by Glen Cook
Fifty-Seven: 3032 AD
Deeth waited till the woman was a step away, swinging her knife. He blocked the blow, stepped inside, sank his own blade into her chest. She clawed at his face as she went down.
He stood over her, watching her die. His stroke had been the only one he had struck himself. This was the first death he had dealt personally since he had killed the old man in the cave.
He felt no special satisfaction or joy. He felt almost nothing. The lack surprised him for only an instant. He never had been enthusiastic about fulfilling his father's plans.
What now? The Norbon revenge was nearly complete. The debt was almost paid. The final act, under Michael's direction, was beyond his participation. There was nothing left but to evade the fleet now passing the Fortress, pursuing his raidships.
Nothing remained but the mundanity of Norbon directorship. A huge loathing welled up within him. He never had wanted to be Head. He no longer needed the position's power. And without Rhafu, feeling the way he felt now, he might not be able to hold on.
He stalked through the Fortress of Iron, a thoughtful specter silently prowling a tomb. He paused in Storm's study, slowly poked through his enemy's effects. He began to feel a sense of spiritual kinship, to scent out a kindred loneliness. The man was not entirely alien. He was as much out of tune with humanity as his enemy was with his own people.
He found several undamaged, space-ready singleships on the shiplock level. He considered them. They were slow, but could travel almost indefinitely, seizing their power from the binding energy of the universe itself. A man who had the time could ride one forever.
Deeth summoned his remaining raidmaster, gave him a letter for his cousin Taake. It assigned Taake the duties of Head till his own return. The raidmaster glanced at it. "Where will you be, sir?"
"I'm going to make a pilgrimage."
"Sir?"
Deeth waved him away. "Go. Go on. Get out before they send someone back to check this place out."
Still not sure what he would do, Deeth boarded the ship he had chosen. It was a fat, slow vessel that had done small-time raven work. It carried both medicare cradles and cryobiological storage units. But no instel. Even the Legion had been unable to afford instel for all its ships.
The raidmaster spaced. Deeth spent more hours wandering the ruins of his enemy's home, wondering, at times, if Boris Storm and Thaddeus Walters had done the same after silencing the Norbon station. He finally took space himself, cutting a hyper arc for the center of the galaxy. He had no intention of going that far, only of running along till he had come to some understanding with and of himself.
His course sloped through the Centerward March of Ulant. He dropped hyper long enough to gather news of what had happened on Blackworld.
He could not be sure. It sounded like he had failed.
Without Rhafu there to push him he could not care. It no longer seemed to matter.
He apologized to his father's ghost, set his drives on auto, sealed himself into a cryo storage unit.
Someday the drive would fail and he would fall into normspace. Then he would waken and look out at a whole new universe . . . Or the ship might plow through the heart of a sun, where the field stresses were so great they would yank the vessel out of hyper. Or . . .
He did not care.
Staying alive did not much matter either.
Fifty-Eight: 3032 AD
Mouse sat in the crawler operator's seat, watching Cassius and Pollyanna. Polly kept zigging round, unable to stand still. She kept looking at Cassius strangely. And Cassius kept smiling that funny, boyish, embarrassed smile.
Mouse was a little surprised at Walters too. Cassius never thought out loud. Not about the way he felt.
Walters asked Pollyanna, "You know the character in The Merchant of Venice, the Jew, who does the soliloquy about his right to hurt like anybody else?"
"Shylock."
"Yeah. Shylock. That's me. I'm like him. I've got a right to be human too. It's just that I'm so old and been in this business so long that I don't show it anymore."
"But that wasn't what Shylock was really talking about. He was just trying to rationalize the revenge he was taking on . . . " She shut up.
Mouse did not know Shakespeare, but he got the feeling Pollyanna had reached the sudden conclusion that Cassius and this Shylock were alike after all. He lifted a leg onto the control panel, leaned back, chewed the corner of a fingernail. "You're not going to start singing your death song, are you?" he asked Cassius.
"Me? Never. I may not be completely happy with my life, but I sure as hell plan to stick around as long as I can. No, I've been thinking about getting out of the mainstream. If this kind of life has been in it. I might become a crazy old hermit on a mountain somewhere, coming down to prophesy at the villagers once a year. Or run off to the Starfishers. Or become a McGraw or a Freehauler. Anything to get away from the past. I'd just as soon do my fade before Confederation starts investigating the Shadowline, too. I don't have the patience to deal with those people. That's why I left the Corps."
"Somehow," Mouse said, "I can't picture you being anything but what you are. What about those bombs? Wouldn't you say Michael's had enough time to decide?"
Dee, still standing in the middle of the cabin, had not spoken for a long time. Only his eyes had moved, watching every muscle in Cassius, Mouse, and Pollyanna. And the weapon hanging with such apparent negligence in Cassius's hand. "What're you going to do?" he whimpered.
"Now, if it was up to me and I could do what I want," Cassius replied, "I'd kill you. But I won't. Unless you don't start talking about those damned bombs. You've had your time. Talk. And talk straight, because you're going to be out there beside me when we disarm them. How are they armed? How did you plan to set them off?"
The tractor's comm buzzed, demanding attention. "Mouse, get that. Michael, start talking."
"Guarantees, Cassius. I want guarantees," Dee countered. "You don't know what he's like. You don't know what he'll do if I don't set them off."
"Who?" Mouse asked.
Dee ignored him. "He'd destroy the whole universe to get you and the Storms. He's been a raving madman since you killed Rhafu."
"All right, damn it. I'll keep you in my closet if I have to. Just tell me how to get rid of those bombs."
"Your word?"
"What do you want? Me to cut my wrist and write it in blood? You're getting too good a deal now, and you know it."
"They're radio-controlled. My driver has the trigger."
"How long before he pushes the button?"
"He won't. He doesn't know he has it. I screwed up. I was too sure I'd find Gneaus here."
"Ah." Cassius chuckled evilly. "Fooled you."
"You promised."
"Cassius," Mouse said, "here's a little something to brighten your day. Helga's surrendered Festung Todesangst."
"What?" Michael demanded.
"That's the word from Naval Intelligence."
"For God's sake, why?" Dee demanded. "I don't believe it. She would have blown her scuttles . . . "
"I don't know why," Mouse said. "The report came from the Corps, filtered through Intelligence. They didn't explain. They just said it was a standoff, with Helga threatening to blow the scuttles and the Marines hanging on but not pushing her so hard she'd really do it. Maybe she got wind of what happened at Twilight and decided it wasn't worth it anymore. She suddenly just gave up."
Michael frowned and shook his head. "What the hell's the matter with her?" he muttered to himself. "The spoiled, self-centered twit. Just because she got what she wanted. We needed . . . "
Cassius was frowning, too. "It's got to be a trick. She put the bombs on timer or something. Dees are always up to tricks."
"Cassius, they got Benjamin and Homer out. They look like they'll be all right. We'll be able to resurrect them."
"Uhm? Good. Maybe. If she didn't have them programmed, or something. What kind of deal did she make? It can't be anything good f
or us."
Michael turned on Mouse. The Dee cunning took control of his face. He shook with anticipation, sure his daughter would have made a worthy trade.
Mouse smiled at him. "Nothing. No deal. Just plain surrender. Like she didn't have anything to live for anymore, so she quit."
"But? . . . " Cassius started to ask.
Mouse glanced at Michael, who seemed appalled. "They killed her, Cassius. Beckhart himself shut her support systems down."
"Dead?" Dee asked in an incredibly tiny voice. "My little girl? All my children? You've killed all my babies?" Mouse sat up as a mad light caught fire in his uncle's eyes. "You murderers. My wife. My children . . . "
"They all got a clean death," Mouse snapped. "Which was damned well better than they deserved. They brought it on themselves."
Cassius took a step toward Dee, staring into his eyes.
He spoke slowly, twisting the knife. "He's right. They should have died a thousand deaths each, in fire. And even then they wouldn't have hurt enough to suit me."
Pollyanna screamed. "Mouse!"
Dee plunged forward.
Cassius was not expecting it. He suffered from the lifelong misconception that a coward could not act in circumstances where he did not hold the upper hand.
Michael Dee was a coward, but not incapable of acting.
Cassius's instant of delay cost him his life.
Dee knocked the pistol from his hand, caught it in the air, fired one lucky, nose-destroying shot before Mouse slammed into him from the side and sent the weapon skittering across the cabin. Cassius fell disjointedly, slowly, like an empire, almost in pieces, as if different parts of his body were being acted upon by varying gravities. His mechanical voice box made skritching, clacking noises, but no sound that could be interpreted as anger or a cry of agony. He piled up in a heap, twitching, voice box still making those strange noises.
Mouse and Dee thrashed about on the deck, the youth cursing incoherently and weeping while he tried to strangle his uncle.
At first Dee fought in pure panic. He scratched, kicked, bit. Then reason set in. He broke the stranglehold, writhed away, unleashed a kick that hit Mouse over the heart.
Mouse got onto hands and knees. He put all his strength into attaining his feet. The deck rushed toward him instead.
Dee poised for a killing kick to his throat.
"No."
He turned slowly.
Pollyanna held the weapon that had killed Cassius. Her hands shook. The weapon's muzzle waggled uncertainly, but threatened.
"Pollyanna, dear, put it down. I won't hurt you. I don't want to. Promise. This's between them and me. You're not part of it."
He used his silkiest voice. And he may have meant what he said. He had no real reason to harm her. Not then.
"Stand still," she said as he started toward her, hand reaching for the weapon. She was terrified. This was the moment for which she had been living. This was the instant for which she had put herself through a personal hell. "I am part of it. I owe you, August Plainfield."
Dee's whole face seemed to pucker with consternation.
"You don't even remember, do you? You bloody, cold-hearted snake. You don't even remember the name you used when you murdered my father."
"What on earth are you talking about, child? I've never murdered anyone."
"Liar! You damned liar. I saw you, Mr. August Plainfield of Stimpson-Hrabosky News. I was there. You gave him drugs and made him tell you about the Shadowline, and then you murdered him."
Dee went pale. "The little girl at the hospital."
"Yes. The little girl. And now it's your turn."
Dee attacked, diving first to one side, then bearing in.
Had he remained where he was, waiting, Pollyanna might never have pulled the trigger. In the crux, when it came time to take a life in cold blood, she was not as ready as she had thought.
Dee's sudden movement panicked her. She shot wildly, repeatedly. Her first bolt hit the control console. The second pierced Dee's leg. He pitched past her with a shriek of pain and despair. She fired again, wounding him again. Then again. And again.
Groggily, not even quite sure where he was, feeling like someone had tied an anvil to his chest, Mouse again forced himself up off the deck. He shook his head sharply, to clear the water from his eyes and get them into focus.
He saw Pollyanna pounding Dee's ragged, almost unrecognizable corpse with the butt of the spent weapon while babbling incoherencies about Frog. He dragged himself over, took the weapon away, folded her up in his arms and held her head against his chest.
"It's over now, Polly," he murmured. "It's over. It's all over. He's dead now. They're all dead but us." She cried for almost an hour, the hysteria-sobs gradually becoming the great, deep, soul-wrenching grief-sobs, and those eventually diminishing to sniffles, and finally, to nothing but the occasional whimper of an injured animal.
"You just stay here," he whispered when she finished. "I've got work to do. Then we can go away." He rose, went to the comm panel, found a frequency which worked, and resumed command of the Legion.
Fifty-Nine: 3032 AD
In the deep black gulf great engines throbbed. A ship more vast than many planet-bound cities began to move. Her commander ordered maximum tolerable acceleration. She had fallen months behind her sisters.
Clouds of smaller vessels gathered to her. They had finished their part in the Shadowline War. There were no more debts to pay.
The Starfisher decision-makers were saddened because the results had not been more positive. But history, like everything else, is seldom fair. The balance had been rectified, and that was enough.
The great ship fled ever farther into the deep.
Sixty: 3052 AD
Who am I? What am I?
I am the bastard child of the Shadowline. That jagged rift of sun-broiled stone was my third parent. Understand what happened there and you understand me. Stir that hard, infertile soil and you expose the roots of my hatreds.
The Shadowline and four men. Gneaus Julius Storm. Thaddeus Immanuel Walters. Michael Dee. Norbon w'Deeth. Stand me trial for what I am and you had better indict them too.
And that, my friend, is fact.
—Masato Igarashi Storm
EPILOGUE: HANGED MAN
The Hanged Man represents sacrifice or ordeal.
Afterward, though, he may feel his card is really The Fool.
Epilogue: 3052 AD
"That's it?" McClennon asked. Captain McClennon now. Midshipmen Storm and McClennon crewed the winning sunjammer in that long-ago Regatta.
Captain Masato Storm, Confederation Navy (Intelligence), replied, "You asked about the Shadowline and why I hate Sangaree. I told you." The ghosts of earlier days haunted his eyes as he studied the night sky thirty degrees off galactic center. There, in a few thousand years, if anyone were around to see from this vantage point, a bright new star would bloom.
McClennon freshened his drink. "Want to finish this game before Jupp gets here?" He moved to the chess table. Their game had been deadlocked for hours.
"I suppose." Mouse kept staring at the sky. "I can't believe it, I know it happened, but I still can't believe it."
Seldom had McClennon seen Mouse so disconnected. "Cassius and Dee dying might look like the end of it to you. Because they were the last principals. But you weren't really talking about the Legion. Or the Shadowline War. You were explaining the survivors. Especially Mouse."
"Maybe. You're right. Okay. We had to round up Michael's men and defuse those bombs and get our people out of the Shadowline. We did it, with the help from Darkside Landing and The City of Night . . . Wait a minute. What do you mean, explaining the survivors?"
"Seemed to me you were really explaining Masato Storm."
Mouse's gaze shifted to a section of sky where a new war raged. Humankind and its allies were locked in a ferocious struggle with a nasty enemy.
"You know, my uncle really blew it. He could've gotten away if he'd kept h
is cool."
"How so?"
"He always had that one more trick up his sleeve. The last one surprised everybody. We never had a hint till we found out we had to storm Edgeward."
"What do you mean?" McClennon asked, just trying to keep Mouse talking. He had worked for the commission investigating the Shadowline war. He knew most of the answers. But his friend needed herding out of the depth-less morass of depression.
"That trick of Michael's. He had some minority board members in his pocket. They pulled a coup. It wasn't hard to change their minds, but Michael could've changed his face and disappeared in the confusion."
"Then the commission descended on you."
"Like vultures. Lucky for me, my father, Cassius, and Richard had heavy drag in Luna Command. They didn't hurt us too bad. The holding corporation is still in business."
"What about the girl?"
"Polly? She went back to the Modelmog. Found out she couldn't stand the Shakespeare thing anymore. Changed her name again and went into holodrama. You'd recognize her if you saw her. She's completely different now. Getting something you want bad does that, I guess."
"And the Sangaree? Deeth?"
"Who knows?" Storm left the window long enough to fix himself a drink. "Maybe he died at Helga's World. Maybe during the Fortress attack. Maybe during the chase afterward. Or maybe he got away. Sometimes I think he did."
McClennon finally selected a move. He offered a pawn trade. "Your move. Why's that?"
"The Sangaree fleet the Starfishers engaged at Stars' End. That wasn't just a Family raidfleet. A dozen Families must have gone in on the operation. Which should have meant chaos in the fleet's command structure. But they were damned near as efficient as any human fleet."
"So?"
"So Deeth had a thing about organization and discipline. And he had the willpower and stubbornness and sheer insane vendetta spirit to put a thing like that together. I'm not saying it was him the Fishers fought. I'm just saying that fleet had his feel."
"Then you think you're going around the circle again? That now it's their turn to get revenge?"
