The drone was not a sophisticated, ambulatory model. It sat, square shaped and squat in the center of the tiny, airless room, plugged in by a tangle of interfacing to a semicircle of banks. Haufren shook his head at such an antiquated mess and waded in to see what he could do about inserting his own unauthorized message to be routed into the programming for Beros’ long-range transmissions. He made it short, crammed it into code, and repeated it once.
“Come on, Silta,” he whispered, and replaced the connections as he had found them.
A faint noise behind him made him turn, reaching instinctively for his weapon.
“Don’t try it,” growled Puce, filling the exit. He held a strifer aimed at Haufren, and below the goggles his face was set and angry. “Come out, and make it slow.”
Haufren obeyed, arranging his face to show chagrin and disappointment. He hoped Puce would think he hadn’t had a chance yet to send anything out. He didn’t dare try a push with this man. Walking carefully as Puce backed up, Haufren let himself be searched swiftly for weapons. Puce’s mouth tightened even more as he took the slim knife from Haufren’s boot. He held it up so that the thin blade gleamed in the soft, artificial light then slipped it out of sight up his sleeve.
He gestured with his strifer. “Move.”
Eager himself to get outside where he would have more maneuvering room, Haufren gave him no trouble. They left the building by a side door, surprising Haufren as he blinked outside in the bright sunlight spilling down into a dusty alley. A sled was parked there, pocked blue trim and windscreen gleaming.
“Get in,” said Puce. “You pilot.”
“I don’t know how.”
Their eyes met in a brief, hard clash of wills.
Puce changed the setting of his strifer to stun. “Pilot or sleep. Your choice.”
Awakening from a strifer stun was a particularly unpleasant ordeal, usually involving acute nausea and a splitting headache. Haufren stepped in and fitted his hips into the brace behind the controls.
“Where?” he asked, adopting Puce’s laconic tone.
“Due north.” Puce swung out a long arm to point.
Haufren barely masked the unpleasant jolt that order gave him. “To Beros? Why? I haven’t committed any serious wrong here. Just a little exploration—”
“Wearing a Ranger uniform, failing to present authorization for infringing on local jurisdiction, giving a false report of an accident.”
“You haven’t had time to check out my story.”
Puce looked at him cynically. “Danki is doing that. In the meantime, we go to Beros.” He stepped onto the sled and rammed the sharp point of his strifer painfully beneath Haufren’s ribcage. The area around the wound was still sore. Haufren winced and bit off an unwise remark. Frowning, he engaged the controls. Talking to Puce wasn’t going to do any good. He’d better save his breath and think of a way out.
The air jets whined to life. They shot up with stomach-lurching speed before wheeling sharply in a tight circle and heading north across the sea to the mainland. Puce hung on, seeming unconcerned by the wild ride as the wind bucked them violently.
Finally he said, “Regulations forbid us to fly as low as the transports. Clear the waves by about five meters and cut speed. It’s smoother that way.”
Haufren obeyed, grateful to have some ease from battling the controls. He glanced at Puce, who was leaning rather casually against his brace, and said, “Not many people recognize a Ranger uniform. Or do all you patrollers get training just to make sure we stay off-planet?”
Puce nearly smiled. Then his pale face sobered. “My lieutenant’s main ambition was to be a Ranger. Maybe some of her interest rubbed off on me.”
Haufren lifted a brow. So this was one of Costa’s friends. One of the two men she had mentioned that they could trust. “Your lieutenant’s female?” he said by way of conversation. “I thought Playworld had strictures against bi-gender military service.”
“No.”
Haufren sighed and tried again. “So she wants to be a Ranger. We’ve had a few good recruits from Playworld before. You people get fairly thorough training here. What’s her name? Maybe she’s on my recruitment list.”
“You’re not here to recruit anyone,” said Puce angrily, jabbing the strifer into Haufren’s ribs again. “And the lieutenant is marked for the Hall of Accusations as a traitor.”
“Serious.” Haufren increased speed to lift them over the mainland cliffs. “What has she done?”
“Not your concern, Ranger. Correct your course. That way.”
“Ambitious little lieutenants can be tough to serve under. I’ll bet you’re glad to be getting someone new.”
Puce made no response.
Haufren cursed to himself. How was he ever to find out if Puce were sympathetic to Costa, if the damned man wouldn’t cooperate? It would be stupid to fly all the way into Beros only to find out, too late, that they should be allies. Still, neither did he quite dare assume that the man was on Costa’s side. And if Puce wasn’t, it would be an irredeemable mistake to connect himself with the girl. Haufren frowned as they skimmed the treetops of the jungle, worrying over the problem. One thing he did know: he wasn’t going to Beros, not alive and not dead. Central HQ would not get their hands on this Ranger.
Puce unhooked his communicator from his belt and thumbed it on. “Field-corporal Puce calling Beros Central. Come in, please.”
Haufren glanced sharply at him as a low beep responded from the communicator. When Puce bent his head to speak into it, Haufren eased the sled imperceptibly closer to the tops of the trees. Fleet-admiral Vance would be disappointed, he thought sadly as Puce relayed the fact that he was bringing in an unauthorized Ranger. It would take someone in Beros about ten seconds to remember Costa’s earlier transmission about a Ranger. His entire mobility on this planet would be finished. Bungled, as Vance would say with scathing acerbity. Haufren’s eyes flicked to Puce then back to his controls as he moved the sled yet lower and increased speed until his hair whipped painfully back from his face.
It did no good now to think about the procedures he should have followed. He should have dumped his uniform immediately for less conspicuous clothing, claimed himself as a tourist lost and robbed of his identification, and sent out a message coded for assistance. Simple.
Only it hadn’t been simple. For one thing he hadn’t expected to be shot by the Kublai’s guard, drugged, and sealed into a stasis box. Waking up alive and on Playworld had been another shock. That unflinchingly competent girl just happened to be bucking for promotion into his own corps, so she immediately recognized one of the most unobtrusive uniforms ever designed for use in the galaxy. Hacking his way through kilometers of jungle had wasted days of precious time without giving him access to any resources so vital for extrication from this mess.
Haufren grimaced to himself. When he fouled up, he did so in a damned big way. Silta would not thank his grave for having to be the next one to come in here and clean up.
They were practically skimming the trees now. Puce snapped off communications and glanced up with a frown.
“Too low. Move up. And north is still that way.” He jerked a thumb to his right.
“What’s below us?” asked Haufren, looking down at the blackened and twisted skeletons of trees fallen and tossed in a jumble of torn undergrowth. The question was designed to distract Puce from the fact that he was not obeying the order, but then Haufren saw bloody, swollen carcasses of dead animals and vast, powdery mounds of stone rubble. His attention sharpened. “What happened here?”
“Explosion two weeks ago,” said Puce angrily. “Set. Probably by Drughans. Search teams couldn’t find proof though.”
“The fabled city of Kanta,” said Haufren with sudden understanding. He slowed the sled, his keen eyes taking in the signs of fresh destruction overlaying the old. “And the new Archives?”
“Gone.”
“Damn.” Haufren hovered over what he guessed had once been the central
temple. The cult had begun to focus here. He might have been able to learn a great deal, but now…He sighed. “It wasn’t the Drughans, Corporal.”
“Their Kublai is missing. We’re blamed.”
“Drughans are a very devoted people. They would not dare show disrespect to their ruler by destroying the origin site of his personal religion. I suggest you search elsewhere for your culprit.”
For a moment they stared at one another, the sled swaying slightly as it hovered over broken stone and dust strewn in dead patterns. Puce’s eyes stared into Haufren’s with open speculation. This was an intelligent patroller, Haufren realized, one like Costa who could think as well as act. A good man. A loyal man. A man who knew his duty and performed it. Wearily Haufren held down the brief spurt of admiration rising within him. Emotions interfered with the brain. If he should have to kill this man, he would, and whether he wanted to made no difference, just as it never had before.
“You know something of the situation,” said Puce, still eyeing him thoughtfully. “Of course. A Ranger here. Because of the Kublai.” Puce leaned forward. “You are the man Costa reported in her final transmission. Where is she?”
Haufren’s trained ear caught concern underlying that question. Swiftly he seized the chance to save Puce by making an ally of him.
“Are you her friend, as she told me you would be, or do you seek her arrest?”
Puce blinked in startlement behind the goggles. “Where is she?”
“On whose side are you, Corporal? Hers? Or Janal’s?”
“You know the commander?”
Haufren did not answer.
Puce frowned. “It is not a question of sides. She betrayed her squad and the Kublai’s party—”
“Don’t be a fool, man! She did no such thing!” Haufren snorted. “If you believe that, then you can’t have served with her long.”
Puce reddened. “You forget she is my lieutenant.”
“Then act like it! Are you with her, or not?”
“I’m…with her. But the commander—”
“—knows her innocence just as you do.” Haufren swept out a hand. “She has been framed for this. All she wants to do now is find the Kublai and reinstate herself. Will you help her?”
Puce hesitated, then suddenly lifted his strifer. “You are the betrayer! You were with the Kublai’s party. You knew the coordinates. You had no other reason to be on Playworld. Did you kill Costa?”
“No, you fool,” said Haufren, gritting his teeth in exasperation.
Puce almost smiled. “No. She would not be easy prey, even for a Ranger. Where is she?”
“With Duval.”
For an instant Puce’s eyes gleamed, then he nodded. “Good. That was wise of her. But she should not have left you unguarded.”
“Do you realize the implications of accusing a Ranger of a crime?” asked Haufren, beginning to lose his temper.
“You were her prisoner. For her to bring you through the jungle alone is a feat that will make her even greater among the warriors. Janal will clear her now. As soon as you arrive in Beros.”
“My presence won’t clear her! We need the Kublai—”
“Move,” said Puce coldly, jabbing his strifer back into Haufren’s side. “Due north. No more tricks.”
Haufren fumed as he pulled back on the controls and shot them up and away from the desolate ruins. “Rangers usually receive respect around the galaxy,” he said curtly. “Do you have a reason for doubting my word as an officer of that corps?”
“Yes.”
“Official?” Haufren shot him a sharp glance. “I know Playworld is hostile to outside policing forces, but I hadn’t heard of an active change in policy.”
Puce just stared back at him. “Personal,” he said.
“Explain,” said Haufren, wondering where this man was from. Not originally from Playworld, not with that pallid, sunburned skin and those nocturnal eyes.
Puce shook his head. “Explain?” he said harshly. “Why should I? You’re going to the Hall of Accusations.”
Haufren sighed, giving up. A stubborn fool could be offered only so many chances.
“Move up!” said Puce. “I told you not to skim these trees.”
Haufren grimly increased speed and lowered the sled until leaf tips slapped against the bottom.
“Move up!”
A limb snagged them, rocking the sled violently as it sped on. Haufren pressed his lean flank hard against the inadequately padded brace, and gave the controls a swift yank. The sled tipped with an angry squall of the little engine and Puce flailed a long arm as he fought not to fall off.
He shouted in anger and fired the strifer point-blank just as Haufren tipped the sled again. Two fierce needle spits of fire burned Haufren’s arm, making him jerk, grimacing against the pain. He hung on grimly, pulling up the nose of the sled this time so that another shot went entirely wild. Puce clung with equal determination, crying out hoarsely as Haufren ducked behind the windscreen and sent them diving down into the trees. Branches snapped and whipped around them, raking the sled as Haufren braced himself and kept the insane speed constant. A broad leaf slapped him in the face, stinging it fiercely, blinding him momentarily. The sled wobbled in his hands, and he blinked desperately to clear his sight in time to tip them through a thick congestion of sawtooth vines.
The vines snaked around the sled, blown by the air jets. Puce screamed something, but by this time Haufren realized his mistake as the vines lashed and crossed about them, ripping the shoulders and back of his tunic to shreds. Haufren jerked in agony. The sled bucked in his hands, coughed in gut-wrenching hesitation against a thickening wall of vines ahead, and dipped again. He staggered and slipped to one knee, losing his hold on the controls altogether, and choked off a cry as his wounded arm was thrown against the dash. The control stick jammed, refusing to unlock when he seized it again.
The nose of the sled slammed into a thick limb, making the whole craft shudder as it careened off. Carpals rose up ahead of them in a vast flock of screaming, flapping bodies and razor-sharp talons. One struck the windscreen, shattering it in a brief rain of plexiglass over Haufren as he struggled with the controls.
“Are you crazy?” shouted Puce, clinging desperately with blood splattering from his cut hands and face. The strifer was gone; he was using both hands to hang on. “The intake’s choked with leaves. We’ll crash—”
Haufren heard the engine cough again and felt a shudder through the deck under his feet. He gritted his teeth and tipped the craft again, knowing that if he didn’t dislodge Puce this time he would be forced to cut speed.
Puce flopped to his stomach, grunting as though the wind was knocked from him. One hand came loose, flailed wildly, and grasped hold again. Haufren tipped the sled further on its side to an insane forty-five degrees, feeling his own tenuous balance going. One of his braced feet slipped. He fell, slid, and saved himself only by hooking one leg desperately around the rear support of his pilot’s brace. Puce snarled something, taking one hand from his precarious hold to unclip a cutter from his belt. From the corner of his eye, Haufren saw the blades snap out, and knew with a lurch of fear that there was no way to duck. Puce’s arm drew back for the throw, and Haufren could see the deadly intent gleaming through the goggles. Then a branch caught Puce and raked him off. Haufren had just enough time to gasp in relief before the engine coughed its last and cut abruptly, plunging him and the dead craft straight down through crashing, breaking, snapping limbs, tipping over until he was beneath the sled. Then his hold failed completely and he was falling faster and faster, caught and bounced by branches only to be dropped a split second later, falling ahead of the sled by diminishing centimeters, and knowing during the long, bitter, terrifying way down that when he hit the ground his only hope was to die before the sled landed on top of him.
Chapter Nine
Sick disbelief washed over Costa. She stared at Duval and slowly shook her head, too defeated to even try to get away.
�
��Not you,” she whispered. “Oh, Moii, Duval, not you.” Her eyes filled with tears, blurring his implacable face.
He frowned, and for an instant his dark, deep-set eyes softened beneath their craggy brows. “Costa—”
Angry at her own weakness and furiously disappointed in him, she dashed at her tears. Her hand, as it came down, brushed against the butt of her strifer, and Duval immediately stiffened.
“Come inside,” he growled, gesturing with his strifer.
She obeyed, shutting her eyes as the heavy stone door slid shut behind her. Now she was trapped in the outer courtyard of the sieghr. The fountain murmured steadily beneath the sounds of laughter and chatter from one of the upper windows. Costa gritted her teeth, certain Duval’s wives were all gathered above to watch. She could imagine their exclamations as they recognized her, and at that moment as everything within her shredded into torn, bleeding pieces, she was glad she could not hear what they must be saying.
“Your weapon, Costa.”
Her eyes flew open. Wordlessly she unbelted her strifer and let it fall to the clay tiles underfoot.
“And your sleeve knife. Must I ask for it, Costa? Is there not shame enough on this house?”
“I am no traitor!” she said, stiffening. “You cross my honor by saying so—”
“Honor!” He struck her sharply across the mouth with his hand, making her reel back. “You defile the word, adapt.”
Recoiling from the hatred in his voice, she touched her stinging lip and spat out blood. “Duval—”
“Wasn’t it enough for you to grow up under shame, always having to prove yourself over and over, never quite free of the shadow of what you are? For years I have followed you, served under your command, fought for you. And now you have turned on us, all of us. Why, Costa? Why?”
The Omcri Matrix Page 11
