THE PRISONER WAS not young. He was not Scout-trained. He was—no longer—armed. He inspired neither fear nor the premonition that he was both a danger and a threat to the organization—and to the completion of the Plan.
In fact, the prisoner was old. He sat quietly in the tiny holding cell, the dim blue light casting strange shadows along his face. From time to time, he spoke—numbers, most often. Sums. Account identifiers. Dates. Followed by such elucidations as, "account confiscated," "permissions rescinded," "account inactive." There were few surprises, there.
Prompted, he made other statements, not entirely understood by his auditors: "Phase Two begins when the fourth roll-call is missed."
"Phase Three begins when the fifth roll-call is missed."
"The Exchange declares a trading holiday when the sixth roll-call is missed."
Commander of Agents allowed himself a sigh. This was the second set of drugs. Neither it nor the first had elicited information regarding Korval's effective and surprising defense of the planet Surebleak. The prisoner was likewise ignorant of the locations of Korval's hidey-holes and safeplaces; and resistive of the suggestion that Surebleak might be such a place.
The Commander moved a hand, calling for the third and most potent drug.
The technician hesitated.
The Commander turned his head to look at her.
"Forgive me," she bowed as one to the ultimate authority. "It merely occurs to me, Commander—if this man does indeed hold information vital to our success . . . He is an old man, in good general health, but lately subjected to several severe systemic shocks. There is the possibility of an overload, should we introduce the next drug before this dose has run the system."
"Understood."
The Commander considered the prisoner. Did he hold information vital to the Plan? Surely, he did. And, just as surely, he would be made to give that information into the Department's keeping. The third drug—the third drug was ruthless. Possibly, it should have been administered at once, despite the unfortunate side-effects. The Commander had reasoned that the lesser drugs would leave the prisoner largely intact, and that there might well be need for him sooner than an . . . amended . . . personality could be stabilized.
The need for the information he held was greater than any nebulous future usefulness. After all, it was not unusual for old men to die.
He felt a vibration run up his right arm and glanced down at his wrist-comm; noting at once the "most urgent" tag, and the request that he return to his office.
"Call me before you administer the next drug," he told the tech, and moved toward the door.
"GR17-67. GR17-68," the prisoner said, tonelessly. "Drawing rights invalidated."
The Commander checked, dismayed—for, here, at last, was information, plain, unambiguous—and crippling. If the prisoner was to be believed, the Department had lost access to two of its most lucrative funding sources.
"Check that!" he snapped at the agent standing silently at the prisoner's back.
"Commander."
"GR 24-89," the prisoner said. "Drawing rights invalidated."
The Commander turned and stared at him, seeing an old man slumped in a chair, the dim blue light accentuating the weary lines of his face, eyes unfocussed and dull.
"Check that," he directed the agent, and let himself out of the holding cell.
The loss of funding source GR 24-89 would be . . . catastrophic. The Commander held himself to a walk, allowing no taint of turmoil to touch his face. It would have to be checked. It would all have to be checked. Possibly the prisoner had lied—but when had the dea'Gauss ever lied?
FUNNY, how familiar it was: The gravity, the taste of the air, the smell of the grass, the green-tinged sky, the warmth of the sunlight against her hair—all of it said, "Welcome home."
Of course, this wasn't her home—not even close. The feeling of welcoming familiarity came straight from Val Con, just like the "memory" of the path she was walking to Jelaza Kazone, and the access codes tingling in the tips of her fingers.
She paused on the top of the last hill sloping down into Dragon's Valley, and turned to look back. Squinting, she could make out the Tower at Solcintra Port, stretching tall and black into the greenish sky. Val Con'd be well out of the port by now, she reckoned, resisting the impulse to find out for sure.
Don't jog the man's elbow, Robertson, she told herself severely, and turned to look out over the valley.
There was the Tree, dark green, dark brown, and 'way too high, its branches tangling with clouds . . .
Welcome.
It was the same sense of warm green joy that had overwhelmed her in her dream—only days ago? She smiled, more wry than not, and nodded toward its mile-high form.
"Jelaza Kazone," she said. "The safest place in the galaxy."
Right.
She brought her sights down, and got her first look at the clan seat, Jelaza Kazone, the house. Distance and the looming Tree worked to make the building seem small—a scale model, maybe, or a toy. She knew better. She could've recited the number of rooms, drawn a map of the public halls—and the private ones—and a map of the inner garden, too.
All from Val Con's knowledge of the place.
"I grew up at Trealla Fantrol," he told her, softly, from memory, "but I was born to be Korval. Uncle Er Thom had been fostered at Jelaza Kazone. He made certain that I knew it as well as he did."
Miri sighed.
Standin' here, gawkin' like a tourist, she scolded herself. Get a move on, Captain; you got work to do.
Not to mention explaining herself to Val Con's sister Anthora. She took a breath, feeling Korval's Ring move between her breasts. The last thing Val Con had done was put the Ring on the cord from his shirt, and knot the cord 'round her neck—that, and kiss her—before he went his way and she went hers.
She understood the reasoning—he was going inside enemy lines—against her best, most vehement, objections. If he was taken—her blood started freezing up, just to think it—or if he was killed, the Ring would be free, and she would be Korval Herself.
Next target, please, she thought wryly, remembering Daav and Aelliana, likely tied up for months on the Clutch homeworld, like a trump held hidden in a sleeve. If everything bad went down, there were two more yos'Phelium pilots in reserve, to tend for what was left of the clan. Or carry Balance to its fullest.
She wondered if they'd figured out yet that they'd been had.
Get moving, Robertson.
She took one step down the hill, toward the house of the clan—and dropped flat.
The grass was high here, though not high enough to hide her from a determined look-see. Fortunately, the guy she'd spotted had his back to her; his attention on the house. The movement she'd caught had been him taking a pair of field glasses off his belt.
He put the glasses up and got still again. Real still. Scout still. Agent still.
Miri nestled her chin on her arm, watching him watch. Eventually, there was another flash as he snapped the glasses back onto their hook, then a smooth rustle of movement, as he came up into a crouch, and eased down the hill, toward the house.
Her house, currently occupied by a young woman acknowledged to be, by those who loved her best, more than a little featherbrained, an old war 'bot—and some cats.
Oh, and, yeah—the Tree.
Down the hill, the grass shivered as if a light wind had combed through it—the Agent, moving closer to the house.
Knowing it was stupid, Miri rose into a crouch and went after him.
HIS SECOND bowed, and waited until he was seated.
"News from the port, Commander," he murmured and touched the appropriate button.
" . . . a name, do they?" An uncouth Terran voice snarled out of the speaker. "Fine, here's a name you can give them: Bar Vad yo'Tornier. He calls himself Commander of Agents."
The Commander folded his hands deliberately atop his desk, closed his eyes and indulged himself in a breathing exercise. When he opened his eyes again, a cup of his favorite blend sat, steaming, at his right hand, and his second was gone. A prudent man, his second.
Commander of Agents sipped his tea.
Bar Vad yo'Tornier. His name. His personal name, that he had taken care to hide and hide well, in the filthy mouth of a Terran—
A Terran what?
One-handed, he reached to the console, touched a series of keys and listened, impassive, from time to time sipping his tea, to the tale of the holed ship, the conversations between Solcintra Port and the Council, and once more to his name, shouted along the open bands by a heedless, idiot barbarian who—
Had no reason to know—or means to discover—such a thing.
Commander of Agents put aside the teacup, and brought his screen live. His second had, of course, compiled the necessary information, which the Commander read once, rapidly; then again, more slowly.
There was no doubt that the ship, Mercenary Transport Kynak-on-the-Rocks, wholly owned by Higdon's Howlers, Inc., displayed signs of damage on both the orbital scans and the schematic. That it was actually holed—well, perhaps it was, or perhaps it was not, and the portion of Solcintra Port was clear. The mercenaries had been cleared to land.
In the interests of thoroughness, Commander of Agents opened the file on the Surebleak incident. He had not expected Kynak-on-the-Rocks to match the specs for Surebleak's defenders, nor did it—still, it would have been tidy, and provided a link between Korval and this ship, this barbarian commander, who knew his name.
Mercenary Sergeant Miri Robertson . . .
The Commander blinked at the thought.
Could it be so simple? Val Con yos'Phelium—the Commander could believe that former Agent of Change yos'Phelium might ferret out even the most deeply buried secret, as nothing more than an exercise to pass a slow hour.
Both subtle and ambitious, Val Con yos'Phelium. And given to flights of unadulterated madness, before the training provided by the Department had normalized him.
yos'Phelium's last known location was Lytaxin, where mercenary units in the employ of Erob had recently turned back an Yxtrang invasion.
Methodical, Commander of Agents checked the lists of units known to have been on Lytaxin—and very nearly smiled.
Higdon's Howlers, commanded by one Octavius Higdon, had been on Lytaxin, one of several units hired by Erob to quell the war which the Department had nurtured.
The Commander's smile faded. Simple enough to suppose that Val Con yos'Phelium had hired Higdon's Howlers in turn, providing them with a drama, a name, and a port of call. Simple enough . . . And yet yos'Phelium was not a simple man, nor was he a fool. He would suppose that the Department would access just this information—and draw just this conclusion.
Commander of Agents flipped through the files open on his screen, glancing at the profiles of the odd vessels that had defended Surebleak. A positive identification of those vessels had not yet been made, though the tactical report on Fortune's Reward was thorough. To find a Korval fleet there, obviously in the midst of maneuvers—and now, here, this other ship, carrying mercenaries and cleared to land, crying Balance owed by the Department of the Interior, invoking his own personal name . . .
Commander of Agents felt a sudden light chill crawl down his arms.
Val Con yos'Phelium was on Liad. And he meant the Department to know it.
SHE'D LOST the trail a dozen times, found it again in a bent stem, the outline of a boot-print in a patch of soft soil, a solitary scattering of unripened grass seeds.
On some level, she was aware that she, Miri Robertson, had never been trained to track like this, moving like a wisp among the high, rustling grass, in deadly pursuit of deadly prey.
The prey stopped some distance ahead. Miri crouched, consulted her—Val Con's—mental map of the territory, and sighed.
She was very near one of the perimeter access points—in fact, the gate she'd been making for herself before she took it into her head to stalk wild waterfowl.
Miri bit her lip. The perimeter was guarded and coded. The gate wouldn't open for a bogus code, though it would deliver a shock, progressively nastier, if anybody was stupid enough to keep trying in the hope of hitting the winning combination. Any attempt to force the gate—also won a shock. The beam was nice and wide, too, which made jumping the fence an equally bad idea.
Which fortifications and failsafes were all so much fairy dust, if the man she'd been tracking had good access codes—like Pat Rin's, for instance.
Miri swallowed around a cold surge of horror that felt more like Val Con's than hers, and made her decision.
Silently, she eased forward, pistol in hand, though she needn't have worried, her prey—sighted barely one hundred paces from her previous position—was completely intent on a project of his own.
She watched while he worked with a remote unit, apparently keying in pass-code after pass-code, with no success—and without receiving a tangible token of the gate's esteem, either. He'd managed to sync the remote to the gate's keypad, and was apparently committed to taping in codes til the heat death of the universe.
Or the gate opened.
Miri closed her eyes briefly, ridiculously elated, as if the lack of access codes was an excuse for a party.
Can it, she snarled at herself. His not having the codes don't prove Pat Rin's at liberty the same way his having them would prove the opposite. Loobelli.
She opened her eyes, bringing the gun up, easing the safety off. She could hardly miss at this range; especially when she wasn't trying nothing fancy, only a simple kill.
She squeezed the trigger, the snick of the pellet simultaneous with the larger click of the gate opening.
Miri came up in a rush, running forward. The guy was down and he wasn't moving. She dropped to one knee beside him, confirming that her aim had been good, and reached for the fallen remote.
"Drop your gun and surrender!" a voice snarled.
Miri jerked around, saw the woman, the business-like set of her pistol. Behind her, she heard a click. The gate closing, that would be.
"Drop the gun," the woman repeated. "Or lose a hand."
"Wouldn't want that," Miri said, softly, feeling the weight of the weapon in her hand. She shifted into a crouch. The woman's finger tightened on the trigger of her gun.
Miri spun sideways, throwing her gun, punched a button on the remote, her finger guided by blind, stupid luck.
The gunwoman grunted, her shot in the air, and Miri was up and through the gate, running low; there was a shout, a second shot, and the sound of the gate going home.
Miri staggered, feet tangling; stumbled and went down, rolling. She fetched up against something hard and gritty, and lay there, heart pounding.
Her right arm was on fire—she'd probably caught the second pellet. A quick inventory discovered nothing else worse than bruises.
She opened her eyes.
The hard, gritty thing was a goodish-sized rock. She used it to pull herself, swearing, to her feet, and looked around.
The good news was that she was now well inside Korval's perimeter. The bad news—that there was at least one enemy, probably more—and more remote lock-picks, too—around the perimeter, doing their all to get it. And the arm—that was bad; she didn't need the evidence of the blood-dyed sleeve to know she'd already lost too much.
Not in much shape to go hiking around the countryside, Robertson, she thought, snapping open her pouch and pulling out the first aid tape—and quietly crumbled to the ground.
HERE AT LAST was the place.
Val Con breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The distance from the rendezvous site had been somewhat longer than he had estimated—long enough that he had begun to doubt his memory. But, here it was, at last: overgrown, tumble-down, and, gods willing, forgotten . . .
He held up a hand, halting the rest of the small troop, and turned to catch Liz Lizardi's eye.
"We part company here, Commander."
"Here?" She glanced around at the vine covered walls, scrub trees and broken blocks of stone.
"Here," he repeated, suppressing a smile. Miri's fostermother was not a woman to spend three words where a gesture would serve. "Have you questions regarding the part of yourself and your troops?"
"Nope, sounds like a paid vacation to me," Liz said. "Bout a klick to the north, we'll find us a park and a street and a door. We guard the door. Anybody tries to go in, we stop them. Anybody tries to go out, we stop them, too." She shrugged. "Higdon sending backup—that a go?"
"Yes."
"Then we're set." She looked over her shoulder at her troop of two. "OK, let's take a walk."
"Commander." Diglon Rifle saluted with alacrity, his demeanor closely resembling that of a child given run of a sweet shop.
Hazenthull Explorer's salute was more sedate, her face properly devoid of expression, but Val Con could not help noticing the alert set of her shoulders. Nor did he miss the glance she sent to Nelirikk before following her commander down the path to the north—quite a speaking glance it was, too, for all it fell upon a face as giving as stone.
Ah, youth. Perhaps after . . .
If there was an after, which was by no means assured. Val Con closed his eyes briefly, thinking of Miri, going overland to Korval's Valley—to home—where she would be safe—or at least safer. This—it was mad, what he proposed to do. Capture the Commander in his own warren? Stop the unfolding of the Plan with a word? Rescue the passengers—oh, aye, just that. And who remembered the old contract—never canceled, never bought out, that tied Korval to Liad—and to honor—down the long years from Cantra to himself?
They have murdered us—us and ours. It ends, and ends now. No more of mine will be shot down in the streets.
"Scout?"
Val Con blinked and looked up into the stern brown face of Nelirikk Explorer.
"A quick nap," he said lightly. "Pay it no mind."
"A soldier fights best when he has rested well before battle," the big man agreed.
"Just so." He looked over to the third of their party, standing a little apart, gazing about himself with—perhaps it was wonder—the tile work of his shell showing pale ripples of purple in the shadowed light.
"Brother."
Sheather turned, his big eyes inward-lit.
"Brother," he said courteously. "Is the time of our departure upon us?"
Val Con walked forward, showing open palms. "Certainly, the time draws near. Forgive me that I come to you once more and say—it is not necessary that you accompany us after you have assisted in the opening of the door. Stay and watch, if you will. Return to the ship, by my preference. But, to come within—it is more than my heart can bear, brother, that you might be slain in the course of a hasty and ill-considered human quarrel."
"Your feelings do you great honor," Sheather said solemnly. "Certainly, kin wish to do all within their scope to preserve kin from harm. Just as certainly, we are bound to the word of the T'carais, who has bid me accompany you upon this vendetta, in which you will fully answer those who have slain others of your kin and keeping. This is your duty, as you have told us, and it is a duty the Clutch know as well. The T'carais sends me to his brother, the Deim of Korval, to fight, and to prevail."
He blinked, one eye after the other.
"The T'carais has done me the honor of adding to my name. As time is short, I will refrain from speaking it to you in fullness. However, I will tell you that my name now includes a phrase roughly equivalent to 'student of men'." He blinked again, both eyes in tandem.
"I am the first of our clan to undertake this scholarship. I began because my heart would know certain things. I continue because my T'carais would know in fullness—and my heart is not adverse."
Val Con bowed, deeply and with sincere respect. "Scholarship is a heady and dangerous undertaking," he murmured. "And of course the T'carais may not be gainsaid."
Which was true enough, he thought—no word of his would prevent Sheather from following, if the word of the T'carais sent him on.
He straightened.
"Attend me, then, brother, if you will. Explorer, guard us—and monitor the broadband. Our signal should find us soon."
THE ANCIENT and weary locking mechanism scarcely resisted Sheather's song: a note, another—and the thing was done. And done not a moment too soon.
"Scout," Nelirikk said quietly, "the signal arrives." He paused, head cocked, listening to the tiny comm-link behind his ear.
"Third repeat."
Val Con swallowed, thinking of Miri, safe at home.
Go on then, he told himself. The time is come.
Dutiful Passage was in orbit.
MIRI WOKE with no memory of having fallen asleep, and blinked lazily up at the orange cat sitting on her chest, solemn green eyes fixed on her face as if it sat sentry to her awakening.
"Hey, cat," she said.
The animal blinked its eyes, and a voice spoke from across the room—a male voice, talking up-scale Terran.
"Good afternoon, Korval," he said, over a sound like wheels across planking. "Are you feeling well?"
She turned her head on the pillow, but there wasn't anybody there, unless he was hiding behind the heavy-looking metal cylinder, fully equipped with three articulated arms, topped by a lighted orange globe, which was itself weirdly familiar, in a not-her-own-memory kind of way.
"Jeeves?" She asked, but it had to be it—him.
"Yes," he said, the orange ball flickering slightly.
"Great." She pushed herself up, forgetting the cat, which jumped sideways off her chest to the floor, venting a small, peevish hiss. "Plug into the perimeter's brains, there's people trying to get inside the valley."
The ball flickered—he's thinking, Miri caught from Val Con's memories, and swung her legs over the side of the cot she'd been laying on, unsurprised to find that it was part of a field doc.
"The interlopers have been dispatched, ma'am," the robot said. "Though I expect there will be more. Perimeter protections have been intensified.
"I must apologize for allowing you to be wounded. My attention was engaged by concerted assaults at the south and east gates. The lesser attempt at the north gate was hidden beneath the noise. I sent transport immediately I had your direction from Jelaza Kazone, and brought you in to the 'doc."
She moved her right arm, experimentally. It hurt like hell.
"Again, I apologize if I misunderstood your necessities. Extrapolating from Plan B, however, I merely initiated a quick-heal."
"You did exactly right," Miri told him, standing up. "I'm Miri Robertson, by the way."
"I had surmised as much," Jeeves replied. "How shall I address you?"
"Miri's fine," she said, wincing as her first step jogged the half-healed arm. "Look, I need the control room, quicktime. There's stuff I gotta be doing, especially if I shot the timing by being an hour in the 'doc."
"You were in the 'doc for no longer than a quarter hour," the war 'bot told her calmly. "You must try not to strain your wound." He rolled forward, wheels rumbling over the floorboards.
"Follow me, please, and I will take you to the control room."
"Right," she said, stretching her legs to keep up with the pace he set down the hallway. "Tell Anthora I'm here, and where she can find me, OK? I'll need her to fill me in on what's been going on here."
"Miss Anthora," said Jeeves, "is not to home."
"Not home?" She looked at him, but the orange ball gave her no clues. "Where is she?"
"I believe," he said, as they took a sharp turn into a narrow hallway, "she is at the headquarters of the Department of the Interior."
THEY HAD FOUND out soon enough what the more cryptic of dea'Gauss' drugged mouthings had referred to. As payment accounts were shut down, so too were the services and supplies they purchased.
Commander of Agents sat in an office lit by emergency dims, and glared at his screen. Behind him, the radio mumbled along on back-up power, whispering the names and the business of ships.
The power problems had been resolved. For the moment. The facility was running—as could be told by the noise of the intermittent fans attempting to move sluggish air about, at considerably less than half-efficiency—on its own emergency generation system. This situation would change for the better once the prisoner was under control and functioning on behalf of the Department.
But the man would have to survive.
The prisoner's health was—not good. The third drug, rather than inducing the desired state of submissive obedience, had elicited a strong allergic reaction. On advice of the drug-tech, he had been removed to the infirmary, where he remained stable, but feeble, guarded by a full Agent of Change.
Perusing the roster in his dim-lit office, the Commander reconsidered that assignment: Agents were in short supply. Surely a lesser operative might be set to guard one ill old man?
But no. dea'Gauss had deprived the Department of three Agents, each dispatched with a precise shot to the head. Records belatedly obtained from Tey Dor's demonstrated that dea'Gauss had been a regular at the club for fifty years; that he maintained several weapons and match-pistols, list appended; that he often shot with other of Tey Dor's patrons, list appended. Indeed, Tey Dor's records held all that one would wish, save the man's marksman rating. They also failed to note—though this was scarcely an area where Tey Dor's could be expected to concern itself—that the old man in question had worn clothing made of anti-pulse and anti-pellet materials; and that he had turned his office into a fortress.
No, the Commander decided; the dea'Gauss had won the honor of having an Agent at his bedside.
Which left the diminished roster and the rather longer number of tasks to be done.
A team of Agents had been sent to the Council of Clans, with orders to arm the devices in place. Likewise at the Council of Clans, the Protocol Officer, long ago subverted by the Department, consulted with the Speaker on the precise placing of Balance against Anthora yos'Galan, who had casually and brutally murdered an unarmed Council Proctor.
A second team of Agents, augmented by Departmental sharpshooters, was en route to Low Port, explosives and coordinates to hand. Another full team of Agents was attempting to invest Korval's valley, while others undertook the infiltration of Higdon's Howlers.
The Commander blinked, bringing the screen before him into focus. Shipping stats. There were no Tree-and-Dragon ships currently orbiting Liad, which was odd. Scout ships were likewise in short supply—though that was less odd. One would expect Val Con yos'Phelium to have ships in support, whatever his plans. The absence of ships was . . . unnerving.
As yos'Phelium no doubt intended.
Commander of Agents extended a hand, calling up the list of secondary operatives. Surely, some use might be made—
"Dutiful Passage," the radio blared so loudly the Commander missed his key.
"Dutiful Passage, Solcintra, Liad, Captain Priscilla Mendoza. Stand clear. Stand clear! We are on business of Korval and we are armed."
SILENCE WAS AS IMPORTANT as haste, and haste they made: Scout, explorer and Clutch turtle. The pipe easily accommodated the larger members of the party, though boots and claws alike sometimes failed to find purchase on the water-smoothed surface.
Sheather, with his dark-seeing eyes, led the way, Val Con following, carrying a mini-torch to aid his poorer eyesight. Nelirikk brought up the rear, burdened with explosives, extra firearms and ammunition.
The Passage was in orbit, Val Con reminded himself. Soon, it would be joined by allies. Soon, they would know whether this bold strike at the heart of the enemy was lunacy or genius.
Speed-marching, they had covered distance, passing three gates at roughly equal intervals. When the aqueduct had been in use, the gates had functioned as flow control devices. They rested at each for five short minutes, then resumed the march.
"Ahead lies another gate, my brother," Sheather said in a remarkably quiet voice. "It appears to be both new and locked."
Val Con sighed. So quickly. He closed his eyes, allowing her song to fill his head, his heart, his soul. Deliberately, he extended his will, and sang a new phrase into the song. Then, he opened his eyes and stepped forward.
The warrens the Department had taken for their own had been carved out of sub-surface limestone to create tremendous storage bays for low-pressure gasses. Portions of the original waterworks were marked out as points of historic interest, somewhere overhead. But down here, far beneath the planet surface, the aqueducts had also fed underground pressurizing reservoirs in off-peak moments. Eventually abandoned as Solcintra's needs grew beyond the water offered by the River Kainbek, and as the necessity for a safer location for storing volatile energy than beneath the city itself became understood, the underground maze was a natural place to house a secret headquarters.
This door, now. This was the airlock; the interface between the old pipes and the new facility. Val Con inspected the controls, understanding them with a sense of relief twined irrevocably with terror.
"I had intended to use my blade here," he said to Sheather, "and on the other side, speed. That is still an option. But I ask, is there a note or two known to you, which will unlock the way for us with less danger?"
Sheather blinked his enormous eyes. "My brother is wise, to prefer a stealthy entrance to the cave of his enemy. I believe the key to this door may be discovered, if I am allowed a moment of study."
"Certainly," Val Con said, and fell back to Nelirikk's side. The explorer looked down at him with a grin and gave him a very Terran thumb's up.
LIT BY EMERGENCY dims, only the most essential of machinery online, the infirmary was a place of shadows, enemies and storybook monsters on the lurk for the fanciful.
Agent ter'Fendil was neither fanciful nor inclined to simile. He kept guard over the old man, as ordered, equally alert for signs of treachery or waking. Neither manifested, as the weary hours crept along—nor did the old man die, and release Agent ter'Fendil to duties more worthy of him.
That there were such duties, Agent ter'Fendil knew, having been present when the full team was called to attend to the future needs of the Council hall. He had awaited his own orders with anticipation, for surely the Commander would not fail to recall those treasures which Agent ter'Fendil, extrapolating from studies he had made as a scout, had recovered and delivered to the Department. He dared hope that the Commander would place the controls in his hand, allowing him the honor of deploying those treasures against the enemies of the Department.
Yet, here he stood, on guard at the bedside of an accountant, while he might be—no. The Commander was not one to forget past service; nor to fail of using what weapons came to his hand. That he was assigned this minor duty, now, did not mean he was forgotten.
The Department taught that all duties furthered the Plan, and Agent ter'Fendil had been well taught. Yet—
A shadow moved among the shadows, and vanished, into shadow.
Agent ter'Fendil frowned.
The shadows flickered again, fluid and quick.
Agent ter'Fendil blinked, and ran a quick diagnostic. Finding that he was slightly, though not by any means dangerously, low on energy, he accessed the Loop's energizing routine, feeling an immediate sharpening of his senses.
Straightening, he deliberately turned his gaze to the place he had last seen the shadows waver.
Something . . . moved.
Agent ter'Fendil walked forward.
The shadow solidified, taking shape as it strolled across a dim strip of illumination, gray tail held high and jaunty, white feet soundless on the noise-absorbing floor.
"Cat!" said Agent ter'Fendil, in disbelief.
The cat turned its head, blinked and continued on its way.
The Loop indicated that a cat in headquarters was an anomaly.
Agent ter'Fendil went after it.
MIRI HIT the chair in the control center a little too hard, swore, and opened the board with a sweep of her good hand.
"Get me some painkillers," she said over her shoulder to the war 'bot. "And some stim."
"I regret," Jeeves said, his high-class voice sounding apologetic. "Stim is known to cause fetal damage."
The screens were up, she fumbled, then found the general shipping band.
"What's that got to do with me?" she asked, her mind more than half occupied with locating the other, more tricksy band. This one, even Val Con was hazy on . . .
"The 'doc reports that you are pregnant," Jeeves said.
In the midst of making an adjustment, Miri froze, before spinning the chair around to face the 'bot.
"That's the craziest—" she began, and then clamped her mouth shut.
Oh, Robertson, you prize fool.
Because it wasn't crazy, was it? Not with her fresh outta the 'doc, and him, too, both returned to normal baseline functioning—read 'fertile'—and neither one of them remembering to ask for the shot.
Miri, let us make love . . . He murmured in memory, and if she found out he'd known—that he'd planned . . .
She'd kill him.
Uh-huh. First he's gotta get home alive.
She spun back to the control board, adjusting the volume on the ship band, which had been plenty loud enough, and had another go at the local band.
This time, her fingers were smarter—or the three-times-damned Korval luck was in it. Whichever, her inquiry elicited an answer.
"Binjali's," said a woman's matter-of-fact voice.
Miri took a breath. "This is the Captain," she said, in the mode of Ultimate Authority. "Situation Red."
"DUTIFUL PASSAGE, seal your weapons." Solcintra Tower said—which it had to say, as Shan knew well. Had he been portmaster, faced with a sudden battleship in orbit around his peaceful and orderly world, he would have said precisely the same thing, most likely with a good deal more heat.
Priscilla touched the reply stud. "This is Captain Mendoza. We are on business of Clan Korval. Our weapons are live and under our control."
"That is in violation of regulations, Captain Mendoza. The guild has been notified."
Priscilla's mouth tightened. "Copy," she said, voice steady, and closed the connection.
"Never fear, Priscilla, there remains one license between us. And the Code tells us that what one lifemate owns, the other owns as well."
She looked at him, black eyes betraying her amusement. "Tell it to the Pilots Guild."
Shan snapped his fingers with a grin. "That for the Pilots Guild! We'll get you a Terran license under an assumed name, and no one will be the wiser."
"Now, why don't I think that will work?"
"Because you are an innocent and pure of heart." He turned back to his screens. "The portmaster will satisfy herself with the complaint to the guild," he murmured, pulling in the traffic reports. "She can fire on us, of course, but we've done nothing to merit that."
"Yet," Priscilla said, with a glance to Ren Zel, quiet and efficient at third board.
"Any sign of our friends, pilot?"
"Not as yet, captain," he answered, "but we are ahead of schedule."
"By three entire minutes," Shan said. "Trust a scout to—"
"Jump-flare," Ren Zel said sharply. "Close in."
His fingers moved, and Shan's did, too, locating the flare and the coords—close, gods. Which meant it must be the expected scouts, though there was no reason—
The comm crackled as the flares died and the ships announced themselves, one, two, three, four: Diamond Duty, Timonium Core, Crystalia, Survey Nine. Tree-and-Dragon, Tree-and-Dragon. Tree-and-Dragon, Tree-and-Dragon.
"What the devil?" He isolated the four of them, Jumped as a unit, had they? Master pilots, then—or, yet, it could be scouts, though in such strange, unscout-like vessels . . .
"Jump-flare!" Ren Zel cried again—and so it was: a fifth ship Jumping into the hollow square formed by the first four, a maneuver so chancy that Shan half-averted his face from the expected collision.
But no. The comm crackled, and a fifth ID rang across the general band.
Fortune's Reward, Solcintra, Liad. Tree-and-Dragon.
Tree-and-Dragon.
THE TRANSFER was complete. The last light on the status board was lit.
Miri wiped a sleeve across her damp forehead, leaned forward in the chair, bum arm braced against the board; and pushed the button that connected to her to receivers located at the Council of Clans; Scout Headquarters; each of the major halls: accountants, pilots, trade, and Healer; the offices of Solcintra and Chonselta portmasters; the editorial offices of The Gazette; the general shipping band; and a number of strategically placed public speakers.
We cover the world, she thought, as the master light went to green. You're on, Robertson. Don't forget your lines.
NORMAL SPACE. The screens reformed. The comm came live.
On the private band: "Boss is here, let's party!" "Well flown." "Make a master outta you yet, son!" "Good work, Boss."
He'd done it.
Pat Rin sagged back into the pilot's chair, shivering with relief.
He'd done it.
Now, to do the rest.
THE VOICE that came out of the old, forgotten receiver was female. Her accent was Solcintran and her message, thought Speaker for Council, raising her head and staring, entirely absurd.
" . . . Captain's Emergency. I say again: This is a Captain's Emergency. In accordance with the conditions put forward in paragraph 8, section 1 of the original contract of hire between the Houses of Solcintra and Captain Cantra yos'Phelium, which requires the captain, her heirs, or assigns to safeguard the welfare of the passengers, I, Miri Robertson Tiazan, Delm Korval, declare a Captain's Emergency. The Council of Clans will hold itself subservient to Captain's Law. Control of the planetary defense net rests with the Captain.
"Passengers are advised that the name of our enemy is the Department of the Interior. They have stolen and murdered members of every clan, High House and Low. They have subverted the cash flow of entire clans. They have pressed ships and pilots into service, to the detriment of Liad. They will be stopped. Now. Locations of known Departmental offices and safeplaces follows.
"Repeat, repeat: This is a Captain's Emergency."
IT WAS THE CUSTOM of Kilon pel'Meret to visit the old Waterway Park with her small son every day before Prime. This exercise gave double benefit, refreshing Kilon and allowing young Nev Art room to run off excess energy in a manner not likely to earn him a sharp rebuke from his grandmother.
The pattern of the walk was well known to both mother and child. Kilon would stroll along the old path from the park's entryway down to the silted-in pond, while Nev Art might run circles about her, or dart off in all directions at once, saving only that he did not disappear entirely from her sight. He would rejoin her at the pond and they would then both walk back along the path to the entrance, practicing seemliness; thence down the city sidewalks to home, and grandmother, and Prime.
Today, Nev Art darted up and grabbed her hand. "Thawla, look! Yxtrang!"
Kilon was a sensible woman. She was also familiar with her son's imaginative prowess. So, she did not scream, or gather him up in her arms and run. Rather, she allowed herself to be tugged 'round by the hand, fully expecting to see a tree wearing an uniform of shadow, or a stealthy weed peering over a crumbling section of ornamental stonework.
"Look!" Nev Art said again; and look Kilon did, breath caught in her throat.
For across the rumpled grass toward them came three tall persons—two much taller than the third—dressed in what was indisputably military style, packs on their backs and their belts hung about with all manner of objects.
"Yxtrang, Thawla," Nev Art insisted, pulling on her hand. "I want to see their guns!"
"No!" she said sharply, and tightened her hold on his hand. "They are only Terrans, my son." She hesitated. Terran soldiers, here, strolling through an abandoned and all-but-forgotten park in the Low House district of Solcintra? Abruptly, she turned, dragging Nev Art with her.
"Come along, child, it is time to go home."
"It's not!" he protested, but she was adamant.
Walking briskly, holding her son firmly by the hand, she went down the path. He stretched his short legs until he was all but running, and so they gained the entrance—and, a moment later, the street.
"GO AFTER THEM, Commander?" Diglon asked hopefully.
Liz shook her head. "No. It ain't like they're the only ones gonna see us." She pointed. "Let's go."
"BOSS?" Cheever McFarland's voice came low and easy across the tight band. "You ready to cook?"
Pat Rin took a deep breath, and another, deliberately calming.
"A moment, Mr. McFarland. I am afraid that I found the Jump in . . . exhilarating."
"Was close, wasn't it?" The Terran said, cheerfully. "Just think what we could do with practice."
Alone in his ship, Pat Rin smiled. "Next, you will have us touring as a precision flying unit."
"Something to that. We're out here if you need us, Boss. All lines open."
Pat Rin inclined his head. "Thank you, Mr. McFarland."
"Right." The line closed.
Another deep breath and Pat Rin leaned to the board, his finger on the switch . . .
The main screen flared, awash with Jump-flares—one! three! eight! one dozen! Two!—Pat Rin snapped back, eyes narrowed, the bands fizzing with static; and then the IDs hit, one after another, gathering intensity, until they blurred and became a single shout; a challenge:
Scout.
Tree-and-Dragon.
THE BEAST had vanished entirely.
Not a little disgruntled, Agent ter'Fendil returned to the accountant's bedside—and stared, heartbeat spiking, breath gasping—the Loop, barely submerged since his last check, kicked in, bringing both into normal range, but the bed—the bed remained empty; blankets rumpled, pillow showing an indentation.
dea'Gauss was gone.
THE OLD MAN was recovered.
REN ZEL SMILED at his screen, attention divided between the countdown in the lower corner and a wholly imaginary, but completely accurate, screen in his mind.
"Go home now, beloved," he sub-vocalized.
Soon, she answered. We must wait for Merlin.
THE SCOUT SHIPS had settled into their orbits, and if Tower had a sharp word or two to say to them, it was on a private band and not for the entertainment of common ships.
Steeling himself, Pat Rin extended a hand to the board. The bogus Ring flashed and flared in the cabin's light. He touched the comm switch.
"This is Pat Rin yos'Phelium, speaking for Korval and for the Captain. I call on the Council of Clans to witness formal Balancing with the Department of the Interior."
"SPEAKING FOR KORVAL?" Shan repeated blankly, but Priscilla had touched a key on the captain's board, releasing the recorded warn-away.
"Dutiful Passage, Solcintra, Liad, Captain Priscilla Mendoza. Stand clear. Stand clear! We are on business of Korval and we are armed." The touch of a second key sent the Tree-and-Dragon roaring across the general band.
Silence on all bands for a heartbeat . . . three.
"This is Scout Commander Clonak ter'Meulen. The Scouts call the Department of the Interior to answer for acts of murder and mayhem. We subordinate our claim to the Captain and Korval."
Silence on the bands . . .
"Have you all run mad?" Solcintra Tower demanded. "There is no Department of the Interior!"
"On the contrary," Pat Rin said. "I advise the Tower that I am transmitting a ship's recording of an incident of attempted piracy which took place in the sovereign space of the world Surebleak. You will note that the Department of the Interior claims to speak for Liad."
"Pirates, speaker-for-Korval," the Tower snapped. "Surely you know that pirates are not bound to speak the truth!"
Silence.
Aboard Fortune's Reward, Pat Rin laughed aloud, reached to the board—and froze.
Jump-flare distorted his screen. When the image was steady, there were six new ships in high orbit, their IDs stark and simple.
Juntavas.
Pat Rin bit his lip, remembering the courier who had departed at Natesa's word, leaving her partner to fly as part of this attack upon the homeworld.
In the screen, another flare, a sharp spike of static, and a ship's ID.
Implacable. High Judge. Juntavas.
The broad band crackled, fizzed, and produced a man's voice, speaking Liaden with a slight Terran accent.
"The Juntavas calls the Department of the Interior to answer for acts of murder and mayhem. We subordinate our claim to Tree-and-Dragon."
THE LINES WERE DRAWN, the orders given. Events were set in motion. There was the Plan and the end of the Plan—and the alternative plan, should, unthinkably, they fail.
Commander of Agents sat in his office, awaiting reports, and brooded upon Korval.
Perhaps it had been error, to allow them to continue so long. Perhaps they should have been weeded out quickly, at the very beginning of the Work.
For look at what Korval had cost . . .
First, the Scouts, backed by a ship piloted by a long-missing and presumed dead Korval elder, resist the Department's first open action on its way to fulfilling the Plan. Nor did the Scouts retreat to Liad, but withdrew entirely from the system . . . .
Next, on what should have been little more than a routine pick-up of the dismissible yos'Phelium ne'er-do-well, Departmental ships were lost in the discovery of a capable and disciplined fleet of war vessels flying the Tree-and-Dragon in Surebleak nearspace—a fleet led by none other than the supposed ne'er-do-well in a surprisingly well-armed pleasure yacht.
Then, as if unconnected, comes a ship full of mercenaries to Liad itself, claiming damage at the hands of the Department. Yet, in its many actions the Department had never dealt with the ship or its mercenaries.
In short order came a Korval battleship, several dozen openly Scout vessels—and who knew how many secret ones?—a Juntavas battleship and its escort—ah, and the Surebleak war fleet. All sitting in orbit, shouting Tree-and-Dragon to the universe, while here on the homeworld itself one Miri Robertson Tiazan publicly denounced the Department and described the location of several minor bases of operation, raising the citizenry to arms.
What more?
The Commander need not look at the charts that covered the desk. He need not look at the screens.
For, as difficult as they had been—as costly—Korval had in its actions against the Department revealed a weakness. There was a discernible pattern in their actions.
On Lytaxin, according to the intercepted mercenary reports, Val Con yos'Phelium had waited until action was in place and swept in with aircraft, sowing confusion and winning the battle and the war at once—all the while hiding behind the smoke-screen of his so-called Surebleak mercenary .
At Scout Headquarters, the same pattern—from nowhere came a ship to turn the tide of battle.
At Surebleak—a building of forces and then action by Pat Rin yos'Phelium . . . .
An emergency buzzer went off, startlingly loud. He touched the comm button.
"Commander—Agent ter'Fendil. I report that the accountant is gone. There is a cat inside the facility. My error is that I pursued, but lost it. Upon my return to my post, I found the accountant gone."
Commander of Agents stared. A cat, inside the facility? Impossible. dea'Gauss, in his weakened and doubtless disoriented state, gone? Preposterous.
And yet . . .
Commander of Agents stood, automatically checking the position of his weapons.
"I will lead the search myself. Meet me in the infirmary lobby. Be wary—we may be facing a rogue Agent of Change."
"Yes, Commander," Agent ter'Fendil said.
The Commander cut the connection, walked across his office and put his hand against the plate set into the wall.
The scan crackled across his palm. He reached into the safe and removed a short, squat rod, which he slipped into his sleeve.
KILON pel'MERET held tightly to Nev Art, her heart hammering with fear. Her son labored under no such affliction. He was enjoying one of the great days of his life. Not only had he spotted the soldiers walking in the park, but now came this parade of taxicabs, each stopping at the end of the placid dead-end street to allow even more soldiers to disembark. That these were soldiers was not in dispute; Kilon had no trouble identifying guns, missile launchers, backpacks.
Nev Art crowed as they dashed out of the cabs, forming into lines and units with bewildering speed as each cab roared away, to be replaced by another, and another, and . . .
"Excuse me, ma'am."
Kilon jumped back, staring up into the face of the sudden soldier. A Terran, dark-skinned and sober, carrying a rifle in her own streets, speaking to her in Trade. Why, she hardly ever—
"Ma'am?" he said again. "Please. We're holding a taxi for you and the boy."
"See, Thawla, I bet they're going after the Yxtrang I saw," Nev Art cried. And then, to the soldier, "Are you? Are you an admiral?"
"No." The man smiled as he answered, a slow smile. "I never do want to be an admiral, boy." He looked at Kilon, and pointed to the right, where indeed there was a taxicab, pulled slightly to one side of the street.
"I insist, ma'am. Please take the taxi. There's likely to be trouble and—"
"Ten'shun!" A large voice bellowed from lines of soldiers. "Group One, double time, move out!"
Kilon looked about wildly. "Trouble? Trouble? Soldiers in the street is trouble!"
The soldiers did something—one moment they had been still as rocks; the next, one group was spread out and hurrying toward the park, while another group broke away, trotting down the street toward the office complex.
Their own soldier waved at one of his comrades, and said to Kilon, "There's a good chance we'll be using weapons ma'am. I'm sorry. You've got to leave!"
"I saw the Yxtrang!" Nev Art announced, tugging so hard against her hand that she almost lost him. "I want to talk to them!"
The second soldier had waved the taxi close, and opened the door.
"You've got good eyes, youngster, if you saw the 'trang," the first soldier said. "Just remember what they looked like, and get into the cab."
Behind them someone yelled, "Group Three, weapons check!" followed by a loud series of clicks and slaps, and, "Arm your weapons!"
Kilon flung back, found her arm caught, not ungently, by the dark-faced soldier. "Calm down . . . " he began, and was interrupted by the arrival of yet another man, much lighter of face.
He bowed, recognizably the bow of a ranking public servant to person of unknown melant'i, and said in curiously accented Liaden, "I am Commander Higdon. This way, please, civilians must clear the area. I would not want to have to detain you."
He offered her a card, and automatically she took it, and was somehow gently pushed into the taxi, the while her son was proclaiming, "Yxtrang and soldiers, can't we stay?"
The dark soldier handed the driver a twelfth-cantra piece.
"Take them wherever they want to go that's more than five minutes from here. If there's any change from that give it to the kid."
"Look!" Nev Art shouted in her ear. "Big guns, Thawla!"
The cab accelerated into a turn, flinging Kilon sideways in the back seat, so she never did see what her son was pointing at. She righted herself, glancing down at the card she still held in her hand, as the cab slewed 'round a corner.
Higdon's Howlers, the Trade words stated. Military missions. Security to mayhem. Guaranteed service.
THE DEPARTMENT had long planned for this day. There was an undercurrent of expectation in the control room as the master switch was unshielded; the communications web checked; the technicians readied.
Before them the situation screen was clear; several orbiting stations would soon be under the direct control of the Department, and the destroyer Heart of Solcintra, long disguised as a freighter undergoing retrofitting, was already rising to orbit.
In the control room, they awaited the Commander's word. When it came, the flip of the master switch would shunt control of the planetary defense web from Solcintra port to the Department's control room, the power flowing from the selfsame uninterruptible source which supplied the portmaster's office.
The call came; the switch was activated. The screens came live; satellites and warning systems revealed their locations, weapon status, the locations of potential targets . . .
On the control board, an emergency light was blinking—not unexpected with so many ships coming in. An auxiliary monitor displayed the message Captain's Emergency in the lower left corner.
In the main screens, the stations, the destroyer, the satellites, the ships—
The master technician swore and leaned to her board.
Not a single Korval ship showed on the screens. Dutiful Passage was not there. Treacherous Fortune's Reward did not show. There was no range on Korval's four killer ships from Surebleak . . . .
But something was moving, near Station Three.
The master tech upped magnification, as the comm came alive with a shrill, "Danger! Danger! Hostile action on Station Three! Nine wounded, one dead . . . "
Ship ID came out: Lifeboat A off of Jacksbucket Three, Terraport. Somehow, it had escaped the Department's absorption of Station Three.
"Danger! Danger!" the Terran ship screamed, across all open bands, putting similar actions on the remainder of Liad's orbital stations at risk.
The merest touch of a dial and the proper blast-satellite was located. The master technician fed in the firing sequence.
Nothing happened.
The tech touched another switch, invoked a back up screen—
Nothing.
"Check the lines," she snapped, to this aide. "Recycle the interface," to that one; and—"Rebooting . . . "
All for naught. The screen steadfastly refused to show any ship flying the Tree-and-Dragon. And the controls remained unresponsive.
Finally, an aide selected the flashing Captain's Emergency on the auxiliary monitor.
During a Captain's Emergency control of the planetary defense system is invested in the Captain or assigns. There will be a one minute warning when control is reassigned to the port office.
The master tech went to manual and ordered the nearest defensive device to use a pulse-beam against the fleeing escape pod.
Nothing happened.
"Alert Heart of Solcintra," she said to the comm-tech.
THE MOST POTENT dramliza on the planet stood at bay, cornered in a corridor leading to the sealed rooms. She held in her arms a rather large gray cat. Behind her, leaning against the stainless steel wall for support, was dea'Gauss, shivering.
Agent ter'Fendil had alerted what few fellow Agents remained at headquarters. They'd spread out from the infirmary, in a circular search-pattern, and had also triggered an automated rotating check of the internal sensors that had been turned off to conserve power—and which had ironically permitted the man responsible for the loss of power to escape. And quickly found him.
But not alone. It was obvious that the prisoner could not have risen from his bed without serious assistance from the woman holding the cat. It was equally obvious that, even with that assistance, his strength was fading, and would soon fail.
The woman was far more than the Commander had expected. Despite that she was dressed in the torn remnants of what had been formal Council attire, and that her face was dirty, she stood calm and alert before the not inconsiderable threat of three armed Agents.
She might well, the Commander thought, have a gun beneath the cat, or a bomb, or knife, or only her hands. The fact that she stood in this hallway at all meant that she was competent enough to make it past the outgoing attack teams without attracting notice. Worse, it meant that she had managed to avoid the carefully placed external sensors, and that she had slipped past guards on alert.
This was not someone to trifle with, despite her reported softness.
Without warning, the cat moved, flowing soundlessly out of the woman's arms—and fled away down the hall.
No one gave chase. They could take care of it later. The problem now was the woman, as she stood, catless, but holding a scout-issue pistol, pointed at the Commander's mid-section.
He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment.
She said nothing; the gun remained steady.
"DANGER! DANGER! Hostile action on Station Three!"
Fortune's Reward located the source of the warning, and opened a window in the forward screen, showing Pat Rin an unarmed life pod, tumbling free of that same Station Three.
"Nine wounded, one dead! Hostile action on Station Three! Danger! Ho, the port!"
Tower came on-line, reciting coords for an emergency descent. Pat Rin watched the life pod move, clumsily, into compliance—and the glare of a beam weapon flashed across his screen.
"No!" he shouted, slapping up the magnification.
But, yes. The pod was gone, leaving a slight drift of debris along its descent path. Obligingly, Fortune's Reward redrew the detail window, tracing the path of the beam back to the originating vessel.
From the closed comm, Andy Mack's voice.
"I got a clear line to the bastid, Boss."
Pat Rin nodded. "Fire at will, Colonel."
VAL CON LED, now, Sheather and Nelirikk at his back. The lower service ways were empty, which was not surprising.
The Commander would surely have heard the Passage arrive in orbit, weapons hot and warn-away blaring. From it, he would have deduced Val Con's presence on-world. Being a bold man, he would have seen this circumstance as opportunity. If the Commander played well and audaciously now, the Department stood to win all: the extinction of Korval and the fruition of the Plan.
The goal was a man-high section of stainless steel access hatches built into the wall of a particular inner corridor. Behind those hatches were the cables, pipes, wires, and comm-fibers that connected and powered the facility and allowed the Commander to reach his hand out to the universe.
That the corridor in question was off one leading to the Commander's office was beside the point.
The hallway ahead was intersected by another. Val Con checked his inner map, and raised a hand. Behind him, Sheather and Nelirikk halted. Val Con proceeded at a crouch, hugging the wall, slipping his gun from its holster.
At the intersection of the hallways, he eased the safety off, and listened. He heard nothing but the hum of the air purification system, yet his hunch was that there was . . . something in the hall beyond.
Moving so slowly he scarcely seemed to be moving at all, he leaned forward, peering 'round the corner—
Directly into a pair of yellow eyes.
"Merlin?" Val Con breathed.
The yellow eyes blinked, happily, and Merlin burbled. Tail held high, he danced forward, stropped Val Con's leather-clad knee once, and strutted away importantly, pausing only once to look over his shoulder and be sure Val Con was paying attention. Since he was leading in the direction they needed to go, they followed, with Sheather drawing a long crystal blade as he hurried along.
THE LIFEBOAT was gone, vaporized.
Miri was bent over the schematic, swearing softly and continuously. She had an ID on the murderer—one Heart of Solcintra, claiming to be a freighter—but no clean shots. No shots at all, really, unless she wanted to go through a scout ship, a can carrier and a Juntavas courier to get her target, which did sorta seem a waste of allies and innocents.
A detail window blossomed in the corner of the situation screen—at least someone had a clear shot! The debris and gases of the lifepod lit in a lambent glow, and the destroyer itself was illuminated in a rush of scintillant brilliance. There was a flare then as the destroyer's shield went up and Miri could trace the beam to its source—one of the four monstrosities Jeeves assured her were nothing more exotic than asteroid miners.
There was sudden glare as the destroyer's shields were overwhelmed, and an odd coruscating flash as the mining beam oscillated the length and breadth of the target. The ship's hull expanded, peeled away, dissolved into a plasma of metal, evaporated before the beam, and then the seven decks could be seen clearly for a moment, as in some illustrator's cut-away of a slowly rotating warcraft. Multiple internal explosions speckled the obscuring mist and in one last flicker of the planet-killer ray—
Heart of Solcintra was gone.
"OF COURSE you realize," the Commander said, "that this cannot last long. We are several, you are one—and time sides with us. We merely need wait until your qe'andra collapses."
"Perhaps you overestimate your advantages," Anthora yos'Galan said, and her voice was soft and husky.
"Commander!" The aide's voice preceded her around the corner—she stopped, amazed at the tableau before her.
"Report!" the Commander ordered.
She bowed, hastily, one eye on the woman with the gun. "The planetary defense grid has been subverted by Korval."
Of course. Commander of Agents pointed at Agent of Change bin'Tabor.
"Give the command for the air units to attack Jelaza Kazone at low level. Detach a ground force to—"
"Give no command," said Anthora yos'Galan, her voice firm and gentle.
The Agent stood as if rooted.
"I command it," Commander of Agents snapped, and saw the man stir. "Bring in the air units and—"
"Be still," said Anthora yos'Galan; and the Agent froze.
"I see," said Commander of Agents, and raised his gun.
THERE WERE VOICES ahead, and a better lit corridor. Merlin strolled on, unconcerned. The rest of the invasion force shrank back into the plentiful shadows.
Came the hurried clatter of someone who was not an Agent in the halls. They remained in the shadows, despite a complaining burble from Merlin—and then moved, cautiously, on.
"Commander!" came the call from the hallway they approached; the answering voice sent a thrill down Val Con's spine.
"Report!"
The words grew indistinct and the invaders, weapons ready, ghosted quickly to the intersection. Val Con spied 'round the corner, and swallowed hard against a surge of sheer horror.
His sister Anthora, trapped by two Agents and the Commander himself, using her body to shield one who could only be Mr. dea'Gauss, but a dea'Gauss diminished and desperately ill. She held a gun, true enough, but so did her opponents. If all fired at once, even a dramliza—
The Commander raised his weapon. The Agents raised theirs. The aide gasped and bolted.
From the shadowed floor leapt a large gray cat, wrapping itself around the Commander's arm, pulling the gun down. A pellet whined by Val Con's ear as he jumped forward, his own gun out and up . . .
Training had prepared Agent ter'Fendil to face an opponent with a blade, a gun, or even a security dog. The apparition attacking the Commander bore no relationship to training—and he dared not fire again for fear of endangering the Commander. He reversed his gun, meaning to club the thing—
"Hold!" Anthora shouted, her voice a-glitter with power. "Do not move!"
Val Con kept moving, firing into the face of an Agent. Merlin snarled and dug his claws in the harder.
Everyone else in the hallway froze in place: ter'Fendil with his gun reversed, Sheather, his blade raised as if to behead him; Nelirikk, aim locked on the Commander.
The Commander struggled, as pain overrode the compulsion to stillness. But for Merlin's growls, there was silence in the hallway. The sound of dea'Gauss collapsing to the floor was loud—and so, too, was the sudden wail of alarms, and the sound of running feet.
Sheather shook himself; lowered his blade, and bowed in Anthora's direction.
"As you say."
THE MURDERER was gone; destroyed at his word. For the second time in his life, he had killed a ship. Pat Rin touched a switch, opening the comm line between himself and those sworn to serve him.
"Well done, Colonel," he said calmly.
"Thank you, sir," Andy Mack replied formally.
"First class shooting," Dostie chimed in, just ahead of Bhupendra's satisfied, "we teach the enemy to fear us."
"Which ain't exactly," Cheever McFarland added, "an unmixed blessing." He paused. "How many of them ships out there can we count on as back up, Boss? The battlewagon?"
Dutiful Passage, that would be, and a question near to his own heart and peace. That it was captained by Priscilla Mendoza, Shan's first mate and longtime lover, was . . . disturbing. And yet . . .
Pat Rin leaned to the comm. "I shall attempt to ascertain, Mr. McFarland. In the meanwhile, do me the kindness of speaking with the High Judge, as my deputy."
"Will do," Cheever said, as easily as if he spoke to such august persons daily, and signed off.
Pat Rin did the same, and sat for a moment, hands folded, as he gathered his courage—though what had he to fear? Priscilla Mendoza was well-known to him as a kind and generous lady. He had no need nor reason to fear her. Indeed, he could be certain that she would tell him, at long last, the truth.
The truth.
He reached to the board once more, fingering the keys with care, accessing the most secret Korval band . . .
"Well met, kinsman!" Shan's voice flowed cheerily into the cabin, as clear as if his cousin sat in the co-pilot's chair. Pat Rin closed his eyes, fingers gripping the edge of the board.
"Well met," he answered, shakily, knowing Shan would hear the tears in his reply, and caring not at all. "How fares the clan?"
"As it happens, we thrive—the more so now that the one who had fallen off-grid is returned to us. You must tell me all about your holiday—later. For the moment—rest assured that the Passage stands at your back as you speak for Korval. Oh, and check in with Jeeves, will you?"
"Jeeves?" Pat Rin cleared his throat. "Yes, I will. Shan—"
"Softly," his cousin interrupted, not ungently. "We cannot know that the line remains secure."
"Of course." He drew a careful breath. "Until soon, cousin."
"Until soon, Pat Rin. Stay the course."
The connection light went out.
"HOW FARE we, my brother?" Sheather inquired from his position as guard over the Commander, who lay unconscious, savaged hand hastily wrapped in a shirt.
Val Con was rapidly divesting Agent ter'Fendil of the tools of his trade: knives, smoke-gas pelletts, garrotte, capsules filled with poison, cunning button-sized explosives; the wallet, with its generous destructive possibilities; the boots, the interesting little blade under the sock, various guns in a diversity of calibers . . .
They had concealed themselves in the Commander's office—a questionable solution, at best. The advantages of the situation included a door that would not yield to the searchers, and access to the Commander's files, computers and comms. That there was no easy escape was . . . annoying.
Val Con removed a selection of pins and wires from the seams of Agent ter'Fendil's vest.
"We are in some disarray, I fear," he said to Sheather. "Behind enemy lines, burdened by prisoners and casualties . . . " He glanced over his shoulder to the place where Anthora kept watch over their two injured—an old man and an ancient gray cat—and returned to his task.
"On the whole, it would be best if we simply melted away into the night . . . "
As if to underscore the whimsy of that expressed desire, the loudspeaker in the ceiling gave tongue: "Intruder alert! Multiple intruders on Level Seven . . . "
"Enough." Val Con pushed the Agent against the wall, under Sheather's watchful blade, and edged past Nelirikk, who was happily removing the travel packing from their supply of explosives.
At the Commander's desk, he sat, and reached for the comm.
The access codes changed frequently, according to a pattern imbedded in the Loop of every Agent. Val Con frowned at the comm, trying to reconstruct the barely-glimpsed pattern—and, suddenly, gently, in the space behind his eyes that had previously been reserved for Loop display, there hung an access code.
SOMETHING HAD GONE terribly wrong.
Ren Zel felt himself a man of two separate but equal parts.
One part sat his board on the bridge of the Dutiful Passage, attending the minutia of piloting, monitoring the various bands that told of mayhem and dismay on the nearer stations, and minding his shields most closely.
The second part knelt next to Anthora on a cold metal floor, one hand on the chest of an old and fragile man, the other on the laboring side of a valiant gray cat.
"What's amiss?" he asked and felt her sigh.
"Mr. dea'Gauss must have a 'doc—and that soon. Merlin—he has been shot. I cannot—quite—understand how badly he is wounded. If I could but take both home . . . I have tried bespeaking the Tree, and there is no answer. We are trapped here."
"Are you?" He glanced around the cold metal room, seeing the golden lines running pure and true. "Perhaps not."
FINGERS POISED above the comm, Val Con considered the access code hanging just behind his eyes.
"Brother!" Anthora's voice was sharp with urgency.
He spun, heart clenched in fear of hearing the old man's death—but no. His sister was standing tall, face animated—even eager.
"I require aid," she said quickly. "Do you put dea'Gauss on my back and I shall take him to Jelaza Kazone."
He blinked. Anthora was a wizard of some note, true enough, but . . .
"Will you walk through walls?" he asked.
She nodded. "I will. Assist me."
In the end, it required Nelirikk to gently lift dea'Gauss onto Anthora's back. Val Con lashed the man's wrists together on her breast, and used a length of fuse to tie them both 'round the waist.
"If I am able to return, I will do so," she said, breathless with bearing the unaccustomed burden. "Merlin . . . "
"If you make it to safety, you will remain there," Val Con said firmly. "We shall care for Merlin—and ourselves." He stepped back, waving at Nelirikk to do the same.
"If you are able, now is the time," he murmured.
"Yes." Slowly, awkward with the added weight, she walked directly toward the wall.
There was a flash of golden light, and an instant when the metal went to fog—then Anthora, and Mr. dea'Gauss, were gone.
"Jela's blood produces many wonders," Nelirikk commented, and returned to the unpacking of explosives.
After a moment, Val Con went back to the comm, and tapped in the code he had been given.
The unit light went from red to green. Scarcely daring to breathe, Val Con punched in the code for Jeeves' private line.
"Jelaza Kazone."
Val Con sat down in the Commander's chair.
"This is Korval," he said, keeping his voice steady, despite his foolishly pounding heart. "Pray confirm my ID. Also, please put a tracer on this call. Let Miri know that we are well, at liberty, but . . . contained. How stands the action?"
"ID confirmed. Miri will be informed. Working. How wide a theater?"
"Entire."
A small pause.
"The planetary defense net is ours," Jeeves said. "We control near space. A warship of the Department of the Interior has been destroyed by one of Lord Pat Rin's vessels. Dutiful Passage has been pressed into service for back up and link duty. Scout and Juntavas forces are prepared to allow Tree-and-Dragon central command if action is necessary."
"Jeeves, forgive me—Lord Pat Rin's forces?"
"Yes, quite an elegant group of ships flying Tree-and-Dragon, perfect for a low key planetary embargo, insurrection control, or as siege ships. They are precisely disciplined and well-crewed."
Ah, are they? And how came Pat Rin by such ships? Val Con moved his shoulders, putting aside such questions in favor of those more pressing.
"Planetary?" he asked Jeeves.
"Much of the planet is calm; Solcintra Portmaster has issued a flight hiatus, incidentally warning Captain Mendoza that her license is in danger. Solcintra City is not calm. There are riots in strategic locations, and we have signs of enemy action in Low Port. Higdon's Howlers are active at your location and at the spaceport. Here, we have withstood several attempts at penetration and anticipate—pardon, working . . . "
Across the room, Sheather moved, knife flashing. There was a scream—of metal, as the blade sheared through the floor. "Brother, he has initiated a device!"
The Commander's hand was still wrapped in his shirt; Nelirikk sprang forward and jerked the covering off, forcing the clenched hand open . . .
"Scout." He threw the object; Val Con snatched it out of the air and stared down at it—a short and stubby wand, its surface studded with tiny buttons and switches . . .
Agent ter'Fendil shrank against the wall, staring at the Commander in horror.
"You've given them orders. But—"
" . . . working!" Jeeves voice came out of the comm. "Alert! There has been a sixty thousand fold increase in neutrino emissions from Liad. Triangulation places the source at your location. Suggest immediate evacuation of all personnel."
Nelirikk had dragged the Commander up by the back of his collar. He shook him, as a dog shakes a rat. "Inform me!"
The Commander said nothing.
"The level of neutrino flux is consistent with old-style timonium powered armored units," Jeeves said. "Suggest immediate evacuation."
"Brother," Sheather said. "Something of much power is in motion. It moves strangely . . . " He turned and placed his three fingered hand flat against the wall.
"It comes . . . "
THERE WAS FIGHTING on the stations, there was fighting in the streets. Status reports poured in steadily, until Miri felt like she was drowning in details.
The Department's base in the commercial district of Solcintra city had been taken by an angry mob, led, she strongly suspected, by scouts—a victory for the angels, except for the civilians dead, of course.
Closer to the port, the news wasn't so good—the mob there had been repelled, expensively. Word was that there was a regroup in process.
Low Port was the worry—there'd been a couple unanticipated explosions. There were scouts there, too, trying to organize an evacuation.
The wall of books to her left shimmered and went foggy, for all the world like Clutch drive affect.
Miri blinked and came half out of her chair, too tired to even swear at the pain in her arm.
The books solidified and suddenly she wasn't alone. A dark-haired woman with an old man tied across her back was swaying in front of the bookcase.
"Help," she said.
THERE WAS A CRASHING sound behind the wall, and another.
" . . . Autonomous Semi-sentient Policing Systems," Jeeves said; "or ASPS. They were deployed a number of times on outworlds, for the most part disastrously, which resulted in public backlash against applications of such technology to civilian situations. I was once assigned as back up, and then lead control in a military operation designed to rid a world of the devices . . . .approximately seventeen million dead as a result of erroneous deployment . . . "
"You must define the enemy or they will destroy everything," Agent ter'Fendil said. He lurched to his feet, ignoring Sheather, his blade—and the Commander, who was all at once on his feet, a plain metal blade in his good hand, slashing at the unprotected back—
ter'Fendil spun, Agent-quick, slapped the knife away, closing and twisting, taking advantage of his adversary's momentum—
The Commander's neck broke with a snap. Agent ter'Fendil dropped the body and shrank back, staring.
" . . . do not draw attention to yourself in any circumstances . . . " Jeeves was saying, over the clanking in the hallway.
Val Con slapped up the screen, accessed the hallway camera, and sucked in his breath.
The hall was blocked with objects—four objects, in fact. Each as large as Edger, all of deep green metal, all bearing large Terran numerals—Val Con saw numbers 1, 3, 15 . . .
" . . . energy spike entirely consistent with an intact ASPS unit . . . " the voice continued from the comm.
"Jeeves, I confirm such a unit. Options?"
"Evacuate immediately. General use explosives slow them down; the most effective resistance, aside from vaporization, is placing obstructions in their way or dropping things on them . . . . When first mobilized they are methodical unless one triggers a self-defense program . . . "
"The control." Agent ter'Fendil was beside him. "They will destroy the planet. Give me the control."
Val Con looked at him, seeing honest fear in the Agent's eyes. "Can they be turned off?"
"There is a resting state, yes."
From the hallway outside, screams and the sounds of rending.
Val Con handed Agent ter'Fendil the control wand.
THE OLD GENT was settled in the autodoc. Miri leaned against the unit, feeling a kind of hum in her bones, which was probably the 'doc working, and which she shouldn't have noticed at all.
An arm's length away, Anthora yos'Galan slumped in a massively carved chair, eyes closed and voice low as she complied with Miri's request to be brought up to speed.
She was doing a good job, hitting the high points and not wasting any words, and Miri wasn't much liking what she heard.
"They're surrounded," she said, by way of a sum-up when the low, careful voice came to an end. "And trapped." She bit her lip. "We can bust them out, but we're gonna need coords for that room. Think you can work with Jeeves and figure it?"
Anthora shook her head. "Going in, the Tree provided the path. Ren Zel showed me the way out."
Right. The hum from the 'doc was making her twitchy. Miri straightened out of her lean and looked down at the kid in the chair, hating what she was about to ask.
"So, you can get the Tree to provide a path back in, right? And this time, we'll rig you up with a findme, and—"
Anthora opened her eyes. Silver-blue, like Shan's, wide-spaced and dreamy-looking—which Shan's weren't. "Val Con said, if I got to safety, to stay there."
Miri sighed. "Yeah, well. Val Con says a lot of stupid things, especially where it bears on somebody he cares about maybe getting hurt. Figures he's tough enough to take his licks and ours, too. Also figures he's fast enough to outrun most common trouble. Sometimes, he's right; sometimes, he's lucky. This time, he needs help. That's us."
"You don't understand," Anthora said. "Val Con said, if I got to safety, to stay there. I cannot return."
Miri closed her eyes, counted to ten, and tried it again. "Val Con's half of one good delm." She reached inside her shirt and brought the Ring up on its cord, so the kid could see it. "I'm the other half. I'll make it an order, if I have to."
Anthora shook her head. "You do not understand," she repeated. "Val Con—I am forbidden. He has this ability. I cannot return."
"I just saw you walk through a wall," Miri started—and blinked, as various memories from a young adulthood that was absolutely not hers unfolded, neatly, before her mind's eye.
"You're talking dramliza talent," she said to Anthora's soft silver eyes. "He can tell you no and make it stick."
"He can do it to Priscilla, too," Anthora offered helpfully.
"Great," Miri said, thinking that if there were one person in the universe who had to be a dramliza-brake, of course it would be—
"Miri." Jeeves' voice flowed out of the room speakers. "You are needed in the control room. A situation is developing."
THE LAST CHARGE was laid; the last timer set.
Val Con dropped out of the repair hatch to the floor below, counting in his head.
Six minutes before the charges blew, burying the ASPS unit in rubble. Three minutes from his location to the rendezvous point. Two minutes to the surface.
Plenty of time.
"LORD PAT RIN, your timing is impeccable, sir," Jeeves said—and surely, Pat Rin thought, it was an artifact of the transmission that yos'Galan's butler sounded breathless? "We have a situation. Stand by, of your goodness, while I ascertain . . . "
There was silence, though the connect light remained steady. Pat Rin recruited himself to patience which was very shortly rewarded.
"Working," Jeeves announced. "You will understand that control of the planetary defense net resides under the Captain's hand during this present time of emergency."
Pat Rin all but smiled. "Ah, does it? That will certainly expedite matters, should it become necessary to fire upon the planet. However—"
"Precisely," the robot said, cutting him off ruthlessly. "It is exactly the subject of firing upon the planet that must now be addressed. The nature of the fleet you chose to field dictates your task. It will shortly be necessary to fire upon Solcintra City. Coordinates and ranging will be supplied."
Necessary to fire upon Solcintra? Pat Rin closed his eyes. He had, of course, known that it might come to firing upon the homeworld—why else had he brought destroyers with him? Truth told, he had pinned his hope on the Council of Clans, that the all-too-public crying of Balance would flush the Department of the Interior onto the surface, where it might be dealt with as any other transgressor against the Code.
"Lord Pat Rin?"
"One moment," he managed, holding up a hand that the robot could not see. "Jeeves, how is it necessary that we fire upon Solcintra, now? There has been no time for the Council to speak, nor time for the Department of the Interior to make answer . . . "
"The Department has made answer," Jeeves said. "Certain intelligence reports, confirmed by direct observation of trusted parties, indicate that the Department of the Interior has deployed timonium powered weapons capable of overwhelming anything that Liad may bring against them on the ground. The planetary defense net is unable—by its nature—to effect an attack against a target situated upon the planet." There was a pause, then Jeeves continued, hurriedly.
"It is my estimate that a failure to destroy these weapons in short order will lead to planetary disaster. In fact, it is necessary to fire upon the planet, bringing destruction to a portion of the city, in order to preserve the greater part. Your vessels are uniquely fitted to this task. Dutiful Passage, for instance, may only deploy a broad beam—far more destructive than those precision cutting units borne by your fleet."
"There are people in that city!" Pat Rin snapped.
"There are. Evacuation has been sounded. I expect confirmation from teams shortly. In the meantime, steps are being taken to contain the targets." Another pause, then, with a gentleness a robot could certainly never feel—
"It is our intention to destroy as small an area as possible. However, we dare not err by the application of too little force. People will die, despite the call for evacuation and the best efforts of the teams. But more people will die, if the enemy is not destroyed."
Pat Rin bowed his head.
"I understand. I will require data."
"Uploading," Jeeves said promptly.
DIGLON RIFLE waited patiently for his next target. So far he had taken seven shots with this light rifle borrowed from Commander Carmody's troop; he felt confident of five hits.
Nearby, Commander Call-Me-Liz-Lizardi was speaking quietly into a comm unit. His duty was to guard her and to watch for breakouts at the door which was, by now, well shattered, and partly filled with bodies.
Their position was excellent—they had a large stone monument for cover when they stood, and a stone wall, half buried on the other side with soil, for cover when they sniped . . .
Hazenthull Explorer had not shot as much as he, but perhaps with more accuracy. The commander had told them to conserve their ammunition, and to be prepared to act as rearguard if need be—and to be rearguard with such as she, whose exploits were writ on books and worlds forever, such was a fate a solider could embrace.
There came another one of those slight shakes of the ground, and a vibration that was longer. He was leaning against the monument, his face feeling the stone—and . . . there was a shake, a—
"Explorer!" he called. "Something happens here!"
Hazenthull gave an assent signal, indicated to the commander that she was moving his way . . . .
"Feel," he whispered to her, pushing fingers to the stone. "Equipment!"
She looked at him in startlement, felt the stone herself, then leaned her ear against it.
Abruptly there was grinding noise close to hand and she jerked back, dragging Diglon with her.
A seam in the granite shivered, clunked, shrugged—and slid quietly into the rest of the monument, revealing a metal wall. Almost immediately that wall moved aside, and smoke billowed free, carrying the smell perhaps of burnt meat. From within the monument came the scout, Nelirikk Explorer, and another, with blood on his cheek—pushing the Honored One, guiding him into the light . . . .
The scout was cradling something precious against his chest; gun held ready in his free hand. He looked around, caught Diglon's eye, smiled, and thrust the gray fur ball into his hands, saying in Troop, "Protect this hero from harm. Move away, move away! "
That quickly he was gone, dashing back to the monument, bending, making some unseen adjustment. There was a repeat of the clanking and grinding; the door shut, and the monument was as it had been.
"Medic! Medic!" yelled Commander Liz, and waved to him in his new troop-sign: fast march that way . . . .
They all started running then, away from the monument and the fighting in the street, and when the ground rumbled and knocked them down, the monument swayed and great gouts of smoke and flame blew out of it, into the pale green sky.
The breeze was fairly stiff, blowing away from the city center and—by extrapolation—away from Jelaza Kazone and Korval's valley.
" . . . NOT NEVER meant for atmospheric work . . . damn, but look at that!" That was Andy Mack, muttering publicly under his breath.
Everyone else—including the usually irrepressible Cheever McFarland—remained silent as rug mites, watching their separate screens and the results of their labors. There was fire—not all of Solcintra could be spared, no matter how precise the aiming Jeeves had contrived—and a black spout of soot and ash leaning away from the city. Already there was a darkening that was not mere shadow as the heaviest debris fell in a kind of non-volcanic pumice.
Pat Rin switched views quickly. Not all of the smoke above the city had its birth in their attack. Portions of Low Port and Mid Port were aflame, and elsewhere there were reports of scattered violence. The portmaster's jury-rigged comm was demanding answers, demanding control of the planetary net, demanding that the mercenary units vacate the planet, demanding Korval's surrender . . . .
That last had brought a burst of laughter from several of his crew members; then Jeeves had once again brought their attention to the task at hand and they fired what Pat Rin hoped was the last blast at the city he'd called home.
Jeeves supplied them with several views of the target now. The beams, meant to slice and cut, had done just that, lancing through the atmosphere of Liad in unison from the four mining craft, each cutting its own edge of a box centered on a green park and then crisscrossing toward the center. The initial gout of reflective white smoke had given way quickly to a dense ash-filled swirl, and then when the interior of the buried domain was opened there had been explosions . . . .
The while, Jeeves had spoken in the background, calmly instructing and coaxing minute beam corrections until at last, for good or for ill, the thing was finished.
Now, from above, Pat Rin, saw the terminator on the planet clearly as his ship entered shadow. Soon, night would fall on Solcintra. He wondered if anyone there would be able to sleep.