Journey - Book II of the Five Worlds Trilogy

by Al Sarrantonio

  “I was always told of the fierceness of the Titanians,” Dalin said. “From the look of these people, I can believe it.”

  They were in the street, keeping to the shadows, having come up empty after five attempts to find Shatz Abel’s old cronies. The latest haunt, which had been a nightclub, was now a munitions factory; people passed them with grim faces, hurrying to get where they were going.

  “It looks like war is imminent, doesn’t it?” Dalin ruminated.

  Shatz Abel concurred. “And we’d better get off Titan before it happens, Sire.”

  Inevitably, they ended up back where they had begun, by the shuttle port. Only now, dressed as they were, they had to avoid the same black-clad soldiers they had been laughing and commiserating with not hours before.

  There was a commotion at the farthest dock; before even Shatz Abel could react, Dalin Shar grinned widely and said, “I may have an answer to our problems!”

  There, arguing outside the beat-up wreck of their freighter, were old acquaintances of Dalin’s: Ralf and Enry, pirates who had picked him up when the freight container the king was in was about to be dashed to bits; they had taught him the pirating trade—and also had turned him over to Wrath-Pei.

  The two pirates were arguing with a uniformed dock official; beside them on the tarmac was a pile of cases, one of which was broken open.

  “I tell you, it’s Titanian wine!” Enry protested, as the soldier tilted a chrome bottle up and tasted its contents, making a face. “Bought it ourselves, we did, right here on Titan!”

  “Right!” Ralf said, backing up his partner. He leaned close to the soldier and said in a half whisper, “An’ a case of it is yours, mate, if you’ll just le’ us be on our way…”

  Ralf winked, squeezing the soldier’s arm in a friendly way.

  The soldier spat out the wine and made a face. “This is swill! I’ll throw the two of you in prison—”

  “There, there, now,” Ralf said, patting the soldier’s hand with his own, which held a wad of currency. “If you’ll jus’ take this … gift, there need be no trouble and you can give us our launch clearance data card—”

  “A bribe!” the soldier sputtered, letting the bills flutter to the ground. “I’ll have you in irons!”

  “What’s the trouble?” Shatz Abel said, grinning from ear to ear at the soldier, while Dalin smiled at Enry and Ralf, who stood dumbfounded.

  “It’s—” Enry sputtered.

  “That it is!” Ralf said in wonder, staring at Dalin. “Minus ‘is eyelids, of course.”

  “What is this nonsense?” the official shouted—but Shatz Abel had already advanced on him, still grinning.

  In a moment the dock official, unconscious, was being dragged by Shatz Abel into a dark recess behind a nearby gantry, while Dalin helped Enry and Ralf restock their wine into the open hold of the ship and follow it inside.

  “Jus’ li’ ol’ times, eh, Your Majesty?” Enry said, beaming.

  “Ri’!” his companion chimed in. “Jus’ li’ ol’ times!”

  In another moment Shatz Abel returned, bearing a launch clearance data card, and climbed whistling into the ship’s hold after the others; after a few preliminaries, the creaking freighter took off, and was soon clear of Titan.

  “Earth!” Enry said, shaking his head. “Not likely, mate. We’ll be lucky if we gets t’ Mars with the load we have.” He turned from the ship’s front view to grin apologetically up at Shatz Abel.

  The big pirate took the entire front of the man’s tunic in his fist; in his other hand he held Ralf in a similar manner.

  “Of course, we could change our plans, couldn’t we, Enry?” Ralf said. “I mean this being the great Shatz Abel and all?”

  Enry nodded meekly. “I suppose we could a’ that.”

  “You’ll do it,” Shatz Abel said sternly, nodding in Dalin’s direction, “for him.”

  “Ri’!” Ralf said. “Was on my mind all along, it was!”

  “For king and country, an’ all tha’!” Enry said.

  Shatz Abel said, looking from one to the other, “Do you know how many times I had to hear the story about how you two gave Dalin over to Wrath-Pei? Do you know how sick I became of hearing that tale?”

  Meekly, the two pirates looked at Dalin.

  “We’re truly sorry, we are, Sire,” Enry said meekly.

  “Truly sorry. We was victims of circumstance, we was.”

  “That’s ri’!” Enry said.

  “And we’ll make it up to you,” Ralf said, “by taking you back to Earth.”

  “Tha’ we will,” Enry said. “As soon as we deliver a few things along the way. There’s those Screen parts to Caffisto, and that wonderful wine to—”

  His last words were strangled as Shatz Abel tightened his grip on the two pirates’ tunics. Enry immediately said, “We’ll take you ‘ome ri’ away, we will, Your Majesty!”

  “That’s ri’! Ri’ away!” his compatriot chimed in.

  “And if you don’t,” Shatz Abel rumbled, looking into each of their eyes before dropping them back into their seats, “I’ll feed you to each other.”

  “Ri’,” Enry said, humbled.

  “Ri’,” Ralf added, rubbing at his chest.

  Enry smiled weakly at Dalin: “Just li’ old times, eh, Your Majesty?”

  Ralf said, looking up at Shatz Abel, “Yeah, we tol’ you tha’ Shatz Abel was something, didn’t we?”

  Ten minutes later the ship’s sensors went off loudly, and the other three watched as Enry steered them out of harm’s way of a huge cubic structure with a massive round port facing back toward Titan.

  “Wha’ in ‘ell?” Ralf said. “Tha’ wasn’t there when we came in, was it?”

  “Was not!” Enry said. He gazed with the others as the structure slid behind them; at its rear was a huge cluster of rocket engines.

  “Wha’ was it?” Ralf said.

  Off in the distance there was a flash of light, and they looked to see a similar structure easing into orbit around Titan; its engines flared off and it sat as sphynxlike as the first. Beyond that there was a similar flash of light, and then the tiny flare of another.

  “I know what those are,” Shatz Abel said grimly. “I heard some of Wrath-Pei’s men talk about them. And they weren’t happy while they were talking.”

  The others looked at him expectantly.

  “Well?” Dalin asked.

  “How fast can you get us to Earth?” Shatz Abel asked Ralf.

  “Abou’…” he shrugged, looking at Enry. “Three weeks?”

  Enry nodded. “Ri’!”

  “Well make it sooner,” Shatz Abel said, his mouth tight. “Those were Martian plasma soldier generators being moved into orbit around Titan.” Shatz Abel looked at the other three faces without a trace of a smile. “It looks like the war for Titan is about to begin.”

  Chapter 21

  “You tell me there are absolutely no problems?” the High Leader asked.

  General Ramsden, the busy bridge of his ship visible behind him on the Screen, bowed. “None so far, High Leader. The first plasma soldier generators are in place; there has been no resistance as yet from Wrath-Pei.”

  “So Sam-Sei’s new little cloaking devices worked, eh?”

  “Apparently so, High Leader. We were able to completely circumvent Wrath-Pei’s outpost defenses. And now the generator’s inboard shields will be able to protect them until they are required—”

  “They’ll be required soon enough, Ramsden. You just do your job and make sure there are no problems.”

  “As you wish, High Leader.”

  “Out,” the High Leader snapped, and the Screen went off.

  If the High Leader had had a brow, it would have been furrowed now. So much going right, and yet—And yet—

  There was always problems and worries, but this was an old one. He had had the feeling before, during the brief war with Venus and the plans leading up to it the feeling that there was something else he was not payi
ng heed to that he should. And here it was again, on the eve of this new battle—

  And he didn’t know what it meant.

  So far, these feelings had proved groundless. With the successful insertion of the Machine Master’s plasma soldier generators into Titan’s orbit, he could begin to neutralize that moon at his leisure. And he would, as soon as—

  “Damnation!”

  He brought one powerful metal fist down on the nearest art object in the chamber—a sandstone sculpture dating from the earliest Martian colony period; he had seen the piece, a crimson representation of Ares, the ancient Earth god of war, in the Martian Grand Museum, and immediately ordered that it be brought to his quarters. Since then he had ignored it—except for now, when his tightened fingers crashed through it, knocking it into two separate pieces.

  Idly he looked at what he had done; both the damage and the problem remained.

  Tabrel Kris had not arrived.

  “Pynthas!”

  The High Leader knew Pynthas Rei was cowering on the other side of his chamber door—it was his customary position. After a moment the door opened and the toady entered, knees knocking.

  “Come in, you fool. If I’d wanted to extinguish you I would have called you in before I did that.”

  The High Leader pointed to the destroyed statue, which Pynthas looked at fearfully; the rate of his knee-knocking only increased.

  “You w-w-want something, H-h-high Leader?”

  “Of course I want something! I want to know where Tabrel Kris is!”

  “Th-the life suit that arrived was empty, High L-leader.”

  “Stop stammering!”

  “Y-y-yes, H-high—”

  The cold quartz glare the High Leader turned on Pynthas, swiveling his metallic head nearly all the way around to stare at the toady, made the stutter instantly disappear, replaced by a squeak.

  “Yes, High Leader!”

  But already Cornelian had turned his attention inward, to his thoughts.

  “Fascinating …” the High Leader mused. “She makes a pact with me, knowing that I won’t keep my word, and therefore does not deliver what was promised, knowing that I will not dare attack Titan for fear of harming Tabrel Kris. Queen Clan, drug-addled though she is, is brighter than I surmised. And now she cannot let the girl go free, because I will immediately destroy her homeworld.” The High Leader’s anger was lost in his attention to the problem. Almost idly he asked Pynthas, “And it is true that Wrath-Pei never arrived at Ganymede, as Queen Clan promised he would?”

  “No, he did not,” Pynthas said. “But our spies tell us that she did plan to fulfill that part of her bargain. It was Wrath-Pei who thwarted both you and the queen.”

  “Wrath-Pei …”

  “Yes, High Leader.”

  “Alert Sam-Sei that I am coming to see him.”

  “Yes, High Leader!”

  Still lost in contemplation, Prime Cornelian made his way down to the Machine Master’s dungeon. He was momentarily startled on entering to find a young girl in residence; then, remembering that the Machine Master had taken the girl as a protégé, he fixed his gaze on her.

  “You’re the Venusian apprentice, aren’t you?”

  She was frightened, white as a sheet—and yet when she answered Cornelian her voice was steady and her eyes held more fascination than fear or repulsion.

  “Yes.”

  Letting irritation jump into his voice, Cornelian said, “You will address me as High Leader.”

  “Yes, High Leader.”

  “Just because you work for Sam-Sei does not mean you can adopt his dangerous habits. The only reason he is alive is that he serves me. You would do well to remember that, since it also serves for you.”

  “Yes, High Leader.” The girl bowed her head, but there was still that touch of defiance.

  She bears watching, Cornelian thought.

  “And your mentor?” the High Leader asked.

  “He’s…” The girl hesitated, and Prime Cornelian turned around to see the Machine Master standing where he had not been a moment before.

  Refusing to show astonishment, the High Leader said, “I understand you have something new for me, Sam-Sei?”

  “Perhaps.”

  The High Leader waited for elaboration, which did not come.

  “And it is?” the High Leader said.

  The Machine Master said, “There is the matter of my long-postponed interview with Wrath-Pei.”

  Exploding in anger, Prime Cornelian shouted, “I have told you, he is not here! I hoped to have him by now, but once again he refuses to be caught!”

  The girl had taken a step backward, but Sam-Sei stood his ground. “I was promised.”

  “And I have not broken my promise to you! I do not have him!”

  Scuttling forward on his metallic limbs, the High Leader stood face-to-face with Sam-Sei. Still the Machine Master refused to move or blink, even as Prime Cornelian’s anger mounted.

  The face-off lasted for a half minute, and then the High Leader backed slightly away, hissing, “You are a good chess player, Sam-Sei; you have managed always to have something in reserve that I need. You know that I need you—but even with your talents, your usefulness to me may one day end.” The hiss turned into a forced chuckle. “And it could be an abrupt end. For my part, I will turn Wrath-Pei over to you as soon as I have him. Now what do you have for me?”

  The Machine Master fingered a slim device in his hand and disappeared.

  In a moment he was back.

  The High Leader said, a note of disappointment in his voice, “Another cloaking device?”

  “Something more. I have been working on it for some time. With it, I can travel elsewhere and return.”

  Cornelian’s interest began to heighten. “And so could, perhaps, an army?”

  “Yes.”

  “And all of its supplies and weapons?”

  “Of course.”

  “Excellent! And this device is ready to use? I am thinking of Titan.” The High Leader kept his eye on Sam-Sei. “And Wrath-Pei.”

  The Machine Master said, “It will be ready soon. The range is not yet what I want it to be.” He displayed the elegant device in his palm. “Young Visid here was instrumental in its design.”

  The High Leader turned to Visid with new interest. “So, we have a budding Machine Master here?”

  “Perhaps,” Sam-Sei said.

  “Do I detect a note of … pride in your voice, Sam-Sei?” Cornelian said, his eyes still studying the girl, whose demeanor had returned to one of respectful bravado.

  The High Leader rotated his head to face the Machine Master. “Hmmm?”

  Sam-Sei, as unattractive as ever, showed for the first time since Cornelian had known him a trace of emotion.

  “She is very helpful,” Sam-Sei said.

  “Yes…” The High Leader said. He made his way to the doorway, his metallic claws clicking on the sandstone floor. “Let me know as soon as your new weapon is ready, Sam-Sei. I can already think of some marvelous uses for it, and I have just begun to contemplate it. I’m sure it will be very useful.”

  On the way out, the High Leader revolved his head and fixed his gaze once more on the young girl, Visid—and noted that she met his gaze and calmly held it.

  Chapter 22

  As he had with everything in his life, Porto made of his prison cell a stage.

  He had mostly to use his imagination, since his body, once lithe and strong, capable of theatrical sword fights, leaps from mock roofs, and even dancing when required, was now nearly useless. Both legs had been broken during his torture sessions, and only one had healed straight; he had to hop to get anywhere, and that only a recent development: before, crawling had been the transportation mode of choice. Most of his fingers had also been broken, viciously bent backward by Prime Minister Acron himself, who had also proven adept at beatings and, when in a fey mood, at burning various parts of the body with a hot iron or electronic instrument Porto had come to call the “
Oucher.”

  At least there was pride, Porto thought to himself, in knowing that you’ve been tortured by the very best.

  And so, his body stolen from him, he had taken to using his mind.

  After the first few days since his breaking down, he had let guilt overtake him; but, before too long, his sense of proportion and humor had returned. He knew there was nothing else he could have done, just as he knew that Erik would not in any way have blamed him. So how was he different now than he had been before? He was still Porto—Porto with a broken body and agonized mind, yes, but Porto nevertheless. So he had taken to dressing his cell—a concrete pit whose only window was on a level with the street outside; when it rained, the floor quickly became covered with rank water that took days to drain away—in stage colors, in his mind. To him, his cell became just another theater, with its own set. The water? A flood! The thumb-sized roaches on the walls? Ancient monsters, in need of slaying! His jailers? Costumed actors in his play, some villains, a few characters with a measure of pity for him and therefore heroes!

  “Say, Raymond!” Porto called out brightly, knowing that his present guard, one of the better-tempered ones, could hear him, even though his words were somewhat slurred, given the number of teeth he had lost to the prime minister’s fist.

  Raymond grunted a laugh. “What do you want, you crazy actor?”

  “Know what play I’m performing today? Constancy for Constance!”

  The guard laughed again. “Never heard of it!”

  “A Martian comedy, from the 2200s! Funny as anything!”

  “Oh? Make me laugh, actor!” Raymond was brutish, but not cruel, and Porto sought to oblige him, raising himself painfully up on his elbows from his metal pallet resting on two-foot-high concrete blocks that served as his bed and kept him off the normally damp or wet floor.

  “You’ve got to set the scene in your mind, Raymond!” Porto said brightly. “Imagine an aqueduct outside of Lowell, with a hole in it! Precious water is streaming out! A young girl, our heroine, named, believe it or not, Constance, walks by and puts her finger in the hole to stave the leak!”