by S. L. Viehl
Gohliya turned to one of his senior staff, a lieutenant who was not a native of Skjonn. “Are you able to lie to the Kangal?” The man nodded once. “Go and tell him I am not here.”
The lieutenant saluted and left, the anxious younger officer following and protesting in his wake. Once the door panel closed, another staffer secured it.
“Orjakis is going to be trouble,” Lopaul, a senior commander and Gohliya’s second, said. “Even if we do get the drone communication grid back online today.”
Gohliya grunted and changed the surveillance scans to view the next in the series. “He cannot be anything else.”
Gohliya had considered killing the Kangal, and had goaded him to the point of committing suicide himself, for over a year. Frustration had run high among the Defense troops, and Gohliya knew precisely who was responsible for it—the Kangal, who knew as much about running a defense force as he did manual labor. He would have assassinated their fool ruler a long time ago, using the men loyal to him to stage a coup and take over the skim city. It had been his father’s deathbed request, in fact, that Gohliya do exactly that.
“You can defend the city against the others,” General Qohudit had told his son, several times. “They have become weak and self-indulgent above all else. You could take over the world.”
The problem was the means with which to do it. The Kangal had severely restricted access to the skim-city armories, cleverly using drone guards as he did with the armory trenches on the surface. Patrol ships were allocated only enough fuel to perform their scheduled flights; weaponry was kept under strict count, and no more than two units could be armed simultaneously.
Then there were the command override crystals, which the Kangal kept to himself. He had one for every Toskald ship, and could use them to take control of those ships anytime he wished.
Just as he could use the crystals kept on the planet to summon an army to defend his throne.
The Kangal were more than rulers. They were in complete control of Akkabarr, and all its treasures. Only Orjakis knew how to disarm the drones guarding both the skim city and the surface armory trenches that belonged to Skjonn. Even if Gohliya could take over the city, access to the offworlders’ crystals, kept below on the surface, would be lost to him the moment he cut the Kangal’s perfumed throat. As insurance, it was enough to stay Gohliya’s blade and keep the general on his knees in front of a man whom he’d considered a waste of breathable atmosphere all his adult life.
Gohliya focused on the scans. “There has been no movement for forty-nine hours. You are quite sure about this.”
“All of our orbital scanners are functional, General. We have run diagnostics to be certain of it.” Lopaul brought up a comparison screen and looped it to show progressive scans. “None of the scanners detected any new heat signatures or topographical changes. It is as if they have disappeared off the face of the planet.”
There was something very wrong with that, particularly when it coincided with the first massive failure of the surface defense grid.
They are animals. They have no technology, and none of the equipment they would need to dig down to the trenches. And how would they disable the drones before they sent out an alert?
Gohliya felt better for thinking it through. “What about the camps?” His patrol ships had been menacing the surface for weeks now. The rebels had likely run back to their iiskars to hide behind their cringing women.
“None have relocated,” his second said, displaying several scans of the iiskars. “We have seen no increase in thermal activity.”
“No.” Gohliya struck the screen with his fist, splintering the plas. “Fifty thousand rebels do not disappear into the wind.”
“Commander?” One of the junior staffers came forward.
“Leave us,” Lopaul said. When the rest of the men had left the room, he brought out the first aid pack. “They may have tried to move during the storm.” Carefully he removed the shards of plas embedded in the side of the general’s hand. “It was one of the largest and worst of the year. If the Raktar was so foolish as to send his men out into it—”
“He would not do that.” Gohliya felt ridiculous for having lost his temper. “Whatever this Raktar is, he is not a fool.”
“Neither is the Kangal.”
Gohliya understood the bitterness in Lopaul’s tone. Like the general, his second’s father had been one of Orjakis’s advisers. He had been killed down on the surface after being sent there to monitor the tribal wars. A short time later, Lopaul’s devastated, lovely young mother was summoned to the Kangal so that he could comfort her. She never left the palace again, and Lopaul was sent to the youth academy.
A signal chimed on Gohliya’s private console, and after a nod from the general, Lopaul went to answer it. The encoded message was brief and to the point. Lopaul acknowledged it before destroying the relay and his own reply.
“Our League contact reports that the body of Colonel Stuart was found three days ago, hidden in a cargo hold of a troop freighter,” Lopaul said. “DNA was verified. He was not missed because he was on official leave just before his body was discovered.”
“Was he murdered?”
“No, he died of disease six weeks ago,” Lopaul told him. “The leave Stuart took was medical, and he died while undergoing treatment. His body was taken from the facility by a male Terran claiming to be a family member. The death record was deleted from the hospital’s database before its routine upload.”
“So the Terran is not Stuart, but stole his body, erased his death record, and took his place. I knew something was wrong with his story. Get me a drink, ‘Paul.” Gohliya sat down and stared at the scans of the Iisleg camps. “League, then?”
“Our contact would have indicated that, if it was so,” his second said as he made the drink at the prep unit. “His loyalties are to those who pay him, and we pay him very well.”
“This Terran comes here looking for a woman,” Gohliya said, thinking out loud. “He petitions the Kangal—knowing that is risky, but willing to gamble—and is granted permission for a search. He agrees to permit Orjakis’s man to pilot him to the surface. He hijacks the launch, crashes it deliberately, kills Aledver, and disappears. The only DNA from the recovered remains belonged to Aledver—is that still so?”
“Yes, General. We also have received a report from the surface that the Raktar is now searching for a pair of females who may be working as spies against him.” Lopaul brought him a glass of firewine. “That story was not planted, and as we do not use women …” He lifted his shoulder.
“A third party has become involved. Yes, that is rather obvious at this point.” Gohliya swallowed some of the wine and savored the way it burned down his throat. “Now our task is to identify this third party.”
“It would not be the League. They are entering into negotiations with the Kangal, and they would not risk those,” Lopaul said.
“Yes, they do adhere to their tiresome diplomacy with fanatical devotion of late.” Gohliya considered other powers within the region. “It would not be the Faction; they won’t use warm bloods. That, and it is more their style to conquer the planet than spy on it.”
“Mercenaries,” Lopaul suggested. “Working for non-League, non-Faction worlds. There is a growing coalition of them, some say.”
The general shook his head. “Mercenaries are limited in what they can do. If they could get to Akkabarr, they would not spy while they were here. No matter who paid them to come, they’d be at the slave pits or attempt to abduct the Kangal.”
“I can’t think of anyone else.”
Gohliya considered the small amount of wine left in his server. “Let us imagine that the Terran is an independent. He came here for the woman for personal reasons.”
“He is insane, then,” his second said.
“I have an easier time believing that than him coming to spy. There was something about him that made me very uneasy. Do you recall? The way he moved, the set of his face. Those stran
ge eyes of his, as well. He looked out of them as if he were more drone than man.” Gohliya knocked back the rest of the wine, rose, and went to another scanner table with an intact view screen. “Show me the site where the Terran’s ship crashed.”
Lopaul brought up the image. “We believe it was here.” He pointed to a small discoloration in the largely white image.
“Zoom out and show me the surrounding camps and any history of rebel movement.” Gohliya watched as his second adjusted the display. “Six camps. Navn the largest settlement. Navn.” Although he had little use for the surface natives, he recognized that name.
“I show no tracked rebel activity for this area, General,” Lopaul said.
“None?” Gohliya knew the rebels changed locations constantly, and guessed that they had been doing so for much longer than anyone had suspected. Since creating his useless army, the Raktar had kept it on the move. It was one of the reasons the Toskald had been unable to capture him; any intelligence on his whereabouts was good only for a matter of hours.
“The area lies within the eastern part of the inhabited territories.” His second adjusted the display to show all known Iisleg settlements and average climatic conditions. “It is colder, and the indigenous food supply smaller, so the population of the eastern tribes has not shown significant growth since settlement of the surface was initiated.”
Since the Toskald had abandoned their former slaves, was what Lopaul meant. Gohliya had no love for the conquered or captured, but like many of his generation, he saw the loss of revenue as tragic. The slaves had been well in hand when they had finished digging out the ice for the armory trenches. Whoever had ruled at the time should have rounded them up, taken them off the planet, and sold the lot of them.
So much nonsense might have been avoided, had the Iisleg’s ancestors been removed from Akkabarr. The Kangal might never have developed their hysterical vanity, a practice originally begun to instill awe in Iisleg tithe slaves, to keep them docile and cooperative. No, selling off those abducted Terrans certainly would have saved Gohliya a considerable amount of grief now.
“Let us say that the Terran is a field agent for our unknown third-party interest,” Gohliya said. “He crashes his vessel in an area where there is no rebel activity. Deliberately?”
Lopaul raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps. But if he is to spy on the rebels, why? Would it not make more sense to join the rebellion, infiltrate it?”
“We cannot know the thoughts within such an alien mind.” Gohliya froze. “That is it.” He uttered a sharp laugh. “All this time before me, ‘Paul, and I did not see it.”
His lieutenant gave him a blank look. “I don’t follow, General.”
“The Terran.” Gohliya tapped his chin with his finger. “I have long suspected something very odd about our rebel general below. He does not seek security, only concealment. Only predators do that. He does not attack directly, but he persuades these squabbling tribesmen to stop sending tithe to the Kangal. Thus he strikes a blow directly at the vain heart of the Toskald. The Iisleg know the result of this will be starvation, and yet they obey. Do you know what it takes to inspire that sort of allegiance? To make men risk dying a slow and debilitating death for you?”
“They think they will win,” Lopaul said, still puzzled. “He has convinced them to believe so. Some leaders possess that kind of power.”
“My father was one. I would have died for that man, gladly.” The general examined the scan again. “He was not like other men. He left our world and traveled to others. He learned many things from other generals and other militaries. He returned a changed man. Had he not become ill, I believe he would have taken over this planet.”
“I don’t understand, General.”
“I could never predict what my father would do, because his education was largely conducted off-world,” Gohliya said. “It is the same with this Terran. We can’t explain his behavior, see a pattern in it, or even fathom why he is here. And it is the same with the rebel general.”
“You think the Raktar is an alien? But—”
“Think, Commander. We would know if he was Iisleg. Their ways are familiar to us. We have observed their tribal squabbles for decades. The only thing the Raktar does like an Iisleg is to live on the surface.” Gohliya met his second’s astonished gaze. “No, this Terran shows us why the rebel general is not Iisleg.”
“If this is so, how did he reach the surface?” Lopaul asked.
“He was brought here as a slave, I imagine.” Gohliya thought for a moment. “Somehow he escaped the skim city and made his way down to the planet.”
“That is not possible,” his second protested. “We have never had an ensleg slave escape the cities.”
“Not alive.” Gohliya remembered marching a prisoner to the edge of an abandoned dock. He had wanted to execute the man cleanly, but the slave had insulted the Kangal, who had insisted he be thrown off the platform to be torn apart by the kvinka. “I will need the records on all slaves brought to Skjonn and put into the service of the Kangal two years ago.”
Lopaul frowned. “That could be as many as three thousand records.”
Gohliya had forgotten the slave’s name and number, but he remembered that face. “I want only to see the records for humanoid males with blue skins and white eyes.”
“I will retrieve them from the database. What of this Terran?”
“He would not have had time to leave the eastern territory before the storm hit.” Gohliya would have preferred to capture the man, but he had other priorities. “Send down an attack unit and kill anything that moves.”
“Yes, General.” Lopaul glanced at the door. “And the Kangal?”
“Say that I have gone to personally inspect the city security hub in order to get him the answers he requires.” Gohliya refilled his server with firewine. “Then disable his relay.”
“He will take your head for that,” Lopaul warned.
Gohliya looked through the view panel down at the blue-white blur of the surface. “Not if I bring him the Raktar’s first.”
THIRTEEN
Resa dropped the femur she had taken from the bone pile to use as a makeshift club, stepped over the unconscious man, and helped Daneeb up from the ice. “You hurt?”
“No.” Daneeb rubbed the front of her neck. “Bruised. For a moment there I thought he would snap my neck.” She looked into Resa’s eyes. “You could be killed for what you just did, if another man had seen it.”
“No man here but him.” Resa regarded the body. The ensleg male was dressed oddly, and his face appeared very pale. She bent to check his pulse, which was still strong. “What do with him?”
Daneeb retrieved a knife from the snow and stood over the unconscious male. “Go back to the crawls, Resa. Keep Jarn inside.”
“Too late for that.”
Resa looked over at the healer, who was standing a short distance away. “Man hurt Daneeb neck,” she told her, hoping it would not result in another beating. “I hit man in head.”
“Yes, I saw.” Jarn did not look at her; she was busy staring at the man. “Put away your blade, Daneeb. You are not skinning him.”
“You don’t know who he is, Jarn—”
“He was at the crash site. I remember.” Jarn opened her pack. “You are not ruining a face I fixed.”
Resa watched the exchange with intense curiosity. She regretted having to hit the man, but he was bigger than she and looked much stronger, and she couldn’t think of another way to get him off Daneeb.
She understood why Daneeb wanted to kill the man. He had been trying to strangle her, and would probably try again as soon as he woke up. She understood why Jarn wished to prevent his death, too. It was Jarn’s work to heal the wounded and keep people from dying.
Healers make a vow not to harm people. Resa’s vision wavered, and pain began pounding above her ears. I know this. I know.
“I will need help to carry him inside,” Jarn was saying.
“Let him freeze. Th
e jlorra will enjoy the meat more.” Daneeb sheathed the knife, stood, and strode off.
Jarn looked at Resa. “Are you well enough to help me?”
Resa moved her shoulders. Whatever Jarn had done to her back last night had taken away all the soreness and ache. “Yes. I help carry?”
“Take his feet.” Jarn went to slide her hands under the man’s shoulders, and when Resa had a grip on both of his ankles, she lifted him. “He is heavier than he looks,” she muttered.
Resa helped Jarn carry the unconscious man inside. “You know this man?”
From the way she was holding her head, Jarn was staring at his face. “Daneeb and I found him when his ship crashed here. He is an ensleg.”
“Like me.”
Jarn’s head lifted. After a moment, she said, “We are all the same under our skins.”
Someone opened the door to the crawls, but Jarn told Resa to carry the man into the jlorra caves. There she discovered that Jarn had set up a place with things that she had once sorted in the salvage sheds.
“It will be better to keep him here, with the cats to guard him,” Jarn said.
After they had put the man on the board Jarn had wedged between two square blocks of shiny metal, Resa stepped back.
“I get your pack from crawls?” she asked Jarn.
“I keep another one here.” The healer went to a natural shelf in the ice and took down a fur pack. “Can you take off his jacket?”
Resa examined the strange garment with some doubt. It was made, not of fur, but of a glossy material that was dark blue in color. “Cut off?”
“No, there are fasteners down the front.” Jarn pointed to it. “Lift the flap of cloth there.”
As soon as she studied the fasteners, Resa could see how to release them. While she dealt with the jacket, Jarn brought a humming device over to the man, and passed it over him before looking at it.
Resa put the jacket aside and came to look at it, too. The square in the device had tiny marks on it, and seemed very familiar. “What is that?”
“This tells me if he is bleeding inside his head, which he is not.” Jarn made the marks go away and put the device aside and turned the man’s face to study the bloody place on the side of his head. “You struck in the ideal spot, Resa. If you had hit him that hard at the back of the skull, he would be dead now.”
