A Prison Unsought

by Sherwood Smith

  “Never mind, daughter,” he replied, absently employing the rare term, reminding her of his origin and knowledge of things beyond Gehenna.

  Stepan knew that this was not the time for the long explanation. And the situation might be as dangerous as ever, or even more.

  But one thing was certain. “Do you remember my telling you how the Abuffyds mocked me with the secret of Gehenna when they exiled me, the clever lie that keeps us locked away so securely?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then rejoice: no matter what the outcome of this day, the lie is broken forever.”

  o0o

  When the Panarch reached them, Caleb and Yosefina stood in front of the bridge hatch, radiating frustration. Both smiled briefly to see him; all three stood and breathed, aware of grief, excitement that made them almost giddy, and a sense of unreality that they had managed to come this far.

  Before any of them could speak or sign, a shaky voice came over the com. “We’ve got the hatch locked down manually.”

  The image revealed a thin-faced man with the bulging jaw muscles of compulsive bruxism—they gave his face a strange pyramidal look. “You’ll use up both jacs maybe burning through, and then we’ll zap you.”

  Caleb glanced at the Panarch and shrugged, tapping off the com before he spoke. “He’s right. Unless Kree or Matilde can break through the computer safeguards, we can’t get into the bridge.”

  The Panarch nodded at the com and Caleb switched it back on.

  “What is your name?”

  “Kaniffer,” the Rifter blurted, his eyes shifting back and forth. “Lufus Kaniffer.”

  “Well, genz Kaniffer, for us there is little to choose between Gehenna and your ship,” the Panarch said. “Certainly, if you lift off with us still on board, Anaris will order the shuttle destroyed. And we control the engines.”

  The Rifter stared, a mix of fear, anger, and awe in his face.

  Archetype and Ritual have a long reach, Gelasaar thought as the pilot spoke, “But we control the main lock, and you can’t shut the inner lock anymore. Maybe we’ll just ask the Gehennans to clear you out.”

  “The Gehennans have few metals. This ship represents unimaginable wealth to them—” The Panarch broke off as the Rifter jerked his head, facing away from the screen as he conversed with someone unseen.

  Mortan Kree appeared, and whispered, “Matilde reports an immense energy source approaching the inner system.” He blinked, but the tears welled and dropped down his weathered face anyway. “I think the Navy’s caught up with us.”

  The Panarch clamped down on his emotions ruthlessly—there was no way he could know for certain, but joy expanded in his chest.

  Finally Kaniffer turned back to the screen, fear widening his eyes as his jaw muscles bulged.

  He thought to turn a profit from our deaths, and now sees his own approaching. That’s leverage twice over.

  “We will repair the engines,” said the Panarch, forestalling whatever the Rifter intended to say. “But you will not lift off until you give us control. As you have seen, there is a battlecruiser even now approaching Gehenna. If we reach it with your help, I will give you both your freedom, ships of your own, and a lifetime stipend to run them. You have my word.” Gelasaar slapped the com off. “We’ll let him think about it.”

  “Fear and greed are strongly corrosive of the will.” Mortan Kree pressed his palms together.

  “So I’m hoping,” said Gelasaar. “It’s up to Matilde now.” He looked down the corridor toward the lock. “And the Gehennans.”

  NINE

  ABOARD THE SAMEDI

  “Captain.” Moob’s voice shook. “We got EM up to gamma flooding in, ionization off the scale, and the Knot’s flaring up.” She tapped a few keys. “On-screen.”

  Emmet Fasthand’s voice broke in panic, “What the hell is that?”

  Tat looked up at the bridge relay and her breath stopped. She tapped to a full-screen view of the main bridge display. A glaring point of light blazed dead center; to either side, vast curving sheets of light reached out and up. It looked like the headlight of some swift deadly machine speeding toward them between the walls of an infinite canyon. Tat realized she was seeing the usually invisible fivespace fracture guarding the Gehenna system as some incredible source of energy excited it into radiance.

  “It’s an asteroid, about four klicks in diameter, incoming at point-one cee.”

  “Asteroid my blungehole,” Fasthand yelled. “It’s a chatzing battlecruiser, using the chatzing asteroid instead of its chatzing shields! They’ll be here in less than two hours at that speed!”

  Tat’s boswell chimed. (Tat! What the hell are you doing?) Even through the link, Fasthand’s voice revealed a man on the edge of doing something fatally stupid.

  Without answering, Tat stripped off her boz’l, grabbed the ampule, jabbed it up her nose, and triggered it. The jet of brain-suck felt like acid, and she shouted with pain. She heard Morrighon’s voice from the bridge relay as a rising tide of color overwhelmed her; she looked down at her console screen and then the drug seized her in inescapable claws and the edges of the display expanded around her as she fell into dataspace.

  Canyons of light rose around her, triggering memory of the death fast approaching in real-time. She dismissed it. That was outside, unreal now.

  Tat flew down, following the argus as it scuttled past node after node of data. The systems of the Samedi tangled chaotically: the ship was well over four hundred years old and the computer had never been flushed. She ignored the mess, flitting past code-tangles that would have mired her instantly had she touched them, intent on tracking her opponent, the Bori who was not a Bori.

  The neuraimai sat on her shoulder, chattering in her ears like a demented simian. Ahead, the argus slowed, then screamed in agony as a phage-worm darted out and impaled it. Tat raised her arm and flung a dart of code at the intruder. It shriveled and fell away, too late. The argus vanished in a burst of color and a bad smell.

  No matter; it had taken her most of the way. Vast obelisks of light rose around her, like a valley of monuments to the dead, inscribed with words. Some she could read, others were garbled, out of focus, or impossible to even look at.

  The neuraimai leapt into the air, flinging itself on glutinous wings toward a distant pylon glowing a virulent shade of pustulant green with veins of red running through it. The obelisk abruptly opened a fanged mouth, and a glittering tongue of diamond lashed out, wrapped itself in brittle splendor around the little code-beast, and drew it in. The mouth snapped shut. It masticated hideously, groaning with delight as it crushed the life out of the neuraimai, not noticing that two of the words on its surface now glowed clearly.

  SKULEMAM. SEERASINATCH.

  Tat raised the book of Bori history and threw it into the air. Its covers transformed into leathery wings, the words within sprouting from the pages into a plethora of teeth like crystal growth from a supersaturated medium. It lunged at the pylon, now shrinking away, and tore at its surface. Blobs of ichor spurted forth, transformed in their flight into more words.

  KVLESMAM. NATSARREESITCH. LESMAMKUL. ATCHSEERISAN. MAMSELUK. TCHANISARIS. MAMELUKS.

  A trumpet blared, mutating into a brassy voice echoing around her. “Ancient Anglic terms for mercenaries become rulers in medieval Lost Earth. Mamelukes. Janissaries.”

  The Dol’jharians had been mercenaries to the Bori, until the stone-bones released the Red Plague and conquered their onetime masters.

  The words fell into her hands, and became a pair of heavy bronze keys. She plunged them into the madly glaring eyes of the obelisk and twisted; it screamed in agony and collapsed into a seething pool of slime that rapidly evaporated. Other pylons, close and far, tottered and fell. Tat flung out a web of steel and took command, welding code-space to her will. The clangor of metal stuttered around her.

  Then, slowly, the air began to congeal—her time was running out, her strength failing. She looked around. Some pylons still stood, mostly
environmental functions; she judged them unimportant. She spoke the words of dismissal and spiraled back to real-time.

  Tat turned away from the console, retching uncontrollably. As soon as the spasm subsided she tapped a command with trembling hands. The Samedi was in lockdown, the Dol’jharian section now a prison rather than a fortress, and Morrighon no longer had any foothold in the computer. “Captain, the ship is yours. The Dol’jharians are locked up.”

  She didn’t hear his reply as blackness overwhelmed her and she slid out of her chair onto the floor.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Fasthand shouted. “Lassa, take us out of orbit. Head in-system. It’s cleaner. We’ll veer off once we’re past the primary. And push it. I don’t care if we do ablate—check with Lar for what we can handle and how long. Creote, tell the cruiser the Panarch’s down on the surface. Maybe they won’t come after us.”

  “Can’t get through the ion storm till they decelerate,” Creote protested.

  “Spool every repeater we’ve got, piss-head, and launch ’em!” Fasthand slapped his compad, trying to control the shaking of his hands. “Security! Mount heavy jacs at all the hatches into the enemy section. Burn down anyone who comes through. We’ll relay some eyes to you.”

  He glared at Lar, busy at Damage Control. “Give me eyes in there! Relay it to the jac teams. We gotta see what they’re up to.”

  Several subsidiary screens lit up with views of corridors and rooms, switching rapidly. Some were blank; no one was visible. “They’ve blasted some of the imagers.”

  “Then that’s where they are. Security, keep a sharp watch. Let me know if you see anything. Lar, open the heavy section to space.” He laughed, feeling hysteria nibble at the edge of his mind. “That’ll slow ’em down.”

  Lar tapped at his console. “Can’t. That function’s still locked out.”

  “Then boost their gees to max.”

  “Can’t do that, either.”

  “Tat, you chatzer!” Fasthand shouted. There was no answer. “Then cut them out! Can’t get much momentum in null-gee.”

  “Done.”

  On the main screen the planet swung away and dwindled rapidly.

  “Knot’s holding,” said Moob. “So far.” She cocked her head at the Urian hyperwave near the communications console. “What’re you gonna tell Eusabian?”

  “I’ll worry about that when we get away from that cruiser,” Fasthand snapped.

  “You better,” Moob snarled. “I’d almost rather face a ruptor than the Lord of Vengeance if you zap his heir. And you’re gonna have to, you know.”

  Fasthand stared at her, then slammed his fist down on the compad again. “Engineering! Engage start-up on the engines. We may need them.”

  “That’ll take a good twenty hours,” came the reply from old Daug. “They’re stone-cold.”

  “Just do it.” He cut the connection.

  Twenty hours to being able to cut and run, away from this chatzing war, away from Dol’jhar. I’ll take us so far out on the Fringes that nobody’ll ever hear of us again. It was a good thing he’d kept the fuel pods topped up.

  He looked up at one of the secondary screens, at the flaring energy of the Knot and the deadly star waxing in the center.

  Just let me outrun that cruiser, Fasthand thought, wondering at the same time whom he was talking to.

  Anyone that could get him out of this, he decided. Anyone.

  GEHENNA

  Napier Ur’Comori knelt before Londri Ironqueen and offered her his sword. She took it from him and raised it up, savoring the moment. His eyes followed the steel.

  Londri smiled and tossed the sword in the air, catching it by the blade in one gauntleted hand and presenting it back to him. “I am pleased,” she said, “that it is truly steel this time.”

  He rose to his feet in a fluid movement and sheathed the sword. She could see in his quick sideward glances that he was mindful of the massive form of Gath-Boru standing nearby, glaring at him.

  Napier bowed. “I am deeply sorry for the distress I have caused House Ferric and its noble scion.”

  Londri waved her hand. “That is past.” She motioned toward the hill that concealed the landing site of the flying machine. “What lies ahead is far more important, to you, to me, and to all upon this world.”

  She started pacing, partially aware of how her polished leather armor gleamed blood red in the glaring, dappled shade of a tall, spreading twist-needle. “Our task now is twofold: to capture the sky-machine and to hold off the Tasuroi.” She paused when Napier grinned. “Yes, my lord Comori?”

  “I almost forgot, Your Majesty. I have a gift for you.”

  He motioned to an aide, who came forward with a leather bag. Napier took it and withdrew the still-dripping head of a Tasuroi highborn, its nose fetish bedraggled and soaked in blood.

  “One of the strongest arguments on the side of your generous offer of alliance was the pleasure of killing this disgusting creature.”

  “Your thoughtful gift is most agreeable,” said Londri, wrinkling her nose. They both burst out laughing. She turned to one of her aides. “Take this to Vre’Ktash and have him load it into one of the catapults. It will make a fitting gesture when we open our attack.” The aide saluted and ran off with the head.

  A scout ran up then. “Majesty, Tlaloc of Aztlan reports his forces in position, and begs your permission to remain there.”

  Londri nodded, turning to Gath-Boru. “General, are we ready?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” He waved toward the hill. “I ordered preparation of an observation point that Stepan believes will be safe from the vessel’s weapons.”

  They made their way up the shallow incline to a redoubt carefully dug into the brow of the hill. Peering through the vertical slit carved in the heavy, claylike soil, Londri could see the machine still sitting in the clearing, blurring as flames crackled on the periphery, sending a thick smoke drifting. Soon greasy rolls of sooty smoke from damped oil-brush fires obscured all but the general outline of the ship.

  A few minutes later, a horn call rang out, followed by the squeal-thump of the catapults.

  She inhaled sharply in amazement, then sneezed as smoke seared her nose. As the first rock hit the vessel, its wall glowed, and the rock flew off at right angles, leaving not a dint in the metal. Likewise with a bolt laden with never-quench; it, too, flew off at right angles to its line of flight and splashed in fiery ruin, kindling a blaze in the dry grass.

  “That is what I told you about, Your Majesty.”

  She twisted on her side. Stepan crouched a few paces back.

  “The teslas twist space so that the momentum of any projectile is deflected at ninety degrees. It is near-perfect armor.”

  Londri struggled with the concept of twisted emptiness.

  “Near perfect?”

  “It doesn’t deflect heat or light, and very slow-moving things, spore-tox for instance, may get through.” He shook his head. “They are no doubt sealed against our air now, with all the smoke. But if their engines were damaged, they may be low on power, in which case, if we hit the shields with enough heavy projectiles, it may be possible to break through and force their surrender. In addition, I would recommend throwing bundles of oil-brush and never-quench as close to the hull as possible. It will be difficult for them to dissipate the heat.”

  “Make it so,” she said to Gath-Boru. He saluted and crawled away from the scooped-out bunker and ran crouching down the hill.

  Stepan crawled forward and peered past her at the ship. “I wonder who they are, and what happened.”

  “Perhaps you will have a chance to ask them,” Londri said.

  Stepan nodded slowly. “Perhaps I will.”

  ABOARD THE SAMEDI

  Morrighon clamped his teeth hard in his lower lip, hoping the pain would prevent another eruption of his stomach. Not that there was anything left to come up. This was his first experience of null-gee, and, he hoped fervently, his last.

  Nearby, Anaris fl
oated relaxed in midair, watching as three Tarkans labored to anchor themselves on each side of a hatch, readying the assault they would shortly endeavor. The heir held one of Morrighon’s communicators, speaking into it occasionally as he coordinated the efforts of his forces to break out of the trap that had been sprung on them.

  He lowered the com and turned to regard Morrighon, whose stomach fluttered anew. Anaris’s expression was mild, the worst sign possible.

  “It was the Bori woman who did this, you said?”

  “Yes, lord,” Morrighon offered no exculpation; it would do no good.

  “And you cannot undo her efforts?”

  “Not within the time limit you specified, lord.”

  Anaris nodded thoughtfully. “It would have gone far worse for us had they more environmental control.”

  Morrighon seized the opportunity gratefully. “I had that hardwired, lord.”

  “It is well that you did,” his lord commented, then glanced back down the corridor. “She is quite good, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, lord,” Morrighon said. “Possibly the best noderunner I have ever encountered. Perhaps even Ferrasin’s superior.”

  “Then we will take her with us,” said Anaris. “The Rifters will not be able to evade the cruiser. I do not wish them to. They will serve my purpose one more time.”

  “She will not come without her cousins,” Morrighon ventured. It appeared that he would not suffer the consequences of his failure this time.

  “I leave that to you,” Anaris replied, pushing off from the wall and launching himself across the corridor, through a hatch. His voice echoed out of the compartment. “The assault is about to begin. The corridor will not be safe.”

  Morrighon followed him clumsily, his stomach roiling again. Anaris touched lightly on the opposite wall, then twisted about as he spoke a command into the communicator.

  The blast of shaped charges opened to the hissing roar of jacs, which in turn nearly obscured the frenzied yells of the Tarkans, mixed with horrified screams from the Rifters outside the hatch.