Suddenly the catwalk began to shake. Griffiths grabbed the railing and held on for life. He looked back.
The face of the rock wall behind him exploded. Rock jetted out, trailing dirt and debris in great cascades. Slowly at first, and then with increasing momentum, the rock face above the opening began to slide.
“Avalanche!” Griffiths cried out.
“The exit!” Flynn yelled. “Your friend has sealed it! What a metal miracle that beasty was!”
Under his feet, Griffiths thought he could still feel more weapons being discharged through the rock below.
“His name was Seven-alpha-three-five,” Griffiths said quietly, then pushed himself angrily from the rock wall and began to run after Flynn.
23
Followers
Flynn threw open the airlock door, not waiting for it to stop moving before leaping through its airtight frame and into the Brishan’s main bay. Griffiths was not so quick, catching the heavy door as it rebounded, nearly knocking him over.
“Hey, Flynn!” he shouted as he tried to keep up with the tall man. “Watch what you’re doing!”
Flynn seemed to take no notice. He crossed the packed bay quickly, his eye seeming to take rapid inventory of the extensive equipment filling it. Names for each piece of equipment fell from his lips as he walked as though checking each off in his memory. “Bestran inversion drive … Cannon Projector … Oracle crystal apex … etheric dynamo armature …”
“Flynn,” Griffiths called out again, scrambling over some translucent tubing that pulsed with a soft yellow light. “Wait!”
The tall man passed quickly through the iris hatch on the port side of the bay and stepped at once into the selective gravity tube, dropping down to the deck below. Griffiths had a pretty good idea where the man was going and wasn’t convinced it was a good idea. The astronaut followed suit and dropped to the next deck just as the iris valve to the bridge closed behind the spacer.
Griffiths strode toward the now-closed hatch and ran into it. It hadn’t opened for him. Fury welled up inside him. He balled his fists and began beating on the door as he yelled. “Flynn! Open this hatchway right now, Flynn!”
“Griffiths?”
The astronaut turned suddenly toward the words in his right ear.
“Merinda!”
She stood in the hatchway off to his right in what seemed like a casual manner. Griffiths noticed, however, that her fingers were white from the strain of her grip. Light beads of sweat glistened on her forehead. He had forgotten that the captain’s cabin was situated right off the bridge. Now, confronted with her suddenly so close to him, he seemed somewhat off guard. Damn, he thought, why can’t I get a grip on myself around this woman?
“Startled to find me here?” Merinda said easily. “There is a reason why they call it the captain’s cabin, you know. What is all this noise about?”
Griffiths regained a small measure of his composure. “I think we’re being hijacked!”
Merinda eyed him closely, as though squinting her eyes would somehow improve her hearing. “What did you say?”
“I said, we’re being hijacked! That idiot Flynn has just …”
“Flynn?”
“Yes, your old pal Evon Flynn just dashed off to the bridge and shut the door in my face!”
“Well, while that might qualify as rude and unthinking I hardly think …”
Merinda suddenly cocked her head at the whining sound that was building in pitch and intensity down from the direction of the ship’s main bay.
She turned back toward Griffiths. “On the other hand, those are spindledrive lifters spinning up the main drive. Perhaps we should ask Master Flynn what it is he’s doing with my ship.”
“Be my guest.” Griffiths slammed his fist into the closed hatchway again. “He’s just on the other side.”
“Well, did you try opening the door?” Merinda said tiredly.
“What do you mean?” Griffiths said irritably. “Of course I tried to open the door! It’s always opened for me before!”
“Lindia,” Merinda said with effort, “open the bridge iris hatch.”
The closed iris rotated quietly to its open position. Griffiths grimaced, giving the hatchway a glance as though it had purposefully made him look foolish, and stepped inside. Merinda followed him through a bit more languidly. The massive captain’s chair was situated well forward in the bridge space. It was mounted on a protruding section of the deck that extended out into a large clear bubble. Flynn was already seated in the chair, his hands working quickly over the control surfaces that covered the hovering crystal panels arrayed in front of him.
“Tsultak Departure Master,” Flynn bellowed, apparently to no one in particular in the room. “The Brishan of the Wyvern Portwing Dewclaw dock in the cavern Dragon’s Eye! Our technological drive system has reacted badly to the local spiritual quantum index and is threatening to go critical. We are declaring an emergency …
“We are?” Griffiths said.
“… And demand immediate clearance for departure as a precaution for the safety of the greater Tsultak Majestik,” Flynn continued without missing a beat. Even as he spoke, he continued working the panels about him. Suddenly, the moorings loosed the ship. Griffiths could see it rotating away from the dock almost at once.
“Now wait just a minute!” Griffiths said, moving quickly across the bridge.
“Lindia!” Flynn said, still working the controls. “Set battle condition one-delta. Assign Griffiths to defense.” Griffiths suddenly was lifted into the air, surrounded by an all-too-familiar glowing globe of light.
“Greetings, Captain Jeremy Griffiths!” said the sickeningly cheerful voice. “This is Fisk, your on-board defensive systems synthetic mind. May I take this opportunity to say how good it is to be working with you again as we defend our ship and our shipmates against imminent death and destruction.”
“Fisk!” Griffiths yelled as he clawed hopelessly at the air around him. “The ship is NOT in any danger! Let me down at once!”
“Oh, I am sorry, Jeremy Griffiths,” Fisk said with only a slight measure of disappointment in his synthetic voice. “Our current defensive condition has been set at one-delta which means that attack, while not registering on any of the ships sensors at the moment, is nevertheless expected. Caution dictates that you remain at that station until the defensive condition is reset.” The chipperness returned to his voice almost at once. “However, this does not mean that we cannot entertain ourselves with a few simulated battle drills until such time as true death and destruction are hurled our way!”
Griffiths clawed his way about in the air until he could face the command chair again. “Flynn, damn it! Let me down!”
“Relax, Griffiths,” Flynn said without taking his eyes off of the instruments. “Play a few games with the nice synth.”
“Evon,” Merinda said, pulling herself with obvious difficulty onto the bridge. “What has happened? Where’s the TyRen?”
“He’s buying us time,” Flynn said. “It’s time we need.”
The view out the main portal stopped swinging. Griffiths could see the enormous cavern that housed the ships from all across the stars. In the distance was a single, brilliant sliver of light. Suddenly the Brishan surged forward. Uncounted docks and ships slid past their view as they rushed with increasing speed toward the distant light at the far end of the cavern.
“Merinda,” Flynn said as he continued to furiously work the controls, “do you remember the story of Baldor the Jester of Kendis-dai?”
“Of course,” Merinda said as she sank gratefully into a force chair forming to catch her as her strength waned. “He stole the Book of Truth from the halls of his master so that he could gain power over others in the court and reign over them. Upon reading only a few lines, however, he discovered that he knew the sum of all truth, far more than he had set out to learn. The knowledge eventually proved to be his undoing. If the legends are true, the remaining members of the court killed him f
or the knowledge of them that he possessed.”
“Well, whether the legends are true or not,” Flynn said as he gripped the controls, pressing the ship faster through the cavern, “I have just taken a peek at the Book of Truth. Truth is the hardest thing of all to run from, Merinda—and I’m just hoping to give us a head start.”
The Brishan suddenly emerged from the cavern. Brilliant sunlight glanced off her hull. The Brishan shot across the enormous Sand Sea for over a hundred leagues before rising quickly into the sky.
The Sentinel moved quickly at the head of a column of dragons, darting down the dark quays of the cavern with little regard for the dockworkers or spacers who blocked their way. Indeed, such creatures as may have stood before them rushed to open the path. No one wished to challenge the Sentinel—especially when he was backed by the Minister of Peace and a squad of dragons quaking the docks behind him.
“You are sure of what this Scrimshaw told you?” the Sentinel intoned from the dark folds of his hood.
“Yes, Sentinel,” said Dedrak Kurbin-Flamishar, his great head drifting near the floating form of the human as they moved past the ships in port. Dedrak found it difficult to follow the human’s words unless he kept his head so near. Humans always seem to communicate in whispers, Dedrak thought to himself. It is the dark nature of their hearts that they attempt to conceal. “The Vestis paid Scrimshaw well, but not well enough to insure his silence. I have instructed him to create a copy of the map for us to his best recollection …”
“We haven’t the time for that,” the Sentinel interrupted at once. “Neskat has the map—that’s all that she will need. We cannot allow them to escape!”
“Even so,” Dedrak replied, “their craft has already departed five minutes ago.”
The Sentinel revolved suddenly. In a quick motion, the robed human reached up and grasped Dedrak by the fifth jowelspur and gave a hard yank.
“Yeeahharoo!” the dragon bellowed, leaning closer toward the human to relieve the pressure on the sensitive ridge thorn.
“You listen to me, Dedrak!” the Sentinel said fiercely into the dragon’s ear. He still held the jowelspur firmly in both hands, pulling the dragon’s head closer to his own. “I have crossed the stars at great discomfort and expense just so that I might find this woman and her cursed treasure map in this hellish place. I will not be disappointed! Your council has ordered your cooperation in this matter. Now, get me a ship that can track that woman NOW!”
The Sentinel released the dragon.
Dedrak snorted a puff of indignant smoke from his nostrils. “So they have. Here, Sentinel, is our ship.”
The Sentinel looked up and, for the moment, was struck speechless.
The towering hull of the Tsultak war barge was a magnificent sight. Fierce in her lines and decoration, she bristled with no fewer than a hundred cannon projectors a side. Her dull gray finish was decorated throughout with ceremonial markings in brilliant greens, oranges, and reds. Dragons roamed her massive decks above, their crews preparing to make their way into the stars.
“She has only been gone five minutes, you say.” The Sentinel spoke as much to himself as to Dedrak. “This is most satisfactory. Dedrak, how long before the ship can be under way?”
“The preparations have all been accomplished but one, Sentinel,” the great dragon rumbled.
“Excellent!” The shadowy figure began drifting up the access plank at once. “I am pleased. Never mind showing me my quarters now. Let’s get this ship under way at once!”
“So we shall, Sentinel, just as soon as the launching ceremonies are completed.”
The Sentinel stopped.
“Ceremonies?” he asked.
“Surely you, of all visitors, must be aware of our warrior customs,” Dedrak said simply. “This is a voyage of campaign. The proprieties must be observed prior to launch!”
“Proprieties!” the Sentinel screeched. “I’ll show you some proprieties if this ship isn’t moving within the next five minutes!”
“This craft is scheduled to move at the right hind heel of the twilight nod,” Dedrak intoned.
“That’s seven hours from now!”
“The proprieties must be observed,” the dragon answered simply.
“Dragons!” the Sentinel snorted. “I’ve had my fill of dragons! Everywhere I go—dragons!” The Sentinel rushed back down the access ramp. “I’ll take care of this myself.”
Dedrak reached quickly out with his large foreclaw and in a swift move quite suddenly pinned the Sentinel to the planking of the dock. Lightning erupted beneath his claw but Dedrak withstood the pain. The dragon pressed closer to the trapped human and, with his mouth gaping wide, roared loudly at the struggling figure. The sound rattled the planks for the entire length of the dock.
The Sentinel held still. The lightning ceased.
“The council has decreed that you shall assist us in this expedition—not the other way around, Sentinel,” Dedrak intoned. “The proprieties SHALL be observed!”
24
Star Cross Tavern
“A tale! A tale! A tanon for a tale!”
The yarnspinner was old beyond his years, obviously human by his general physique. His every appearance was a chorus of contrasts. His eyes were bright and young, yet set in a craggy, ancient face weathered by hard work and a harder sky. That he had been a spacer was beyond anyone’s doubt who knew the type: the very look of his ravaged, tough flesh brought to mind the tall rigging of the core-ship masts and the years of exposure to the stray radiation that passed through the shifting sails, wings, and crystals as they strained to keep up with the unexpected fronts through which they so often passed. He was missing his left arm just below the shoulder, the story of whose passing he was most willing to impart for a few titanium tanons or, at least, the price of a drink. Coarse, iron-gray hair gave a bare acknowledgment to gravity as its knotted, twisting mass struck out on its own from the top of his head. It made his beard, stroked constantly by his remaining good hand, appear soft and inviting. Indeed, his beard was so different from the rest of the hoary mass that one was tempted to think it was fake, a cheap affectation by a wild-eyed sailor of the stars now shipwrecked in this dull and dingy inn.
“A tanon for a tale!” he squawked again.
The tavern keeper looked up a moment and considered whether to say something to keep the old man quiet or just run over and throw him out. Sense slowly returned to him, however. The yarnspinner didn’t bother people much with his ranting and—he had to admit—was probably the closest thing to a floor-entertainment as he was likely to get in these parts. Still, he wondered what had set the old man off and looked quickly about the large and mostly deserted room.
Humans, he thought, nodding agreeably at the sight of the pair entering the room. Well, thank the Masters for that. He could deal with a few more bipeds these days, that was sure. Of course, one expected that sort of thing coreward—there were far more nonhumans on the inner frontier than anywhere else in the disk. The tavern keeper didn’t know why that was so and, frankly, didn’t care. It wasn’t up to him why the universe was the way it was—that was just the natural order of things, he thought. Humans ruled; that, plus the fact that he was one of them, was enough for him.
The tavern keeper straightened up, cleaning a glass absently with the dirty rag that usually adorned his shoulder. You run into all kinds at a starport, he mused absently. He’d heard tales of the great starports further toward the rim—seen many of them on the rare netcasts from IGNM that happened his way through transcriptions or hauntings—but he only really knew the sprawling, vacant complex here on his own world firsthand.
The couple both wore cloaks with hoods to ward off the chill air outside. Their layered clothing apparently wasn’t up to the task, as the male of the pair was both rubbing his hands together and blowing on them. Wrestling his face into a semblance of a smile, the tavern keeper approached them.
“Greetings, sentient! Welcome to the Star Cross. Mighty chill n
ight to be about,” he said with as much cheer as he could muster on such short notice. “No doubt you be off that starship I heard down to port just now. What might I do for you tonight?”
The man looked up cautiously, “What do you have that’s warm?”
“Warm is it?” The tavern keeper laughed darkly. “Well, now, you’ll be wanting a large flagon of hot Sartagon grog, to be sure!”
The grizzly-faced human seated before him nearly shook with a sudden rage. “I most certainly do NOT want any of that …”
“Two hot Sartagon grogs,” the woman next to him quickly said, placing her hand on his arm in a move that quite effectively restrained him from rising. “It will warm us well.”
“Aye, madam, as you wish,” the tavern keeper said with slight emphasis through his smile. He then turned sourly toward the man again—an expression to which he was more accustomed. “Will there be anything else, master?”
“Yes,” the man sighed. “Your sign’s falling down.”
“Master?”
“Your sign,” the man repeated. “The one outside. It’s falling away from the building. I just thought you’d like to know.”
“Aye, master,” the tavern keeper said without much commitment. “Paint don’t stay put here like on them grand starports to rimward. Here we mostly just wait out the dirt and the smell. Loneliness—aye, we have plenty of that, too. Now and then some terrifying roar descends on us carrying who-knows-what-kind of horror into our backyard and then leaves us be again—beggin’ your pardon, master, but this here is a wild place, not fit for the likes of the young lady here. It be terrible enough for the old likes of me, that be sure!”
The man only shook his head, the look of smooth-skinned incredulity belying his refinement and the fact that he did not belong in this place. “Why don’t you leave, then?”
“What? And give up space travel?” The tavern keeper snorted as he turned away. He drew two large flagons from behind the bar and crossed the room to the great black cauldron bubbling ominously above the fire. Some people, he thought to himself sadly, just don’t understand the romance of the stars. Take these two, for instance; here they come straight off some ship or other after plying the night and all either of them wants to do is visit this old groundling tavern and forget all about the stars. Criminal it is.
Nightsword Page 20
