by Timothy Zahn
“Looked?” she echoed, her lip twisting. “Certainly we didn’t bother to look. Not after the first time you proved to be wrong. My time is too precious to waste on a madman.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Merrick said. Belatedly, he realized part of the reason for his odd-sounding voice: his audios were running at a strange and unbalanced setting, as if a child had gotten into his brain and started throwing switches at random. Carefully, he reset them to proper levels. “I appreciate your hospitality,” he added. His voice was still hoarse, but at least it was no longer freaky. “My name is Merrick. May I ask yours?”
“I know who you are, Merrick Hopekeeper.” She gave a little snort. “And let me be honest about my hospitality. If your friends hadn’t insisted, I would have thrown you out days ago.”
“I’m sorry I’ve been a burden,” Merrick said. “It was never my intent.”
The woman’s face softened, just a little, and clearly grudgingly. “I don’t doubt it was not your idea,” she conceded. “Though let us be clear that it was your own clumsiness that first occasioned your arrival. I am Alexis Woolmaster.”
“I’m honored to meet you,” Merrick said, his stomach tightening as something she’d said suddenly penetrated his lingering fogginess. She would have thrown him out days ago? How long had he been here, anyway? “May I ask how long it is that I’ve been imposing on you and your home?” he asked carefully.
“You were brought in the night three days ago.” She gave another snort. “You frightened the sheep. For that alone I would have sent you away.”
Merrick looked back toward the dim light coming in through the windows. Three days. Three days. While Anya and Kjoic did—
Did what? Sat in the forest and waited for him? Or had they given up and set out for Svipall on their own?
Or had one of his captors gone to get them? He had some vague memory of someone talking about that before the kaleidoscope cycles began, but had no idea whether or not it had happened. “You said my friends insisted I be permitted to stay,” he said. “Are those friends here now?”
“They are,” a new voice came from the doorway.
Again, Merrick turned his head to look, again fighting back the vertigo. This one was a man, older than the young woman facing him, wearing a camouflage sort of outfit of mottled brown, green, and gray. A memory clicked: this was the same middle-aged man who’d been with the group that brought him here after his encounter with the bersark field outside Svipall.
More to the point, it was the man who’d said he was going to find Anya and Kjoic.
“You may leave us, Alexis Tucker,” the man said.
For a moment he and the woman locked eyes, and Merrick wondered if she was going to remind him whose house this was. Then, with a slight compression of her lips, she slipped past him and disappeared through the doorway.
The man watched until she was gone, then pulled the chair over beside the bed and sat down. “I am Ludolf Treetapper,” he said, his eyes flicking briefly down Merrick’s body. “I see your mind has returned to reason.”
“Mostly,” Merrick confirmed. He still felt weak, and even the smallest movement of his head seemed to spark more of the dizziness. Dehydration, probably, and for a moment he considered asking Ludolf for water. But there was something about the man that made him reluctant to ask for favors. “I thought her name was Alexis Woolmaster.”
Ludolf snorted. “So she now calls herself,” he said scornfully. “When I first knew her she barely knew how to pleat the fabrics created by others. Alexis Tucker she was then, and Alexis Tucker she will always be.”
“Ah,” Merrick said noncommittally. Clearly, Ludolf wasn’t a man who bothered with tact and personal diplomacy. Merrick knew people like that, and they tended to go through life leaving emotional brush fires in their wake. “Were you able to find Anya and Kjoic?”
“Eventually,” Ludolf said, his eyes steady on Merrick. “You’ll see them both later.”
“Wait a second,” Merrick asked, frowning. He would see them both? “Are you saying you kept Kjoic here, too?”
“Why else would we be in Alexis Tucker’s home instead of our own?” Ludolf countered. “We certainly couldn’t bring a master there.”
“But you can’t just hold him here against his will,” Merrick protested. “He’s a master. They don’t take well to things like that. The minute he’s free, they’ll turn the whole area into a burn zone.”
“I agree,” Ludolf said. “The simplest way to avoid that would be to simply kill him.”
“No,” Merrick said firmly, a surge of adrenaline momentarily mastering the dizziness. Kjoic was his key to getting into the Troft building at Svipall. The last thing he wanted was to have some wide-eyed local drop his body into a river somewhere. He started to sit up, clenching his teeth against the light-headedness—
“Calm yourself, Merrick Hopekeeper,” Ludolf soothed, putting a hand on Merrick’s chest and easing him back down again. “There will be no need for violence or death. Not yet. Master Kjoic remains in this place of his own free will.”
“Does he, now,” Merrick growled, sinking back onto the bed. A good, solid shove on Ludolf’s chest, he knew, would send the man halfway across the room and maybe teach him not to play games like this.
But that would reveal Merrick’s strength. He might have foolishly talked about hearing things during his bouts with brain fever, but he’d recovered enough to remember that all this was supposed to be a deep, dark secret.
“He does,” Ludolf assured him. “When he learned that one of his slaves was ill, he insisted on remaining until you were once again ready to travel.” His lip twisted. “He also seems to believe that we are his slaves now, as well. Tell me, why do you wish to enter the masters’ gray building?”
“There are things in there I want to see,” Merrick said.
“What things?”
“I won’t know until I see them, will I?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s all I have right now,” Merrick said. “Maybe later I can do better.”
For a moment Ludolf gazed at him in silence. “Who are you?”
“You already know that. I’m Merrick Hopekeeper.”
Ludolf waved an impatient hand. “Words,” he scoffed. “A name is not a person, as you well know. I want to know who you are. And why you’ve come here to this part of Muninn.”
“Why don’t you ask Anya?”
Ludolf’s lip twisted. “I did,” he said sourly. “She would say only that you were once a fellow slave of a distant warrior-master.”
“She’s right,” Merrick agreed. “That’s who I am. No more; no less.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect more courtesy between strangers,” Merrick said pointedly. “Certainly with regards to each other’s privacy.”
“Privacy?” Ludolf asked, raising his eyebrows. “This from a man who claims to be a great and powerful warrior himself? A man who has defeated many of the masters in open battle? A man who claims to have torn a jormungand apart with his bare hands?”
Merrick stared, a fresh surge of adrenaline bubbling through him. He’d just about convinced himself that his loose words to Alexis were the biggest mistake he’d made during his drug-induced mania. Apparently, he’d said or done far worse.
But what exactly had he said? Did he tell them he was from the Cobra Worlds? Did he tell them he was a Cobra?
Worse, did he show them he was a Cobra?
And then, his fogged brain caught up with Ludolf’s accusations, and the rising panic abruptly receded again.
Merrick had never torn a jormungand apart. Not with his bare hands. Not even with his lasers or his arcthrower. Not even close.
So where in the Worlds had Ludolf gotten the idea that he had?
Obviously, Anya must have told him more than the simple fact that Merrick was a fellow slave. She must have hinted at what he was capable of, and Ludolf had taken the vague statements an
d tried to fill in the blanks. Probably hoping to spark a reaction or maybe goad Merrick into filling in some of the blanks himself.
The revelation came as a relief. Still, the relief came tinged with a sense of disappointment. Anya knew how closely they had to guard the secret of who he was. She shouldn’t have given out any information about him, let alone details or even broad hints about his abilities. Especially not to a total stranger.
Unless Ludolf wasn’t a total stranger. Unless Ludolf was, in fact . . .
Merrick felt his eyes narrow as he studied the man’s face, noting with distant amusement that Ludolf was simultaneously studying Merrick’s. The man’s eyes . . . his mouth . . . the shape of his cheekbones . . .
“Sounds like the ravings of a drug-crazed man to me,” Merrick said, keying his infrareds to their emotion-reading setting. “I wouldn’t believe a word of it if I were you. Tell me, what’s it like to finally have your daughter back with you?”
Ludolf was good. His body never twitched, nor were there any sharp intakes of air, and his expression never cracked.
But Merrick’s infrareds told a different story. The man’s heartbeat leaped, blood suffusing his face with surprise or chagrin at Merrick’s unexpected question. The pattern flowed back and forth as Ludolf clearly tried to decide whether to deny it or face the fact that a total stranger had somehow discerned the truth.
It took him nearly five seconds to decide. Merrick waited, content to give him whatever the time he needed.
And then, reluctantly, Ludolf inclined his head. “Anya said you were clever,” he said. “More clever, I see, than I realized.”
“Thank you,” Merrick said. “Then I assume you’re glad to see her?”
Ludolf’s eyes seemed to go a little flat. “We’re glad to see her,” he said. “She is not so glad to see us.”
“Ah,” Merrick said. From the way Anya had talked about them, he wasn’t really surprised by that. “Well, then, let’s hear your side of it. Tell me about your rebellion against the masters.”
“That is the past,” Ludolf said flatly. “What matters now are the present and future.”
“That’s fine,” Merrick said. “Assuming you can lock away the past where it can’t affect anything else. Personally, I’ve never found the past to be so accommodating.”
“I have no wish to talk about it.”
“Then I’ll give it a shot,” Merrick said. “If I understand correctly, you and your wife—Anya’s parents—organized an attack against the Trofts. It failed and you ran off into the forest, leaving her and the rest of Gangari holding the bag. That about right?”
Ludolf’s throat worked. “It is not evil to try a great task and fail.”
“It is when that failure ends up costing someone half their life in exile,” Merrick said. “Especially when that someone is your own daughter.”
“The price of freedom is sometimes great,” Ludolf said. “And sometimes that price and final victory are widely separated. The war continues, and we will regain our world.” He tried a smile that didn’t quite come off. “And do not worry about Anya. We will willingly accept her back.”
Merrick stared at him. “You’ll accept her?” he repeated, wondering if he’d actually heard that right. “Seems to me it’s more a question of whether she’ll accept you.”
“Relationships in this part of Muninn are perhaps not the way they are where you come from,” Ludolf said stiffly.
“Perhaps,” Merrick said. “And perhaps Anya has changed since you let her take the brunt of your punishment. What do you say I go and ask her?” He swung his legs over the end of the bed and sat up.
And fell straight back down again as the world suddenly tilted around him.
“You will see no one until you are fully recovered,” Ludolf said severely. “I don’t know why you were foolish enough to tread near a bersark field, but you now pay the consequences.”
“I’m fine,” Merrick insisted, clenching his teeth as he waited for the spinning to stop. “I just need some food and water.”
“They will be brought to you,” Ludolf said. “And then you will sleep again.”
“After I see Anya,” Merrick said.
“When you are well enough,” Ludolf said. “Until then, you will eat, drink and sleep.” With a final nod, he stood up and strode out.
A few minutes later Alexis Woolmaster returned, carrying a tray on which was balanced a mug, a jar of water, and a plate of cold meat and some kind of root vegetables. She helped Merrick up into a sort of half-lying position on the bed and assisted him in eating and drinking. He finished off most of the pitcher before his thirst finally eased, but to his mild surprise discovered he wasn’t all that hungry. He ate perhaps a third of what she’d brought and declared himself full.
To his annoyance the water didn’t seem to have helped his dizziness. As Alexis left with the tray he lay down again, promising himself that he would rest a few minutes, wait for the water to be fully absorbed into his system, then get up and go find Anya.
Ten minutes later, he was once again fast asleep.
* * *
“Coming up on Qasama,” the nav officer called. “One minute to break-out.”
Barrington nodded silently, rubbing his thumb restlessly along the side of his forefinger as he looked around CoNCH. This was it: the make-or-break moment. If Ukuthi had been telling the truth—if Qasama was indeed waiting when they dropped out of hyperspace—he might yet pull this off. Most of the seriously injured men in sick bay were still clinging to life, and could theoretically yet be saved.
If the Qasamans were willing to help them. Somehow, he had to find a way to make that happen, by pleas, bribes, or even threats. If they refused, this could still crumble in Barrington’s hands.
Of course, if Ukuthi had lied, and all that was out there was more empty space, the crumbling would be even more guaranteed.
There was the thud of relays as the Dorian once again entered space-normal. Barrington held his breath . . .
And there, neatly centered in the main display, was a planet. A cloud-mottled mass of green and blue, the kind of planet that humans could thrive on. The tactical display came on as the incoming sensor data was collected, organized and refined; and there, right at the edge of their view, was a distinctive curve of cities, villages, roads, and cleared land. The region the Aventinians had originally dubbed the Fertile Crescent and which the inhabitants themselves called the Great Arc.
They had found Qasama.
“Getting a reading on Commander Ukuthi,” Castillo called from his station. “He seems to have come out early. He is directly aft; range, three million klicks.”
Barrington frowned as he tapped into the data stream. Ukuthi hadn’t said anything about hanging back like this. Was there a problem? “Get a signal to him, Commander,” he ordered Garrett. “Ask him what the hell he’s doing. Politely, of course.”
“We have an incoming signal, Captain,” Garrett said. “Commander Ukuthi says he thought having a Troft ship coming close in to Qasama might alarm or prejudice the inhabitants against us. He says, with your permission, he’ll hold position in backstop position, in case our mutual enemies decide they want another crack at us.”
Barrington scowled. Actually, the other had decent logic on both points. Barrington had been trying to figure out how exactly he was going to explain the presence of a Troft warship at his side; and any ship that tried to come in for a quick attack on the Dorian would probably pop in right behind the Dominion ship, a tactic which would end him squarely in the middle of a cross fire.
“Reply, sir?” Garrett asked.
“Acknowledge his message,” Barrington said. “But keep an eye on him. Helm, take us in, minimum-time course to orbit. Find the local transmission frequencies and attempt to open communications.”
He got acknowledgements, and leaned back in his chair. Nothing to do now but mentally rehearse his speech for whenever someone down there decided they were ready to talk to him.
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br /> The first big question was whether they would even know what the Dominion of Man was. They might have records of where their ancestors had originally come from, or someone from the Cobra Worlds might have mentioned their own origin somewhere along the way. Either way, though, there was a good chance he would have to start basically from scratch.
The tricky part would be choosing which elements of Dominion politics and society to emphasize, and which to gloss over. The Cobra Worlds’ information about Qasama had indicated that it was organized beneath a strong, centralized government headed by a group called the Shahni, very similar to the Dominion’s own Dome-controlled structure. The Moreau data, in particular, had also spoken of a strongly patriarchal society, again an echo of the Dominion. On paper, at least, it should be easy enough to convince the Qasamans that they and the Dominion were kindred spirits.
The catch was that all of that information predated the Troft invasion. It was likely that the Qasaman structure had survived the devastation, but it was hardly guaranteed. There were certainly historical precedents for that type of society undergoing a massive upheaval after a war, and Barrington would have to tread lightly until he figured out their current arrangement.
“Congratulations, sir,” Garrett said quietly into his thoughts. “You did it.”
“Thank you, Commander,” Barrington said. Yes, they’d done it. They’d found Qasama. And, with luck and some careful politics, they’d found healing for Barrington’s injured.
And after that, Santores would bring in the Megalith and set about building up the battered world hanging in space in front of them. They would create an array of imaginary but convincing defenses and attack capabilities, setting Qasama up as more and more of a potential threat to the Troft territory around it until the Dominion’s enemies concluded they had no choice but to attack. Those allied demesnes would assemble a task force, hopefully from the warships currently facing the Dominion, and rush here to neutralize the potential threat to their rear.
