by Mel Keegan
“Our mission is to bring an end to the aggression, by any means necessary … by peaceful means, if possible. We have no desire to fight. We are one ship, no matter how powerful, and one small crew. But we represent the combined peoples of the Deep Sky. Human and Resalq. And my personal mission is not to leave the Zunshu homeworld without a ceasefire in force.
“Thank you all for your commitment to the expedition. I’ll see you aboard.” With that Shapiro stepped aside and the assembly broke up. He joined Vaurien, and the two shouldered through to the autochef, still talking, working out the finest details.
For Travers it was an odd sensation. He wore civilian clothes again, but in the formal records which would be uploaded to Fleet Borushek after the war, Shapiro referred to him as ‘Colonel Travers,’ and the rank could be reactivated at Travers’s whim. He was a civilian, a Freespacer, yet he was on assignment to the Intrepid, to Lai’a, with Bravo Company behind him and transspace ahead of them.
This time they would not be avoiding the massive Hellgate events which were death to even big ships, but diving directly into the jaws. Travers had spent a career fleeing from the worst Hellgate could do, and he acknowledged a shudder, deep as his bone marrow, at the thought of transspace. Vidal had flown it, knew it, and feared it. The terror was naked in his eyes every time he spoke of Elarne, yet Travers saw more there. Vidal longed to go back. Like Lai’a, he was seduced by its terrible beauty and raw, appalling power.
With ten minutes to spare, as Etienne issued final warnings that all booms were about to be retracted, the departing personnel gathered at the docking rings. The Sherratts and Midani Kulich had collected a mountain of silver-backed equipment lockers, and as Travers and Marin arrived they were calling the Carellan Djerun for a pair of Arago sleds.
Halfway through the docking tube, Vidal and Hubler were still together, still talking, and Vidal was frowning critically at Hubler’s biocyber legs. Hubler shrugged expressively, and one large, brown hand molded about the side of Vidal’s face, over the Delta Dragons’ tattoo, which they both still wore, and probably always would. Vidal’s eyes closed, as if the memory of the man he had been only mocked him. What Hubler said to him, Travers would never know, but at last Vidal searched for a smile, and almost found one.
The Resalq were checking over their gear while Roy Arlott read down a hand-scrawled list. Tor had misplaced some oddment, and Dario and Leon began to take the stack apart. Mark turned his back on them, opened his arms, and Marin went to him. They embraced for a long moment, and Mark kissed him with the curious tenderness of one who had been a friend and lover for a long time.
At last Marin withdrew and gave his hand to Dario. “Like Harrison said, we’ll see you aboard.”
“You’ll outrun the news of the war.” Mark was picking up cases, tucking them under both arms, while the others loaded the sleds and went on ahead. “It’ll be over at Velcastra, one way or another, by the time you get back.”
“Then we’ll bring the news,” Travers promised as he snaked one arm over Marin’s shoulders. “You can watch the whole thing on CNS.”
“Till then.” Mark paused, framed in the docking rings, as if so much remained unsaid. Words eluded him and he settled for a faint, crooked smile.
He was gone then, and Etienne closed up the hatches. He was aboard the Carellan Djerun for only moments when the AI reported, “Booms retracted. Safe distancing maneuvers commencing.”
And Tully Ingersol’s voice whispered into the loop, “Standing by for Weimann ignition procedures. Pilots, e-space transition is at your discretion.”
Greenstein responded crisply from the flightdeck. “Copy that. Richard, any time.”
The thrum in the deck told them the Wastrel’s sublight engines were online, powering the tug out to the exclusion zone. Against Travers’s side, Marin shivered, and Travers hugged him closer. “You all right?”
“Yes. No.” Marin mocked himself with a humorless chuckle. “I can’t believe what we’re doing, Neil. Every time I remember where we’re going I break out in a cold sweat.”
“You need a drink,” Travers advised.
“I need a drink,” Marin agreed. He turned into Travers’s arms and took a brief but comprehensive embrace. “A large drink.”
“I’m buying,” Travers offered.
Chapter Nineteen
Elstrom StarCity, Velcastra
Early morning light and birdsong filtered through the screen at the French windows. The breeze rustled in the trees, and voices on the terrace carried clearly. Before he was fully awake, Marin wrestled with the sounds, which were so unfamiliar. His body had forgotten the luxury of fresh air and eight hours of unbroken sleep.
The lighter voices belonged to Vidal and Rusch, and the husky, guttural tones were those of the old man. He was up early this morning, defying his nurses the way Mick seemed determined to do nothing Grant insisted. At least Vidal was eating again, and though Marin knew it was too early to see real improvements, he would have sworn the man’s complexion was better, his eyes more animate.
Before they brought the Capricorn down, Grant had transfused him with massive doses of every supplement and a cocktail of stimulants to carry him through the difficult meeting. Mick had to greet his father, and he knew there was no way to avoid dealing old Charles Vidal a painful shock. Charles was almost as frail as Mick had been days before. His health was delicate with sheer old age, and he had been punished by the grief and bitterness of losing his son.
Supplements and stimulants worked their magic. Vidal sauntered into the house on StarCity – not fifty meters from Robert Chandra Liang’s home, across a stream with a humpbacked bridge and a dozen yukimi lanterns – and though Charles cursed like a marine at the sight of him, he saw the life in Mick, not the shadow of death.
Vidal was moving better, and he dressed in charcoals, burgundy, rich chocolate browns, silk that flowed around his wasted limbs, disguising them with a modelish elegance which would have turned heads in uptown Elstrom, where bones were chic. If Charles had not known his son for the big, full-bodied athlete, robust with his mother’s Pakrani genes, he might have commented on the man’s style, which transcended gender.
In fact, Vidal was already in physical therapy. The withered muscles would repair and rebuild slowly, but in three months he would be reasonably strong, and in six months he could begin to forget that he had ever suffered the mortal weakness. Roark Hubler had been a rich source of advice as well as cynical humor, most of it at his own expense. He and Rodman had remained at Alshie’nya, but they had lingered in the hatches before the Harlequin undocked, and Marin had watched Hubler take Vidal in an oddly careful, almost delicate embrace. Hubler had never been so frail, but he had sweated through physical therapy, and even now he was in pain with the biocyber legs he hated. Vidal often ignored Bill Grant, but when Hubler spoke, Mick listened.
The advice was raw, harsh. Eat, and work, and cuss at the universe, Hubler had said. Cuss at the gods, if there were any Vidal still believed in, which Marin doubted. Above all, push, ever minute of every day, push till it hurt, and then push again, because pain made a man know he was alive, and when his body was aware of the rhythm of its own pulse, it would strive, and in the end it would begin to thrive again.
No matter what Bill Grant said or did, Vidal chafed, and he escaped the Infirmary at every opportunity; but he heard Hubler out with a stony expression, and for three days Marin had watched him pushing solid food into his mouth whether his belly wanted it or not, and lifting the kind of flea-weights he would once have scorned.
The effects were slow, but when he walked into the foyer of the StarCity mansion, he was capable of holding his shoulders square, moving his feet in a normal stride, and he was a little more limber. The old man was in a big, luxurious hoverchair, attended by his nurse and flanked by a pair of dogs who knew Mick on sight. The Dalmatians bounded up to him, and for a moment Marin was worried they would bowl him off his feet. At the last second both dogs sensed his frailty
and pulled up short.
At dinner, Mick force-fed himself buttered lobster, scampi, smoked salmon and guacamole, and he refused the wine, asking for juice instead. Grant had been specific. His liver was in bad shape, and the nano therapy might not be fully effective. Like Marin himself, Vidal could need transplant organs, and to save time Grant had already begun the cultures. The process of complete recovery would take a year.
Charles needed to know none of this, and neither Mick nor Alexis Rusch said a word about the treatment. As far as Charles knew, Mick had been through a disastrous crash and had waited too long for recovery – the pilot’s occupational hazard. He was dangerously underweight, and would need to eat hearty and work hard to regain his strength.
The story was good enough, and Charles Vidal accepted it without question. At dinner, the stewards over-supplied Mick’s end of the table, and Charles watched every bite he ate. He was very old, Marin saw, and he was not well. The signs of chronic illness were obvious, and Curtis had lifted a brow at Rusch. She shook her hair faintly and shrugged, an expression of pragmatism. Even now, there was no cure for extreme old age, and Charles had lived long.
He would live years longer now, in better spirits, knowing his son was alive. The statue in midtown Elstrom would be raised soon, and a boulevard was being named for him – these would go ahead, though CityNet was alive with the stories of his rescue, and his return to Velcastra. The stories were running on the society pages, accompanied by paparazzi longshots of Mick ten years before, when he had played the field in Elstrom, escorting a variety of belles and beaus, sometimes two or three at a time. He was the Shackleton heir, the son of Elaine Osman, the aeroball star. CityNet loved him.
CNS had no time or space for society stories. Headlining across the colonies was the news, just twelve hours old. The flags of the Republic of Velcastra and the Commonwealth of the Deep Sky had been raised over the government buildings this morning. Sovereignty was declared at 20:05 Elstrom time, and the party broke out spontaneously.
In the interests of their own safety, the old government stood down without a struggle, and Governor Regis Gangawar had handed over to Robert Chandra Liang with a genuine smile. He was a free man this morning, while a number of the former government members had refused to recognize the Republic, and had accepted house arrest instead. They would soon be transported out of the Deep Sky on neutral vessels, delivered to Darwin’s World, and Marin guessed that as soon as they were back in the safety of the Near Sky, they would characterize Regis Gangawar as a traitor and an enemy of the Confederacy. Gangawar seemed not to care. He was on CNS long after midnight, drinking champagne with Chandra Liang. As far as Marin knew, he was still at Liang’s house, more than likely sleeping off a hangover.
The voices from the terrace sharpened with laughter, and Marin opened his eyes at last as he heard Alexis admonishing Mick for some crude witticism which had inspired the old man to a ribald guffaw. The breeze tossed the pale green drapes, carrying in the scents of the gardens. Just outside, orange and lime trees filtered the sunlight, which was itself filtered by the high dome of armorglass. StarCity floated on Aragos like a fantasy of silver arches, where Velcastra’s atmosphere grew thin and the traffic lanes were left far below.
The room was pale, featureless, just a guestroom opened for the night because Travers and Marin had drunk a great deal, like so many people across Velcastra, and decided to stay. The Capricorn was parked in the private hangar directly below the Vidal mansion, and the window opened right onto the terrace where the others were taking breakfast.
In the wide bed beside Marin, Travers was stirring awake, and Curtis propped himself on one elbow to watch him stretch, yawn, open blue eyes that were still sleep dark, sleep soft. His jaw was shadowed, his hair was pillow-tangled, and to Marin he looked superb. Little of the military was left about Neil. He had the look of a wealthy Freespacer, and Marin approved.
The sheets were filmy, pale to the point of near-transparency, and they enhanced rather than concealing the erection that lay against Travers’s belly as he stretched awake. Marin palmed it, caressed it with a sureness which made Travers smile. “Good morning,” Curtis said to the hard, hot flesh in his right hand. “You slept well?”
“He slept well,” Travers said, amused. “I seem to have anaesthetized myself … I don’t remember much after the fourth magnum.”
The champagne had flowed without pause, and the party spilled over from the Vidal house to the Liang mansion. Lights were strung in the trees, the yukimis were lit, and furniture was strewn across the lawns, where serving drones scurried about. Cars were still arriving at three in the morning, and by four Marin and Travers took the offer of the guestroom and absented themselves. The only sober person in the house was Vidal, who was under doctor’s orders. Even Alexis Rusch had drunk two glasses too many.
The sheet peeled down to Travers’s thighs, leaving him naked in a pool of green-filtered sunlight, and Marin surveyed him with smug pleasure. He was looking very good, pale bronze after hours under the lamps, well muscled, and the new scar on his shoulder was barely visible. Travers might have mocked him for the self-satisfaction, but Curtis had learned long ago, Neil could rarely speak when he was swallowed whole.
Instead, Travers groaned, an inarticulate sound of pleasure, and wove both hands into Marin’s hair, cradled his skull, holding him to the task he had set himself. Marin knew what he liked, what he needed, and gave it to him unstintingly. Travers took it all, back arched like a bow, and finished with a shout. The pale skin shone with a fine, fresh sweat, and Marin waited for him to regather his wits, and for the tremors to still.
“You,” Travers accused when he could speak again, “know me far too well.”
“I do,” Marin agreed, still waiting, knowing Travers would enfold him in long arms, dump him on the rumpled sheets and repay pleasure with pleasure. He was not disappointed. Neil was in a mood to play, and Marin was stretched taut, breathless, sweated, even a little sore, before he was done. Coming stormed through him, long and deep, and his fingers left bruises across Travers’s shoulders.
Twenty minutes later they were dozing again when a shrill peal of laughter from the terrace announced Mei Ying Shackleton. Marin jerked awake with a curse. He knew that voice from the night before, when the celebrations of sovereignty became raucous, and the most rambunctious of the visitors were Trick and Ying.
If they had intended to glare at Mick, resenting him for his return to the sphere of the living – which spelled the end of their inheritance – they took one look at him and backed off fast. Or, Marin admitted as he swung his legs off the bed, it might have been the grimace on the face of old Charles, who was not about to tolerate spiteful behavior.
“Breakfast,” he decided, nostrils flaring as he smelt fresh coffee from the terrace. He gathered the clothes they had scattered hours before in a line from the door to the bed. “You know the old man wants to talk to us.”
“I know he does, I just don’t know what about.” Travers caught the shirt and pants Marin threw at him, and hunted for his underwear.
“We were on active service with his darling Michael.” Marin had his slacks on, and was pulling the clinging blue shirt over his head. “It’s not that he wants to interrogate us. I think he wants to acquaint himself with the kind of people Mick works with. Convince himself,” he guessed, “that the job is worth the price.”
“Then you talk to him,” Travers retorted. “You’re the one with the Dendra Shemiji warrant and the millions banked with Atransa!”
“Your name’s also on that account now,” Marin reminded him. “And you were the last commander of the Intrepid. I should imagine Alexis has told Charles we’ve been Shapiro’s agents for a long time. We’ve earned the respect of men like Charles Vidal. The gracious thing would be to accept it when it’s offered.”
Travers made a face. “We were shanghaied under the cannons of a gunship Shapiro parked on Mark’s lawns, and … damnit, Curtis, all I did on the Intrepid w
as my job.”
“I know.” Marin gave himself a glance in the dressing mirror, and finger-combed his hair into a semblance of neatness. “Master Sergeant Travers walked out of that episode as a Lieutenant. It’s Colonel now.” He met Travers’s eyes in the glass. “What, regrets?”
But Travers’s dark head shook as he pulled up his pants, zipped them, and shrugged into the loose white linen shirt. “Not regrets. I just have a hard time getting my tongue, much less my head, around it. Colonel Travers. Christ, it’s bizarre.”
Marin indulged himself in a chuckle as he pushed his feet into the pale blue loafers. “Halfway through my hitch, I was studying every spare minute, craving it. I thought I knew what I wanted. Command.” He caught Travers’s head and explored his cheek, neck, ear, with a kiss. “Now, we could have it for the asking – and what do we want?”
“Out,” Travers said glibly. “But right now I’ll settle for breakfast.”
The tall French windows opened right onto the terrace, and he stepped out ahead of Marin, turned left onto a red-paved path leading to a pine-boarded balcony which jutted out over the lawns. Twenty meters of grass were sculpted to fall away on a gentle decline to the stream, and when the land banked up again on the other side it met the boundary of Chandra Liang’s property.
The lights were still fluttering among the trees there, and Marin was not surprised to see Liang and Madame Deuel coming across the bridge. Two visible bodyguards escorted them at a discreet distance behind, which meant four more would be in the area; two secretaries flanked Robert Chandra Liang, and a CNS journalist was talking to him while a viddrone jetted about, getting glamour shots. Madame Deuel was in makeup already, dressed as befitted the celebrity status of the First Lady, though most people would be sleeping off the celebrations this morning, or nursing outsized hangovers. Somehow, Sonja Mei Ming Deuel looked every inch the President’s wife, cool and decorous. Marin might have wondered how the trick was managed, but Chandra Liang himself was elegant in black silk, with the raven’s wing of his hair clasped in gold, and the Daku open-headed ankh on his breast.
