"Hunt well." Dwyr broke the connection.
Through the circuits, which included scanners, he observed both outside and inside the hull. The boat was slanting down toward its destination. Abrams had risen and donned a formal cloak. Dwyr activated a speaker. "I have contacted Division Thirteen," he said. "They are quite unsuspicious. I planted the idea that my sender may go blank, in case for some reason they try to call me while I am absent."
"Good lad." Abrams' tones were likewise calm, but he took a last nervous pull on his cigar and stubbed it out viciously. "Now remember, I'll stay put for several hours. Should give you ample time to do your job and slip back into this shell. But if anything goes wrong, I repeat, what matters is the information. Since we can't arrange a safe drop, and since mine host tonight will have plenty of retainers to arrest me, in emergency you get hold of Ensign Flandry and tell him. You recall he should be in Lord Hauksberg's suite, or else his own room; and I've mapped the Embassy for you. Now also, make damn sure the phone here is hooked to the 'pilot, so you or he can call this boat to him. I haven't told him about you, but I have told him to trust absolutely whoever has the key word. You remember?"
"Yes, of course. Meshuggah. What does it mean?"
"Never mind." Abrams grinned.
"What about rescuing you?"
"Don't. You'd come to grief for certain. Besides, my personal chances are better if I invoke diplomatic immunity. I hope, though, our stunt will go off without a hitch." Abrams looked about. "I can't see you, Dwyr, and I can't shake your hand, but I'd sure like to. And one day I plan to." The boat grounded. "Good luck."
Dwyr's electronic gaze followed the stocky figure out, down the ramp and across the small parking strip in the garden. A pair of clan members saluted the Terran and followed him toward the mansion. A screen of trees soon hid them. No one else was in view. Shadows lay heavy around the boat.
Let us commence, Dwyr thought. His decision was altogether unperturbed. Once he would have tasted fear, felt his heart thud, clutched to him the beloved images of wife and young and their home upon far Tanis. Courage would have followed, sense of high purpose, joy of proving his maleness by a leap between the horns of death—thus did you know yourself wholly alive! But those things had departed with his body. He could no longer recollect how they felt. The one emotion which never left him, like an unhealing wound, was the wish to know all emotions again.
He had a few. Workmanship gave a cerebral pleasure. Hate and fury could still burn . . . though cold, cold. He wondered if they were not mere habits, engraved in the synapses of his brain.
He stirred in the womblike cubicle where he lay. Circuit by circuit, his living arm disconnected his machine parts from the boat. For a moment he was totally cut off. How many hours till sensory deprivation broke down his sanity? He had been kept supplied with impressions of the world, and asleep he never dreamed. But suppose he stayed where he was, in this lightless, soundless, currentless nothing. When he began to hallucinate, would he imagine himself back on Tanis? Or would Sivilla his wife come to him?
Nonsense. The objective was that he come to her, whole. He opened a panel and glided forth. The systems that kept him functional were mounted in a tiny gravsled. His first task would be to exchange it for a more versatile body.
Emerging, he floated low, keeping to the bushes and shadows. Stars were plainer to see here, away from the city web and the beacon flare which lay at the foot of these hills. He noted the sun of Tanis, where Merseians had made their homes among mountains and forests, where Sivilla lived yet with their children. She thought him dead, but they told him she had not remarried and the children were growing up well.
Was that another lie?
The problem of weaving his way unseen into the city occupied a bare fragment of Dwyr's attention. His artificial senses were designed for this kind of task, and he had a decade of experience with them. Mostly he was remembering.
"I was reluctant to leave," he had confessed to Abrams on Starkad. "I was happy. What was the conquest of Janair to me? They spoke of the glory of the race. I saw nothing except that other race, crushed, burned, enslaved as we advanced. I would have fought for my liberty as they did for theirs. Instead, being required to do my military service, I was fighting to rob them of their birthright. Do not misunderstand. I stayed loyal to my Roidhun and my people. It was they who betrayed me."
"They sure as the seventh hell did," Abrams said.
That was after the revelation which knocked Dwyr's universe apart. "What?" Abrams had roared. "You could not be regenerated? Impossible!"
"But radiation damage to the cells—"
"With that kind of radiation damage, you'd've been dead. The basic gene pattern governs the organism throughout life. If everything mutated at once, life would have to stop. And the regeneration process uses the chromosomes for a chemical template. No, they saw their chance to make a unique tool out of you, and lied. I suppose they must've planted an unconscious mental block too, so you'd never think to study basic biomedicine for yourself, and avoid situations where somebody might tell you. God! I've seen some vile tricks in my time, but this one takes the purple shaft, with pineapple clusters."
"You can heal me?" Dwyr screamed.
"Our chemosurgeons can. But slow down. Let's think a bit. I could order the job done on you, and would as a matter of ethics. Still, you'd be cut off from your family. What we ought to do is smuggle them out also. We could resettle you on an Imperial planet. And I haven't the authority to arrange that. Not unless you rate it. Which you could, by serving as a double agent."
"To you too, then, I am nothing but a tool."
"Easy. I didn't say that. I just said that getting back your family won't come cheap. It'll involve some risk to the crew who fetch them. You've got to earn a claim on us. Willing?"
Oh, very willing!
As he darted between towers, Dwyr was no more conspicuous than a nightbird. He could easily reach the place assigned him, on an upper level of a control station where only computers dwelt, without being noticed. That had been arranged on Brechdan Ironrede's own command. The secret of Dwyr's existence was worth taking trouble to preserve. A recognition lock opened for him and he glided into a room crowded with his bodies and attachments. There was nothing else; an amputated personality did not carry around the little treasures of a mortal.
He had already chosen what to take. After detaching from the sled, he hitched himself to the biped body which lay stretched out like a metal corpse. For those moments he was without any senses but sight, hearing, a dim touch and kinesthesia, a jab of pain through what remained of his tissues. He was glad when he had finished making the new connections.
Rising, he lumbered about and gathered what else he would need and fastened it on: special tools and sensors, a gravity impeller, a blaster. How weak and awkward he was. He much preferred being a vehicle or a gun. Metal and plastic did not substitute well for cells, nerves, muscles, the marvelous structure which was bone. But tonight an unspecialized shape was required.
Last came some disguise. He could not pass for Merseian (after what had been done to him) but he could look like a spacesuited human or Iskeled. The latter race had long ago become resigned to the domination of his, and furnished many loyal personnel. No few had been granted Merseian citizenship. It had less significance than the corresponding honor did for Terra, but it carried certain valuable privileges.
Ready. Dwyr left his room and took to the air again, openly this time. Admiralty House grew before him, a gaunt mountain where caves glared and the beacon made a volcano spout. A sound of machines mumbled through the sky he clove. He sensed their radiation as a glow, a tone, a rising wave. Soaring, he approached the forbidden zone and spoke, on a tight beam, those passwords Brechdan had given him. "Absolute security," he added. "My presence is to be kept secret."
When he landed on the flange, an officer had joined the sentries. "What is your business on this level?" the Merseian demanded. "Our protector the Hand is not in Ardaig."
"Under what code?"
"Triple Star."
The officer saluted. "Pass."
Dwyr went down the corridor. It echoed a little to his footfalls. When he reached the anteroom, he heard the buzz of work in the offices beyond; but he stood alone at the door of the vault. He had never seen this place. However, the layout was no secret and had been easy to obtain.
The door itself, though—He approached with immense care, every sensor at full amplification. The scanners saw he was not authorized to go by, and might trigger an alarm. No. Nothing. After all, people did use this route on certain errands. He removed the false glove on his robot arm and extended tendrils to the plates.
They reacted. By induction, his artificial neurones felt how signals moved into a comparison unit and were rejected. So now he must feed in pulses which would be interpreted as the right eye and hand patterns. Slowly . . . slowly, micrometric exactitude, growing into the assembly, feeling with it, calling forth the response he wanted, a seduction which stirred instincts until his machine heart and lungs moved rapidly and he was lost to the exterior world . . . there!
The door opened, ponderous and silent. He trod through. It closed behind him. In a black chamber, he confronted a thing which shone like opal.
Except for possessing a recognition trigger of its own, the molecular file was no different from numerous others he had seen. Still full of oneness with the flow of electrons and intermeshed fields, still half in a dream, he activated it. The operation code was unknown to him, but he detected that not much information was stored here. Stood to reason, the thought trickled at the back of his awareness. No individual could singlehandedly steer an empire. The secrets which Brechdan reserved for himself and his three comrades must be few, however tremendous. He, Dwyr the Hook, need not carry on a lengthy random search before he got the notes on Starkad.
Eidhafor: Report on another Hand who often opposed Brechdan in Council; data which could be used, at need, to break him.
Maxwell Crawford: Ha, the Terran Emperor's governor of the Arachnean System was in Merseian pay. A sleeper, kept in reserve.
Therayn: So that was what preoccupied Brechdan's friends. Abrams was evidently right; Hauksberg was being delayed so as to be present, influenceable, when the news broke.
Starkad!
Onto the screen flashed a set of numbers. 0.17847, 3° 14' 22" .591, 1818 h.3264 . . . . Dwyr memorized them automatically, while he stood rigid with shock. Something had happened in the file. An impulse had passed. Its transient radiation had given his nerves a split second's wispy shiver. Might be nothing. But better finish up and get out fast!
The screen blanked. Dwyr's fingers moved with blurring speed. The numbers returned. Why—they were the whole secret. They were what Starkad was about. And he didn't know what they meant.
Let Abrams solve this riddle. Dwyr's task was done. Almost.
He went toward the door. It opened and he stepped into the antechamber. The door behind, to the main offices, was agape. A guard waited, blaster poised. Two more were hurrying toward him. Desk workers scuttled from their path.
"What is the matter?" Dwyr rapped. Because he could not feel terror or dismay, a blue flame of wrath sheeted through him.
Sweat glistened on the guard's forehead and ran down over the brow ridges. "You were in his secretorium," he whispered.
So terrible is the magic in those numbers that the machine has had one extra geas laid upon it. When they are brought forth, it calls for help.
"I am authorized," Dwyr said. "How else do you think I could enter?"
He did not really believe his burglary could long remain unknown. Too many had seen. But he might gain a few hours. His voice belled. "No one is to speak of this to anyone else whatsoever, not even among yourselves. The business is sealed under a code which the officer of the night knows. He can explain its significance to you. Let me pass."
"No." The blaster trembled.
"Do you wish to be charged with insubordination?"
"I . . . I must take that risk, foreseer. We all must. You are under arrest until the Hand clears you in person."
Dwyr's motors snarled. He drew his own gun as he flung himself aside. Fire and thunder broke free. The Merseian collapsed in a seared heap. But he had shot first. Dwyr's living arm was blasted off.
He did not go into shock. He was not that alive. Pain flooded him, he staggered for a moment in blindness. Then the homeostats in his prostheses reacted. Chemical stimulation poured from tubes into veins. Electronic impulses at the control of a microcomputer joined the nerve currents, damped out agony, forced the flesh to stop bleeding. Dwyr whirled and ran.
The others came behind him. Guns crashed anew. He staggered from their impact. Looking down, he saw a hole drilled in him from back to breast. The energy beam must have wrecked some part of the mechanism which kept his brain alive. What part, he didn't know. Not the circulation, for he continued moving. The filtration system, the purifier, the osmotic balancer? He'd find out soon enough. Crash! His left leg went immobile. He fell. The clatter was loud in the corridor. Why hadn't he remembered his impeller? He willed the negagravity field to go on. Still he lay like a stone. The Merseians pounded near, shouting. He flipped the manual switch and rose.
The door to the flange stood shut. At top speed, he tore the panels asunder. A firebolt from a guard rainbowed off his armor. Out . . . over the verge . . . down toward shadow!
And shadows were closing in on him. His machinery must indeed have been struck in a vital spot. It would be good to die. No, not yet. He must hang on a while longer. Get by secret ways to the Terran Embassy; Abrams was too far, and effectively a prisoner in any event. Get to the Embassy—don't faint!—find this Flandry—how it roared in his head—summon the airboat—the fact that his identity was unknown to his pursuers until they called Brechdan would help—try for an escape—if you must faint, hide yourself first, and do not die, do not die—perhaps Flandry can save you. If nothing else, you will have revenged yourself a little if you find him. Darkness and great rushing waters . . . . Dwyr the Hook fled alone over the night city.
Chapter Thirteen
That afternoon, Abrams had entered the office where Flandry was at work. He closed the door and said, "All right, son, you can knock off."
"Glad to," Flandry said. Preparing a series of transcribed interviews for the computer was not his idea of sport, especially when the chance of anything worthwhile being buried in them hovered near zero. He shoved the papers across his desk, leaned back, and tensed cramped muscles against each other. "How come?"
"Lord Hauksberg's valet just called the majordomo here. They're returning tomorrow morning. Figure to arrive about Period Four, which'd be fourteen or fifteen hundred Thursday, Terran Prime Meridian."
Flandry sucked in a breath, wheeled his chair about, and stared up at his chief. "Tonight—?"
"Uh-huh," Abrams nodded. "I won't be around. For reasons you don't need to know, except that I want attention focused my way, I'm going to wangle me an invite to a local Poo-Bah."
"And a partial alibi, if events go sour." Flandry spoke with only the top half of his mind engaged. The rest strove to check pulse, lungs, perspiration, tension. It had been one thing to dash impulsively against a Merseian watercraft. It would be quite another to play against incalculable risks, under rules that would change minute by minute, in cold blood, for x many hours.
He glanced at his chrono. Persis was doubtless asleep. Unlike Navy men, who were trained to adapt to nonterrestrial diurnal periods by juggling watches, the Embassy civilians split Merseia's rotation time into two short, complete "days." She followed the practice. "I suppose I'm to stand by in reserve," Flandry said. "Another reason f
or our separating."
"Smart boy," Abrams said. "You deserve a pat and a dog biscuit. I hope your lady fair will provide the same."
"I still hate to . . . to use her this way."
"In your position, I'd enjoy every second. Besides, don't forget your friends on Starkad. They're being shot at."
"Y-yes." Flandry rose. "What about, uh, emergency procedure?"
"Be on tap, either in her place or yours. Our agent will identify himself by a word I'll think of. He may look funny, but trust him. I can't give you specific orders. Among other reasons, I don't like saying even this much here, however unbuggable we're alleged to be. Do whatever seems best. Don't act too damned fast. Even if the gaff's been blown, you might yet manage to ride out the aftermath. But don't hesitate too long, either. If you must move, then: no heroics, no rescues, no consideration for any living soul. Plain get that information out!"
"Aye, aye, sir."
"Sounds more like 'I-yi-yi, sir!'" Abrams laughed. He seemed at ease. "Let's hope the whole operation proves dull and sordid. Good ones are, you know. Shall we review a few details?"
—Later, when twilight stole across the city, Flandry made his way to the principal guest suite. The corridor was deserted. Ideally, Lord Hauksberg should come upon his impudence as a complete surprise. That way, the viscount would be easier to provoke into rage. However, if this didn't work—if Persis learned he was expected and shooed Flandry out—the scandal must be leaked to the entire compound. He had a scheme for arranging that.
He chimed on the door. After a while, her voice came drowsy. "Who's there?" He waved at the scanner. "Oh. What is it, Ensign?"
"May I come in, Donna?"
She stopped to throw on a robe. Her hair was tumbled and she was charmingly flushed. He entered and closed the door. "We needn't be so careful," he said. "Nobody watching. My boss is gone for the night and a good part of tomorrow." He laid hands on her waist. "I couldn't pass up the chance."
"Nor I." She kissed him at great length.
"Why don't we simply hide in here?" he suggested.
Young Flandry Page 14
