‘Explain yourself!’ demanded Colda.
‘A son of the Houses, even one dedicated to the Passage Guard, should not be associated in any way with an Inner Belt Scholar who may shortly disappear,’ said Addikae. That should calm him. Illogical as it was, Colda would see harm to the Scholar as compensation for the discomfort he had suffered. The scheme would also allow a re-interpretation of the role he had played in the eval room.
‘And I may assume that this disappearance will be affected under our agency?’ asked Colda.
‘The plan is ready, awaiting your approval. The Scholar must be killed, removed from Base unseen and transported to a distant world where the death can be discovered. It must be done immediately, before he sends any messages. This will delay an Inner Belt investigation by months. Our campaigns here and on the Rim will be completed in that time.’ The plan to murder the Scholar was already in motion. Acquiescence, not approval, was required from Colda, but this was the best way to gain that end. He knew that Colda could not resist having a hand in such an audacious act.
‘See it done. But I must know all the details.’ Only partly mollified, Colda continued with his grievances. ‘Why did you run from the room? I did not dismiss you. I could not act, of course, but you could have done something, used your great intellect to stop that woman. She almost succeeded in freeing Trahern from the Box.’
‘The Houses do not wish the Inner Belt to know they have such as I in their employ,’ said Addikae. ‘The Scholar would have recognised the physical traits. I must stay out of his ken until he is neutralised. The woman is no threat. You can deal with her as you like when our goal is achieved. On the matter of the Grey, we were successful once he was consigned to the Box. Death would be pleasing, a simple solution. However, his survival, if it occurs, can be used as proof of his alien-ness and give us more opportunity to disparage his protector. Quartermaine is your real target, not these minor players. You must supplant the Base Commander. You must destroy him.’ Having allayed all of his petulant charge’s complaints, including the unvoiced one of being ordered out with all the rest by Quartermaine, he was finally able to pass him on to others and return to the task in hand, directing the positioning of two of the assassins provided to his team.
Satisfied that all was ready, he returned to contemplation. If the Scholar reached Communications, the strike would be called off. There would be no gain from the death yet increased risk.
So the woman had approached the Scholar. That also may be useful. Contrary to the advice given Colda, Specialist Celene, should she commit to Quartermaine, would constitute a serious threat. From junior to senior in her specialty in less than than five years; known for her intelligence and a severity that bordered on ruthlessness. The background checks his faction had run had uncovered convictions of malpractice resulting in death. Judge, jury and let them execute themselves seems to have been her practice. He had lied to deflect Colda’s attention from her, cognisant of Colda’s past. Not for the first time was he appreciative of the overall plan. The prominent scion of the Houses had a role to fulfil and would be preserved to that end, no further.
This scheme had been in play for many years before Addikae had been brought in. A gambit to take advantage of the devastation suffered by Base’s cadres in the Ship Wars, it had rapidly turned into a major play for the advancement of the Trading Houses. With more than two-thirds of Base’s spacefleet lost, men and machines both, the Passage Guard had been unable to meet its patrol duties, let alone defend against the Ships if they came again. Appeals to the Inner Belt were ignored. The troubles on a distant outpost were no match for the turmoil caused by the ruin of six of the major ascendant lines back in the heart of the Inner Belt. The revenge of the D’Auvinery witch did not challenge the rule of the Bisegnia but the scramble for position by the lessor lineages took up all the attention of the court.
The Trading Houses fell on this opportunity, proposing that Planetary Control be brought in to assist Base. ‘PlanCon’, an intersystem and interplanetary police force, was notionally under Inner Belt governance but its regional organisation and raising left it open to corruption. The Houses had early on developed power bases within it. For the most part they used this power against each other, in struggles that were as bitter and as savage as those of the Inner Belt aristocracy. This time, however, the opportunity was so great that they co-operated. The least they could hope for was a ceding of Bases’ responsibility for the most galaxy-ward Passages to Plancon control, the best a foothold on Base itself. When the latter was complemented by the discovery of hidden Passages at the back of the Rim, the possibility of challenging the Inner Belt outright solidified. All that remained now was for the control of the Passage Guard to fall completely to the House faction. Addikae was here to effect that change.
*
A deep hollow note sounded from the very walls of the room. Colda somehow knew that it meant Trahern had survived. More than survived, done something amazing, something incredible, like his supposed single-handed victory over the Ships, or his miraculous return. The fools will laud him now. He wanted Trahern dead. His over-clever aide’s ramblings did not deceive him. The trap had failed. Turning his gaze to the tall creature’s back, he mused, What else has he lied to me about? He best be careful or he’ll end up nailed to a wall … Oh!
CHAPTER 9: NATA AND THE SCHOLAR
Nata was waiting outside the door of the eval room. The noise had alerted him to a result from the Box yet that was not his focus. The Scholar should exit soon. Nata’s nervousness surprised him. He calmed himself with a pre-combat mantra. It seemed appropriate.
Nata bowed to the tall man when he entered the corridor. The Scholar marked more than courtesy in the gesture and gave him his attention.
‘I am Nata, instructor of unarmed combat. I would talk with you at your convenience, if possible, for I have questions which loom large to me yet may be small in the consideration of your wisdom.’
‘I am Elsewise, scholar of the Inner Belt,’ said the Scholar, completing the formal introduction. ‘I will gladly ponder questions with you, Master of the One Path. I have long wished to speak to one of your tradition. Accompany me to Communications, if you will. You can air your questions on our way. It will be a start.’
The two men set off down the corridor. There was no need for directions. Nata knew that all the details of Base would be known to the Scholar, not simply the physical layout but all recorded information. The communications facility was nearby, a modest walk, only three sections distant.
‘I am no master, though for long I considered myself as such. I have failed,’ said Nata. ‘I seek to know if the failing lay innate in me or arose from some omission in my training.’
‘Can you disclose the specifics of the failure, or perhaps an act or deed symptomatic or evidential?’ asked the Scholar. His long strides took them quickly along sparsely peopled corridors and up several stairways. Nata kept up easily, often switching sides as he adjusted to the positioning of the personnel they passed.
‘A student executed a killing strike unnecessarily,’ said Nata after a pause.
The Scholar nodded, appearing to appreciate the brevity and clarity of thought.
‘Are you sure the judgment is fair?’ asked Elsewise. ‘In a clash, the level of intensity often rises, especially if the contestants are equally matched. Those trained to the highest levels may escalate into potentially fatal combinations in response to the perceived threat of their opponent doing the same. The colour patches your students wear on their shoulders are warnings of this, are they not?’
‘Yes, but in this case the opponent was clearly defensive. The strike came from anger and frustration.’ In explanation Nata went on, ‘Unlike other disciplines, the One Path does not try to eliminate emotions from action. Emotions are required to lift function to the utmost. Yet they are to be controlled. As much training goes into this aspect as the physical.’
‘Have you ever struck in a similar manner?’ asked the
Scholar.
‘No.’
‘Then how can you be sure the fault is yours?’
‘I was so far from the Path that I did not consider the ethics of the strike. My interest was solely on the technique and how it was defeated.’ Nata hung his head as low as his training would allow. ‘My failure had to be pointed out to me.’ The shock of Quartermaine’s pronouncement was still with him after all these days. You owe another life. The harshest words that could be heard on Base.
‘You accept your student’s failure as your own. Are you sure you do not simply wish to pass your failure back in turn?’ asked Elsewise.
Nata wondered where all these hard men had come from suddenly. ‘To do that only returns to my original question,’ he answered defiantly.
The tall scholar beamed. ‘The question is as old as humankind. Is it innate in humans to kill? If so, then no amount of training will suffice to prevent it always. However, your discipline, although preparing you to kill, believes ‘no’. The discipline defines acceptable and unacceptable provocation. Killing will therefore always be a matter of choice. It assumes you have the control to make these choices.’
The Scholar continued. ‘If your contracts with society place you within the framework of that discipline, then they are right to take you to task. Within the conscripts of that discipline your training has failed. Outside, the question remains unanswered. No judgment is possible.’
‘So the answer is yes and no,’ said Nata testily.
‘No, the answer is no and I don’t know,’ returned Elsewise.
‘You don’t know the real answer but you are willing to place me in a scheme based on assumptions and judge me. Is that your wisdom?’ said Nata.
‘Exactly!’ said Elsewise with obvious enjoyment.
‘I think I know how you got your name,’ mumbled Nata.
The two men continued in silence until they came to a darkened stairwell, the last before the Communications section. Nata halted. Elsewise tensed.
‘I have seen two men several times along our route,’ said Nata in low tones that would not carry. ‘They act in concert yet pretend they are apart. I discern a threat. Could there be reason for this?’
The tall scholar nodded. ‘Always there are some who fear the exposure of their schemes to the Inner Belt. It is a Scholar’s burden. The threat recedes once the first messages are away.’
‘The lighting has been tampered with. They plan to use the dark or perhaps a blinding flash in their attack. Do you have a weapon? Are you trained in combat?’ asked Nata.
‘Neither, I am afraid,’ answered Elsewise. ‘But I do have a light. It has a very large bright beam. It lit up whole walls in the Massid ruins.’
The corridor behind them was strangely quiet. ‘We must advance before they add to their numbers. Hold your light here close to your chest. And this arm out with the forearm slightly raised and the fingers clenched like so,’ directed Nata. Satisfied he nodded, ‘Proceed.’
Elsewise advanced up the stairs like a spectre, the bright glow illuminating his long face from below, the clenched hand appearing to float in the light. Nata followed in the shadows behind. He detected movement from above but the sounds faded long before they reached the landing. They found the corridor to Communications well lit and empty.
As they entered the busy room, Elsewise asked, ‘What was the purpose of the clenched hand?’
‘That is the tiger claw of the low Eastern style, a particularly nasty and effective combat variant, especially when used by one with your reach,’ answered Nata.
*
The comm techs were surprised by the entrance of the two men, so different in stature but wearing similar smiles, like little boys at play.
CHAPTER 10: OUT ON THE PLAIN
Tracka-dan lay on the edge of the low rise to the east of his farm, his face pressed to the sand to separate ground from the sky, an old marine trick from the Rim. He waited with the patience of age, the last of the heat from the sun-warmed sand pleasant under the cool night air.
There! A small clot of darkness moved into his view then disappeared. Keeping his head and body still, he placed a stone on the sand an arm length in front of his nose. Then he rose to his knees.
Six stones lay in a line. Six creeping shadows had dropped from sight at the same spot. Something was out there. Some bolt hole or cache, thought Tracka-dan. All six of the slinkers inside. I should crawl over and put a big rock on top. Call the marines to dig them out. Then they’ll believe me. But there wouldn’t be a big rock and he couldn’t move one if there was. He was too old. Old and afraid.
He pressed the small stones down and swept sand over them, continued sweeping to fill the small depressions made by his elbows, knees and bony hips then backed off in a crouch, brushing out his tracks as he went until he reached rocky ground. He didn’t straighten up until he had the bulk of the rise behind him. Then he turned and hurried for his home.
The old Ranger didn’t look back and so missed seeing a seventh dark form lift from the plain further along the rise.
*
‘You’re late,’ complained one of the black-robed men from the low stone bench that ringed most of the underground room.
‘You are fools,’ retorted Serin, closing the lower door of the steeply slanted entrance. ‘You’ve been seen coming here.’
Several of the other caretakers rose; one started for the entrance. Serin stared him down then moved across to the shrine, head bowed, not in piety but to avoid the low ceiling. Rough plastron beams and old steel scavenged from the plain supported sheets of hard plastic, pressed board and corrugated iron which in turn carried a half metre thickness of the stone and sand which passed as soil on Base. Serin doubted the strength of their roof, which often trickled dust. The walls were strong, however, of some dark rock of Base Planet itself. Just soft enough to be cut with muffled hammer and chisel. Months in the making, all by hand in the darkest hours of the night, the vault was primitive yet comforting. Here they were safe from the scrutiny of the masters of Base, out of their knowledge and control.
‘Be at ease, it was only that old fool who squats on the plain. He saw you merely as shadows,’ said Serin.
‘But he could lead them here,’ said Donen.
That worm lost his courage with his arm, thought Serin, making up his mind to have the weakling culled when their numbers allowed. The others held their silence.
The shrine was framed with lengths of black steel cut from the girder they had removed from the Box. The stone of the ledge and the wall behind had been polished to a dark sheen. Tapered candles set in narrow water-filled holders were arrayed along the front and in niches to the sides. The candles were not lit; the only light in the vault came from a small brazier in the centre of the floor.
Serin unclipped the vambrace from the chain around his neck and returned it to its stand on the ledge. It had come to him, him alone, this gift from the Box, this holy token. With it, because of it, he had dared the patterns and the waiting Cause had been seared into his soul. The Cause of the Ardent, the Heartless Cross, eternal and undeniable.
The shadows shifted and the limited reality of the present intruded on his thoughts, stifling his exaltation. He stepped to the side and pivoted to survey his associates. Clairvaus reverently approached the shrine with a taper from the fire. The others stood as he bent to the candles, their stares fixed on the token. The gleam of fanaticism flared along with the new light. Serin turned reluctantly, his angry thought that their eyes did not fire to this extent when he wore the armguard disappeared as he too was overcome by their sacred symbol. The Heartless Cross, scoured into the metal of the vambrace, repeated larger on the polished wall behind, burned into his mind.
Clairvaus led them through their devotions, a confused litany of violent prayers and promises. After rising almost to shouts, these died to whispers. Then came their time for revelations. The black figures swayed silently until the candles guttered and went out.
A few fell to th
eir knees, others leaned against the walls. Slowly they regathered around the brazier. Clairvaus placed a shallow stone dish on the coals. Donen dropped in globs of wax collected from the candles. One by one, Serin first, each raised a sleeve or pant leg to reveal a crude steel blade fixed on in place of a missing limb. The living flesh of an opposite arm or leg was bared and dragged across the blade to make a new cut, old scars evidence of previous practice. Each of the black-clothed men dripped blood into the dish in turn. When the blood started to hiss, Clairvaus slid the dish to the floor and stirred the mixture. Using the ragged ends of their clothes, the men applied this polish to the walls alongside the shrine. The heat in the stone served to keep the mixture fluid until it was used up. Calmed by the work and the release from the ritual, Serin’s mind returned to the present.
‘Trahern is not the one,’ he stated.
‘Is that from revelation?’ asked Clairvaus.
‘I need no guidance to see this,’ returned Serin.
‘But he passed through the Box unaided. He must have seen the mysteries, experienced the revelations, survived the rapture,’ said Donen.
‘He knew the holy relic,’ Arren added. ‘You saw his smile. He smiled on us. It was a benediction,’ he concluded.
I must stop this, thought Serin. The weakling and the fool will sway the others. He knew in his heart that Trahern was not the one, could not be. I am the chosen. I discovered the path. I enabled them.
‘Where were the signs? The great storm and the legions on the plain. Those revelations we have all seen.’ They were all adept at signs, could see them in their many transformations. ‘There was nothing!’ he almost shouted.
‘There were no signs,’ growled Crell. ‘And he looked weak.’
An ally, thought Serin. Crell’s voice alone is enough to quell Donen. Crell the cruel, he had been called, even in his own unit, before he was blown apart. Serin doubted the depth of his conversion. Exposed to the patterns, Crell had become a grunting, violent beast, constantly struggling against the restraints. His eyes had glazed over long before they reached the higher levels. All will serve in their way. That thought had also been a promise from the Box
The Return of the Grey Page 7
