When he finally came to, he wished he could escape back into unconsciousness. Every part of his body ached. He was afraid to move. Then he forced himself to go through the medical litany familiar to every pilot trained at the Academy, where humans and vessels were driven to their limits: Toes? fingers? turn the head... slowly now... side to side. Everything seemed to work, but everything hurt.
He tried to lever his pod upright, but fortunately it didn’t respond, since that would have left him canted over facing down. The ship, or what was left of it, had come to rest on its nose. If he wasn’t careful he would fall into the remains of his console when he unstrapped himself.
He tongued his com. “Krysarch? Your Highness?”
There was no response, not even a hiss of static.
Slowly Osri worked himself out of his couch, grateful for the lower gravity of Dis, and struggled over to Brandon, who still lay supine in his pod, his head wagging from side to side. Osri bent down and grabbed Brandon’s helmet to hold it still, and touched his helmet to it. “Brandon! Can you hear me? Are you all right?”
Brandon groaned. “Yes. No. I think I’m going to puke.”
Osri shuddered. He wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy: although vomiting in a suit was such an ancient and well-founded nightmare that it was well provided for, it was still horrible. He found Brandon’s medical telltale and triggered a spray of nonauz.
A few minutes later Brandon was free, which meant Deralze was also able to struggle out of his pod. Unsurprisingly the hatch was jammed.
They retrieved their personal effects from the locker and put them in their suits’ belt pouches; Osri was relieved that his father’s artifact had come through the disastrous landing without a scar. When Brandon had carefully stowed the Archon’s ring in his pouch, he triggered the blowout timer. They crouched behind their pods as the hatch bolts exploded and threw it away from the ship.
The twisted hatch spun across the waxy surface of Lao Shang’s Wager and fetched up against a low outcropping of wax-encrusted rocks, provoking a small avalanche. The ship rocked and shifted, threatening to come down on the open hatchway; they scrambled desperately for the opening, spilling out onto the ground and slipping wildly away from the ship, which teetered for a moment, finally collapsing with a soundless crunch Osri felt through his feet.
Osri leaned over and touched his helmet to Brandon’s. “What do we do now?”
Brandon shrugged. “We wait. Markham said they had very good sensors—”
“A blind man could have seen that landing,” Osri cut in.
“—so we just sit here and wait and hope they get here before our air runs out.” Brandon turned to Deralze, touching his helmet to the big guard’s so that they could talk.
Osri seated himself on a little knoll of wax, his elbows on his knees, holding up his helmet with his hands. It felt like his head was about to come off.
Brandon finished his conversation with the guard, then stood up and looked around. The sun was nearing the horizon, small and almost dim enough to look directly at.
A few wispy clouds slid across the sky overhead, where the brighter of the stars could be seen against a deep indigo backdrop. Around them the Wager stretched interminably in every direction, a gently undulating plain of dirty gray wax mixed with rocks.
In the distance, a low range of hills jutted against the sky. A light glinted from that direction. Brandon peered at it, then took a few steps toward the crumpled hatch lying amid the rubble it had shaken loose from the outcropping. Above it a clean white wall of wax was revealed, as yet unaffected by outgassing. It was distorted into a strange shape, like a globe positioned atop a twisted pillar. Brandon picked up a shard of rock and began to scrape at the globe. A layer of wax abruptly separated and fell away, revealing staring eye sockets behind the faceplate of an archaic helmet.
Lao Shang had lost his wager.
Osri recoiled, disoriented into an extreme sense of unreality from the combination of physical trauma and psychic shock. Brandon dropped the piece of rock and saluted the silent figure whose blind eyes now confronted the dim daylight of Dis for the first time in 350 years.
Osri reluctantly shuffled over to join Brandon, leaning over to touch helmets. He heard Brandon say, “Wish us better luck, old one, and we will be back for you someday.” Then he turned slowly, his helmet grating against Osri’s.
Osri spoke, his voice sounding strange in his own ears. “It’s Lao Shang, isn’t it?”
Brandon nodded.
After a long pause, “Brandon, do you think my father—” He couldn’t finish the thought, much less the words. “Never mind.”
Brandon shrugged again. “Wherever he is, it’s undoubtedly more comfortable than this.”
Then he turned away and joined Deralze, who was scanning the distant hills.
o0o
Sebastian Omilov sat alone in a jac-scarred room, trying to forget the events of the past hours, but the two bodies lying across from him forced memory into a merciless loop.
He had awakened to a shocking scene. The Rifters had hamstrung the Archon at wrists and knees and turned him loose in the room, laughing uproariously as Hreem savaged him with an iron rod. Tanri’s white uniform had slowly turned crimson as the Rifter captain crushed his bones, but somehow Tanri Faseult had never lost the dignity that was his real uniform. Omilov would never forget the look on Tanri’s face as he turned toward him, near the end, one eye lying across his cheek, but the other steady with unconquerable courage. In the end he had defeated the Rifter: unable to provoke more than a grunt of pain from the dying man, Hreem lost his temper and crushed his skull with a terrible blow.
A few minutes later a Rifter dragged Bikara in and flung her across the room toward the body of her Archon. She fell to her knees and began a terrible keening wail, unbinding her hair as she rocked to and fro. The language was unknown to Omilov, but something in it raised an atavistic thrill in him. It spoke of loss, and coming darkness, and a retribution that would never rest, a vengeance that would reach beyond the grave.
The Rifters felt it, too. Hreem snarled a vicious curse and another man grabbed Bikara’s hair and jerked her to her feet. Quick as a striking snake, Bikara whirled around, a little knife materializing in her hand. Before anyone could react, she had gutted the man as efficiently as a cook preparing a fish for dinner. The Rifter stood still for a shocked moment, staring stupidly at the greasy coils of his bowels spilling out onto the floor, then crumpled as another man cursed and triggered his firejac, burning Bikara down to collapse in charred ruin across the body of the Archon.
Hreem directed the others to drag the body of the Rifter out, then snarled at Omilov, “I’d gladly do worse to you, you chatzing blunge-kisser, but someone else’s got first claim on you. Wait here—if you even stick your head out the door you’ll wish you’d died like them.”
After the Rifters left, Omilov had tried to straighten out the bodies of his friends, but Bikara’s body threatened to come apart when he attempted to move her, and the greasy, crackling texture of her skin made him sick and faint. He wished there were something to cover them with; he didn’t want to look at them but it felt somehow disloyal to turn his back on their bodies, so he sat there trying not to see them, waiting for his captors to return.
After an interminable wait, the smell of death and burned flesh thick in his nostrils, contending with the smoke drifting in from the corridor that dried his throat and expanded his thirst until it filled his consciousness, he heard footsteps outside his room.
A new Rifter came in, a thin man with large blue eyes and long hair worn in an old heroic style, with a fastidious air about him. His uniform was gaudy in an old-fashioned style, and spotless; he moved with a grace so self-consciously affected it seemed awkward. The gnostor caught a waft of some dull, sweet personal scent.
The Rifter’s gaze slid past the two bodies, his mouth pruning with aversion. He kept his back to the dead, and confronted Omilov.
“Good m
orning, Gnostor,” he addressed Omilov unctuously, the fingers of one hand resting delicately on his holstered jac. “Did you have a pleasant night?”
Omilov merely looked at him, schooling his face to stillness and then focusing his eyes beyond the back of the man’s head in a full-face cut-direct. The Rifter’s manner was that of a social ontologist, one who got his sense of existence and self-worth from the people around him. Omilov resolved that the man would receive not a jot of validation from him.
The man’s face reddened and his hand tightened on his jac. “What’s the matter, Omilov?” he barked, all suavity gone from his voice. “Wattle got your tongue?” He laughed affectedly, a detestable baritone hiccup. “You’ll speak freely enough, once we reach Arthelion.”
Omilov started. “Arthelion!”
“Right. You’ve got an audience with the new Panarch.”
Omilov swallowed painfully, trying to moisten his parched mouth. Now he was entirely confused. Semion was a harsh man, no doubt, but this passed all belief.
“What does Semion want with me?”
The Rifter emitted another hiccupping laugh. “Semion? Somebody drilled a new blungehole in him. No, you’ll be speaking to Jerrode Eusabian of Dol’jhar. The Emerald Throne is his now.” As Omilov gaped at him in disbelief, the Rifter reached forward and pulled him off the chair by his tunic. As the gnostor sprawled on the floor the man kicked him to his feet and prodded him toward the door with his jac. “And he doesn’t like to wait, so move!”
ELEVEN
The powered sleds took Deralze by surprise, sweeping over a low rise a few hundred yards distant. Osri stumbled backward. Deralze and Brandon stood slowly, Brandon’s empty hands held away from his body. Deralze stepped up in guard position.
The sleds pulled up in front of them in a spray of wax. Deralze turned his head aside, as did Brandon, but Osri didn’t until the wax smacked his helmet. He attempted to wipe the wax off his faceplate, but only succeeded in smearing it into near opacity.
Deralze grimaced, hoping Omilov wouldn’t do anything stupid and worsen the danger they were in, at least until they were recognized. The figures raised weapons, motioning them into the backs of the sleds.
No attempt at communication was made during the ride toward a craggy mountain with no distinguishing features. Deralze was grateful for the delay. Exhaustion and the physical reaction to that landing were making it increasingly difficult to think, or to move.
He assessed his physical damage. His body ached from skull to heels, but the only pangs that seemed serious were low in his chest. Broken ribs? He hoped Markham had a medtech.
He sat back in the sled, forcing his breathing to slow. As in the near vacuum around them, his thoughts seemed sharply outlined, light against dark without any shade between.
He stared at the back of Brandon’s helmet. What would the Krysarch do? Ranked on one side were the ring and the dour certitude of Osri Omilov. On the other, Deralze and, perhaps, Markham. Deralze smiled grimly—he could debate the balance all he liked, but the outcome would issue now from Markham L’Ranja.
Needless to say, he doesn’t use the inheritance sur-prefix anymore. Once again they were outside the laws and vows binding the Panarchy, and Brandon’s desire to go on to Ares to discharge his promise might not mass at all with Markham. Or will he, too, find himself bound by old vows?
Deralze contemplated his own assumption that he would follow Brandon to Ares, if the Krysarch made that choice. No. I still have that decision to make. If it was a matter of loyalty to the system, the choice was simple: the system had abandoned him. But if it was a matter of personal loyalty...
Clear as the light knife-edging the mountain peaks, Deralze saw the truth underpinning the Panarchy: everything, in the end, came down to personal loyalty, and the responsibility it engendered in return. Another of the Jaspran Polarities: Holder of oaths, in loyalty sworn, the circle of fealty, a weight to be borne. It was only when the polarity of loyalty and responsibility was foresworn—the circle of fealty that Semion had distorted—that the system broke down. Semion had been so certain that he embodied justice that he never considered what he owed those who swore allegiance to him. His only concern was their unquestioning obedience.
That had been the true source of Deralze’s anger; not only had Semion distorted the truth to serve his ends, but the Panarch had been complicit. They had failed their part of the oath that Deralze had made when he first joined their service.
But Brandon never had.
They swerved between two twisted pillars of rock and headed straight for a rock wall without any abatement of speed. Deralze braced himself for the smash that seemed inevitable.
They were scarcely a hundred meters from the black stone rising from the moon’s dusty surface when a camouflaged door lifted. They sped inside, braking smoothly. The door closed behind them, locking them in darkness.
Someone pulled Deralze from the sled and pushed him away a few meters. He gritted his teeth against the protest of strained muscles, and a sharp pain in his chest caused him to stumble as he forgot his low-gee discipline. A hand forced him to a halt.
Light flared; they were in a lock. The figures in the dark suits stood motionless. Brandon’s face was tight with fatigue, and either anxiety or question. Or maybe just a monumental headache. Deralze had one.
His stomach knotted when Brandon fingered the pouch at his waist. He’s decided, then. Deralze blinked blurred eyes, seeing double, Gelasaar’s face superimposed on his son’s, and ambivalence seized him. The circle was closing. He had to decide whether it would close him in or out. Brandon never failed. It was he who was failed.
A green light near an inner door indicated atmosphere. One of the figures removed its helmet, revealing a man of about forty Standard years, wearing a close-trimmed beard. His expression was grim as he tapped Brandon’s helmet.
A loud tap on his own helmet startled Deralze. He stared into the round face of a woman, repulsed by her atavistically pale skin with its sprinkling of small splotches of melanin. Her bristly red hair was cut close to her head in the manner of a lifetime spacer.
She still held her weapon. With her free hand, she motioned for him to remove his helmet. Deralze moved carefully to comply. He was relieved when Osri did the same, though his stance radiated resentment.
“Got any weapons, surrender ’em here,” the man said, while another collected their helmets and their gloves. They were now effectively imprisoned.
Brandon shook his head, and Osri said in an accusing tone, “We are not armed.”
Nevertheless, the woman and a big, scar-faced man conducted a thorough but impersonal search, right down to removing their gloves. Their briskness exacerbated the pain from Deralze’s numerous bruises, and the scar-faced man’s whack against his chest made his breath catch against his back teeth.
The Rifter searching Osri pulled the Heart of Kronos from Osri’s pouch. His eyebrows shot up. “What’s this?” he asked, jerking the sphere from side to side.
“It’s not a weapon,” Osri said. “It’s an ancient curio. I collect such things.”
“Feels weird.” The man started to pocket it, but the woman said, “Captain wants to see everything they brought with ’em.”
“Right.” The man dropped the sphere back into Osri’s pouch.
The woman searching Brandon held the Archon’s ring up to the light admiringly, then tossed it back at him with a look eloquent of distrust. Brandon grabbed it out of the air and slipped it onto his ring finger.
Then the woman hit a control and a door slid open. They started into a tunnel carved into the dark rock of the moon. The air smelled clean, with a faint trace of some organic substance, like polish or solvent. Osri sneezed loudly, and Deralze grimaced at what that must have felt like if Osri’s head ached anything like his.
Skipnose, eh? He’d traveled so much since the L’Ranja affair that he’d ceased to suffer from the congestion and mild allergies that often attended the transition from one
planet or habitat to another. But Osri no doubt traveled only on commercial flights, which were careful to change the air gradually during skip to avoid the sudden transition that triggered skipnose. Somehow the idea of Omilov fighting skipnose after that spectacular landing amused the hell out of him.
“This way.” The bearded man jabbed Deralze in the shoulder blade, and he moved to the left, down a long tunnel lit at intervals with cold miner’s lights.
Deralze was clumsy in the lower gravity of the moon. The stiffening of his muscles combined with the subtle pulls of the flight suit made it difficult to compensate. Brandon and Osri were having similar difficulties.
The tunnel widened, marked by doors at intervals, varying in size and design. Besides the expected dyplast, they passed a carved wooden door, carefully fitted into the rock. Next to it a tapestry, faded with age.
Occasionally people crossed their path, no two wearing similar clothing. Some stared at them with interest, but most ignored them. In the small signs between their guides and the others Deralze sensed a discipline that he hadn’t seen for ten years, the result of Markham’s Academy training, no doubt. He wondered what other differences would become apparent.
They entered a huge cavern, and their tunnel became a catwalk, suspended high above other catwalks crisscrossing the airy cave. At the ground level a dark stream ran hissing through its millennia-carved canal.
They entered another cavern, this one smaller.
An unseen man snarled, “You can leave the spies here. And get out.”
Adrenaline shot through Deralze as their escorts tensed. This was not part of their plan. Brandon was scanning the shadows. Osri also glanced around, but with the diffuse gaze of bewilderment.
Deralze shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and edged between the Krysarch and the voice.
The Beard said, “Orders were to bring ’em to Vi’ya.”
“We’re gonna teach Vi’ya who’s giving orders, just as soon as we—”
The voice broke off as Brandon spoke clearly, projecting his voice with all the authority inculcated by his Douloi up-bringing.
The Phoenix in Flight Page 28
