Gammalaw: Smoke on the Water

by Brian Daley

  All in all, Renquald—who approved of the way hardship honed people—viewed the changes as an improvement. It was likely, however, that Orman did not see things the same way and might even become violent at the suggestion.

  But no, Renquald decided a moment later. To preserve his sanity Emmett Orman probably had retreated to reveries of peacetime and what might have been: a comfortable life with his Utopian monographs and an arranged marriage to the lower-born though striking Romola.

  Orman's old future, at any rate. It was Renquald's intent that he salvage none of it None.

  * * * *

  Burning looked at Renquald. "What do you want with me?"

  Lod tch-tched from where he was fixing himself a fragrant cup of kavajava fortified with a jigger of rumble, whipped cream, and a dash of green creme de menthe. "Don't be so curt!" The doffing of his trench coat had revealed a dashing dress uniform as splendidly tailored as a handmade tuxedo.

  "Take a load off your treads, Cousin. Have a bite." He motioned to where six kinds of meat had been barbecued and broiled Ext-style.

  Burning shook his head and swallowed slowly. The smell nauseated him, as the odor of scorched meat always did since he had walked among blackened, smoking corpses after the First Landers' incendiary attack at Four Fens.

  His NoMan stare returned to Tonne-Head. "What're you doing here, Gilead? And wearing tbatT

  He indicated the torque with its guttering, faceted gryphon's eyes, ice moons, dawn stars, and lava nodes. Torques of rank were not uncommon among bastion office bearers, but the motifs and workmanship on the one Tonne-Head wore with such combined unease and arrogance were different. They drew on, though they did not duplicate, the look of the hereditary torque of the Allgrave. The real torque had been lost when Allgrave TomTom—Burning's great-uncle Thomas Orman—had spiked into the Boho River in a command VTOL.

  Tonne-Head made a false start at an answer, but Lod supplied, "For one thing, he's hoping for news of his nephew, Burton."

  Burning answered, "Dead."

  He told himself that the word didn't say it all. How much would any non-Ext understand of that polar-cold night at Staging Point Crazy Quilt when an RPG round had blown Burtie to scraps and the Exts had begun calling dibs on his belongings? Burning himself had scavenged Burton's boots after the firefight; the left one had been lying out in the open, though it had taken some time to find the right one with the leg still inserted into it.

  "Now that's a tragedy," Lod muttered. "But we're here to put an end to tragedies."

  Abruptly, Lod's voice made Burning realize that everyone was staring at him—except Lod, who was refortifying his coffee, his back to the chamber.

  "Take stock for a moment, Cousin," Lod went on, "and at least have a cuppa."

  Lod turned suddenly and approached with a cup of tea Burning didn't want but reached for anyway, quickly discovering that Lod's hand held a tiny sliver pressed against the underside of the saucer. Burning accepted the saucer without losing the spit needle hidden under it Flowstate kept his perplexity from distracting him.

  He took a careful sip while palming the spit needle, mulling over just who in Receiving One he should toad-crank and when.

  Chapter

  Seven

  The presence of the hulking LAW Manipulants in Receiving One made it a certainty that Burning would get only one chance to use the spit needle. The deadly neuter clones carried sidearms and huge Moplah-style chopper blades. The Manips weren't unbeatable supertroopers, but each was strong enough to tear Burning apart like boiled poultry. And because Periapts absolutely refused to deal for their own hostages—a rule that would apply even to Renquald—there would be no escape and no rescue of Romola.

  He lifted his eyes from the tea to Renquald. "You still haven't explained why I'm here."

  "Not to hear any more threats," Renquald surprised him by saying. "Only facts this time. There's a new policy gaining currency with the Periapt Hierarchate, or at least there was five years ago."

  Burning understood that he was referring to speed-of-light delay. Policy changes in the Hierarchate, LAW's governing body, might have aged a good deal since word of their existence had been transmitted to Concordance.

  "Nevertheless, as commissioner I am obliged to weigh carefully the portent of this new policy. After all, I'll be returning home someday, and in the meantime my own dynastic group could suffer should I misjudge the winds of change." He paused for a moment. "In short, Allgrave, you and your holdout Exts might be allowed to live. Or are you too set on that cliched Wagnerian death you've poised yourselves for?"

  Burning hadn't thought about the final stand in terms of glory; no Ext had. They were too close to it. Glory and heroism were words in some other language, significant only to people with live nerve endings.

  "New surrender terms, is that what you got me down here to hear?" Burning wondered how close he could ease to Ren-quald before anyone intervened; spit needles had a short range. "Or is it a matter of bigger, better slave implants?" He smiled for the first time, but only with his mouth, then reached to put the tea aside, palming the needle with a technique that was part of jukumijustso-do. "You're underestimating us again, Commissioner."

  Renquald shook his head. "You have my word that there'll be no implants, no slavewares. You won't even have to lay down your arms. Under this new policy you'll be spared to serve out an enlistment with LAW, under full amnesty. But not on Concordance," he was quick to add. "You'll be posted to another human-settled world. Your hitch, and that of your troops, will be six baseline years—subjective years, of course. I might add that the clock begins running the moment you agree. By tomorrow night it could be six years less one day."

  Burning had waited until Tonne-Head was exchanging glances with Romola to transfer the spit needle to concealment between gum and cheek. Now he laughed. "Oh, so we can die fighting the Roke on behalf of Periapt? Or are the aliens nothing more than propaganda to ensure continued funding for LAW?"

  Renquald's face remained imperturbable. "I assure you, All-grave, the Roke not only are very real but pose a potential threat to all human-colonized worlds, your precious Concordance included."

  "Real or not, the Exts would rather die fighting you."

  "You should know that the prospect of your deaths under any circumstances does not entirely sadden me. But certain bleeding hearts both within the Periapt Hierarchate and outside it are pressing for interplanetary benevolence. Therefore, some pretense of forbearance and solidarity is needed."

  "Or so said a transmission five years out of date," Burning thought to point out

  Renquald inclined his head in a curt bow. "As I said, I must be circumspect. Moreover, I'm wary of allowing several hundred Exts to martyr themselves on a forlorn mountaintop. Such incidents have a way of perpetuating vendettas and fueling troublemakers." He shrugged elaborately. "Besides, LAW doesn't necessarily want the Exts to fight anyone. Perhaps LAW will have you serve as peacekeepers or security forces."

  "On some backwater world like Aquamarine, I presume."

  Tonne-Head's patience finally broke. "Your refusal of amnesty won't restrict the suffering to the Exts, Burning. You asked about implants… Not for you, of course, you reeking, posturing Joan of Arc. But for kin and friends of everyone on the Tor!"

  Burning winced. "They'll take the knife. LAW won't have any of them alive."

  "Allgrave, LAW already has them." Renquald made it sound harsh. "LAW, along with the Concordance Defense Force: hostages, friends, and relations of every Ext. Surrendered into our custody, stripped of suicide options, available for implantation."

  Burning shook his head. "For a lie like this you made me get an innocent Wheel Weevil all wet and shagged out? They'd never surrender. The bastions would never give them up."

  "Not without their Allgrave's decree, perhaps," Renquald conceded mildly.

  Burning couldn't make sense of it. "If you expect me—"

  "The Allgrave pro tern," Renquald said, cutting him off and eye
ing the torque around Tonne-Head's neck. "Chosen by special electors, as stipulated by Concordance doctrines."

  Past anger, Burning lowered his voice. "What electors would choose a turncoat like you?"

  "All," Romola said steadily. "We all did. I did."

  Burning felt as if someone had e-tooled a fighting hole in his middle. "Without matrilineal ties to the bastions you've no claim to an electorship, Romola."

  Tonne-Head moved to Romola's side, putting his weighty arm around her shoulders. "She does now that she's my wife."

  A fiery flush turned the pale, dirty skin of Burning's face and throat vivid scarlet even through the screen of red stubble. His breath quickened, and he trembled in spite of the Skills. It was clear that he couldn't master himself enough to speak.

  * * * *

  Renquald was fascinated. As Lod, Romola, and other sources had said, Orman had an intense, uncontrollable blush response to anger, embarrassment, or humiliation. But what mix of them was he feeling now?

  Flicking a look at Tonne-Head, Renquald saw that the upstart Allgrave was watching the legitimate one nervously. Emmett Orman had become a daunting unknown despite the fact that the Exts had won only a few minor victories and a single significant one since his elevation. Renquald wondered if Orman realized how high he'd ridden in his troops' esteem. Probably he didn't; the man had some sort of compulsion against thinking well of himself.

  When Romola would have gone to Burning, Tonne-Head held her back—an illogical show of caution in Renquald's opinion. Orman's red rage had already made the guards edgy. It would have been more strategic for the Gilead to conclude that if Orman lost his temper, he could be somewhat messily dispensed with. LAW could then approach Daddy D or some other successor with its proposal.

  Lod spoke again, almost languidly. "Cousin, consider a moment. They have got several thousand hostages held ready for slave 'wares. All well and good for you to go down swinging, but the survivors are the ones who'll pay the price."

  Burning cut his NoMan eyes to Romola and found his voice. "How could you sell us out?"

  Romola didn't flinch from the answer. "To keep you alive. To keep us all alive."

  She was pitching it straight from the shoulder, without apologies or tears. Renquald already had her slated for more important things as the annexation of the planet went forward.

  For a woman with Romola's looks, inner strength, and political savvy to ally herself with a well-connected dullard like Tonne-Head… Renquald could only conclude that she really did put her obligations to her people before her own happiness.

  "The old days are over," she was telling Orman. "The Exts will have to adjust to change, just like everyone else on Concordance. We have no choice but to make the best of things."

  Burning flashed a quick glare to Tonne-Head. "This is the best of things?" Before she could answer, he moved toward her, his face still bright crimson, opening his arms for a last embrace. "Then good-bye."

  * * * *

  Romola and Tonne-Head were Skills-trained, but Burning's sudden move took them off guard. He watched them waver as he shortened the range between himself and his fiancee.

  Accepting his own death, Burning found himself entering a pure realm of the Flow, a more complete access to the Skills than he had ever achieved on a training field, in a dojo, or in a meditation chamber. The background tone that had buzzed in his head was silent.

  Tonne-Head pushed Romola aside as Burning had intuited he would. Movement around him had slowed to a crawl, and he could see every detail, count the beads of sweat breaking out on his victim's upper lip. He felt buoyant, invincible. The fact that he could reliably summon up Flowstate in the middle of his imminent demise was the difference between the Skills and mere episodes of untutored peak experience.

  He bit down hard on the spit needle to prime it while he made a deft grapple-parry of Tonne-Head's hands. The Gilead let his fear get the better of him, dispersing his Row and impairing his Skills. Burning made a sliding transition to his attack hold. Tonne-Head recognized what was happening by then but was unable to stop it.

  Burning's hold let him pluck the Gilead's lid away from his left eyeball, nearly tearing it loose. Then he got in close to avoid hitting his own hand and spit the needle, its tiny whisk tail expanding as it left his lips. The needle lodged in Tonne-Head's eye, drawing blood as the pneumosyünge discharged its poison.

  Chapter

  Eight

  Tonne-Head barely had time to grunt. Sliding out of Burning's grip, the sachem of Bastion Gilead went limp as a trickle of blood found its way down his cheek. Burning stepped back to admire his handiwork. Targeting dots lamped him from every direction. He assumed that Renquald's sharpshooters would cut him down, but he about-faced to the commissioner just the same.

  "I'll convey your offer to Anvil Tor," Burning intoned regally. "My best guess is that most of the Exts will demand their amnesty here on Concordance or, at a minimum, insist on taking their dependents ofrworld with them."

  All eyes were on Burning, but ears were cocked for the order to corpsify him. With Field Marshal Vukmirovic and Romola looking on, a medical corps colonel had moved to Tonne-Head's side, but the Allgrave pro tern was dead.

  Renquald looked at Burning curiously. When he finally spoke, people flinched and one or two of the more anxious sharpshooters almost opened fire on Burning. "Absolutely nonnegotiable. Exts go; hostages remain behind. That's my insurance."

  Burning narrowed his eyes. "How do we know you'll keep your word?"

  Renquald made a frivolous gesture. "I could betray you, I suppose, but then, I could simply wipe you off Anvil Tor, too. Consider this: I'll allow you to retain your arms as well as take along any personal items that can reasonably be fetched to you. No home visits. Should the Exts accept, you'll leave aboard Sword of Damocles in very short order."

  Burning felt nothing, neither triumph nor relief, but did not doubt Renquald. The commissioner had nothing to gain by lying about the bastions having reached a truce, and Romola, Tonne-Head, and Lod had corroborated the story. The only true Exts were the ones at firing pozzes on the Tor.

  LAW would absorb the Broken Country no matter what. Continued resistance would bring down retribution on the hostages or cause them to be made less than human by implants.

  "I can only convey your offer," he repeated.

  "It's a beginning."

  Renquald made a careless crook of a forefinger, and the beauty in the liaison uniform who had earlier made eyes at Lod marched over to Burning, proffering a compact communication device. The commo gadge was Periapt work: a camouflage-gray unit contoured for an easy one-hand grip.

  "To keep me apprised," Renquald explained. "Field Marshal Vukmirovic will see you back to the lines."

  He made no further signal, but all at once escorts were moving into position and someone was holding Vukmirovic's campaign cloak ready.

  The liaison strode over to Lod, picked an imaginary piece of lint off his sleeve, and fluffed his ascot. He put his lips to her ear, murmuring. She nodded, then fondly lit the cigarette he had fitted into his golden holder.

  Burning couldn't figure Lod out. Why the heavily toxed spit needle? A guilt-driven act of secret patriotism or some grudge against Tonne-Head? His future survival, like his past, lay in taking what personal advantage he could from events he could not oppose.

  Tucking away the commo unit, Burning felt something in his pocket—the engagement bracelet.

  Romola was on her feet, more weary and dispirited than grieving. He extended the bracelet to her, and she surprised him by taking it with a moment's tenderness.

  "Oh, Emmett, shitl You've killed the only person in this whole sorry mess who was an even worse politician than you are."

  Burning couldn't think of anything to say. Nothing fit recognizable patterns anymore. He kept waiting to feel something even as Vukmirovic was drawing him out under the HQ portico.

  The rain was coming down more heavily than ever. Burning's helmet, weapon, and
other gear were waiting in a big hover staff car that flew Vukmirovic's pennons. Driver and assistant were already in the cockpit, and the turret gun was manned. Burning ducked in and slid across a plush bench seat. The field marshal alone joined him, leaving his staffers behind. Several LAW infantrymen in exoarmor hopped on the running boards and grabbed handholds, steadiguns poised one-handed Then the staff car rose, warning lights cycling and flashing, siren whooping.

  Burning could only figure that the Periapts had to trust him a little. In the display-lit dimness of the passenger compartment there was nothing to keep him from conducting a .50-caliber cavitation experiment on Vukmirovic's head.

  No, the hour for blind retaliation was gone—gone as Tonne-Head Gilead, as the glory of a last stand on Anvil Tor, as the engagement bracelet's symbolism.

  * * * *

  Romola went off resignedly with Tonne-Head's corpse and the body detail. Lod's admirer made herself scarce when she saw that Renquald wanted to talk to him privately.

  "I thought for just a moment that he might kill her," Renquald remarked.

  "Romola? Never. I told you, I know Burning like my own hand." Lod managed to sound blase but was vastly relieved that matters hadn't gone the other way. "Makes a nice, tidy package, doesn't it? Tonne-Head's thick-witted interference eliminated; reasonable Romola inherits wealth and influence, especially if she's pregnant; the murderer exits the scene, putting any bastion vendetta on hold indefinitely; and the Exts are transformed from martyrs to inadvertent symbols of conciliation—"

  He stopped as Renquald showed him a look of mild displeasure. Lod's plan had worked, and gloating over success was a waste of valuable time.

  Summoning advisers, the commissioner left him. Lod tried to blow a smoke ring, but it refused to take shape.

  * * * *

  The staff car lifted slowly. Even though warnings were being transmitted to the Exts that their Allgrave was returning under a flag of truce, the driver was proceeding with caution.