of their better swordsmen and knew he would be tested in this practice bout. He stretched and relaxed his muscles under the protective practice padding, following the pre-fight preliminaries taught by Brioude, his swordmaster. At last his opponent returned from the changing rooms, padded and ready, practice sword in hand.

  Drill Sergeant Thomas gestured, clearing the drill square for the two swordsmen. He checked each sword carefully; a killing sword was not permitted in a practice bout. The code was strict. The two-handed practice swords were dangerous enough; heavy and blunt, their unsharpened edges were capable of inflicting painful and even damaging blows to unprotected parts of the body.

  His checks completed, the drill sergeant stepped outside the square and signaled for the bout to begin.

  Steg’s opponent moved proficiently through an involved ceremonial opening play, his sword flashing and challenging as it sliced the air. Steg watched carefully, evaluating the style and ability of the Imperial swordsman. When Varus completed his opening play, Steg, required by ancient tradition to return a ceremonial challenge, copied the moves, fumbling and staggering in the process. He caught a rumble of amusement from the watching visitors. His fellow squad members maintained a cautious and concerned attitude, their expressions somber.

  The visitor moved forward confidently, displaying certainty of his ability to teach his backworld opponent a quick lesson in sword fighting. He moved forward, his sword flashing in alternating circles, the tip of the blade always turning towards Steg

  The visitor’s play was a demonstration piece and Steg understood its purpose was to force him into a defensive position. He accepted the ploy and moved clumsily. He tripped. As he fell he appeared to accidentally kick his opponent’s ankle, causing him to stagger forward. Steg adjusted his hold on his sword and rammed the butt of the handle into his opponent’s ribs between the side fastenings of the protective padding. They both collapsed; Steg unharmed, while his opponent was gasping for breath and clutching his side. Normally Steg would have been more courteous to an opponent; however, the attitude of the Imperials rankled. The audience on the raised gallery appeared to be unaware of Steg’s maneuver.

  Steg regained his feet and stood back, sword held point down, grounded, allowing his opponent to recover. The gesture was a studied insult. The visitor’s face reddened and he charged towards Steg, finesse forgotten, sword raised as anger drove him into the fight. Steg moved aside with none of the clumsiness he had earlier displayed, effortlessly parrying a series of ill-aimed blows. His opponent steadied himself and began a more sophisticated routine intended at least to disarm Steg if not to injure him. Aware of the threat, Steg moved in closer to the visitor, crudely feinted and struck as by accident his opponent’s sword hand with numbing force. The Imperial swordsman, his hand muscles momentarily deadened, dropped his sword with a clatter. It fell and landed out of his immediate reach. His curse echoed around the drill hall. He flexed feeling back into his hand.

  One of the watching visitors moved forward, his arrogance seeming at last to overcome courtesy, caution, and orders.

  “Here, Varus. Use a real sword and finish off this clumsy barbarian,” he called as he threw his sword, its killing blade flashing as it spun across the training hall. Steg’s opponent caught the sword carefully by the hilt and stood still, momentarily undecided. Suddenly, he lunged, moving with a deadly swiftness, the blade signaling his intent. Steg feinted, appearing to move away from his opponent. Instead, he moved closer and struck with his practice sword, the sudden blow breaking his opponent’s arm. The killing blade dropped to the floor. Steg ignored the now crippled and pale visitor and moved to the fallen sword. He placed his foot on the weapon and raised his own sword and rested it on his shoulder. He looked at the drill sergeant and then at the visitors.

  “I challenge the owner of this dishonorable sword.” The formal phrasing dropped each word into the depths of a sudden hush.

  The junior lieutenant looked startled and raised his hand as though in protest, stopping his gesture when he saw the severe expression on Steg’s face. An intense debate broke out amongst the visitors. Steg’s companions moved as though to arm themselves from the weapons rack along the near wall of the drill hall, only to be stopped by a savage gesture from the drill sergeant, who was speaking into a small comunit. The response he received caused him to move quickly to the center of the practice square.

  “Gentlemen.” His voice stilled both Homeworlders and Imperials. “A valid challenge has been issued. According to the code of Homeworld, and confirmed in our treaty with the Western Star Empire, the owner of the sword may claim it back. First, he must cleanse its honor. To decline the challenge is possible. If the challenge is declined, the owner of the sword will be subject to arrest and will face disciplinary charges here, on Homeworld. The maximum penalty is limited to ten years imprisonment, because no one has been killed.”

  The visitors continued their huddled conference. Some were apparently shocked at the situation, although some wore expressions of satisfaction. The owner of the sword stepped down from the raised gallery. He was dressed in Imperial finery, almost foppish. He was as tall as Steg, and moved with confidence, unconcerned that he was facing a duel that could result in injury or death of either participant.

  “The sword is mine and I defend its honor.”

  Steg moved back. The drill sergeant nodded his approval.

  “Please state your name for our records.” The drill sergeant held out his comunit towards the visitor.

  “Marius, of House of Aluta. And barbarian, what is your name?”

  “Steg de Coeur.”

  Marius appeared startled for a moment. However his expression quickly adjusted. He collected his sword and stepped back to join the
Imperial group.

  “Ten minutes, gentlemen,” called the drill sergeant.

  Steg commenced to discard the protective padding and was quickly assisted by two of his fellow officers. The drill sergeant and the junior lieutenant joined them.

  “He’s their ship champion,” commented Hall. “You were foolish to challenge.”

  “No, he was correct to challenge.” The speaker was Major Reading; he had arrived in response to the communication from the drill sergeant. Steg and his assistants snapped to attention. The major continued. “Easy. de Coeur had no option but to challenge. We ran the monitor tape through quickly and apart from some unnecessary clowning and minor discourtesies, you have behaved correctly. However you have an unenviable issue to resolve. Kill him, a visitor on a goodwill mission, and you insult the Empire. Let him win or worse and we have lost honor, at least. You must defeat him without causing his death. A challenge, indeed.”

  “Yes, Major. I realized I ran some risks in this. Obviously the Imperials were seeking just this type of opportunity to discredit Homeworld.” Steg turned to Thomas. “Should I get my sword?”

  “No, stay here. I sent a runner to Swordmaster Brioude. He’ll bring your sword, I daresay. And counsel you.”

  A challenge of honor was a real battle and Steg knew he would need all his skills, not only to ensure his own survival, but also to safeguard the life of his experienced opponent. He began the relaxing mantra taught by the Swordmaster. The drill hall was quiet, voices subdued. A number of Acolytes had gathered at the far end of the drill hall and he noted some saffron robes as well, in the group. He paused as a flurry at the doorway heralded the arrival of an elderly man and his two younger assistants. Steg heard one of the Imperial visitors recognize and identify the elderly man as Swordmaster Brioude. Steg stepped forward and bowed his head.

  “Master, your presence honors me.”