Simeon watched the pirate. This Jekit was a perfect choice. Definitely had the Mark-II virus, too pig-ignorant to know it and he was almost asleep from boredom anyway. A little surprise would be good for his circulation.
He checked the progress of the relief party, ten soldiers and a squad leader. Plenty of witnesses, also perfect. Timing was the key. They had only two guards to relieve before they reached Jekit.
Hurt my people, will you, Jekit? he thought. Okay, now let’s see how you like being on the other end of the stick.
He began whispering. The words were loud enough to be audible, but not loud enough to be understood. Just nonsense syllables pronounced in inflections similar to the Kolnari language, minute after minute, not steadily but rising and falling and stopping altogether for random intervals. Then an increase in the volume until the nonsense was a tease, tantalizingly on the edge of audibility. Add subsonics guaranteed to have the hair standing up along the spine, although Kolnari didn’t have body hair.
Goosebumps, then, he decided. Jekit paced, stopped, shook his head and brought the plasma rifle to port, thumbing off the safety.
Doesn’t this snardly have any nerves? Simeon asked himself in frustration. Then he added the refinement; things flickering at the edge of vision. The pirate was probably seeing things without Simeon’s visual aids since the sensors said his temperature was five percent over normal and rising. Sweat poured down his face. That was rare since the Kolnari metabolism didn’t waste moisture.
Simeon constructed a less transparent image. Ah, that made him jump, Simeon thought. “Rahkest!” he whispered, just loud enough to be understood.
Die, in Kolnari.
“Who’s there?” Jekit called out, swinging his weapon around. “Who goes? Answer me!”
Simeon had a conversation going now, male and female voices whispering vehemently. He moved the whisperers down the corridors, through chambers and halls and galleries. Now they were around the corner, now they were overhead, now right behind him.
Jekit spun, his weapon leveled. “Scumvermin!” he shouted. The warning indicator flicked as his forefinger took up the slack on the trigger key.
The squad had exited the elevator on Jekit’s level and were marching towards his station. Trotting like a wolf-pack, rather; the leader was in armor, moving at the same pace. Slam-slam-slam, half a tonne pounding down at every step.
The Kolnari had his back pressed to the wall. Simeon overlaid the powersuit’s footfalls, turning them into drumbeats in time with the fevered warrior’s own heart. His head was snapping back and forth wildly, rims of white showing around the amber of his eyes.
Off to the right, around the corner from which his replacement would come, a voice called.
“Jekit!” His officer called. “Turn to, idler, fool! Report.”
Jekit almost moaned with relief opening his mouth to call back. When he did he found the words matched, overlaid, neutralized by something. Shout, scream, nothing but the same blurred yammer.
“Painrod for you, seedless slothman,” came the warning from his officer.
Jekit crouched and began making his way along the wall towards the voice. Halfway down the long wall, he jerked and vomited convulsively, bewildered. It had never happened to him before, that he lost his food.
Footsteps sounded from around the corner as the replacement squad advanced smartly towards him. He heard a soft hiss behind him and turned. He screamed as he looked into a shape out of homeworld legend, a twenty-eyed worm with gnashing concentric mouths, thicker through the body than a man was high.
“Ancha!” he screamed and fired. Grinder. There was nothing wrong with his reflexes yet, and the spear of nuclear fire lanced through the monster.
Gotcha, Simeon thought again. He’d been pretty sure that worm program was modeled on something native to Kolnar. So its name was “grinder”! Appropriate enough.
“Grinder” vanished. Behind it was a figure in power armor, slowly toppling over backwards with the whole upper part of the torso gone. The squad behind had already gone to earth and returned fire. A line of light touched Jekit’s right shoulder, and the plasma gun fell away. The blurring, blanking wall of un-sound fell away from his ears so suddenly that he could hear the slight whine as the weapon automatically cycled another deuterium pellet into the chamber. A plasma beam licked out at Jekit and his legs vanished from the knees down.
And he was still hot. His wounds did not hurt yet, insulated by shock, although he could smell the heavy fried meat odor. But his head hurt, it hurt . . . The others were rushing forward to secure him for interrogation. It would go very badly for them if he died first.
Awright! Simeon thought. Still, it should be fun listening to Jekit, the mighty warrior, explaining why he freaked like that. Now, who’s next?
Belazir and Aragiz knelt together before Pol’t‘Veng. She was wearing the black robe and hood of an adjudicator and, in the dim light, that left only the yellow glow of her eyes visible. Belazir knelt with grace. The’t’Veng was inferior by rank and birth, but she was efficient. Also a woman, of course, but that meant less these days than it had on Kolnar. Everything in space was a protected environment, like the fortress-holds. You either lived or died, generally. Aragiz knelt in quivering tension and the smell of his rage was musky, irritating to Belazir.
“I find,” she said at last, “that Jerik nor Varak, free common-fighter of subclan’t‘Varak, opened fire on clan-kin while in hostile ground, without prior attack.” That was the only excuse, and motivations or reasons mattered nothing, by Kolnari law.
“He killed: one petit-noble officer of subclan’t‘Marid. He destroyed: one suit of powered armor. Here is the judgment of the High Clan.
“At the next rendezvous of all units,‘t’Varak gens shall render to Belazir’t’Marid forty hundred units of Clan credit or goods to the same value, neutrally appraised. They shall also render five breeding-age but unbred females of petit-noble or higher rank, fully educated. In addition, Belazir’t‘Marid may go among the concubines and wives of Aragiz’t’Varak for one cycle and sow there as he wills. Aragiz’t‘Varak shall do likewise among Belazir’t’Marid’s. Judgement is rendered.”
As one, they bowed low enough to touch their foreheads to the deck. A good judgement, Belazir thought. Fair, wise, and most of all, expedient. Part of the longstanding trouble was that the’t‘Varak gens were not as closely linked by seed as the rest of the High Clan families. They had been landless mercenaries on homeworld, and had had the bad luck to sign on with the High Clan just before a war that ripped up half a continent and ended in headlong flight for the survivors. Technically mercenaries were not subject to the extermination-proscription of the vanquished nobility. Like peasants and commoners, they could switch allegiance to the winning side. Technicalities did tend to get lost in the fine glow of victory, though. . . .
Of course, Aragiz’t‘Varak would be unlikely to look at it in quite that way. Still, in the long term, knowing the closer relationship would reduce hostility. Hopefully.
Without word or gesture, Aragiz rose and stalked out. No style at all, Belazir thought. The fine was a trifle compared to what the station was bringing in, and they both had sixty or seventy children already. He merely hoped the’t‘Varak intellect was training and not a taint.
The lights came up, and Pol removed the hood. That changed her from adjudicator to ordinary noble once more. “Fool,” she said, with no need to say exactly who.
“Dolt,” he agreed, and snapped his fingers.
Serig entered. They settled in comfortably.
“Loading is going too slowly,” Belazir said.
“Truth, lord,” Serig answered.
“Okay,” Simeon whispered in Channa’s ear. “He’s in position.”
The loading bay at the south-polar docking tube was more crowded than it had ever before been in the station’s seventy-odd years, mostly cluttered with disassembled equipment from the electronics fabricators two levels below, broken down just
enough to let them be moved through the freight elevators. It would be more efficient to strip them down further and box the components, but that made them too easy to sabotage. There had been executions of stationers after Kolnari inspections showed how easy. Delicate electronics . . .
Weird, Channa thought, ostentatiously looking down at her notescreen. There had been no reprisals at all for the deaths and there had been a fair number. The Kolnari had just increased their patrols, as if taunting the stationers.
Channa turned to the pirate technician. Even weirder. You didn’t think of pirates as having technicians. They looked much the same as the sleekly dangerous warriors and flamboyant nobles, but brisker.
Then again, they’ve kept thousands of people and hundreds of ships going for three generations—seven of theirs.
“Lord,” she said in the appropriate meek tone, “here’s the next load. Do you accept?”
The Kolnari looked at the fabricator. It was a spindle-shaped synth-and-metal machine about three meters long and one through at the widest point; half tubing and molecular shape chambers, half modules. Both points of the spindle ended in tapped burls that fitted into a bearing race. Underneath it was a floater cradle with—apparently—six arms and a twenty-centimeter base.
The Kolnari said something in her own language to her team—women were more common among their technical class, evidently—and they went to work, plugging in their own info-systems and a portable power-feed to bring the fabricator up to standby.
“All order is,” the pirate said to her, waving her back. “Scumvermin, next bring.”
The loading bay was one hundred meters by two hundred by three. Two Clan transports were docked at the outer hatches. Two-thirds of the way down the deck, the enemy had drawn a red line. On either side was a squad in power armor. Floating over them were pods of small servo-guns, antipersonnel weapons, heavy needlers that could be fired without endangering the fabric of the station. The weapons were highly dangerous to anyone not in combat armor, of course. Stationside of the line were civilians, working mostly in their own teams with a few Kolnari for supervision. Dockside of the line were only the Clan crews. There were three checks from the initial position to the line: once while the equipment was being stripped down, a second when the stationer stevedores took charge, and a third when it was ready to go over the line itself.
If any of the checks showed damage, the stationers in charge were flogged to death with a powered whip. Falling below quota earned ten strokes, which reduced the team’s efficiency drastically but was a very potent motivator.
It was ingenious, and working far too well.
Simeon murmured again, “Yeah, they’re locked in.”
Channa forced herself not to look at the eyes of the Kolnari. However Simeon was doing it, it was not simple holographic projection. Maybe tightbeam on the retina. . . .
Amos was whistling cheerfully as he swung the lifter around. God, he’s even gutsier than he is pretty, Channa thought. They’d volunteered for this. Too many nerves had been shattered by the holocast record of the floggings. Someone had to restore confidence. To the Kolnari, it looked like the leaders were giving an example of enthusiastic obedience. Joseph bowed low as he handed over the controller pad for the cradle. Across the back of his overall was printed Scumvermin Rule OK. One of Simeon’s suggestions to build morale.
The cradle followed obediently over the red line, behind the Kolnari technicians and toward the waiting cargo bay of the transport. The line divided the gravity fields; one Standard gravity at the line itself, running quickly up to 1.6 at the lowered ramp-entrance. The work party moved through the crowds and the waiting chains of lifters. There was a howl as the four light arms—suddenly there were only four—of the cradle gave way. The Kolnari team leapt in fearlessly, but the lifter failed in a burst of sparks and boomed hollowly to the deck plates. The fabricator slewed out of the broken cradle and onto the bent legs of the crew chief as she heaved back at the weight ten times her own.
The pirate alarms rang like angry windchimes. Channa and the others froze. So did the damaged tech. The other Kolnari lifted the damaged fabricator and set it down on a pad of packing-fiber nearby; lifting with unison grunt of effort and walking six steps with a low-voiced chant. They set the machine down with a mother’s tender care. The tech lay with the broken bones projecting through the dark skin of her kneecaps, blood welling around them and the whites showing all around her honey-colored eyes. The flying guns swooped in. Channa found herself looking down the business end of one, and so did each of the group that had brought the ruined machine to the edge of the Kolnari line.
Warriors followed; not the armored specialists, but crew on rotation duty. One was pulling a powered whip from his belt as he came. Channa closed her eyes, but the first stroke never landed. She heard his voice murmur the Kolnari equivalent of, “Yes, sir.”
She opened her eyes again. Amos and Joseph were rocking back on their heels as if they’d been ready to spring.
“He queried the big boss,” Simeon ghost-spoke through her implant. “Belazir’s telling him to check the inspection records.”
The Kolnari did, snapping away her notescreen, then going over to check the injured technician. Nobody had attended to her. Despite her being an enemy, Channa felt a little squeamish looking at the white splinters and the quivers of pain that ran across the fine-boned oval face.
“She’s saying it was a regulation medium-heavy lifter, when she looked it over,” he said. “He’s checking. Belazir says it’s not your fault.”
Sweat was running down Channa’s back. She began to relax, then swore under her breath as the warrior drew a knife. The technician closed her eyes and tilted her head; a quick stab in the back of the neck and she was still.
“Well, that worked,” she said to Simeon.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not quite sure.”
The fabricator would have to go back to the machine-shop, two levels up, to be repaired. The machines required to produce replacements for the damaged parts could not be disassembled until the work was done.
Belazir moved a squadron of light cruisers to a new quadrant and sat back. So, he thought.
Amazing. Channahap was fighting him to a standstill in this strategy game. She had actually won one of the earlier rounds. A very, very good player; few Kolnari senior officers could have done better, and war-game tournaments were one of the main ways they filled their leisure.
“The Channahap does well?” Serig said. He looked over his commander’s shoulder into the Bride’s display tank, then reran the opening moves on a smaller screen nearby. “Well, indeed.”
Belazir nodded. What a woman! he thought enthusiastically. He had stopped referring to her as scumvermin to himself some time ago. The battle of delay and lies she had waged against him was just as skillful and tricky as the war games. It was a true pity she was not of the Divine Seed; an even greater pity that she would not live very many years in the environment of the Clan’s ships. Outsiders rarely found the air, food, and water of Kolnar life-supporting. Certainly the Kolnari’s own ancestors had not, until they adapted.
But I will enjoy her greatly while she lives.
“Now, these reports,” he went on to Serig. “They read like the ravings of the insane. What do they mean?”
“An excellent question, my lord. One that I should like to ask some of these scumvermin.”
“You consider this to be the result of enemy action?”
“It seems reasonable to me, my lord. Drugs to the troops affected. Or, they may know something about these phenomena.”
Belazir considered his second. “Or they may know nothing. It could even be some sabotage scheme of Aragiz, difficult though that is to believe. Or a side-effect of this . . . illness.”
“Bad for morale either way, my lord. And the illness itself may be a weapon.”
He nodded. “Very well. Take five slaves, chosen at random, none critical to the station’s functio
n, and torture them.”
“Only five, my lord?” Serig’s soft voice expressed astonishment.
“These are an unusually soft and sensitive people,” Belazir answered. “Five will be quite sufficient. More would cause panic. For now, let the scumvermin as a whole remain calm and complacent and cooperative. Let them panic later at a time of our choosing. Hmm? Torture the five for the information we need on this—phenomenon. If they know nothing, take others.”
“Shall I broadcast that?”
“No, no, Serig. If we broadcast our ignorance, we make plain that there is something our warriors fear. If it is enemy action, they will know what we seek—or the next five.”
Serig bowed from the waist. “Very good, my lord.”
Belazir returned his attention to the game.
“Why?” Channa asked.
“You will take your hands from my desk and you will stand straight,” Belazir told her calmly, pointing a slender dagger at her. He stared at Channa until she complied.
“Two of those people are probably going to die,” she whispered, breathing hard. “Lord and God. They were tortured.”
“Of course they were. I ordered it so.”
“But why?”
He stood and walked slowly around the desk to stand close behind her, then spoke softly into her ear. “We are conquerors. We do not explain our actions. This is not a game such as we play in your quarters, lovely Channa, this is reality.”
She carefully folded her hands before her and lowered her eyes.
“I apologize for my impetuousness,” she said humbly. “I was trained to take my duties seriously, and sometimes this makes me rash. It’s why I must ask about this terrible matter. I can’t believe that you enjoy doing such things.” She looked at him appealingly over her shoulder. “Please don’t hurt my people.”
“And you lie so badly,” he said. He studied her face for a moment. “My troops,” he went on thoughtfully, “spoke of ‘things’ flickering at the corners of their eyes, of ’voices’ murmuring things not quite heard.”
The City Who Fought Page 34
