Commodore Saukkonen pursed his lips and cocked his head at the Dancer, which he held cradled in his arm. “True,” he said. “True. What do you propose?”
Donovan rose and began to pace. “One may succeed where many fail. A small courier ship may slip across the Rift and escape notice. Is that not right, Ravn?”
“Obviously,” the blond woman said without now a trace of accent. “I’ve done it myself.”
“And if this courier carried the Twisting Stone with him, he could undermine authority on selected worlds; soften them up for the Mighty 3rd. Then, when you swoop in to disarm them, they will be agreeable. Is that not a better plan?”
Saukkonen’s brow knit and his eyes lost their limpid clarity. “It sounds…I think…Yes. It may be a good idea, at that.”
Ravn nodded enthusiasm. Donovan’s own heart swelled with pride that his commander had so complimented his proposal. Quickly now.
His pacing brought him behind the commodore’s chair and fast as a black mamba striking, Donovan reached over his shoulder and seized the Dancer, which slid like a bar of soap from the man’s fingers.
He nodded to himself. Another suspicion confirmed.
“Don’t move, Commodore,” he said, and with those words he felt the power course through him. Saukkonen sat back in his chair, his eyes full of fear and bewilderment.
“Don’t worry, Bakhtiyar. I bear you no ill will. I only need your service. As you’ve already agreed, I will invade the Confederacy for you. A fleet is too big a thing for an invasion; but a single man…Yes? Call the field and order a courier ship fueled and provisioned for me. The swiftest ship you’ve got. Survey class alfvens. Supplies for a seven-week journey. Will you do that for me?”
“Of course,” said Saukkonen, already reaching for his comm. “Why wouldn’t I?”
In a sane universe, Saukkonen could have suggested several reasons why he shouldn’t agree; but the universe hadn’t been sane since Maggie Barnes shifted the backhoe on a nameless world off Spider Alley.
While Saukkonen gave brisk orders on the comm, Donovan took Ravn aside and spoke so the commodore could not hear. “I will take the Stone across the Rift to Those of Name. Along the way, I will investigate the reasons why our ships have disappeared there. When you contact your handler, you may tell him that League ships have also disappeared and they suspect the Confederacy of seizing them.”
Ravn nodded her head once, sharply. “Yes, they would readily believe that.”
“Tell them it may be a wise thing to call a joint commission to discuss the issue.”
“Excellent,” cried Ravn Olafsdottr. “Our master will be pleased with you.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” Donovan told her, “until you’re sure of who our master is.”
Donovan found it quite eerie to cross the hard to the ship that had been readied for him. Everyone he encountered bent immediately to do his bidding. Some indeed because Saukkonen had given orders obeyed in the normal course of naval affairs. But also ’Saken STC, which agreed without question when he asked for an immediate lift window and priority scheduling for the microwave boosts. It would be a long, hard crawl to the Abyalon Road. After that…Well, Hanseatic Point was closer, but he knew he would go to Sapphire Point for the crossing. He wondered why he should attempt the more closely patrolled crossing. Then, he remembered that Grimpen had informed Fir Li of the ICC’s trans-stellar communicator, and laughed.
He also found it exhilarating to be free of the muddled cocoon of the Fudir. He had worked long and hard to build that persona, to make it more than a mask. But he had learned that while he might forget about the Game, the Game would not forget about him; and the life of a petty thief and scrambler in the back alleys of Jehovah, while it did have its charms, was rather more circumscribed than Donovan was used to. Sleep well, Fudir, he said. Until I have need of you again.
In the run-up to the Abyalon Ramp, when ’Saken had red-shifted behind him, his thoughts drifted to the Fudir’s quondam companions and he wondered, though only for a brief moment, what had become of them.
“Perhaps I should have tracked them down and told them to forget everything,” he said to the Stone. (Well, it would be a long transit, and he needed someone to talk to.) “But that would have been very hard. If they forgot the chase for the Dancer, they would have wondered how they wound up together in a seedy hotel in Chel’veckistad.
“I know,” he told the Stone. “It would have been easier to tell them to kill each other. Maybe I should have done that, but…” But all those years wearing the Fudir had softened him. He would miss Bridget ban tonight. He would miss Little Hugh’s companionship. He would even miss sparring with Greystroke. It bothered him that he would have killed them, had that been convenient. Killing strangers was far easier.
Saukkonen and the Raven had taught him a little of the limits of limitless power. If someone knew the Stone was being used on him, it was more difficult to impose one’s will. One must guide the conversation in such a way that commands not only seemed natural, but seemed the subject’s own ideas.
“That must be why the legends persisted,” he told the Stone. “I could have told Saukkonen to forget he ever had you; but I could never track down everyone who had ever known he had it. Even if I had the Ourobouros Circuit, I might cover ninety, ninety-nine percent of them. But there would always be a few who were missed. And they would remember, and they would write down the legends.”
The days ran by and he entered the Abyalon Road at last. There had been a few radioed messages. From Saukkonen, he thought; perhaps from Bridget ban, or Hugh. But he had not responded to them. Now that he was off-planet, his control was weakening. The commodore, in particular, must be wondering what madness had come over him. Perhaps he was begging in these messages that Donovan not start a war with the Confederacy. Ravn—had she escaped the Yard or not, once her allegiance to Saukkonen had faded? If she had, she would be confident that Donovan was doing the right thing, because it was what Donovan would have told her whether he had the Dancer or not. And if she hadn’t escaped, then it didn’t matter.
“Bridget ban knows how the game is played,” he told the Stone. “If her own weapon was turned against her, she’ll learn to live with it. And perhaps be less vulnerable the next time. And Hugh…Well, it was time he grew up some more.”
Yet he could not conjure their faces without seeing a look of betrayal on them.
It was not until he was in the groove—“in the fookin’ groove,” he heard the ghost of Slugger O’Toole say—on the Palisades Parkway, that he sat down to have a serious talk with the Stone.
Behind him, on Old ’Saken, the ICC household troops turned out in such numbers that even the Forsaken Planetary Manager took alarm and called out the civil police. “We can’t have private justice, now, can we?” he asked in those oh-so-reasonable tones with which the Forsaken irritated the people of Die Bold and Friesing’s World.
Killers fleeing Die Bold justice, the tellies cried. But they had only crude sketches of Hugh and Ravn to go by, and Hugh remained secluded in an insect-infested hotel in the Fourteenth. Lady Cargo had a vague recollection that “Ringbao” had been accompanied by another man but she could not for the life of her recall what he looked like.
They were aware of Grimpen, too; but again, except for his size, his particulars were not specific, nor were they entirely sure he was connected with the others. ICC detectives rousted a great many large men in Chel’veckistad, and some of those large men did not take the rousting well. There was a near-riot in the fashionable Third District, and that is what triggered the PM’s intervention.
The shootout on the Great Green with the willowy blond-and-black woman left three dead, none of them the suspect, and opened the civil police to charges of recklessness. Greystroke believed that Ravn had deliberately fired behind her to create civilian casualties that could be blamed on the police; but he could not prove it, then or later, and in any case the ’Fed agent disappeared.
&nbs
p; Once, while shopping for groceries, Bridget ban encountered one of the ICC guards who had questioned the Fudir and her on the hillside overlooking Dalhousie Estates. There was nothing to connect her with the Die Bold killings, but the ICC was now suspicious of anyone who had been near the compound.
But it was the subordinate, the Terran, whom she ran into. She saw that he recognized her, and her arms full of groceries at the time. But he only shook his head and said, “You were with him,” and passed on by. After that, however, only Greystroke ventured forth from their rooms.
The waiting game grew tedious, especially for Hugh, of whose face a rough approximation had been broadcast planet-wide. But even Greystroke and the Hounds found themselves chafing after two and a half weeks.
There was a common room at the hotel, and it had a ’visor for the use of the residents. Bridget ban and her people had been avoiding it, for fear of being influenced by the Dancer. But after they had read of Saukkonen’s firing by Lady Cargo and his consequent defiance, it became clear that neither of them had the Dancer. The Fudir must have carried it off to liberate Terra. They were discussing how they might penetrate the Confederacy, when another resident pounded on the door of Bridget ban’s room and hollered, “Ya gotta see this!”
It was not a ruse. Most residents of the Fourteenth were themselves people who did not want to be found, or who had simply lost themselves. Strangers in their midst were carefully ignored.
The ’visor was broadcasting a continuing story—“breaking news,” in the local dialect—and it was not clear at first what had triggered “the emergency cabinet meeting” or “the order to all vessels to stand down” or even “the hope for a peaceful resolution.” Surely, no rievers would ever dare a planet like Old ’Saken! Perhaps it was Megranome? There were small systems in contention among the Old Planets. Piracy, raids, annexations, coups de main, but there had not been a trans-stellar war since the affair between Valency and Ramage on the far side of the Silk Road.
“Here are the visuals once again,” the newsreader announced. “The ships emerged from the Abyalon road at are-four, Chelvecki time.”
Against the stellar backdrop, cameras on revenue cutters hunted and tracked and locked on.
“Ah,” said Greystroke. “That’s Justiciar. And Victory. And, and Argos. And—” He could not contain himself and whooped for joy. “And that’s Hot Gates herself!”
The cutter’s angle of view widened, jittered, then adjusted for the relative velocities of the tracked ships. It was the entire Sapphire Point Squadron.
Bridget ban could not believe it. Fir Li had abandoned his station!
Grimpen smiled. “I’m glad Dark-hound reads his mail.”
“It’s time,” Donovan told the Twisting Stone, “that you and I had a heart-to-heart talk. Should I call you ‘Stonewall’? It’s the name we best know you by. You’re no scepter, are you? You are the Big Cheese himself.”
The Stone made no answer.
“How long were you imprisoned before January’s ship happened to break down? Not as long as the legends say, that’s for certain. But then, you—or your rivals—had a hand in those legends. It was your folk who uprooted the old Commonwealth of Suns. Dao Chetty never had the bones to do something like that. You told us, and we believed it—only you couldn’t get that elusive hundredth percent.
“It must have been a long, tedious wait for you. How many other ships have slip-slid right past you? But then, how can we measure the patience of a rock?
“Excuse me, of a ‘silicon-based lifeform.’ Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I think carbon has more fun. We certainly get around more.”
He looked at the courier ship’s calendar. “I suppose Sapphire Point is unguarded by now. To secure a trans-stellar communicator? Yes, even Fir Li would take that chance. Did Grimpen notify Fir Li on his own, or did he come within your range during one of his jaunts? No, sending notice was proper Kennel procedure. You’re just taking advantage of it. Hanower and her partners are still patrolling Hanseatic Point. Too many questions, and I don’t have the paperwork.
“This way, we can slip right across St. Gothard’s Pass, no questions asked. Into the Rift. That must have been one honey of a war, Stone, to have wiped out so many suns. I hope none of them were Commonwealth Suns. I don’t mean to sound testy, but I hope they were all yours, or your rivals’, and you were all pretty much wiped out.
“But there must be something left. Something in the Rift, or you wouldn’t be trying so hard to get back there. And no ships would be missing.
“Well yes, it was obvious you were trying to reach the Rift, that you were the prime mover in all this. Do you know when I was certain? Not when January gave it up to Jumdar so easily. Oh, I can see now why he did. January wasn’t going toward the Rift, and Jumdar would have sent it straight to ’Saken, so you, hmm, ‘nudged’ him. It can’t be easy for a rock like you to work your will on the old carbon-based noodle.” He tapped himself on the head, and wondered if he was altogether himself. “You can nudge us, but you haven’t the words to command us.”
That struck him as funny. He would have to ask the Fudir about it the next time they met.
When he had grown serious once again, he said, “No, what convinced me at last was how easily Saukkonen let me have you. You realized that I had a better chance in a monoship—not of entering the Confederation, but of being ambushed and taken by your friends. So you ‘switched horses.’”
Donovan paused and shook his head. “The more I don’t want to do this, the more I know I must.” He placed the Stone in the copilot’s chair and sat facing it, not touching it. “I can’t let you do it, you know. I can’t let you bring it all back. The old legends are fun to read, but they would have been a horror to live through.”
Donovan left the Stone where it was—it was not, under the circumstances, a flight risk—and climbed belowdecks to the equipment locker. Old King Stonewall was trying to drive him crazy, but he didn’t know if any part of the courier ship was out of range.
He should just give up and take the Stone into the Rift. That would be the path of least resistance.
Until, something came out of the Rift. The people of sand and iron. Weaker maybe, but with undivided leadership this time. No rivals to kill each other off, or imprison each other on far-off planets.
He sighed and climbed back up the ladder to the flight deck. Perhaps if he didn’t actually touch it. There seemed to be some need for organic contact. Perhaps they could only work through organic beings. Wasn’t there an old legend about Anteus and Hercules? But the touch of the Stone was so soothing.
The irresistible object, he reminded himself. It’s trying to seduce you. “I’ve been seduced by prettier ones than you,” he told the Stone.
He found a manipulating arm in the cargo bay. It was not a very large one of its kind, and he spent several hours—having grown unaccountably clumsy with the tools—to detach the outer portion. Then he carried it back to the flight desk.
He checked the settings on the pilot’s console.
Still right in the groove.
Unless that was only what King Stonewall wanted him to think.
He used the arm extension to pick up the Twisting Stone.
It was extremely valuable. There were collectors who would pay him handsomely for it.
He carried it to the airlock and set it inside.
It was a priceless relic of a long-gone people. Hell, it was a long-gone people…
The folk of sand and iron.
He closed the inner lock. Hesitated. Began to open it again. Then, with a curse, hit the pneumatics.
The pins shot into place and the air pumps began to evacuate the chamber. Donovan aborted the cycle. He wanted the chamber full of air.
When the outer lock swung open the air puffed out, taking the Twisting Stone with it.
“After all,” said Donovan, “this too is a home.”
It was two weeks down the Palisades Parkway from Hanseatic to Sapphi
re Point. For most of that time, Donovan watched the Twisting Stone tumbling away from the courier ship, maintaining the same forward velocity, but now with a lateral component. Now and then, he kicked up the magnification to keep it in view.
Donovan was traveling well under local-c, so the Stone passed through the first few lamina with no ill effect. But then it hit a layer of space whose local-c was less than its net velocity and in a wink it was gone. The ripple in space-time was minor. The next ship to pass would not even notice it.
Donovan continued to stare at the viewer, long after the impact site had fallen behind his craft. Then he resumed the pilot’s seat, checked that he was still in the groove, and wept.
An Iarfhocal
“And so it ends on a geantraí,” the harper says. “A joyous triumph after all.”
They have reached the bridge over the Bodhi Creek. The bridge is high-arched, and well known from souvenir art; but it is late and it is dark and no one is on the bridge but the scarred man and herself.
“Is it?” says the scarred man. He has stopped and has leaned his arms on the bridge’s rail looking down at the gleaming black water. A streetlamp is reflected there, like a drowned moon. “How do we know that Donovan ‘scuttled’ the Stone? How does Donovan know it? It may be only what the Stone wanted him to believe.”
“It’s been years since all that happened.”
“Stones are patient.”
“Then at least let’s enjoy this interval before the People of Sand and Iron come again.”
“Unless they already have, and this is only what they want us to enjoy.”
“No,” says the harper. “I would know.”
The scarred man shrugs. “That’s the end of my story. It all happened long ago, and maybe it never happened at all.” He looks at her. “Have you found the beginning of yours?”
The January Dancer Page 37
