“No hard feelings,” Teg told the dead man who’d seen him trudge out of the swamp. If the fool’s last act hadn’t been screaming about invaders from the marsh, he’d be sleeping off a concussion instead of going room temperature in a deep freeze.
Teg checked the pockets of his new clothes and turned up the usual wallet and keys, plus a well-used folding knife with a horn handle, a pack of waterproof matches, an empty tube of insect repellant, a plastic comb, and a cheap pair of sunglasses.
Documents in the wallet identified the grizzled-looking deceased as “Amit Scrope” and declared him a “Protected Citizen”.
Didn’t protect him from a crushed trachea.
Combing the slime out of his hair, Teg consoled himself with the knowledge that Astlin could have picked far worse drop zones.
Wakerife Marsh was a rambling expanse of coastal swampland bordering Temil’s capital of Vigh. Over hundreds of years the marsh had largely resisted the city’s attempts at southward expansion, thanks largely to persistent legends about strange goings-on in the untold miles of stagnant lakes and waterlogged woods.
Teg had learned to use the local folklore to his advantage during a stint running guns to this very shop. Decades back the last owner had vanished amid fantastically wild rumors. The place’s unsavory reputation was probably why Scrope’s cries had gone unheard.
If Teg was lucky.
No sense waiting around to find out.
Teg reluctantly ditched his bulky holster and stowed his gun inside the jacket with Scrope’s knife. He debated keeping the ID to get past checkpoints, but his sandy hair and lack of a tan would quickly betray the ruse. Instead he pocketed the dead man’s cash and tossed the wallet into the freezer before shutting the lid.
Making sure that his new pants concealed the short sword strapped to his thigh, Teg climbed the stairs to the back door, put on the scuffed sunglasses, and stepped into an empty carpark lit by the tropical sun and green-white bursts of orbital fire.
Suspicion over why a local had been heading to the same old smugglers’ den as him prompted Teg to retrace Scrope’s path. The man’s rather obvious trail led down the highway’s muddy shoulder to a light green drifter. Though grimy and dented, it was relatively new.
Figures that the last sphere we find is the only one that didn’t burn back to the stone age.
Anticipation lightened Teg’s heart and fingers as he approached the derelict vehicle.
It’s been too long.
After a slow start, the Formula quickly reconstructed the last minutes of Scrope’s life. Based on the relative age of impressions left in the mud by the car and its pilot, Scrope had started walking down the road roughly half an hour ago; a few minutes after landing.
Before that he’d been drifting down the westbound lane. With blobs invading from the east, that made sense. What didn’t make sense was finding the car safely parked; not crumpled into a meat-filled steel ball.
Teg knew what a Working disruption field felt like, and he’d felt a big one right after getting dumped in the swamp. One didn’t normally flee an invasion at a leisurely pace, and if Scrope had suddenly lost power at speed, the first tree in his path would’ve saved Teg some trouble.
Had Scrope been forewarned to land ahead of the field? Possible, but unlikely. If he’d known when the field would be used, he wouldn’t have been caught in the middle of nowhere.
Dismantling the dash with Scrope’s knife hinted at the answer to one mystery and brought up several others. Though years more advanced than any Teg had seen, the drifter’s parts were still identifiable—all except for a strange box hidden behind the control yoke.
The box just fit in Teg’s palm. Its casing was some kind of ceramic-polymer hybrid totally bereft of markings—no model or serial numbers and no branding. The only breaks in its smooth grey surface were small ports for wires leading to every main control system.
Someone landed the drifter for him.
A beaten green case on the passenger side floor caught Teg’s eye. It contained hooks, spools of heavy line, plastic floats, small steel weights, and colorful fake bugs. That and the shiny blue earpiece left on the driver’s seat told the rest of the tale.
Teg felt a pang of sympathy for the man whose fishing trip had been cut short by a war he hadn’t caused, whose escape had been cut short by parties unknown, and whose life had been cut short while he’d been looking for help.
Since fretting wouldn’t bring Scrope back, Teg focused on the problem at hand. He was trespassing on foreign soil at best. At worst he was behind enemy lines. The locals’ high technology—and their willingness to control people with it—would make staying unnoticed a pain in the ass.
To say nothing of recovering his ship and his friend’s husband from whatever secret hole the sphere’s rulers had stashed them in.
The Defense Service probably blew them both to hell, Thought Teg. That possibility would make things easier. Which was why he doubted it was true.
Teg picked up Scrope’s discarded sending stud and almost checked to see if it was working again. Instead he cut the mystery box out of the dash, attached the stud and a handful of floaters to it with some waterproof tape from the fishing kit, and tossed the whole package into a murky stream running beside the road.
Further interruptions were unlikely, so Teg conducted a thorough check of the cockpit, trunk, and engine. When no other suspect devices turned up, a little more tape saw the controls fixed and Teg flying down the road behind them.
Astlin took in the landscape beyond the nexus-runner’s open hatch. Neatly trimmed hedges enclosed lavish lawns. Calm pools mirrored a sky torn by green-white flashes, and the steamy air smelled of roses.
All of these matched the telepathic impressions she’d received. What struck her were the differences.
Rich carpets woven in complex patterns of red, purple, and gold covered the ground from the black and grey stone landing pad all the way down a broad gravel path as white as the tower at its end.
Soldiers standing at attention in sky blue uniforms lined either side of the path, the barrels of their rifles angled toward the ground. Their faces showed no emotion.
A shorter line of people waited at the edge of the landing pad. They wore expensive-looking suits and dresses, and sweat beaded on their foreheads. One of them—a tall man with a square fleshy face and receding blond hair—called up to her.
“On behalf of the Assembly and all our citizens, welcome to the Free Sphere of Temil.”
This is weird, thought Astlin.
The speaker went on like a politician running for ward boss. “It’s my privilege to extend you every honor and courtesy.”
Astlin didn’t have time for speeches. She rifled through the speaker’s mind for any knowledge of Xander.
The politician—she’d gotten that one right—was Kroylan Renneker, a senex of Temil’s Assembly. His gloating contempt for the people he supposedly served belied his claim that the sphere was free. Actually a cabal of government, military, and business leaders ruled Temil as absolutely as any monarch.
Which, oddly, Renneker thought Astlin was.
They turned away the Serapis, but they’re giving me a queen’s welcome. Why?
“…emerged from the crisis of the Guild’s fall to forge a society according to the pattern of reason…” Renneker continued.
Astlin ignored his words and dug deeper into his thoughts. It didn’t take her long to figure out that Renneker knew far less than a real ruler should. He had no information on Xander, and his false impression of her as a visiting head of state came from a council of advisors called the Magisterium.
While Renneker droned on, Astlin expanded her mental search to the other five dignitaries. None of them knew any more than the senex. Their thoughts were a mix of amused fascination with her and anxiety over whether the council of Magists could hold off the invasion.
The Magists, Astlin noted, not the Defense Service.
She unconsciously played with t
he steel washer that encircled her finger. Seeing her ring of base metal reminded Renneker of a riddle the Magists’ messenger had told him.
Gold is most queens’ fortune; hers was brass.
The stray thought shook Astlin to her soul. She swept down the boarding ramp, onto the lush carpets, and past a stunned Senex Renneker, who halted in mid-speech as she marched by.
The welcoming committee burst into angry chatter. Renneker urged her to wait, but Astlin kept going until she stood amid the silent double row of soldiers.
The Magists knew about her shadowed past. There would be a spy here—if not one of the local figureheads, then someone who seemed to be guarding them.
The soldiers’ minds gave up no answers. Either Astlin was wrong, and Temil really was governed by civil servants chosen by the people and advised by a council of elders, or the sphere’s secret rulers taught their spies how to hide their thoughts.
With Xander’s life on the line, Astlin took a gamble.
“Someone here works for the Magists,” she said. “Take me to them.”
A young soldier with a friendly face stepped from the line, gave her a slight bow, and said, “It would be a pleasure, My Lady.”
The soldier started toward the white tower, and Astlin joined him. Abandoned beside the landing pad, Renneker and his friends fell silent.
16
Teg sped up the coastal highway in his stolen drifter. The sea was a glittering sheet of blue glass on his right. On the northern horizon, luxury resorts towered over Vigh’s fabled Silver Strand.
Folks ascribed the silver moniker to rumors that you could get anything there—if you had enough of it. Multiple stretches on shore leave had confirmed the tales, but this time Teg’s search would take him across the reach to what had been the Guild’s private island.
The knife-edged Gen ship loomed over the capital like the white tower’s heavenly shadow. The intervening atmosphere lightened the ship’s black hull to a washed-out grey, but the pulsing flash of its assault on the shield was as bright as lightning.
Teg was so busy staring at the sky that he almost plowed into the woman standing in the middle of the road. Instead his peripheral vision gave his reflexes just enough warning to slam on the brakes.
His pulse pounding in his ears, old habit overcame Teg’s shock enough to train his senses on the stranger he’d nearly flattened.
She looks like one of the stiffs in the hangar, he thought, comparing her black hair and grey skin to those of Izlaril’s dead friends.
The female Night Gen—which Teg surmised she was—showed remarkably little fear for someone who’d been about to lose a fight with a two ton vehicle. She stood facing him, her chest level with the front bumper, so close he could make out the sharkskin sheen of her tight black suit. Her green eyes matched the drifter’s paint.
Teg considered hitting the accelerator and running the Gen down anyway. After all, her side were the aggressors, here. But it occurred to him that she wasn’t currently with her side. He’d rather not kill her till he found out why.
Sliding his right hand into the jacket pocket that held his gun, Teg beckoned the woman with his left.
She readily complied. Teg angled the still concealed gun toward her as he lowered the driver side window to frame her pretty head.
“What?” he grumbled.
“It is good that I found you,” she said in a strange accent.
“Why?”
“We are both fugitives. You came here on a stolen nexus-runner.”
Teg discreetly thumbed back the gun’s hammer. “How did you know?”
“I can see what others cannot,” she said, “like the gun in your jacket. Now put it down, let me in, and we can talk.”
“Nope.” Teg applied the accelerator, and the drifter pulled forward.
The Gen woman stood dumbstruck in the middle of the road for a second before she ran after him, shouting something he couldn’t make out.
Teg slowed the drifter. After a moment, the woman caught up.
“Wait,” she huffed, jogging beside the window. “We can help each other.”
“You first,” said Teg. “Tell me who you are and why you’re here.”
“I am Celwen.” She paused before saying, “I deserted from the Night Gen fleet.”
“Better go wait over there.” Teg pointed to the muddy shoulder of the road. “The highway patrol will really want to talk to you.”
Celwen’s expression was determined, but her eyes betrayed fear. “I will be sure to tell them about you.”
Teg stopped the car. “Okay. Get in.”
Celwen hurried around to the passenger side while Teg raised his window. She threw the tackle box in the back seat, climbed, in and slammed the door behind her.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. Her grey skin glowed with sweat. She smelled like she’d gone diving in runoff from a shoe factory.
“You’re welcome.” Teg had the gun drawn and aimed at her face before he finished the sentence. “Now tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now and dump you back in the ocean.”
Celwen glanced at the gun barrel for only a moment before her eyes met Teg’s.
“I am running from both sides,” she said, her calm audibly fraying at the edges, “just like you.”
“I’m not running from anyone,” said Teg.
Realization gleamed in Celwen’s green eyes. “You are hunting, then. I can help find what you seek.”
The Night Gen’s claim piqued Teg’s curiosity. “Can you find a ship?”
Celwen’s focus seemed to wander far afield. “I can tell you that another vehicle is approaching us from behind.”
Teg wasn’t stupid enough to look away from his prisoner, but he did check the rear-view mirror out of the corner of his eye.
A light blue drifter rounded a bend about a mile behind them. The sun glinted off its mirror finish.
Teg stuffed the gun back into his pocket and eased the drifter up to speed, being careful to stay under the limit. He kept one eye on the curving road ahead and the other on his odd passenger while stealing glances at the trailing vehicle.
Trailing, but definitely gaining. Soon the silver-blue drifter had fallen in behind them, matching their speed roughly ten car lengths back.
Sweat loosened Teg’s grip on the wheel. He maintained his course and speed, expecting sirens to blare and lights to flash from the other car at any moment.
I’m probably just being paranoid. The blue drifter didn’t have police or military markings, whatever that was worth. The two figures dimly visible behind the tinted windscreen might be an ordinary couple out for a leisurely drive.
Along an exposed seaside highway during an alien invasion.
“Can you see who’s in that car?” Teg asked.
After a brief pause Celwen said, “Two men in dark blue jackets and pants. Mirrored glasses hide their eyes.”
Standard issue operators, thought Teg.
Then again, Celwen might be lying to him. He couldn’t think of a reason why she would, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one.
Teg fell back on a time-tested method for spotting a tail. He slowed down and sped up at random, climbed to the drifter’s limited flight ceiling without warning, and swerved between lanes.
In short, he drove like a moron.
Civilian drivers would have passed him. Police would have hit their lights and pulled him over. Whoever was piloting the blue drifter matched Teg’s every move.
“Yeah, they’re following us,” said Teg.
He mashed the accelerator into the floor. Celwen gave a curt squeal as she was pushed back into her seat.
Teg took a few sharp turns at speed and got back on a straight stretch before checking the mirror again.
The blue car rounded the last corner. Teg expected it to quickly close the distance, but for some reason the almost certainly faster vehicle hung back.
Celwen twisted around to look through the back window. “Have they given up?”
> Teg hoped so, but he knew a more likely explanation. “They’re probably trying to shut us down by remote. We need to lose them before they figure out they can’t.”
Vigh’s infrastructure refused to cooperate with Teg’s plan. The road ahead wended toward the still distant skyline in a series of cliff-hugging curves. He saw nothing to either side but uninterrupted woods on the left and a wire fence on the right above a sheer drop to the sea.
“Here they come again,” Celwen said.
The mirror told Teg that he’d been right about the blue car’s superior speed. Now that his pursuers had realized they couldn’t stop their quarry remotely, they seemed hellbent on doing the job up close and personal.
Teg could handle a drifter better than an average slob off the street, but he wouldn’t list it among his specialties.
His tail was clearly far more practiced. Despite Teg’s best evasive driving, the blue car charged up alongside his, wrenching a cry from Celwen as it thudded into her door. Teg’s mind raced and his muscles strained against the other driver’s attempts to force him off the road and into the trees.
“Up ahead!” Celwen yelled.
Teg shifted his focus from the blue drifter beside his to the road, where a wickedly sharp curve lay just ahead.
“Duck!” said Teg.
Celwen got the message when he drew his gun and aimed at the passenger window. She bent down and covered her head an instant before Teg fired. The gunshots drowned out Celwen’s screams as glass pebbles rained down on her. The blue car’s dark window spiderwebbed but didn’t break. Still, the other driver got the hint and fell back.
The road ahead looped hard left around a small inlet. There was no way to slow down in time, so Teg floored it. He thought of warning Celwen, but if her ears were ringing as bad as his, she wouldn’t hear him anyway.
Teg wasn’t an expert on how drifters worked. He did know they were based on the same Workings as protective auras and airlifts, and that the column of force needed a solid surface to push against—which was why they were useless in the Air Stratum.
The Secret Kings Page 14
