The Phoenix in Flight

by Sherwood Smith

  Maybe Ivard somehow knew what she was thinking, or maybe he just decided he didn’t need to walk by his sister. He rushed forward again, looking around so fast that he nearly tripped on the uneven ground.

  Montrose also took in the scenery with evident pleasure. In contrast, Lokri sauntered ahead, as if bored. Directly in advance of him Vi’ya and the Eya’a moved as a self-absorbed unit.

  “These trees were planted by the first Exiles,” Brandon told Ivard. “It’s said that some of them were seedlings on Lost Earth.”

  “If trees have memories,” Montrose’s voice rumbled in his chest, “then these are the only living things in the Thousand Suns to remember the sunlight of the mother of humankind.”

  Lokri looked askance the Krysarch’s way, but got no reaction. The ordered ranks of the forest, scattered with understory trees, low brush and occasional flowering bushes, appeared peaceful. After five days of controlled ship’s air, the scents around them were strong, exciting.

  Montrose sneezed. “Just my luck,” the big physician said, when Ivard laughed. “We land on just about the most Earthlike planet in the Thousand Suns, and I get skipnose.”

  Greywing’s head clogged, but she could still smell the resinous duff underfoot and the heady scent of the flowers. What would it be like to have these the familiar scents of home? If Lost Earth smelled like this, why did they leave?

  Brandon’s body stiffened and he stopped walking. Greywing followed his gaze. Some time ago, an immense branch had fallen from one of the vast trees, its bulk broken on a boulder. Duff had mounded up on it, supporting the growth of understory trees and brush. In the deep shadow underneath it, eyes gleamed. She squinted. A long, blunt muzzle, a deep-chested black-and-tan body resolved.

  Brandon took a step toward the dog. It vanished. Brandon’s hand went out, then dropped to his side.

  Vi’ya looked back with an air of wary question.

  “That’s one of them!” exclaimed Ivard. “It looked just like...

  “Such a loyal animal.” Lokri’s voice was acid, causing Ivard to shrink in on himself.

  Brandon shook his head, not in answer to Lokri but as if dispelling a memory. He hefted his jac and walked on.

  As they emerged from the forest and approached the gazebo, Greywing wondered if the Krysarch was fighting the same curious sense of unreality that she was. He must have played here as a boy, maybe organizing his nick friends into teams, Marines against the Shiidra, like Greywing and the others had before they got to their tenth birthdays and were sold off to the combines.

  Or did they play Navy captains against Rifters?

  Here he was, leading an armed gang of Rifters into the Palace where he’d been born. Nothing seemed real anymore. She had a feeling that when they left here—if they left—she would never really believe she had ever set foot on the Mandala.

  Overhead the first stars of evening appeared behind a faint wash of high cirrus. The gazebo shone whitely against the darkening sky, rising up out of a huddle of flowering shrubs and hedges. Its ornate latticework sides shadowed the interior in mystery.

  It was empty, the interior dusty and splattered with bird droppings. Doves cooed under the eaves as they entered.

  Lokri flashed interest, the first he’d shown since their landing. “These tunnels widely used? Who’re we going to meet down there?”

  “Very few people know about them,” Brandon replied. “The House computer maintains and runs the old transport system mainly so that the dogs can move freely about the Archipelago. Maintenance and rangers use aircars.” He looked around the gazebo, eyes narrowed. Seeking something?

  “Galen and I searched for older tunnels. My first dog, Bani, showed us one once, opening into the Palace Minor. We showed it to my father. Turned out his first dog had shown him it when he was our age.” He smiled reminiscently. “I guess it was sort of a family tradition.”

  “Sounds more like a family tradition for Rifters,” Lokri drawled, “looking for bolt-holes.”

  Brandon’s fingers moved over the woodwork, then under the decorative carvings near the base of a roof support. “Here are the controls.”

  Lokri and Ivard found themselves inside a circle of light about eight feet across. A gentle chime sounded. They backed out of the circle hastily. The floor rose smoothly on a slender pillar and a second platform filled the hole as the former floor integrated itself seamlessly into the ceiling above.

  Brandon motioned them onto the platform. then tapped the pillar, and the platform sank noiselessly, stopping on a raised dais in a large chamber. Its cement walls were smooth and darkened with age; there was a faint damp smell. A short flight of stairs led downward, and a ramp gave access for automated loaders. A tunnel stretched away into gloomy distance, two parallel strips of metal on the floor glinting in the dim light.

  They clattered down the stairs, following Brandon to a control console built into the wall near the tunnel opening. He keyed it to life and entered his personal code. There was a brief, almost subliminal flicker of light as the console scanned his retina. Greywing noticed Lokri stepping back, his teeth showing briefly.

  “Identity confirmed. Welcome, Krysarch Brandon.”

  Ivard gripped his firejac as the emotionless voice in the console echoed in the chamber. The cadence of its speech was natural, but entirely neuter—there was no intimation of personality. The Eya’a made no move, and Vi’ya watched without expression.

  “Query. Status, defense systems, local and planetary.”

  “All systems down, both passive and reactive. Critical links destroyed per standing orders.”

  Brandon frowned at the console. The others waited, Lokri smiling sardonically.

  “They took down the defense system to deny it to the invaders,” Brandon said. “Telvarna is safe from detection.”

  Greywing’s insides tightened. So it was true: Arthelion had fallen.

  “Query. Status, local security systems,” Brandon asked.

  “Passive systems active, with exceptions. Active systems down. Canine system severely limited by hostile action. Thirteen dogs lost to date.”

  “Damn it,” Brandon whispered. Then, to Greywing’s surprise, he chuckled, although the sound was sour. “Not a very good score for the invaders,” he said.

  Then, quickly: “Command. Cancel surveillance from this location, internal and external. Cancel stored images.”

  “Canceled. Canceled.”

  He turned to the Rifters. “The systems are still gathering information, but the machines that tie it all together are down. I’ve made sure no one can see us here if the system comes back up. It sounds like the dogs are in hiding.” He turned back to the console. “Is my father in residence?”

  “This system does not have that information.”

  “Explain.”

  ‘Numerous internal identification sensors have been disabled. He has not been detected by the remaining ones.”

  “Why were the sensors disabled?”

  “This system does not have that information.”

  Brandon shook his head in frustration. “There’s no way to tell if any of the Family are here or not. I’ll see if I can get some information on activity within the Palace.” He turned back to the console. “Status, housekeeping systems.”

  “Housekeeping systems are operational at this time. Authorized access to services continues in the Rouge, Phoenix, and Aleph-Null quadrants. Manual access to comestible, clothing, and hygiene services by unauthorized personnel in the Ivory quadrant and Palace Minor has been enforced by recoding. Other systems are still secure.”

  “Identify locations of unauthorized personnel.”

  “Most internal sensors in the Ivory quadrant and Palace Minor are inoperative. Repair functions are being hindered, but alternate circuits are being established. Current patterns of manual housekeeping requests indicate predominant unauthorized activities confined to Palace Minor and upper sublevels of Ivory wing of Palace Major.”

  Brandon paused, rub
bing a finger across the face of the ring he wore. “Are transport activities accessible to unauthorized personnel?”

  “No.”

  “Send a carrier to this location, eight persons.”

  “Acknowledged. ETA two minutes.”

  He said, “There’s an odd pattern here. The invaders seem to have cleared all the servants and other personnel out of the residence—the Palace Minor—and the quadrant of the Palace Major that includes the residence. Is that a Rifter custom before looting a place?”

  “As if there’s any universal Rifter custom other than anarchy.” Montrose chuckled, a rumble in his big chest that Greywing found comforting. “But no, few are that well organized, or have that much control over their fellows.”

  Vi’ya spoke. “That is Dol’jharian custom,” she said. “Outsiders are not permitted access to any area frequented by a Dol’jharian noble. Nothing will have been touched.”

  Brandon stared at her, an angry flush high on his cheeks. “You think that Eusabian himself has taken up residence in the Palace Minor.”

  The Eya’a shifted position subtly, their faceted gazes unwavering on the Krysarch.

  “He swore a paliach against your father, did he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Taking possession of his enemy’s keep would be a part of it. I would guess that the other area is for the occupation administrators.”

  Brandon tightened a fist, then dropped his hands. “So we have two choices of destination,” he continued. “I know the Palace Minor best, and can direct you to any number of treasures there once I’ve had my shot at—”

  Vi’ya took a step toward him. “We are not here to aid you in your revenge. Our deal is simple. You can look for your family in the time it takes us to get information and loot. The Telvarna will need a lot of work, maybe more than we can afford.”

  Brandon said, “I meant my search. Anyway, the sublevels of the Ivory quadrant the computer referred to are a maze of corridors and rooms, some very old—in fact, Galen and I once found some old Hegemonic detention cells that had been converted to storage. There might be some prisoners there.”

  “And?” Lokri interjected, looking interested. He rubbed his thumb against two fingers in an age-old gesture. “The loot?”

  “The Ivory quadrant of the Mandala has the aspect of autonomy, which is associated with the arts. Is there much of a market for fine art among Rifters?”

  Montrose chuckled. “Some of the most passionate collectors I’ve ever known are Rifters.”

  “If you know the right broker,” said Vi’ya, “there’s nothing more profitable.”

  “Good. Then our goals run parallel. The antechamber to the Hall of Ivory should yield a stunning profit. The transport I’ve summoned will take us directly there. We’ll get no help from the house system, but neither will the enemy.”

  A puff of air from the tunnel announced the arrival of the carrier, a long, low sled-like contrivance with a streamlined fairing at each end and flanged wheels of some dark substance that fit onto the metal strips in the floor. In the center of the sled was an open space partly filled by a cage.

  Lokri let out a laugh. “Wheels in grooves!”

  Ivard breathed an admiring “Oh!” and jumped in. “They’re called tracks, Lokri,” he said. “I’ve seen pictures of this sort of thing, but never in person.” He tapped the cage. “Is this for the dogs? Will we see any?”

  Brandon nodded. “They’re smart, but these old open cars aren’t safe for them. The computer controls it.” He glanced around, his brow puckering. “I don’t know if we’ll see any. Given the circumstances, it might be best if we did not.”

  Brandon waited until the others boarded and then tapped the keys in the small console. The carrier accelerated smoothly into the tunnel. Widely spaced lights held back the darkness. The rush of air past the fairing was loud and constant, interrupted occasionally by a muffled whoomp as they passed a side tunnel. The only other sound was an intermittent clicking from the rails as they passed switching points.

  Presently Ivard leaned toward Greywing to whisper, “This place is a maze.” His voice echoed.

  “Seems us Rifters have nothing on these crooked old Panarchy chatzers,” Lokri said agreeably.

  “Some of those crooked old Panarchy chatzers would be violently insulted to be mistaken for the Hegemonists who built these tunnels,” Brandon said in an equally pleasant tone, his blue gaze meeting Lokri’s cold gray stare.

  Lokri grinned, a wide grin that slashed clear across his face.

  Greywing let herself observe his handsome dark face, never more attractive than when laughing, or acknowledging a hit. His long curling hair blew back in the wind, his gemstone gleamed in his ear.

  Then she deliberately looked away.

  SEVEN

  Montrose sat back in the carrier, watching the younglings. Amusement was his foremost emotion at the ebb and flow of their interactions. Amusement and a catch at the heart very near regret when he observed the gangling red-haired pup. So would his own two have gazed around, had they lived long enough to visit the Mandala—but they had not lived, they’d been murdered, along with their mother, back on Timberwell. And so he moved through his days without ever making plans, with amusement as his goal. If he died here today, it would be nothing more than he expected. If he lived, he planned to take away a fortune and spend it all on entertainment when he could. Tomorrow could take care of itself. He would do his best to survive today.

  Nobody spoke as the cart raced along the tunnels. Ivard gawked, the captain observed, the Eya’a sat still, the breeze kicked up by their movement ruffling through the ice-white fur. Greywing hunched into herself, her healing wound clearly paining her. Montrose had not missed her long scrutiny of the oblique comtech Lokri. Nor had he missed the moment when something in the Krysarch’s manner caused one of Lokri’s lightning changes of intent: the Arkad, no doubt totally unaware, had metamorphosed from adversary to quarry.

  If they returned safely, Marim and Lokri would probably institute one of their outrageous bets, the Krysarch’s seduction being the purpose and something either risky or costly, or both, the stake. And young Greywing would watch through that unnerving rheumy stare, her attraction to the elegant and devious Lokri only exceeded by her distrust.

  Montrose never interfered. No one ever thanked you when you were right, and if you were wrong, they never forgot. Anyway, the eternal dance of attraction and anger was far more amusing when viewed from a distance. Otherwise he would have taken Greywing aside and told her to get Lokri drunk and bed him, and then forget him.

  Except she wouldn’t forget him. If easy-hearted bunk-hopping had ever been in her nature, it had gone out of it when she arrived at Dis as Jakarr’s partner, her eyes bleak and her pale skin marked with bruises. Montrose could have told her how to handle Jakarr, but he did not interfere, and eventually she had considered her own and her brother’s place among the crew secure enough to throw Jakarr out of her bunk.

  His thoughts broke when Ivard said, “What did the Hegemonists use these tunnels for?”

  Montrose grinned. He’d never seen the boy so talkative.

  “I don’t think anyone knows,” Brandon replied. “They destroyed a lot of their data when they fled Arthelion.”

  “Why’d they do that?”

  “There were a lot of things they did that they didn’t want remembered.” He paused. “One of my uncles on my mother’s side used to terrify Galen and me when we were really small, with stories about things they’d left behind, lurking in the tunnels.” He chuckled. “He took us Adamantine hunting once. My mother was furious.”

  “Adamantines! Like on Saxe Anglia, in The Invisible College!” Ivard looked around, his expression one of mingled unease and delight.

  Montrose suspected that the boy was taking in this experience as though it were a scene from a serial chip. He was sure, from her sour expression, that Greywing suspected the same, and didn’t like it.

  “I don’t exp
ect any are lying in wait for us,” Lokri drawled.

  Montrose chuckled again, now watching the Krysarch, who had tensed. What did he expect? He was nearly impossible to read, despite his apparent openness in answering Ivard’s questions. Either Montrose had forgotten all his Douloi subtleties, or else the shades of ambiguity and deflection inculcated into the Arkads from birth surpassed the training received by minor Houses on planets of lesser importance. A shame, really: the prospect of an Arkad, from a line unbroken for nearly a thousand years, skulking through his own palace like a hunted rat, promised superlative entertainment indeed.

  Brandon said, “We are under the Ivory wing of the Palace Major.”

  The carrier slid smoothly to a stop. Brandon waited while the crew followed, weapons ready, the Eya’a climbing out with their characteristic odd little hops that hinted at wellsprings of great energy. Then he said, his voice sounding oddly disembodied in the vast, empty tunnel, “This is how to activate the carrier for the return trip.”

  No one said anything as he demonstrated. He got out of the carrier and moved over to a console mounted on the wall next to a ladder. “This ladder opens into an old utility closet, which is located on the lowest maintenance level. From what the computer said, it is likely not being used. There are three more sublevels above that, and then the antechamber to the Hall of Ivory. That’s where you’ll find what you need to pay for refitting the Telvarna. From there we can make our way down to the other side, in the old Hegemonic subterrenes, and back here again.”

  He tapped the console, and a square of yellow light appeared overhead. He went up first and waited while the others followed. The closet was large, empty, and stale-smelling, with a single glow-bulb set in the ceiling to illuminate it. He shut the trapdoor, demonstrated how to reopen it, then went to the door.

  “Wait,” said Vi’ya. She turned to the Eya’a, and the three froze into a momentary tableau. Then she relaxed. “They report no humans nearby on this level. There are some above, but too far away to say how many, or exactly where. They also report some non-human minds, also distant, but do not know what they are.”