The Phoenix in Flight

by Sherwood Smith

  Norton looked up in muted surprise. “Lokri?”

  Vi’ya hesitated. “Tell him what I said, primary crew. I do not want him here, trying his games on you. After this run, Reth Silverknife takes his position permanently on Telvarna, and either he ceases playing the fool or leaves.” She pointed toward the other wall. “Send someone to take the two passengers aboard. Get them some gear first; they can’t live in their boost suits, and they already stink. I go to appraise the Eya’a of our departure.” She turned toward the door.

  “Vi’ya—” Norton stretched out a hand, then dropped it quickly to his knee. “I don’t trust this plan. I wish at least we could both go.”

  “Two ships would have as much effect as one against Arthelion’s armaments—that is to say, none. Get the Sunflame repaired and go to the other base. Fast.”

  She walked past Norton’s grim, unhappy hound-face as he reached for the intercom to convey her orders.

  o0o

  After smashing his glass, Brandon sank back, eyes closed.

  Osri longed for sleep, but he ached too badly to relax, and his mind wheeled unproductively from one unanswerable question to another.

  When a short, round-bodied man appeared and said, “Come with me, you two,” Osri had to try twice before getting to his feet. Brandon grunted with effort, grimacing as he steadied himself against the wall.

  “Is it possible to find out what’s going on?” Osri asked as the man led them rapidly down a low-roofed tunnel.

  “Vi’ya’s given the order,” the man said cheerfully over his shoulder, green eyes avid with curiosity. “You’re off. Telvarna’s goin’ to the Mandala.”

  “Off... ?” Osri repeated, hating to speak voluntarily to Rifters. It just underscored his sense of helplessness to find justice or order or even sense. But now, for the first time in this endless nightmare, there was a possibility of hope. “You mean we are going to Arthelion?”

  “That’s it.” Their guide gave him a gap-toothed grin. “Wish I was primary crew on Telvarna. Here.” He slapped a door open.

  Osri smelled sweat from the man and stepped back, offended. Then he looked down at his suit; after the harrowing hours he’d spent in it, he knew he would stink as soon as he undressed. Would the Rifters offer them the courtesy of a bath? Osri scowled at the grubby man. Probably not.

  Brandon went in first, and the man shoved in after him. Inside was a tiny corridor, with four doors of varying sizes leading off. The guide opened one, flicked a light on, and Osri stared into a long closet-room, with all kinds of clothing and shoes either hanging from overhead rods or folded on shelves.

  “Help yourselves,” the man said. “Make it quick! No stores on the Telvarna, and you’ve got about three weeks ship time, so you can take one set to wear, and one to change into.”

  Osri hesitated. His natural distaste at the prospect of wearing clothing favored by Rifters had to be overborne by necessity: all he had was the boost-suit he’d arrived in. While he hesitated, Brandon moved forward with an air of purpose.

  “Move yer butt,” the guide called out. “Telvarna’s ready to lift now. Change right here. Leave them boost-suits on the floor.”

  “But these suits are not ours to give,” Osri snapped, outraged.

  “Shuck ’em and leave ’em,” the guide replied with unimpaired good humor. “You don’t need them expensive suits on the Telvarna. It’s a trade, you’re gettin’ duds.”

  “I would rather retain my suit—” Osri began.

  The guide frowned and slid a hand into his tunic, but Brandon forestalled him with a quiet, “The Navy replaces anything lost during special ops. You should know that.”

  Thus reminded they were going home, Osri gave Brandon a curt bow. He then cast his eyes over the stores, his features rigid with disdain. By the time he had selected a couple of plain gray tunics of military cut that looked almost new, and some black trousers, both of which appeared to be clean, Brandon had already stripped out of his boost-suit and was wearing a light blue civilian tunic and loose pants stuffed into low boots, and he carried a dun-colored jumpsuit over one arm. Osri therefore had to change with the two waiting for him, the guide watching with unconcealed interest, which did nothing to improve his temper. He jammed his feet into a pair of moccasins which were too large as the guide once again exhorted him to speed up.

  Then they were led at a brisk walk back up long tunnels to a small room, where they found the scout Marim waiting, one bare foot propped behind her against a wall as she chatted with a knot of colorfully dressed Rifters. Next to her in a bulkhead was a hatch, with a small control console next to it. On the console a green telltale glowed.

  She straightened up with a bounce and chirped, “Here’s my nicks. See you Shiidra-chatzers when!”

  Laughing farewells and catcalls from the group, who moved back to make passage for Osri and Brandon, giving them curious stares as they passed.

  Marim thrust herself between the two and grinned up at them. “Vi’ya said I was to find you berths and break you in. Ship’s through here.”

  She tapped the console and the hatch swung open. Beyond lay a lock, and another hatch, its telltale also glowing green. Marim led the way, carefully dogging the hatch behind them. Osri noted with distaste that the soles of her feet were black. Doesn’t she ever wash them?

  They stepped through the far hatch into a large cavern, perhaps three hundred by two hundred meters, its roof lost in darkness above the lights hanging no more than ten meters above the smooth, melt-stone floor. To their right a large metal door, its bottom concealed in a groove in the floor, truncated the cavern, the roof descending to just above it where a complexity of metal hid its top.

  Dominating the center of the brightly lit space was a ship, surrounded by crates and pallets of supplies. A tall, lanky individual with swinging braids and a shorter, extremely pale redheaded boy were wrestling some of these up a ramp into the lock.

  Osri instantly recognized the ship type, staring in amazement at the extensive modifications that had been made to it. It had obviously started out as a Malachronte Columbiad: a medium-range vessel, unchanged in basic design for hundreds of years, that was favored by the Concilium Exterioris for planetary exploration. My father flew in one of these when he was a rogate. A sharp pang of concern for his father flared into anger when the little Rifter gave him a shove with her elbow.

  “C’mon. The Telvarna’s not that pretty.”

  Osri had built a model of a Columbiad when he was a boy. This one looked like it had been reassembled from the parts of three model kits. About one hundred meters long, its sharp nose and flowing, almost bulbous underside, combined with the vestigial wings and basic delta shape, identified it as a lifting body, designed for fast atmospheric flight. But where were the viewports? Smooth blank hull flowed where the bug-eye ports should have been on the underside of the nose; and what were all those faired nacelles for?

  As they reached the lowered ramp under the side of the ship, Osri’s curiosity overcame his reluctance to converse with Rifters. “What did you do to this ship?”

  Marim looked at him, puzzled. “Whaddya mean, what’d we do to it? That’s the Telvarna.”

  “I mean,” Osri said with some exasperation, “it obviously used to be a Columbiad, but someone seems to have had some bizarre ideas about ship design since it left the Malachronte Ways.”

  She laughed, a bright, bubbling sound. “You nicks are all used to shiny new ships, I guess. Just scrap ’em or sell ’em to Rifters when the polish gets rubbed off.”

  She slapped the hull affectionately as they entered the lock, the ramp booming softly underfoot. They could hear the other two men inside, and a third, much deeper voice.

  “Telvarna’s about four hundred years old, give or take fifty. Don’t know what it started as, but it ended up as a rich nick’s toy, till somebody decided they needed it more. Been with Rifters ever since. They made most of the mods. Most of our work’s been on the inside, ’cept for the aft cannon.
”

  She motioned them down the narrow corridor toward the nose. As they made their way forward, Osri was forced to recognize in the underlying decor the evidence of someone with both money and taste. In fact, the flowing lines of the bulkhead seams and the contrasting geometric metal inlays in the hatches were a clear example of the Archaeo-Moderne style that had been popular in the reign of Burgess III, 150 years before. He could also see what he was coming to think of as the Rifter touch, in some of the cruder—but still, he was forced to admit, neatly done—modifications. Cabling, compute-node accesses, piping, and less identifiable machinery were welded or bolted to the bulkheads without regard for the overall effect.

  Marim hopped through the last hatch to the bridge. The consoles still maintained the familiar collegial U-shape of civilian vessels—captain’s console at the rear, the rest in two rows on either side facing in—but two had been added. They sat where the down-looking viewports would have been originally. Whatever those consoles were for, the people at them would have trouble seeing the main viewscreen.

  But when Marim hopped out of the way so that Osri could see the center of the bridge, he found the viewscreen above the captain’s console, facing forward.

  His training in navigation forbade Osri to overlook the obvious efficiency with which the bridge of the Telvarna had been modified—and somehow that made him feel even angrier. He snapped a look Brandon’s way, to find him surveying the bridge with an odd, almost pained expression, which vanished as Marim turned around and waved her arms proudly in a wide circle.

  “This is it—where the action is. You’ll see the rest of the ship when I show ya your bunks and such.” She grinned at Osri without malice. “Not that you’re likely to be seen much up here. Telvarna’s small. Can’t take useless passengers, so we’ve got to fit you in. Already got a hotshot navigator, so you, Schoolboy, are gonna give Montrose a hand in the galley so’s Porv can stay an’ help shape the Sunflame back.”

  “And you,” she elbowed Brandon in the ribs, “will be jack-hand, and if we hit trouble, maybe take Jakarr’s spot.”

  Brandon flashed a brief smile in answer to her grin. “Jack-hand is a type of general help?”

  She nodded vigorously. “So, stow your gear—”

  Brandon raised a hand to stop her. “Another question. What was Jakarr’s position in the crew?”

  “Fire Control!” She jerked a thumb at one of the added consoles. And, misinterpreting the question that raised his brows, she added, “He was an acid-faced blit, but fast on the lazplaz, and ’sides, Vi’ya liked him here to keep an eye on him.” She paused, casting a thoughtful glance around the bridge, then she grinned at Brandon. “Just realized, it’s goin’ to be fun with him gone, and your pretty face sittin’ there.”

  “Earning my keep, for the first time in my life.” He laughed, as Osri turned away in bitter disgust.

  o0o

  A few hours later, Norton watched on his screen as the Telvarna lifted from the floor of the cavern under geeplane and slowly floated out through the open lock. Five hundred meters from the cavern, its radiants brightened and it arrowed away from the surface of Dis, shrinking to a bright dot and disappearing within seconds.

  Norton stared at the view from the imager as the lock door began to close across the view of Warlock bulking ominously above the jagged horizon. He was worried.

  Why did she accept Lokri in Reth’s place? A suicidal run to the heart of Panarchist power was not the time to have to deal with a troublesome crew member. How much of Jakarr’s bid for power was fostered by Lokri?

  He shook his head. It didn’t matter now. Markham was gone. He, and now Vi’ya, were the best captains he’d ever served with. Though he hoped she’d keep an eye on Lokri.

  A faint, sweet chime announced Reth Silverknife, the chimes in her long braids ringing their soft harmony. “She’s changing back.”

  “Not quite.” He sighed. “She’s changing... different. The more time she spends with the Eya’a, the more training she gets with her abilities, the further away from her own emotions she seems to get.” Norton observed the sadness that Reth did not try to hide. “I’m sorry you’re not on the Telvarna with Jaim.”

  Reth made one of her stylized Serapisti gestures. “The flame wanders where it will,” she said. “We will be together again in the fullness of time. And I think Vi’ya has emotions. You remember what she was like when Markham first found her. She learned to express them, but now she has gone back to the way she was before, when they were hidden.”

  In the viewscreen the lock slid closed. Reth went to the console and reached past Norton to tap the keys. The view switched to a small cove of rocks thrusting up from the surface of Dis, as if to protect the small, circular space between them from the star-strewn sky beyond. The surface of one of the rocks had been carefully smoothed. On it the orange light of Warlock picked out a simple carving—a sprig with two leaves, and a blossom at the end. The orange blossom of the L’Ranjas: carved in stone on the surface of a dead world, it would still be there when humankind itself was a memory.

  o0o

  Marim finished showing the nicks around the Telvarna, ending at the rec room as the ship came to life around them. She’d hoped that they’d try some nick strut on her, but the Arkad didn’t say anything, just looked around and back again as though his brains had fallen out of his skull. Maybe he just had a nova-sized headache. Not a surprise after that crash landing.

  Schoolboy made up for the Arkad’s disappointing performance, saying things like, “Where did you get this?” when they passed the mini-cim. His tone was more like Where did you steal this? And at the galley, “Is this clean?”

  Montrose had popped his huge, grizzled head out and grinned like a wiredream space pirate. “You shall see for yourself at the watch change, my boy. I assure you, everything will be clean to your satisfaction... and mine.”

  Marim took in Schoolboy’s tilt-nosed stare and nearly sprained her gut trying not to laugh. Did the nick really think he was going to be inspecting? No, she wouldn’t ruin the surprise for the price of ten glitterships.

  Now the two just stood there in the empty rec room.

  Marim sighed. “Look, we don’t have servants, so you get your meals yourself. If you can’t figure out how to use the monneplat to make your choices, I can teach you.” She poked her finger slowly in the air. “Even a nick can press a tab, or am I wrong?”

  “Thank you,” the Arkad said.

  Schoolboy just scowled at the monneplat as though it contained torture instruments and poison.

  Marim shrugged, and gave out her last bit of data. “Since it’s just us, watches are informal. We work it out among ourselves, so the bridge is always covered by one of us while in fiveskip, though we can slave the con here. But you don’t know how to sync in, so I’m to tell you that you have a full watch—eight hours—to get some downtime, then you get put to work.”

  Schoolboy said stiffly, “Does that mean I am free to leave?”

  Marim was going to invite him to take a stroll in skip, but he was too boring to bother with, and anyway, he kept blinking and grimacing like he, too, had a nova-sized headache. So she just shrugged, and he walked off. She noted that he oriented himself fast, and she soon heard the quiet hiss of the door to Paysud and Jakarr’s old cabin.

  The Arkad was studying the monneplat with a frown of concentration, like he’d just walked onto the bridge of a battlecruiser. Was he really that stupid?

  “Ah,” he said, flicking past the food offerings.

  The display lit up a surprising array of liquor choices. Huh. Lokri had handled supplies. There was enough drink here for the entire base. What was going on in his pretty head? She’d worm it out—she always did—but first, she watched in appreciation as the Arkad punched up not one, not two, but four drinks. All of them potent enough to drop a Tulungan godzilla.

  She stepped up close. The Arkad was much taller than she was—Lokri’s height—but not as tall as Jaim. He smelled t
errible, the stale, sharp sweat that pours off you in battle. So Gundan hadn’t let the nicks near the fresher. Figured. He was a mean little slime. Marim was glad Jaim hadn’t asked to ship on Sunflame to stay with Reth. Jaim was a far better engineer than Gundan anyway, and though this was supposed to be an easy run, you never could trust the nicks, that’s what Lokri said.

  All this ran through her head while the Arkad stared down at his four drinks. What was he waiting for, servants to pop out of the bulkheads and pour the stuff down his gullet? Did they pull down his pants when he had to take a leak, too?

  He shifted his weight, and grimaced. That was clear enough. He was in that state after action when it hurts just to breathe. Drinking was the worst thing when you hurt that much, but she wasn’t about to say anything and spoil the show.

  He shifted again, then piled all four drinks on a tray. As he moved past her to a table she caught a whiff of something besides sweat, a mellow winy smell, distinctive enough to cause her to gasp. The Locke! Vi’ya had wasted some of Markham’s precious stash of Locke on these nicks? What a travesty! But then Vi’ya had always had the weirdest sense of humor.

  The Arkad sat at the nearest table, picked up a drink, and took Marim by surprise when he lifted his glass to her. Then he drank it off in three gulps, and squeezed his eyes shut. His breath whooshed out, but then he picked up the second one.

  At that moment she felt the ship transition to skip, so she trotted to the bridge, where she found everyone except Vi’ya shutting down. “Greywing, you report to Montrose, then take to your bunk,” said the captain.

  “I’m fine,” Greywing muttered, but the sheen of sweat stippling her bristly red hair belied that as she slouched through the hatch, her brother Ivard casting a worried look behind before he shambled awkwardly after her.

  Vi’ya watched after, frowning.

  “Surprised you brought her,” Marim said.