A faint chill gripped his neck and he stepped back. This man’s place in history is gone. Here was a level of retribution that he had never conceived, a justice more terrible than any paliach recorded in the long and bloody history of Dol’jhar. They have made him as if he never lived.
A movement broke his reverie. Barrodagh waited with two men in the doorway. He motioned them forward, noting that Barrodagh clutched a small, silver object in his hands. Something about the way he gripped it looked odd, and a fierce exultation kindled in the Avatar. The Heart of Kronos!
When Barrodagh stopped in front of him, Eusabian held out his hand to receive the key to his kingdom.
Barrodagh gaped at Eusabian in confusion, then the awful realization hit him. He thinks it’s the Heart of Kronos. He jerked his hand back. And he doesn’t know any more about the Heart than I did. Why shouldn’t it swallow my thumb? He won’t hesitate to cut it off!
Fortunately there were no Tarkans present. Barrodagh could almost feel the zhu’leath each carried slicing through the tendons and bone at the Avatar’s command.
Eusabian’s face darkened with the flush of rage, the lines between the corners of his mouth and his nose deepening. “Give it to me.”
Barrodagh held out his hand, conditioned by years of obedience. Eusabian grasped the sphere and pulled, then twisted. Barrodagh gasped and half sank to his knees. “Lord, please.” The Dol’jharian’s greater strength threatened to twist his thumb off. “It’s not the Heart of Kronos.”
The Avatar stared at the sphere, and let it go. “Then why have you brought it to me?”
The heat of mortification prickled up Barrodagh’s body. “It swallowed my thumb and no one knows how to get it off.” He heard a snicker behind him, but he didn’t dare turn around to glare at Tallis.
Eusabian looked past him. “Perhaps you will explain this?”
Tallis came forward, bowing deeply. “My lord, it is a Dyzonian Emasculizer.” When Eusabian frowned in incomprehension Tallis hurried on, “A male chastity device from Dyzon. It was among the artifacts we took from the gnostor’s estate.”
The Avatar snorted, then eyed Barrodagh. “And you don’t know how to remove it?”
Barrodagh’s stomach twisted at that strange humor narrowing Eusabian’s eyes.
“I assume it will not impede you in the performance of your duties?”
He’s going to have it cut off anyway! “No, Lord!” he protested. “It will be no trouble. I’m sure someone will know how to cut—” He stopped, appalled at his tongue’s betrayal. “—how to remove it.” He twisted again at the sphere, as he had been doing all the way back from the Satansclaw.
“I shouldn’t do that if I were you.”
They turned to Omilov, who looked back, his jowly face somber. “You might trigger the reward circuits in it.”
“What do you mean?” Barrodagh snarled.
“If you trigger the reward circuits it will attempt to bring you to orgasm. Since you were incautious enough to install it on your thumb, I assume that will not be possible.” The gnostor’s grave tone, with just a hint of irony on the last word, was somehow worse than outright laughter.
Barrodagh noticed a slight curve to Eusabian’s lips. He’s enjoying this.
“However,” continued Omilov, “it is designed to continue trying until it succeeds.” He paused. “I don’t know what will happen to your thumb in that case.”
“You must know how to take it off,” said Barrodagh desperately.
“As I told you during the flight down, I’m afraid that my spouse never explained that part of the device’s operation.”
Barrodagh was astonished to hear Eusabian chuckle. “That was amusing, Gnostor. My poor Bori will be terrified now until we get it removed, even though I’m sure he realizes as well as I do that your little speech was pure invention.”
Omilov’s face settled back into impassivity. “Perhaps.”
Eusabian’s tone grew serious. “I trust you will not be as inventive concerning the Heart of Kronos?”
Omilov did not reply.
“Come, Gnostor, you must know that you will tell me where it is, whether you want to or not.”
“Yes, but honor and loyalty require my silence while I am still able to choose.”
“Gelasaar hai-Arkad stood before me not long ago and bleated a similar refrain. It did him as little good as it will you. His sons are all dead, and he won’t last long on Gehenna.”
Omilov’s face revealed grief, quickly hidden.
“But you, Gnostor, have even less time than he.” Eusabian studied him. “I see in your demeanor the thought that perhaps you will surprise us. I’m afraid not. One of our prisoners from Lao Tse was a woman with the interesting nickname: ‘The Spider.’”
Barrodagh enjoyed the flicker of Omilov’s eyelids. Grief? Worry? Oh yes, you self-righteous old fool. You will soon find out what you have to worry about, and I intend to watch it happen.
Eusabian said, “She, too, was unacquainted with the mindripper, which is a uniquely Dol’jharian instrument. Her introduction to it killed her, but not before we tore her ciphers out of her. We know you are one of the Invisibles, Sebastian Omilov.”
Tallis gasped, stepping back to stare at the gnostor.
A praerogate? Barrodagh stared. The gnostor’s portly frame was at variance with the popular image of those most trusted agents of the Panarch.
Eusabian smiled. “But your hidden allergy to veritonin will do you no good at all. The mindripper works on entirely different principles, the least of which is pain.”
He gestured to Barrodagh. “Give him to Evodh. Make sure that my physician understands this is for information only, not for honor.”
The Avatar turned back to Omilov. “Good-bye, Gnostor. Your useless Douloi scruples will remain intact, even as we shred your cortex. I hope that’s of some comfort to you.”
Barrodagh grabbed Omilov’s arm and shoved him toward the door.
Eusabian turned to Tallis. “Captain, your report of the Krysarch’s death was incomplete. Since your action deprived me of one third of my paliachee, to which I have dedicated twenty years of my life, I want you to recount it now, omitting nothing.”
Barrodagh wished he could linger to watch Tallis suffer Eusabian’s cold interrogation, but he was also hoping to observe Evodh at work. As he pushed Omilov out of the antechamber Barrodagh wondered if Tallis would survive. Perhaps he needed to talk to his other contact on the Satansclaw.
o0o
The Telvarna backed slowly in among the huge trees, hovering under geeplane as it floated tail-first away from the edge of the forest, merging with the shadows. Finally Vi’ya brought the ship down so gently that Greywing wasn’t sure they were on the ground until the engines spun down into silence.
The captain rested her hands on the console for a moment, then tabbed the intercom. “Jaim, any further damage?”
“No,” came the answer. “Once we went aerodynamic I took the hardest-hit systems off-line. But things are still chatzed up—we’ll need a major refit back on Dis—and I’m afraid it may take up to eight hours to get the fiveskip back to where I’d trust it. Worst is, of course, that we can’t really test it down here.”
Marim thrust her face into the vid pickup next to Jaim’s in order to corroborate his statement with a rueful shrug.
“All right, both of you get up here to the bridge.” Vi’ya tapped the intercom again. “Montrose, come forward, and bring the Schoolboy with you.” She turned to Brandon as Jaim’s acknowledgment came back.
“This is the spot you chose, Arkad. I assume you don’t intend us to walk.” She inclined her head toward the main screen, which displayed the broad shadowy forest corridor the Telvarna had backed into.
Lokri’s chin jerked up. “Walk? We’re not really going in?”
Greywing stared at the comtech in surprise. She had never seen him show fear before. What was he afraid of? She did not believe that it was mere physical danger. He was always re
ady for a firefight, and sometimes almost reckless during one.
“Blit!” Marim scoffed. “Want us to sit here till someone comes after us? That cruiser, maybe?”
Vi’ya said calmly, “If either the Fist or the Panarchists tracked us we’re already dead, but I don’t think they have. The ground defense system seems to be down, and Telvarna is well enough hidden. Jaim and Marim can defend it if need be.” As Jaim appeared, “The rest of us will go inside and have a look.”
Lokri drummed one hand on his console. “We step inside the Mandala and we’re dead.” He glanced toward Brandon, eloquent with scorn. “If anything in there does work, it’ll be used against us.”
Jaim murmured agreement, and Ivard cracked his knuckles nervously. Brandon sat in his pod, looking down at his hands.
“By whom, and to what end? We have seen and heard nothing of the Panarchists,” Vi’ya said to Lokri, making a gesture toward the sky. “You fear the Arkad will give us to the Dol’jharians?”
The twist she gave to the word Dol’jharian caused the Krysarch’s intense blue gaze to shift from the captain to herself, as if he remembered her saying about the other crew members, They want to talk about themselves, you ask them. That made a new thought occur: did Lokri fear being killed—or scanned and identified? Out of all of the Dis crew, he talked the least about where he’d come from.
Lokri’s mouth tightened, then he shrugged.
“We will use the Arkad’s knowledge of the defense systems and find out what is happening, or we will not be able to lift once we do repair the engines,” Vi’ya said to Lokri.
“Maybe we’ll get that loot he promised us,” Marim said cheerily.
While they were talking, Greywing gave in to impulse and leaned over Brandon’s console to whisper, “She’s Dol’jharian. Birth, not choice. Left years ago.”
The Krysarch gave her a brief, absent smile.
“So ask him,” Marim said, and everyone swung around.
“Ask me what?” Brandon shrugged, then said before anyone could answer, “The Palace Major is about forty kilometers from here. But the entire Mandala is riddled with tunnels, some for service functions, others whose purpose has been forgotten and aren’t on any system maps that I know of. That gazebo there is the terminus of one of them. The transport system will get us to the Palace in about ten minutes.”
“A palace!” Marim rubbed her hands together, grinning. “I’ve never been in one.”
“And you won’t this time, either,” Jaim reminded her. “You’ll be here helping me monkey-up the fiveskip.”
Marim looked to the captain, her mouth ready to deliver a protest, but a single nod from Vi’ya inspired instead a stream of genetically improbable invective.
When the scout had run out of breath, if not out of opprobrium, Brandon added, “I should be able to use my override to make us invisible to whatever security system is still up.”
Vi’ya gazed at the screen. Just beyond the edge of the forest, on a lawn dotted with yellow flowers, a small gazebo perched. In the distance beyond it the greensward sloped up to gently rolling hills dotted with small trees silhouetted against an evening-yellow sky. There were no other buildings visible.
Vi’ya turned to Jaim. “How many hands you need?”
Jaim said doubtfully, “Well, Marim and I can—”
“One more.” Marim sighed through pursed lips, blowing tufts of her flyaway hair. “At least one.”
Vi’ya paused as Montrose entered, one massive hand pushing Osri before him. The captain studied Osri. “You would undoubtedly be more liability than help with a firejac in your hands, Schoolboy. I assume you can follow directions?”
“Yes,” Osri stated curtly.
“Good. Jaim, Marim, he’s yours. Montrose, equip a party of six, downside interior sortie—”
“Six? The boy can watch the com.” Lokri pointed to Ivard.
“Com’s slaved to engine room,” Vi’ya said.
Lokri’s eyes narrowed.
“Ivard’s a good shot,” Greywing said, her voice sounding too loud on the bridge. “Better aim than you.” Heat crept up her neck, worsening when Ivard shot a glower of reproach at her.
Vi’ya studied Ivard. “You can handle it if things get hot?”
Ivard’s chin came up. “I’m part of the crew. I’ll do whatever I have to.”
Vi’ya nodded at Montrose, reinforcing her earlier order, then added, “Get the Arkad a boz’l.” She said to Ivard, “Go with him. Bring him up on what we just decided.”
Montrose grunted his approval, and left, Ivard at his heels.
“C’mon, Schoolboy, we’re off to Murphy’s Kingdom.” Marim gave Vi’ya a mock-angry scowl, adding, “And they better save us some o’ the take.” Then the three of them disappeared.
Montrose and Ivard returned, arms loaded with gear: lumbar supply packs, bandoliers of petards, a monstrous two-hand firejac for the big Rifter, and five standard jacs in holsters. Vi’ya set hers for minimum aperture, which yielding greater distance and accuracy at the cost of stopping power. Greywing saw Brandon watching this as he put on his pack, attached the holstered jac to its belt, and strapped on the boswell Montrose had handed him.
Greywing put her own on. She could feel the coolness of its inductors against the inside of her wrist until it adapted to her flesh. Somehow that made the reality of walking into danger more immediate than strapping on her weapon, so familiar after hours of practice.
(Your ears up, Arkad?) Vi’ya’s voice sounded inside Greywing’s head.
(Neural induction—nothing like doing things right,) came the Arkad’s voice over the omniband. (These things military-surplus?)
Only the most expensive civilian models had the neural induction feature. Greywing wondered if Brandon was used to that—then she wondered what had happened to his boswell.
“We won’t use these unless we get separated,” Vi’ya said out loud. “They’re spread-spectrum, but there is no sense in taking chances.”
“That won’t work,” said Brandon. “Line of sight only in the Palace, unless you have access to the network, and we can’t take that chance.” He lifted his wrist. “Best these will do for us is help us keep quiet when we’re together. “
Vi’ya frowned slightly.
“That’s what I thought you intended,” said Brandon.
“Don’t need to worry about being overheard,” began Greywing.
Vi’ya interrupted. “Set them to personal, then. Let’s go.”
“Wait,” said Brandon, hefting the bandolier, a dyplast strip with a number of small black spheres attached to it. “What do I do with these? I know what they are, but I’ve not been trained with them.”
“Carry them for us,” said Vi’ya. “If I need you to use one, I can program it through your boz’l.”
On their way to the lock, a blur of white flashed past Greywing, and Lucifur landed on his pads squarely before Vi’ya, his ears back and his tail twitching. The captain stood motionless before the big cat for a time, then leaned down and just touched the top of the broad wedge-shaped head.
Luce gave his ratcheting purr and with a bound disappeared down the passageway.
Greywing’s instinct was to walk next to her brother, but she made herself wait. Ivard took his place among the others. He hadn’t sought her protection, so she had to stop offering it. She fell in behind.
In front of her, the Krysarch was studying the firejac Montrose had given him. Greywing found his absorption puzzling. Had he never seen a weapon close up? It was just like hers: a worn, scratched, but otherwise well-maintained Dogstar LVI, just about the most common short-range plasma weapon in the Thousand Suns.
The grips of her jac were covered with some sort of rough, scaly substance, nearly worn through in a couple of places. The trigger had been polished by years of use, but the black-box finish of the finned radiants around the aperture was flawless. It’s definitely a Rifter’s weapon, she thought. The parts that matter well maintained, but no resource
s wasted on appearance. I wonder if he sees that.
As they reached the lock, Montrose was still adjusting his harness, which enabled him to carry his weapon at his side yet swivel it up to firing position instantly. Vi’ya slapped the control and, as the doors opened to reveal the dim-lit forest outside, waved her weapon at Brandon in an ironic gesture. “Lead the way.”
The ramp boomed softly underfoot as they descended. The Telvarna’s hull pinged and creaked as it cooled. Greywing could feel the warmth on the back of her neck as she reached the ground.
At the base of the ramp Vi’ya stopped. The Eya’a emerged and glided down the ramp, their feet making no sound on its metallic surface. They moved swiftly in the twilight, their faceted eyes seeming to gather and concentrate the dim light, like liquid-filled diamonds. As they joined Vi’ya she led the group away from the ship.
Brandon took a broad step away from the Eya’a. The rest of the crew ignored them, other than taking care not to come in physical contact with them as they traversed the grassy sward toward the gazebo. The trees loomed immense, their massive, seamed umber trunks so vast that twenty big men could not have joined hands around them, so tall that from their base one could not see the top. They had no branches for the first hundred feet or so above the ground, so the path had the feeling of a colonnade bordered by massive living pillars.
Ivard’s steps lagged as he peered upward. When Greywing caught up with him, he said in a hushed voice, “I didn’t know there were trees so large.”
Greywing tilted her head back to look up into the dimming sky through the interlaced branches overhead. “We sure never saw this at home, did we?”
“Home,” Ivard said, his lip curling. “Home’s Dis.”
And if someone shoots this captain and Lokri takes over? Or someone worse? Greywing thought, but she didn’t say anything. Home to her meant where you were born. Nothing more. Home like Ivard meant it—well, there was no meaning for that anymore. Like justice, it was just a word you used for something convenient.
The Phoenix in Flight Page 41
