by John M. Ford
Vrenn fingered his controls, and the whole remaining charge in his weapon went into a single green bolt.
The Gold player dropped his Lance. Vrenn kicked it aside, then threw away his own. And then he stopped still, and stared.
He had been wrong. There had been no hidden weapon in the Gold player’s Lance. Not in his Lance, at all.
The Gold’s right arm lay on the floor, twitching, its fingers spasming one-two-three-four. Above it stood its former owner, wobbling on his feet. From his right shoulder, wires dangled and sparked, and coolant and fluidic oil dripped from broken tubes.
Vrenn drove a fist into the enemy’s body, then another. He felt tissue give beneath: only part-robot, then. Good. Very good. The enemy fell back, against a wall panel.
“Kai!” Vrenn shouted, only half meaning it as mockery, leaped and drove both feet into the Gold-thing’s midsection.
Plastic splintered outward, and the cyborg Lancer went out and down, down fifty meters, and hit with a sound neither fleshly or mechanical. Blood and oil ran together.
“Gensa, the victory!” Vrenn shouted from the apex of the grid, out the open panel. He looked at the officers watching from their gallery, across space and a little below him now. “Gensa, a thousand times, undefeated!”
He wondered if any of them were listening.
“What an extraordinary endgame,” Manager Akten said. General Maida coughed and snuffed out his incense. One of Admiral Kezhke’s consorts turned and was sick; a servitor caught it in the hem of its robe. Kezhke said, “I should call it more than—”
“Yes,” Margon said, and his pistol was out. Consorts and officers went for cover.
“Tokhe straav’!” Margon shouted: Willing slave, the vilest name Klingon could call Klingon, an insult only death could redeem. Then Margon fired, a bolt of actinic blue light that starred the glass door of Force Leader Mabli’s cubicle. Mabli had just turned when the second shot blasted the panel apart, showering the player with fragments of crystal. The third shot tore apart his chest. Margon’s pistol was holstered before the last shard of glass had struck the floor. The mist overhead swirled, and there was the sharp smell of ozone. Kezhke’s left hand was tense on his leveled right forearm; slowly, he relaxed.
Margon raised the brandy glass he still held. “Kai, Thought Admiral. Another victory with your many.”
Kethas stood in the open door of his cubicle. “Yes.” He looked past Margon. Servitors were already sweeping up the fragments. “And for every victory, a loss, Margon?”
“There was nothing else for him,” Margon said plainly. “Certainly not life. What could be accepted as truth from one who would commit fraud at klin zha? I would suspect that, when the plodders of Security finish with this straav’s record, it will be found full of lies as well.”
“I would not doubt that,” Kezhke said, without sarcasm.
“But the corruption ends here,” said General Maida.
Kethas was looking out the window, at the figure on the top of the pyramid. The Green Lancer had arms upraised, and was shouting something the glass filtered out. It was barely possible that Mabli had heard Margon’s challenge, before his glass was broken; but it hardly mattered.
Kethas said, “There is a last thing, sutai-Demma….”
Margon said, “Epetai-Khemara?”
“A pleasing game. My compliments to a worthy opponent.”
Margon nodded. Kethas turned away. “Manager Akten,” he said, “I should like to discuss a matter with you. An adoption from one of the Houses of Lineless Youth.”
Akten gestured to his tharavul. “I took that to be the context of your message, and Sovin has a set of—” Akten stopped short. “You said an adoption? Not just a transfer of residence?”
Kethas gave the faintest of smiles. “You are a good player, Akten…but even I did not know in advance how the game would end.”
Two: Strategies
Vrenn was in his sleeping room of the House Twenty-Four, alone. The six beds were all neat; the other occupants were at a morning instruction. Vrenn had a sudden, deep flash of wishing he were with them. But he was no longer Gensa, but Khemara. Shortly a transport would be here, to take him away to his destiny.
Vrenn crouched on the edge of the bed that he had slept in all his life, leaned forward, slipped his fingers beneath it, feeling out of sight of the room monitors for the slot between metal frames.
He found nothing.
His jaw tensed, and his lips curled back from his teeth. So the one thing he would have kept was gone as well. He thought that it was not right for the Proctors to take it; it did not really belong to the House. If he found Khidri, Vrenn wondered, could he convince him to give Vrenn that one thing? Or if he could not take it away, at least give it to a Housemate….
That would be a poor strategy, Vrenn knew at once. It had been old Khi’who had cautioned Vrenn not to demand privileges too soon in the name of Khemara, not to call a victory what was not.
Let the House have the envelope, then. Let them burn it. And he would see it again, in the next life, when he captained a ship of the Black Fleet.
Vrenn left the room. The halls were very quiet; the walls were of smooth castrock, hung with a few machine-copy tapestries, good traps for sound.
“Khemara.”
It was the sound that made Vrenn turn, not the name. Proctor Muros was standing not far away, hands folded. His control wand swung at his side: Vrenn could not think when the wand had seemed both less of a threat, and more.
“Are you lost, Khemara? Guests of this House are normally provided with guides. I will guide you if you wish, honored and exalted guest.” Epetai-zana: an honorific so high it became absurd, an insult.
“I am not lost, Proctor,” Vrenn said firmly, then hardened his neck muscles and said, “You may go about your duties.”
Muros smiled faintly, showing points of teeth. “Of course, epetai-zana.” He nodded politely, turned and walked silently away. Vrenn felt his liver relax.
Newcomers to the House often thought Muros was demanding their deference, and gave it. It was the wrong answer. “Are you straave?” he would snarl, and use the wand.
When Muros snaps, snap back: it was one of many secret rules of the House. When one arrived, one’s five roommates, and only they, could tell the rules. Or not tell, as they chose. Usually they would tell a part, leave a part to be found out at the end of a wand. Zharn had warned Vrenn of Muros, and it was said he had ordered Gelly’s mates to warn her, which for her strangeness they might not have done.
Zharn and Gelly had not returned, after the klin zha kinta. The others game-killed had, including Ragga, but Ragga was sullen and distant now, hardly speaking even to curse.
Vrenn came into the front common room. The light was lower here, the air moister; there were plants and a shallow dark pool for meditations. Panels of colored glass in the ceiling formed a large Imperial trefoil, the komerex stela, glowing with angular morning sun. A klin zha table was idle near the wall; Vrenn went toward it.
“You are Vrenn Khemara.” Again, it was the sound of someone speaking, not the name he was called, that made Vrenn turn: and this voice was not Klingon, though the language was klingonaase.
A tall, very thin figure was approaching: he wore a black and gold Navy uniform, without insignia. Vrenn did not know the race. A little behind him was Proctor Khidri, carrying a folded pile of dark cloth.
“My name is Tirian,” the tall male said. He had an extremely angular face, very broad shoulders, a narrow waist. “I am Transporteer to Thought Admiral Kethas. I am now honored to serve you as well.”
Khidri held out the bundle. “Epetai-Khemara has sent clothing for you.”
Vrenn took the clothes. There was a long, loose tunic and trousers of deep blue fabric, very soft. Vrenn tugged open the seams of his gray House uniform and began changing on the spot; Khidri was after all a House Proctor, and Tirian, whatever his exact race, was obviously kuve. He had spoken of serving—and more telling, Kh
idri had said epetai-Khemara sent the clothes, not that Tirian brought them.
A thought occurred as Vrenn was dressing. “These are like Cadet’s clothes, aren’t they? Navy Cadet’s?”
Tirian said, “Somewhat. A Cadet’s tunic is less long or full, so that it does not balloon in no-weight.”
Vrenn moved his shoulders. He had never touched cloth so soft. He picked up his discarded uniform, folding it automatically, and gave it to Khidri. “When do we depart, Transporteer?” he said, feeling his voice tremble just a bit as he tried for the sound of command.
“At your convenience, zan Vrenn. Do you have baggage?”
“No…nothing, Transporteer.”
“If you wish, call me Tirian. Kuvesa tokhesa.” I serve willingly, the alien said, and yet Vrenn knew it for an instruction. “Then you shall call me Vrenn,” he answered, a request.
They went into the House forecourt. There was a small flier parked there, short-winged and graceful, green-backed and white-bellied. The viewports had armored shutters ready to drop, and under the wings were mounted disruptors and missile pods. Vrenn knew it from the recognition books as a Teska-2: not just an armed transport but a real combat craft, able to meet a spaceship in orbit.
Around the flier, admiring it from a careful distance, were the residents of the House Gensa; at Kidri’s appearance all turned, and fell neatly into ranks.
They sang “The Vengeance Flies at Morning,” the theme from Vrenn’s favorite tape series: “Undefeated” was the House favorite, but it was about facing enemies and death. This was a better song for today.
The guns are hot, the hull is ringing,
The engines sing the sound of triumph;
And every one aboard awaits
A prize upon the high horizon.
Hand and weapon! Heart and power!
Cry it with the voice of Empire!
Victory and prize and plunder!
Vengeance flies at morning!
It was the perfect song for today, and Vrenn’s neck hurt with holding his jaw steady and his lips tight shut…but Zharn was not here to sing it, nor Gelly.
Rokis stepped forward, limping a bit; she had hurt her leg in the klin zha kinta, making a grand swooping kill. She held out her hands to Vrenn: in them was a brown paper envelope. “A gift from us,” she said. “Some things to remember.”
Vrenn almost smiled. So that was why he had not found it beneath his bed.
A hand intruded, and Vrenn stopped as he reached for the envelope; a Proctor passed a device over the package and withdrew again without touching it.
Vrenn took the package, held it as tightly as he could without wrinkling it. “This is…an honorable House,” he said, and looked up, but of course sunlight and clouds clothed the stars.
Then the crowd parted, and Vrenn and Tirian went to the flier; the Transporteer touched controls on a wrist device, and the door opened and stairs swung down. Tirian gestured, and Vrenn went aboard.
Vrenn had seen pictures and tapes of ships’ interiors, but he was not at all ready for this. He was in a tunnel, barely wider than his shoulders and not much higher than his head, lined with equipment of metal and plastic and rubber, alive with small lights and noises.
“Go on forward,” Tirian said, turning his wide shoulders to follow. Vrenn emerged into a slightly larger space, fronted with thick tinted glass. There were two large padded chairs, each caged by equipment. Small displays flickered, and ducted air rushed by.
Tirian said, “You’re left seat. That’s—”
“Gunner’s seat,” Vrenn said.
Tirian clicked his teeth together. “Sure, you’d know that. Can you get belted in?”
Vrenn climbed into the seat, pulled the parts of the harness together and locked them over his chest.
“Fine job. Can you get out now?”
Vrenn slapped at the knob on the harness buckle. Nothing happened. He slapped again, hard enough to hurt. Nothing.
Tirian reached across. “Turn, then push.” He demonstrated, then relocked the harness. “Anything could bump open those old locks they show on the tapes. This is safer, and just as fast.” He leaned against his chair, tapped his thin, pale fingers on his knee. “Now. I’m your Transporteer. Do you know what that means?”
Vrenn struggled with himself. Could this really be a servitor? Or was Vrenn’s new status not what he had believed? He looked at Tirian, who waited, no expression on his bony face. Vrenn knew he must answer, and he would not lie. “No. Will you tell me?”
Tirian nodded gravely. “Of course, zan Vrenn. My duty is to keep you safe, while you are aboard any vehicle. If you travel by particle transporter, I will set the controls, that you may be properly reassembled. It may also become my duty to inform you of desirable or undesirable actions while in transit; as my master you must decide how to act on this information. Is this explanation sufficient?”
“Yes, Trans—Tirian.” It was more than sufficient. A Captain lent his life to the one he trusted as transporter operator, each time he used the machine: the one chosen must be of special quality. It was reasonable that an Admiral should have a special officer for the purpose—and a kuve one, who could have no ambitions.
Now Vrenn realized he had insulted one he must trust. He was not sure how to correct the error; surely he should not express error, not to a servitor. He simply had no experience of kuve; on tapes they were so easily dealt with…
Finally Vrenn said, “I seem to have misunderstood you at first.”
Tirian said, “I regret that this is common. I am a Withiki—” more a whistle than a word—“and I do not speak well.” He got into his seat, fastened his harness, began bringing the flier to life.
Vrenn looked at him, wondering at what he had just heard. He had seen Withiki, real ones, at the Year Games, and Tirian could not possibly be of that race.
The flier began to lift. Through the windshield Vrenn could see his once-Housemates waving, and he waved back, though realizing they could not see him through the dark glass.
He waited until Tirian had brought them to cruising altitude, then said, “Could you provide me with some information on this equipment?”
Again Tirian’s teeth clicked; Vrenn supposed it was his race’s form of polite laughter, but he was not offended. “The weapons are indeed loaded, Vrenn, but are all on safety. However, you might enjoy the view through the gunsights. A moment to get us on guide-beam, and I’ll show you how it works.”
The Khemara linehold was almost a quarter of the world away; it took half a day airborne, beam-guided around reserved airspaces, military and private. Had they intruded, they would have vanished from the sky in an instant.
The Teska had a tiny, unenclosed waste facility, and a food locker stuffed with cold meat and fish and fruit nectars. Vrenn took a swallow and was astonished at the taste: the juice was real.
They swung near mist-cloaked hills and low over green lakes, crossing the Northwest Sea as the sun was setting. The clouds broke for a moment and showed the star, a white pinpoint; Vrenn shielded his eyes at once. Then the light was gone, and they were over the Kartade Forest. Tirian was dozing in his chair, breath whistling. Vrenn had no notion of sleep. He switched the gunsight to night vision and scanned the forest; the intertwined trees showed up in startling clarity, and now and then an animal streaked by, burning bright on the infrared screen.
A beep from the communications board woke Tirian instantly. He touched a switch, and a web of light was projected on the windshield: the image of a landing grid that lay, invisible, on the ground ahead. Tirian hung an audio pickup behind his ear. “Center Space, this is Flier 04…Aboard, affirm…My password is Tailfeather. What is your password? Affirm, off beam and landing now.”
They touched down very gently. Outside the flier, a pathway lit up; then lights came on behind large windows. Tirian said, “You’re to go on inside. My duty’s here.”
Vrenn nodded. “It was a good trip,” he said, sure it was not too much praise.
Tirian did not click his teeth. He said, “Thank you, master Vrenn,” with clear satisfaction. And he had said master, not the neutral zan. He indicated the brown envelope: “May I bring your package?”
“No…I’ll take that.”
Vrenn went down the steps, holding the envelope. The path wound out before him through a garden, with shrubs and pools, and knotted-trunked trees as grew in the Kartade. There was a heavy scent of flower perfumes.
The house was quite high, at least three stories, with a V-shaped roof: the huge front windows seemed a little like angled eyes looking down on Vrenn. Behind the windows was what appeared to be one large room, with red light flickering within.
Without any pause at all, Vrenn went inside.
There was indeed one vast, high-ceilinged room, with wooden beams cutting across the space overhead, and iron-railed stairs to balconies on either side. In the center was a broad, black pillar, open at the base: a fire, fed by wood, burned within. Around the fireplace were cushions, and tables topped with wood inlay and black glass.
A figure stood, silhouetted by the fire. “Welcome, Vrenn. Be welcome in your house.”
“Thought Admiral…” Vrenn said, and saw the tilt of Kethas’s head. “…Father.”
Kethas nodded, took Vrenn’s free hand in both of his and drew him into the firelight. “Sit, if you like, though I suppose you’ve been sitting too long already. Are you hungry? Thirsty? We need a glass of something to talk over…you’re nine, aren’t you?”
“Nearly nine.”
“Yes. Do they have strong drinks, in the Houses? I really don’t know that much about them.”
“I drink ale.”
“Dark ale, then, that’s the best when you’re tired. Not the scorch of a distillate and less risky than brandy.” Almost before Kethas finished speaking, a servitor had appeared with a tray.
Vrenn had never much cared for ale, but it was all he had experience of: this drink, however, was wonderful, as much as the fruit nectar had been. Vrenn began to wonder if he would simply have to relearn eating and drinking.
