A Prison Unsought

by Sherwood Smith

  At least there was no sign of a cruiser yet. Not that they’d know. The system was too dirty to detect a ship even that big until it was on top of them.

  He spun away from the console and paced across the deck. Maybe the Panarchists didn’t know. He hoped not—he’d played the FF simulation several times in the past few hours, and would do so again, but it was painfully apparent that he’d have a hard time up against a Navy captain who’d gone through the FF test at the Academy.

  Fasthand started at the chime of his cabin annunciator. The look-see revealed the lumpy form of Morrighon standing in the corridor. Fury boiled up at the implication that Morrighon knew where he was at all times—how else would he have known to come to the cabin rather than the bridge? The crew wouldn’t have told the little trog where he was without warning him first.

  The captain drew in a deep breath in an attempt to stabilize his fear, and said, “Open.” The hatch hissed and Morrighon stepped through, holding a flimsy in one hand.

  “We will arrive at Gehenna in less than four hours. As soon as you are within range, you are to destroy the Quarantine Monitor and then take up synchronous orbit in its place, which is the closest sync point to the center of the habitable zone. At that point you will debark the prisoners in the shuttle now being prepared in the starboard bay.”

  Now being prepared? Why hadn’t he been told? Having so totally dominated the crew in their sex games, the Dol’jharians apparently no longer cared for appearances.

  “I have prepared the duty roster for the shuttle.” He held out the paper to Fasthand, who merely stared at him, blood roaring in his head.

  Morrighon smiled thinly and placed it on a nearby table.

  “The Tarkans, of course, will be in charge of the prisoners. You need not concern yourself with that. I have selected the shuttle crew from your secondaries, to lessen the impact on the ship’s efficiency should there be an incident.”

  “Incident?” Fasthand croaked. Did Morrighon think those old geezers could overcome even one Tarkan?

  “System FF contains no information on the Gehennans’ capabilities,” Morrighon replied. “You will stand by ready to destroy the shuttle if my lord so commands.”

  So Morrighon had managed to snake out his data on the FF simulation. What else did he know?

  “The prisoners will be transferred to the shuttle one hour before arrival. Have your crew ready.” He left without waiting for a reply.

  Fasthand’s hand shook as he picked up the flimsy. He had the sense that there had been layers of meaning within Morrighon’s words, but he was too tired and too zizzed to unravel them. He scanned the orders. The names written there made no impression on him except one.

  Kaniffer. That chatzer would sell his mother for a cup of caf. Fasthand had never let Kaniffer hold any position of responsibility, despite his piloting abilities: he couldn’t resist playing the angles. Fasthand had little doubt what kind of squeeze Kaniffer would try to make out of this. A vid of the Gehennans grabbing the Panarch would buy him his own ship.

  But he couldn’t change that. He was no longer master of the Samedi. Emmet Fasthand crumpled the orders in his hand and looked over at the data console. It was all up to Tat now.

  o0o

  The light on the shuttle bay hatch flashed yellow, and as he stepped through, Gelasaar’s spirits lifted. It was more than the transition to standard gee after their passage through the Dol’jharian section of the destroyer, it was an almost joyful anticipation. Whatever the outcome of the next few hours, there would be no more waiting and no more helplessness. Once again, perhaps for the last time, the former rulers of the Thousand Suns would determine their own fate.

  He glanced at the others as their captors herded them toward the shuttle and observed the signs of a similar emotion. Even Padraic Carr, tortured by the racking cough that never left him, seemed cheerful. He met Gelasaar’s gaze and his mouth quirked.

  Anaris stood next to the shuttle’s ramp, his secretary at his side. The Tarkans stopped them in front of Eusabian’s son.

  At a motion from Anaris, the guards pushed the others up the ramp, leaving only the Panarch.

  “The completion of my father’s paliach is upon you, Gelasaar hai-Arkad,” said Anaris. “And the lessons are over.”

  “Learning ceases only when life does,” the Panarch replied, “and the converse, too, is true, that when learning ceases, death is not far away.” He looked straight into Anaris’s eyes. “I have not ceased my studies.”

  A smile deepened the corners of Anaris’s mouth. “Nor have I.”

  He held out one hand. On its palm lay two rings.

  The sight of them squeezed Gelasaar’s heart with an amalgam of emotions he had never felt before. One was a simple ring of gold, his wedding band; the other, the Phoenix Signet, worn only by the ruling Arkad. Slowly he reached out and took them.

  As he fitted them onto their accustomed fingers, he looked up at Anaris. No one else, he thought, could have seen it, but he was sure it was there: ever so faint, a trace of regret.

  The least Dol’jharian of all emotions.

  Gelasaar bowed with gratitude, the deference of equal to equal, then walked up the ramp.

  Eusabian’s paliach was nearly complete, but he was not the victor.

  GEHENNA

  Londri Ironqueen watched her scout’s hands shake as he took the mug and raised it to his lips. The blood oozing from the ragged arrow-graze across his forehead glinted blackly in the firelight. When he lowered the mug his eyes widened as the still-wine took effect.

  The others considered his report, their silence broken only by the crackle of the fire and the mournful hooning of a fang-bat nearby.

  “How long do you estimate before the Tasuroi arrive?” she asked finally.

  He wiped his lips. “The ones I ran across were outriders. If they’re following their usual pattern, the main horde will be here in less than thirty hours. Maybe sooner.”

  “Thank you, Lannecht Nulson. You have done well. Tell the quartermaster to give you food and a doss for the night.”

  The scout saluted and strode away, his pride stiffening most of the exhausted stagger out of his legs.

  The Ironqueen swept her gaze over the others seated by the fire, coming to rest at last on Tlaloc Ur’Aztlan. “If you have any ideas, my lord Aztlan, now is the time.”

  “I can’t suggest anything that hasn’t already been done, Your Majesty,” he replied, running his fingers through his bushy black beard. “With the exception of Comori Keep, we hold the high ground, the artillery is well positioned, and our forces are tightly interlocked to prevent any flanking movements.”

  “Perhaps we should hope for a miracle,” said Gath-Boru. “Like the sudden collapse of Comori’s walls.”

  Londri didn’t miss the glance of dislike between Tlaloc and her general. Gath-Boru had vociferously opposed their present deployment; while admitting its strength, he was uncomfortable with the thought of having to guard against a sally from Comori during the coming engagement with the Tasuroi.

  I don’t think he trusts Aztlan to handle Comori. Her mother had taught her that neighbors usually made the worst enemies, with the long history of enmity between Comori and Aztlan a primary lesson, but Gath-Boru was unconvinced.

  Londri looked at the stars far above. Was that, too, a world of betrayal and deceit? She couldn’t believe so, for all that Stepan insisted on it. They had so much in the Thousand Suns; what did they have to fight over?

  “At least Alyna Weathernose predicts a windless day tomorrow,” said Stepan. He’d apparently seen the glance, too. “That’ll make the spore-tox all the more effective.”

  The Tasuroi didn’t have artillery, making the chemical and biological weapons developed by the inhabitants of the Splash one of the most effective weapons against the barbarians.

  “Steel and flesh,” said Tlaloc. “You can soften up the enemy with artillery, but it’s steel and flesh that decides it.”

  No one disagree
d.

  Londri stood up. The meeting had long ago wound down into repetition; only the scout’s report had prolonged it. “We should all retire now, or it won’t be steel nor flesh that decides it, but lack of sleep.”

  As she spoke she was taken by a racking yawn. She tilted back her head and stretched out her arms, then stiffened in shock as a dazzling light blossomed high in the southern sky. Instantly brighter than any star, it grew in intensity until she had to slit her eyes as it lit up the camp as bright as day. The men and women around her jumped to their feet, exclaiming in wonder and fear; shouts of terror resounded from all around, echoed by harsh shrieks from the trees as roosting corbae erupted into the glare-stricken sky.

  The light dimmed, leaving behind a dim blotch in the sky that slowly dissipated.

  “The Quarantine Monitor,” said Stepan in a tone laden with wonder and hope. “Somebody blew up the Monitor.”

  “What does it mean?” Londri asked.

  Stepan shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.”

  “When a new star blazes in the sky

  Ferric House against a fallen fortress

  Leads both friend and foe to fate defy.”

  Gath-Boru spoke slowly, his voice almost impossibly deep. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Now it begins,” he said.

  EIGHT

  The shuttle crossed the terminator into darkness, flying eastward against the fall of night. Lufus Kaniffer rubbed his sweaty hands down his pants. “You see anything yet, Neesach?”

  “Prani’s Balls, Lufus!” His copilot never seemed to be able to speak in anything less than an irritating shriek. “We aren’t within ten thousand klicks of the landing zone yet.” She slapped at her console. “We got the coordinates of the infrared concentration from the Samedi’s scan. We’ll get there.”

  “Whaddya think it is, ’Niff?” came Bugtul’s voice over the com from the engine compartment.

  “Some sort of battle, probably. Don’t imagine they got anything else to do, with no metals and no tech,” Kaniffer replied shortly.

  “This is gonna be great!” the engineer exulted. “Nobody’s ever seen a vid like this.”

  “Shut up, Buggy. Too many ears.”

  “Nah!” came the reply. “This chatzer doesn’t speak Uni.”

  “You sure?”

  Bugtul’s voice muffled as he turned away from the com. “Hey, Shiidra-buttwipe. Bet you only need one finger to flip your nacker, eh?” Then his voice came back stronger. “See. No Dol’jharian’s gonna put up with that.”

  “Yeah.” But there was no sense taking chances, thought Kaniffer. Who knew what that Morrighon crawler might have rigged. “That’s enough yap.”

  The remainder of the flight passed in silence. Kaniffer couldn’t stand Neesach’s sheet-metal voice, so he wasn’t about to offer any conversation, and he guessed that Bugtul, despite his bravado, didn’t really feel too talkative with that Tarkan glowering at him in the little engine compartment. What they were planning was dangerous, even if the mods they had hurriedly programmed into the computer held off the Dol’jharians in the lock. He wondered how Bugtul planned to deal with the Tarkan.

  He checked occasionally on the imagers he’d set up in the lock. No action there. The Panarchists sat against a bulkhead, talking quietly in those singsong voices of theirs—he couldn’t make out half of what they said. A lot of it wasn’t even Uni. The two Tarkans barely moved, holding their weapons trained on the geezers like they expected them to pull jacs out of their butts and start shooting up the ship.

  Finally their course took the shuttle over a chain of mountains that the navcomp indicated was one edge of the habitable zone.

  “Getting some readings now,” said Neesach. “Course three forty-nine. Lotta heat, some high-temp, more body-temp.” Her voice whined up the scale with excitement. “Looks like you were right!”

  Kaniffer brought the shuttle around to the indicated heading. A few minutes later he could see the glow of campfires on the horizon. Thousands of them!

  Beyond lay darkness, and then more lights, spread around some big stone building that barely showed up in the IR display. It looked like the first batch of fires belonged to some group heading toward the second. But maybe they were just reinforcements. Then he shrugged. Didn’t matter, but if they were enemies, it’d be rich. This is the place.

  He commenced the landing sequence as he announced over the com: “Final approach initiated.”

  The sound of the engines roughened, and the little craft bucked. He glanced Neesach’s way and stabbed his little finger in the air, then leaned back as she tabbed the com to call the Samedi.

  Everything was going according to plan.

  o0o

  Cauldronmaster Strongarm-of-the-Leaning-Rocks, known as Smegmaniggle to the Raw Ones, felt the rhythms of the Dance mount up from his feet, infusing him with the certainty of victory and fresh meat. He stomped even harder, raising his knees high and shouting his courage at the Old Ones watching unblinking from their sky-abode; his warriors echoed him a thousand-fold.

  His wizard threw another bundle of hate-weed on the blazing fire. Strong fumes puffed up; Strongarm inhaled gaspingly. Soon dawn would come and they would pour over the hills onto the hated Raw Ones and consume them. Perhaps they would even overcome the stone house, if Tongue-with-Claws had sufficiently lulled the Comori with his eloquence.

  Colors spilled over from inside his head and painted the scene around him in pulsing hues that took their vividness from the pounding of the immense manskin drums. He tore at his arms with his teeth; the hot iron taste of blood maddened him further.

  Soon it would be time to lead the captive out to join the Dance and become the feast, the living food of the Tasuroi, lending his courage to the warriors of the Leaning Rock clan. Strongarm hoped this one would die well; no one liked the taste of a coward.

  The ground shook beneath his feet.

  “Ayah!” he exulted. “The World trembles before the Tasuroi!” he shouted, but the rumble increased, mixed with a whine unlike anything he had ever heard before.

  “The Dragon!” screamed the wizard, pointing into the sky.

  The warriors bellowed in rage, shaking their weapons at the angular creature roaring overhead, trailing a cloud of fire.

  But as the madness drained out of him, the Tasuroi chieftain knew what it was. “No!” shouted Strongarm. “It’s the Skypeople!” He pointed at the receding craft. “If we capture the Fallen One, the Raw Ones of Comori will give us iron and meat!”

  And the Fallen One might serve as another lever against their temporary allies.

  Shouting with joyful rage, the Tasuroi poured out of their camp, following the glowing ember as it descended over the hills ahead.

  ABOARD THE GROZNIY

  Commander Totokili glared at the relay screen from the beta engine compartment as though it were an enemy. He looked, thought Ensign Leukady, like he wanted to reach through and tweak them himself, but no one ever came any closer to the engines than that imager relay while they were operating; their space-straining fields were deadly to anything above the level of a virus.

  Ensign Leukady held his breath; the commander’s jaw was working, causing the portion of his stiff brush of hair above each ear to wiggle. When it wiggled as much as now, someone was going to get their ass swung over the radiants.

  Finally the commander exhaled explosively and turned away. Leukady busied himself with his console, but not fast enough.

  “Status!” Totokili barked the word.

  From the corner of his eye Leukady could see the other officers and enlisted crew in the engineering deck concentrating fiercely on their tasks. “Mass compensation successful, sir. All three engines rebalanced within one minus fifth.” He essayed a tentative smile.

  “What’s there to grin about, Ensign?”

  “N-nothing, sir,” he stuttered; then, as Totokili raised an eyebrow, he hastened to add, “Except, I mean, we did it, and faster than Cap
tain Ng asked.”

  The corner of the chief engineer’s mouth twitched. “Yes, we did it.” He glanced over at the main control bank. “But Telos only knows what’ll happen when the fiveskip engages. We’ve practically doubled the mass of the ship with that lump of rock.”

  Leukady said nothing. Totokili’s pessimism was well known—the more outspoken it was, the more sure the commander was of success.

  The commander turned away and tabbed the com. “Engineering to bridge, Totokili here. We’re ready, Captain.”

  “Good work, Commander,” came Captain. Ng’s voice. “Stand by for skip.”

  Totokili looked up and suddenly roared, “Don’t just stand there mooning at me, you scut-brains! You heard the captain—any of you slip up and we’ll have ten-power-twelve tons of rock coming through the forward bulkhead at us. So jump!”

  Margot Ng grinned as the first part of Totokili’s tirade spilled onto the bridge, before the commander remembered to cut the connection.

  Krajno chuckled. “Sounds like everything’s in order in Engineering.”

  She nodded. “SigInt. Any traces?”

  “No, sir. They’re probably using tight-beam and there’s too much trash in-system to pick up any leakage.”

  “Very well. Navigation, take us in, tac-level five, emergence at primary plus 32 at point-one cee.”

  “Fiveskip engaged.”

  A battlecruiser’s mass usually damped skip transition to a mild shiver. This time, it felt like a courier-skip, roiling her guts and making her head feel as though the sutures of her skull had momentarily gaped wide.

  Worse, the fiveskip actually groaned. Ng’s back prickled. She’d never heard such a noise on any ship, let alone on a battlecruiser with a kilometer or more of solid asteroidal metal between the bridge and the drive. A kind of uncanny nausea possessed her entire body, gone so quickly she wasn’t sure it was real or an empathic response to the protest of the Grozniy at the unnatural stress placed upon it. The ship dropped back into fourspace with a harsh jolt.