Crown of the Serpent

by Allen Wold

  They went down. The security lights within the shaft were not all working, so for the most part they descended in darkness. They had to change lifts several times on the way down, but they met no one. At last they came to the bottom of the express shafts just above the ten floors of the main public levels.

  From here they had to use larger lifts that went only a floor or two, or sometimes broad, public stairs, and at last a back stair to get down to the parking levels under the city. They went at a fast walk, sometimes running down ramps, ever deeper into the underground. Near the bottom were many cars and service ve­hicles that had been abandoned along with the city.

  Still legible codes on support posts told them their position, and they quickly found their way to the right place, where their car was just one among many. Jack put the case in the trunk while Ann got into the driver's seat and started the car. Then Jack got in the other side and unbuckled his gun. Ann glanced at him, then did the same. He took her belt and gun and put it with his in the backseat.

  She drove slowly, without lights, toward one of the back ramps. They went up level after level, the silence broken only by the faint hum of their own vehicle. At last they came to the top level, with only one more ramp to go to the paved apron that surrounded the city. The exit was a brighter square in the darkness.

  "Shut it down," Jack whispered suddenly. Ann switched off the ignition, and the floater settled to the concrete on residual power. In the silence they could both hear the hum of another, more powerful vehicle, just outside near the top of the ramp. A few seconds later the exit darkened as a large car pulled slowly up to block the way out. It shone no lights, but the outline of a patrol car was unmistakable.

  Jack hoped that the cops would think this vehicle was just a derelict—except that there were no other derelicts here. Then doors opened on either side and two cops got out. Both were heavily armed. They came around to the front of the patrol car and stood there a moment, whispering to each other. Then they drew their sidearms and started down the last ramp into the parking deck.

  The scar on the palm of Jack's right hand itched intolerably, but he resisted the urge to scratch it. He glanced at Ann, saw her catch his eye. Their guns were in the backseat, no sense trying to go for them—besides, they were caught. As the cops halved the distance to them, Jack heaved a very audible sigh, muttered "damn."

  He saw Ann glance at him, then nod as she agreed with his plan, as flimsy as it was. "I told you we should have gone to my place," she whispered. Jack bet that, even though the whisper was soft, the cops had heard it.

  But if they had they didn't care. They came on, one toward each side of the car and well separated, guns raised but not directly aimed.

  "Not a good place for a makeout," the cop, a woman, on Ann's side said.

  "Just get out nice and easy," the other cop said, "and keep your hands in view all the time."

  Jack couldn't think of anything to say, so he kept silent as he carefully opened the door and, with his hands up in front of him, slid out of the seat.

  "We were just looking for some privacy," Ann said from the other side of the floater.

  "Wrong place to find it," the cop on her side said. "Now turn around, hands on the roof, two steps back."

  They took the standard position for the search. The cops were quick, thorough, and not unnecessarily intimate. Jack watched Ann's immobile face across the roof of the car.

  "All right," Jack's cop said when the search was done, "you can stand up now, but keep your hands up."

  They did as they were told, and the patrol car at the top of the ramp came to life. Now with its lights on, it backed around till it was heading toward them. Its headlights were on bright. The cops were carrying 10 mm machine pistols, a bit heavy for standard patrol work.

  "Put your hands out," Jack's cop told him. He took a security flex out of its case on his belt. The driver of the patrol car was talking on the mike.

  "But officer," Jack protested as the cop put the node between his hands and the metal cables coiled around his wrists. "What have we done?"

  "Trespassing, for starters. Now get in the car." He stood back to give Jack room to walk to the patrol car.

  "Just in the parking level," Ann said. She too was handcuffed. "We didn't even get out of the car."

  "Good enough," the cop with her said. She was holding the keys to the floater. "Now get moving."

  Two other patrol cars pulled into the space on either side of the first, their headlights illumining the whole scene. Jack and Ann walked to the arresting car. Its backdoors opened automatically, and they got in. Jack's cop got in front with the driver, while the one with Ann's keys went back to the floater and started it up.

  The two other patrol cars backed away, the one they were in backed out and turned around. Jack caught a glimpse of their floater following before the cop in the front told him to face forward.

  The patrol cars were wheeled vehicles, and in spite of the heavy suspension the ride over long unused highways was rough. There was a security panel between the front and backseats, but there was also a speaker grill, and it was open, presumably so the cops could hear anything Jack and Ann might say to each other. They didn't say anything.

  But they could hear the cops too. There wasn't much talk, and what there was, in the brief phrases people use when they don't have to explain things to each other, seemed to be about the search at the top of the abandoned city. From what he could make out, Jack figured it wasn't them the search had been after, but Djentsin, though the name by which he knew the man wasn't used.

  Apparently three cops had been killed by the outlaw who had intruded on Jack and Ann, when the cops had come on him, still dazed but in possession of his blaster. The outlaw, in turn, had been shredded by riot-gun fire.

  What the cops in the front seat were most concerned about was having been posted on the ground and missing the real action. Still, it was lucky that they hajdn't been one of the three fatalities. How they had known Jack and Ann were in the park­ing levels was never mentioned.

  After a while the passenger cop turned around to look back at Jack and Ann. "You just kind of picked the wrong place," he said. "There are a lot of squatters in there who are going to go to jail tonight—if they don't get killed resisting arrest. If you're clean, all we'll charge you with is trespassing and vagrancy— we'll let the violation of curfew go. If you're not clean, tough shit." He turned away.

  All Jack could think was that they must have wanted Djentsin very badly.

  At last they came to a city-tower, one of those nearest the one where they'd been arrested, and were driven directly into the building to the police station on one of the lower levels.

  They were searched again, separately, and very thoroughly. The police found Jack's dragongem and were more than a little impressed, but they knew what it was and handled it gingerly. Jack wasn't afraid mat they might "lose" it—their own regulations were too strict.

  The search included a complete X ray, and the cops could make nothing of the implant in Jack's hand, arm, and skull, which was fine with him, but it made them suspicious. Their retinas were also recorded to be compared with the IDs they carried—again Jack wasn't too concerned; he'd forged the IDs carefully to include retinal identification. And then they were taken, together, to routine interrogation.

  The questioning, which was just a preliminary, lasted four hours or so, and was for the most part rather low-key. The arresting officers, who had to be present, were a bit more cheerful than they had been, since the presence of a .75 pistol in Jack's car qualified them for special credit, and bonuses for hazardous service. No one on Nowarth could own firearms without special permits, and lasers were strictly for military and police use, but .75s were illegal in and of themselves. All other charges, even the cops' inability to open Jack's case all the way, hardly mattered compared with that.

  Jack and Ann stuck to their story, saying as little as possible. Everything they had done since their arrival, up to the time
they'd gone to the abandoned city-tower, they admitted to, but let their real anxiety lend authenticity to their act of confusion, fear, reluctance. Apparently the cops bought it.

  At last the interrogation was finished, and Jack and Ann were led to the temporary detention block and locked up in adjoining cells, where they could see and talk to each other. They did not avail themselves of the opportunity, there was no sense giving the cops anything more to work on. Instead they decided to catch up on some sleep.

  They were wakened by the arrival of the public prosecutor with the lawyer who had been assigned to handle their case—whose presence had not been necessary during the preliminaries. They were taken from the cells and led into an interview room.

  The lawyer was a woman, Msr. Cheevy, somewhere in her second century. "I'm here to protect you as much as I can," she told them. She set an attache case on the table opposite which Jack and Ann were sitting, and opened it. "I've checked the records of your arrest," she went on as she started the recorder inside, "and everything seems to have been done according to the law." She then told them what they could and couldn't say and do during the interview with the prosecutor.

  He, a man of around sixty or so named Dregoff and rather young for his position, started out by putting their ID cards on the table. "If I didn't know for a fact," he said, "that you are not who these say you are, I'd swear they were authentic. In fact, they're so good that I don't think I could make a charge stick. Traveling under false names, yes, but not forgery."

  The young man who'd been calling himself Jack Begin leaned back in his chair and looked at his companion. Her face was blank, her expression rigidly controlled. He forced a small smile, then turned back to Dregoff. "Who are we then?" he asked.

  "Rikard Braeth," Dregoff said, "and Darcy Glemtide. You might have gotten away with it except for the fact that you were rather thoroughly identified and recorded when you were in­volved with that business on Seltique. I guess I heard something about it back then, though I don't pay much attention to things like that. I've read all the reports now, of course. Quite a piece of work it was."

  "So what happens now," Darcy Glemtide asked.

  "Not quite what we'd planned," Dregoff said. "You're famous, you know, in your own way—at least in certain cir­cles. We still intend to press all charges, including illegal entry and possession of false credentials. But I expect some pressure from the Federal government to ease up on you because of what you did for the Taarshome and the Belshpaer. And I can sympa­thize with that. But the laws you broke you broke here under our jurisdiction—"

  "That hasn't been proven yet," the lawyer said.

  "Pardon me, Msr. Cheevy. The laws you are suspected of breaking are Nowarth laws, not Federal laws, and as such the prosecution is under our jurisdiction, not Federal jurisdiction. You will stand trial. And I have every confidence that we will prove our case." He got to his feet and glanced at the lawyer. "They're all yours, Msr. Cheevy." Then he left. The door closed with a rather final sound.

  Cheevy put some papers down on the table and sorted them, more to enforce a pause than anything else. "I'm going to be straight with you," she said with a sigh. "I'll do everything I can to get the charges dismissed, but I don't think you have much of a chance.

  "The trespassing charge is pretty solid, but it might be reduced to a misdemeanor. The guns were in your car, and hence technically in your possession, but we might be able to keep Msr. Dregoff from proving that you had knowledge of them. As for the false credentials..."

  She sighed again as she looked at one of the papers, a list. "And that case they found in your trunk, they'll get it open eventually, even if they have to destroy it in the process— you'll be compensated for its cost, of course, unless it, too, proves to be a confiscatable item like the guns.

  "If everything goes perfectly, and the courts are lenient and take your work on Seltique into account, you might get off with transportation and a fine—the dialithite crystal they found on you"—she tapped the list—"should cover most of that. But if they have their way, you're looking at exemplary punishment —they won't want people to think, just because you are famous, that you can get away with anything. That would mean up to twenty years of cognizant stasis and possibly partial re-programming."

  "We have resources," Rikard said. "We can afford to pay for anything you can legitimately use." But he looked at her in a way that said he'd be willing to pay, too, for work that was less than legitimate.

  "That might help," Cheevy said, "but I wouldn't count on it. Msr. Glemtide is known to be a Gesta, and you are assumed to be one by association. That in and of itself makes you persona non grata here."

  "But we haven't done anything," Darcy said, "other than park for a while in the bottom of that tower."

  "If you even got out of the car," Cheevy said, "they'd get you for attempted vandalism as well. And what about those ID cards?"

  "A legitimate name change," Rikard said. "We couldn't find any privacy after we introduced the Taarshome to the Senate chambers and reinstated the Belshpaer. Wherever we went the news services always found us. We don't like being famous, Msr. Cheevy."

  "You'll have to provide me with information so I can get the records of the change," Cheevy said. "If they exist. Of all the worlds in the Federation to come visit, why did you choose this one?"

  "It seemed like a good idea at the time," Darcy said.

  "Well, it wasn't. I'll do the best I can. You should know, that according to the laws of Nowarth, you can be questioned while under the influence of certain electronic devices and chemical substances. You won't feel any pain. And you won't be damaged. If you are, the inquisitor loses her job and your compensation would be enough to hurt the city budget. But you will be examined."

  "You don't sound very encouraging," Rikard said.

  "I wish I could be. Unlike Msr. Dregoff, I did follow the events on Seltique. I have to admit that I admire you for what you did, what you were able to do. I'll do my best for you."

  She stood up, and guards came in to escort Rikard and Darcy back to their cells.

  They didn't have much of a respite before the inquisitors came.

  3

  It was a dark tunnel, slimed with fungus, and the only light was that coming from Rikard's father as he burned, leaping in the flames of the enemy's weapon. Though Rikard knew, in some remote corner of his mind, that this was just a ploy of his tormentors, he still felt his heart lurch, as it had when this had been real, felt his bowels wrench, still felt the tremendous sense of loss.

  The man beside him said, "Those floater packs were very clever. Where did you get them?"

  Rikard turned toward his interlocutor, redly lit in the light of his father's fire. "You leave my father out of this!"

  "Those packs can't help you this time," the man said. "What were you doing in the city?"

  Rikard tried to shut the answer out of his mind. How much had he told them? Were they guessing?

  "I'm ashamed of you," his father said. "You knew the laws and yet you deliberately broke them."

  His father, now, was as Rikard had last seen him—old, ragged, slightly crazy with years of isolation. The police had no way of knowing about that. And the police had no way of knowing that his father would have been proud, not ashamed, of Rikard's deeds, if regretful at his getting caught. That was the truth. His father smiled, proudly, secretly, sharing the secret knowledge with him. "Between gray stones," his father said.

  Another thing the police could not have known about. Rikard remembered the stones, and the electrical stimulation that was supercharging his imagination let him see a dragongem in each hand. In the Tathas darkness, it linked his mind with the sky of reality, instead of the caves of insanity. He felt color return, saw superimposed on his mental image the true vision of his hands, strapped to the arms of a heavy chair built in with electronics. The field surrounded his body, radiating from the device enclosing his head.

  "I can't stand this anymore," Darcy said, though she
wasn't there. "I've worked so: hard to block those memories out. Please, Rikard, let's cut our losses."

  She did not look at all well. She was strong, he knew, stronger than he, but perhaps with darker secrets. Would she break? Had she already? Was that how they knew about—don't think about it.

  A man sat at a console a couple of meters in front of Rikard's chair, his back to him. He adjusted controls, readouts changed, telltales flickered, dials registered new values. A woman, standing beside the man, looked at Rikard with unconcerned attention. "Where did you first meet Djentsin?" she asked.

  Who the hell was Djentsin? Rikard opened a huge scroll wound around silver staves, capped with elaborate ornaments.

  On the scroll were words written in a strange language, in strange characters, that nonetheless seemed to make sense. A man looked over his shoulder. "Where is the Reliquiture?" he asked.

  Rikard turned away with an effort, tried to push the too-close image from his mind, and saw a door open in a wall of shadow. The woman who entered his suite, at the Carolinga Hotel, was a stranger on Godwin IV. That was important; no such woman had ever visited him there. It should be a man, and it should be on... he clamped down on the memories, even as her face began to assume a familiar form, and wrapped himself in dark­ness.

  His body rotated in space. He felt Darcy lying next to him. He had never been very successful with girls, and it astonished him that he and Darcy should be lovers. He reached his arm across her, felt himself becoming aroused.

  "What the hell is going on here?" a woman said. "You people get your kicks from this?"

  "Do you get your kicks from watching?" Rikard asked back. Then the left half of his field of view became bright. There were two technicians, standing sullenly at their machines. Rikard, strapped naked in his chair, felt acute embarrassment. If they were doing this to him, what were they doing to Darcy?

  Somewhere a man said, "You have no authority here. This is planetary business, and I'll ask you not to interfere."