He tried to judge from the sounds—the scrape of shod feet, the sound of breathing—what sort of space they were in, how far they'd come. A corridor, he thought, but he could not judge distance, not with the hard hands shoving him this way and that, breaking his concentration with slams against the wall or yanks on his bound arms.
Finally he heard a door open—a swing door, he thought—and a final shove sent him forward through it just as the cloth was pulled away from his face. He staggered, and fell onto a hard, cold floor in the dark, and heard the snick of a lock on the door behind him.
For a time he lay there, nursing his new bruises, and wondering what to do now. But thirst drove him to explore. This smelled different, cleaner, colder. Like a bathroom, he decided. He got to his knees, and considered shuffling around like that, but the hard floor hurt his knees after only a few awkward moves, and he realized he would have to stand up. Again.
This exploration, however, ended in success. He found the door through which he'd been shoved, and beside it the predictable panel of switches to control light and ventilation. Cool white light showed him a bathroom—certainly a staff facility, for it had none of the amenities the family rooms would have had. A row of sinks set into a counter, with mirrors above—he winced away from his image—and a row of plumbing fixtures. The stack of clean glasses on the counter mocked him. How was he supposed to turn the water on? Or get it in the glass?
That struggle occupied him some time. The sinks had watersaving faucets, so that they would not run long without a finger on the control—and the control was mounted at a convenient height for someone with free hands. George had to hitch himself up onto a sink, almost sitting in it, to reach the control. . . . He was sure the entire counter-and-sinks arrangement was going to fall off the wall and cause a flood. He could turn the water on, but he could not drink, not while facing away from the sink. And the sinks had no plugs, so he could not fill one and drink from it. Finally he realized that he would have to take a glass from the stack and position it in a sink—all out of his sight—and then climb up to start the water and hope the glass was in the right position. Then take the glass out of the sink and set it on the counter, close enough to the edge that he could tip it with his mouth, and finally drink.
It took a very long time; he broke two glasses, cut his fingers, and almost decided that thirst was better than this struggle. But his stubbornness forced him on. And the lukewarm water, the half glass of it he managed to drink before the glass tipped over and spilled the rest down his chin and neck, tasted amazingly good. He could almost feel his brain cells soaking it up and going back to work. Now he would think of what to do; now he would get back to his own script for this miserable outing, and come out as he always did: clean, pressed, and in control.
It was not so bad, being locked in a bathroom. Basic bodily functions accounted for . . . he stopped, halfway to the fixture he had planned to use, and realized another problem. How was he supposed to open his trousers with his hands tied behind him? It wouldn't do any good to yank on the waistband from behind, not with these; they were designed to withstand incredible force.
He would think about it later; it was not that big a problem. Yet. On the other hand, he would make do with that one half glass of water, and not waste energy trying to get another.
* * *
"You really should consider the legal aspect," George said. His stomach growled; the food the two men were stuffing into their mouths with such indecent haste smelled delicious. He had been given no food, though it was promised for "just before you go swimming." He had, instead, been given the novel experience of cleaning all the plumbing fixtures in the building with a toothbrush held in his teeth. He had not been willing, but the two men had not offered him any alternatives. His bruises throbbed, and his shoulders ached abominably from the strain of his bound arms.
"Like what?" asked the slender one. "You think this will come up in court or something?" He was the bully, George had discovered, when after some hours of jeering and shoving, they had finally helped him lower his trousers to use the toilet; the stocky one who looked meaner, with that scar across his chin, was only rough, not cruel. In the hours since, the slender man had taken every opportunity to cause pain in ways that would not show on an autopsy.
"Probably," said George. It was most inconvenient, having one's hands tied. He had not realized how dependent he was on gesture, a habit learned from his father. "My father gets most things to court, and he will certainly sue someone when I'm dead." He was proud of himself; he said that without a quaver.
The men laughed, and looked at each other. "Poor Lord Thornbuckle," the slender one said. "I'm sure he'll be worried."
George stared into space above them, the closest he could come to the pose he usually achieved at these moments. "Oh—I expect my father will represent him, too. A class action suit, I imagine. Damages, negligence—"
"Nonsense," the slender man said, and took a bite of toast. Through it, he said, "And don't think you can scare us with your father. I've known better lawyers than your father, in my life."
George managed a casual chuckle. "I doubt that. You don't even know who my father is."
"He's not in the same class with . . . oh . . . Kevil Starbridge Mahoney. Now is he?"
George laughed aloud, this time with genuine pleasure. "My dear lads, he is Kevil Starbridge Mahoney, and if you know him, you know how surely he will pursue anyone who harms his family. I'm George Starbridge Mahoney."
A pause, during which the slender man chewed steadily, and the stocky one cast nervous glances from George to his companion. Finally the slender man swallowed, and pushed himself away from the table. George felt his heart begin to pound. "I don't believe you," the slender man said. "And I don't like liars." He spoke quietly, but with a studied viciousness that promised pain. George hoped his face didn't show how frightened he was, a sudden burst of fear that made him glad he was in the chair, and not trying to stand up.
"Now wait," the stocky man said. "We aren't supposed to mark 'em up, remember?"
"I won't." The slender man smiled at George. "Now . . . what did you say your name was?"
"George Starbridge Mahoney," George said. He was going to be hurt anyway, just as the bully at school had twisted ears or arms no matter what you said, but one might as well tell the truth. And if they concentrated on asking him about himself and his past, perhaps they wouldn't ask where the others might be hiding on the island. He braced himself for whatever the slender man might do, but he did nothing. Then he slipped a hand into a pocket, and came out with a glove.
"You're sure of that," the man said, putting the glove on, and tapping its fingers on George's head, just hard enough to sting and demonstrate that the fingers were tipped with something hard. "Then I suppose you know all about Viilgas versus Robertson Colony."
"It's against ethics to talk about cases outside professional venues," George quoted. A gloved finger probed behind his ear, and he squirmed away. "But . . . sometimes at home, of course, it did happen." The whole case was over, appeals and all, long ago; what harm could it do to admit that? And, now that he thought about it, there'd been a threat against the family; his father had insisted that none of them go out without an escort. "I remember the threat," he said, as the finger jabbed behind his other ear. "But I was only eight."
"Ah. Which would make you now . . . ?"
"Twenty-three." Had it really been fifteen years? He would never forget the bomb in the vegetable shipment that had destroyed the old kitchen and scared the cook so that she went into early retirement. Of course she hadn't been in danger; none of the servants were even in the house for the duration of the threat. His father had insisted on that.
"And was the threat ever carried out?" The finger prodded beneath his chin, only slightly painful so far.
"A bomb in the vegetables," George said. "It blew all the tiles off the wall." It occurred to him that this man might have been involved, for all that he didn't look old enough
. How old did you have to be to send bombs through the food system? Perhaps he'd started young. Perhaps he wanted revenge. . . .
"And what was the outcome—the real outcome?"
That, too, he would not forget, because he had been just old enough to recognize the discrepancy between the public news and what his father said to a colleague in the study. "How did you know about the real outcome?" he asked, and was rewarded by a sharp jab in the neck. It hurt more than he'd have expected.
"Answer the question," the slender man said.
"The Robertson Colony paid an indemnity," George said sulkily. "Enough to keep them working hard for the next fifty years, my father said, with no offplanet travel until it was paid. Slocumb and DeVries got mindwiped. Viilgas died, but they hushed it up, so his heirs could get the profits."
"Mmm. You do know more about it than the average young sprout. Tell me this, then: when your father, assuming he is your father, approaches the bench, what does he do with his hands?"
George's arms strained, trying to reproduce the familiar gesture; he could not say it without doing it. And was it the left hand or the right—? Finally he got it out. "His left hand's in his vest pocket, as if he felt a pain, and his right hand is holding down the tail of the frill."
The slender man turned away a moment, to look at his companion, then turned back to George. "So . . . if you're Mahoney's son, why should we care?"
"You said already—you know what he's like. He'll see money somewhere, and go after it."
"I'm not rich," the man said, and went back to the table. He served himself another plateful of eggs and sausage, and George's stomach growled again. "Why should I worry? He'll go after the deep pockets."
"He'll go after anyone involved," George said. Some tone in the other's voice let him think he'd made an impression. "Deep pockets hire their own lawyers. . . . Will they hire one for you?"
"Don't try to scare me," the slender man said. "It won't work." But he said it without full conviction, and he glanced at his stocky partner a moment too long. George knew what his father must feel, in the courtroom, when some change in his opponent's body or face let him know he had scored. He had always assumed law was dull—all those racks of data cubes, all those hours under the helmet—but he had never felt anything like the rush of excitement that now roared through him.
Then the slender man's eyes came back to his face, and the triumph chilled. . . . This man enjoyed pain too much to give it up, even for safety.
"If I escaped," George said, quickly, against the lust in those eyes, "I could call Lord Thornbuckle. You'd have time to get away, if you wanted, although I would testify that you helped me. The people who thought this up are the real criminals. My father would be on your side then."
"It's a thought," the stocky one said. "I'd rather have Mahoney on my side than cross-examining me."
"If it came to that—" The slender man stared at George in a way that made his insides twitch. "If we can't get it out of this 'un . . ."
George hoped his shrug was casual enough. "I don't know where the others are. You can get me to tell you where I last saw them, but if they were still there they'd have been captured. And I've been here at least a day—" He was sure it was two; why else would they have shoved him back into the closet for a time, and kept him below ground level except for that one foray of bathroom cleaning in the upstairs suites? He tried very hard not to think about the cave Bubbles had mentioned. He didn't know where it was; he was very glad he didn't know where it was . . . and they might not be in it anyway.
"More," said the stocky one, and hushed at the other's gesture.
"Time's going to run out," George said. "Someone will notice that we're gone, and start hunting for us. They can get Michaels to say we went to Whitewings, easily enough, but we aren't at Whitewings, and it'll be obvious we weren't. Besides, that flitter beacon still operates. If anyone checks the satellite logs—"
"He's right," the stocky one said, this time with complete conviction. "They should've pulled out as soon as the flitter crashed there. Someone was bound to come looking; it's a wonder they haven't before now. There wasn't really a chance of catching the passengers—"
"A sporting chance," the slender man said. "That's what our admiral likes, remember? The more chance, the more challenge. But if we can get out from under, while he takes the blame . . . then that's a chance I like." He gave George a smile that was anything but benign. "You do understand that we want to be free and clear?"
"Of course," George said. His father's son could not miss the undertones. But it was a chance. The slender man nodded at the stocky one.
"Go check upstairs," he said. "We don't want to run into the admiral, though he said he wouldn't be back until it was over, or we got something out of this one."
* * *
George had hoped for a glimpse of the outside world on his way to the communications setup, but the com shack at Bandon Lodge was in the basement. Two long light-gray corridors and a windowed door . . . he didn't even know if it was day or night outside. The slender man tapped the main board's controls; screens lit and the soft hum of the audio units sharpened.
"Satellite bounce to the Main House?" the slender man asked. "Or up to Home Station?"
"I'd try for Main House," George said. "That'd be quickest; there're people who know me."
"Here, then. You're ready."
George had a moment of panic when he couldn't remember the flitter's number, but it came to him. He pressed the button and spoke.
* * *
Heris, in the supply flitter with the medical squad only a few minutes from landing, recognized George's voice at once. So did Cecelia.
"Why, then there's nothing—" Cecelia said; Heris grabbed her arm and Cecelia hushed.
"—Captive and in danger," George was saying. "Armed men are hunting them, the condemned criminals and us both. The hunters have poisoned the water. We need assistance; I am at Bandon Lodge; the flitter crashed on . . . on the island north of Bandon. Be prepared for—" His voice stopped, suddenly. Heris found she was holding her breath, and let it out. How had that young fool, of all of them, escaped to Bandon? When he spoke again, his voice sounded different: still clearly George, but a George who had changed in the space of a few moments. "And please recognize the assistance of two men formerly in the employ of the hunters . . . Svaagart Iklind"—Heris stiffened. Another Iklind? A relative?—"and Kursa Dahon. Without them, I could not have made this call."
A moment's silence. Heris could not tell, over the sound of the flitter itself and the stirs of those around her, if the com stayed live or dropped the signal. She closed her eyes. She wondered what the militia captain—Sigind—would do. She knew what she would think of so convenient a signal. Which, of course, Lepescu and his cronies would have heard—if they hadn't arranged it. Her mind began to replay the words she'd heard, even the ones overlain by Cecelia's voice. "Hunters." What had George meant by hunters, by "condemned criminals"?
Hunters . . . she had expected to find Lepescu hunting some rare animal illegally, with a band of cronies; she had expected him to be dangerous to innocent youngsters out for a spree. But . . . criminals? People? She shivered suddenly, and Cecelia laid a hand on her arm.
"Heris? What is it?"
She could not see her own face, but Cecelia's reaction told her what she must look like. The older woman drew back, as if frightened. Heris saw others glance at her; one stared.
"That—!" Words literally failed her; the worst words she knew were not bad enough. She fought to breathe past the knot in her throat, and finally said, "He is hunting people. It's a manhunt; he's not hunting animals at all!"
"Who?"
"Lepescu." Her mind raced, fitting it all together. "He's gotten convicts from somewhere—" Could they be R.S.S. convicts? She shivered again, at the thought of shipmates—not her crew, of course, but someone's shipmates—being hunted by Lepescu as if they were only wild beasts. Though it was no better if he had raided other prisons;
at least military prisoners would know how to defend themselves, might have a chance. She heard others muttering, the same tones of shock and outrage that she heard in her own voice. "It can't be!" someone said, and someone else said, "Must be crazy—Lord Thornbuckle'll tack his hide up in the kennels." She would have said more, but the flitter swerved, and she lurched against Cecelia's arm. She turned to peer out the forward canopy. Ahead, the first attacking ships had dropped to their final approach.
"I can't believe it," Cecelia said. "Hunting people—he wouldn't do that. I know you hate what he did to you—what he tried to do to your crew in battle—but he couldn't be crazy enough to think he'd get away with . . . with this. Not right under Bunny's nose."
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