A shudder shook the ship, and it surfaced backwards in a rush, the nose rising to the surface in time to bury itself again in the forward wall of the oncoming swell. It was less frightening this time because he was only a few feet below the surface had confidence in the canopy, but the starlight was still welcome when it appeared once more. The safety devices had worked. All openings were sealed and he saw no flooding.
Safe for the moment, but still trapped.
Jack switched off the alarm and shut down the power, killing everything before any other nasties materialized. He needed time to think.
Logic put Rachael in the frame. His instincts had been right, but he hadn’t listened. Was she working for the Federation or the Pontiff? It made a big difference. Could it be for both? Her stress levels made sense if she was a double. Either way, a distress signal to the Treaty Port was out, and he couldn’t send anything through the portal from this position on the globe. He was on his own.
The Pontiff was the first danger. If Rachael were working for him, his people would be on their way. Capturing an Alliance member would give them leverage in the courts and delay integration for centuries. Even if she were working for the Federation, the first step would be the same—deliver him into the Pontiff’s hands and then use the leverage against the Alliance.
He must avoid capture, of both himself and the ship.
The first was easy. The ocean was deep here, and the ship was intact. Flooded, she would carry everything to the bottom, beyond the Pontiff’s reach. Avoiding capture was not so easy.
His family had a history with this planet. His grandmother’s people had lived here once, and his mother had met his father here, but that was thousands of years ago. Millennia of theocratic rule had changed things. He could pass as one of the Elite at a pinch, for there were a scattering of individuals descended from the Elite left behind after the displacement of his grandmother’s people. His briefing had emphasized their presence.
Had the family known what he was getting into?
Jack shook his head. It didn’t matter now.
The Elite were leaders and the Pontiff probably knew each of them by name, so he’d have to avoid everyone, although he might pass without comment at a distance. A boat was his best option. He could sail it to the Treaty Port, slip through the barriers and send a message through the portal. At worst, he could declare himself to the Federation and risk them handing him over to the Pontiff. Even if this were a Federation plot, he didn’t think they’d go that far—too many chances of being exposed.
It wasn’t a good plan. Too many gaps and the chances of success were minimal, but it was all he had. If he made it, he’d give the bitch the spanking he’d promised. The thought might keep him going when things grew tough.
The first hurdle was reaching the shore.
The inflatable was out. Everything off-planet had to go down with the ship. He had local clothing. It would survive the water, but the loosely woven cloth wouldn’t provide flotation. There had to be something else.
A flash of light at the edge of his vision...was it the signal from his contact?
The sequence was right, but what was the boat doing this far from the shore? The planned exchange was a sheltered bay. If it were the Pontiff’s men, his time was running out. He switched to emergency control, opened the flooding valves, and the ship began to settle in the water, her profile shrinking as she sank until only the cockpit canopy remained above the surface. He closed the valves at that point and waited. If they’d seen him fall from the sky, they’d come closer.
The night vision goggles gave him brief glimpses of the horizon when the swell lifted the ship, but there was nothing beyond the flash of light, so it had to be a small boat. The Pontiff’s men would have used a mission schooner. He could afford to wait a little longer.
A change of clothes filled some of the time and a final check of the tiny living quarters took up the rest. He’d be lifting the cockpit canopy to escape, and he didn’t want anything floating free as the ship sank. By the time, he returned to the cockpit, the fishing boat was visible and he could see the helmsman was one of the Elite.
Then the man in the boat spotted the canopy and waved.
Unable to do anything else, Jack acknowledged the greeting with a wave and waited.
“Sink your ship and join me in the boat. I can’t be away too long.”
This was no Elite.
“Yes,” the man thought impatiently. “Hurry.”
Jack didn’t wait. He opened the flooding valves, discarded his night vision gear, clipped it securely in its holder, and opened the canopy as a passing wave exposed it.
The next wave nearly beat him, catching him half out of the cockpit, but he managed to kick clear as the ship disappeared beneath him. The turbulence took him down twenty feet before he fought clear and popped to the surface.
“Here.” The helmsman thrust the loom of an oar into his grasp, eschewing the dangerous mindspeak.
Jack took advantage of his help to roll into the boat. “Raise the sail,” his rescuer instructed. “We need to get out of here before first light.” There was no further conversation until the boat settled into a broad reach with Jack at the tiller.
“Drop me off behind that point.” The helmsman indicated a jutting promontory. “There’s a sheltered cove on the other side. I’ll have time to reach my cave before anyone misses me.”
Jack nodded but said nothing, waiting for an explanation.
“You’ll have to make your own way to the Treaty Port. I’ve given you as much in the way of supplies as I could steal, and they might not miss the boat for a few days. I frayed the mooring rope, and the wind was offshore. They’ll look for it first and may assume it sank. There’s a rough chart of where we are with the trading routes marked. Destroy it as soon as you can. It could be linked back to me.” His companion looked weary.
“Are you the reason I’m here?”
“They said they were sending someone good.” A crooked grin accompanied the words, as if he didn’t expect belief. “If you can make it back to the Treaty Port, your job’s done.”
Jack smiled. The need to know of operations meant he’d get no other explanation, but he couldn’t resist trying. “The girl?”
“A Federation double, no more. This is the Pontiff’s doing.” His companion smiled. “You sound interested.”
“I promised her a spanking. She seems to have earned it.”
“That has the ring of truth. Remember it if there’s a need.”
Jack nodded, and the conversation lapsed. It was better that way. The less he remembered, the easier it was to conceal if they caught him.
The cove was ideal. Jack came around the point into the lee of the cliffs, and there was a sandy beach leading into a cave. His companion pointed, and Jack luffed the boat to a standstill.
“Two last things. They must not get wind of anything beyond your longevity and there is a radio station here. The Pontiff will know what’s happened by morning.” He waited until Jack nodded his understanding. “Good luck,” he said, and slipped over the side to swim strongly for the beach.
Jack watched him go. At least he hadn’t blamed anyone else, taking the full responsibility for telling Jack to sacrifice his life rather than betray the family’s presence. It deserved respect. A wave from the beach and Jack backed the sail and pushed the tiller away from him. The boat’s head fell away until it pointed at the sea and Jack hauled in the sheets to catch the wind.
His job was simple. Peter had established a deep cover agent on Trygon, one of the Hive Masters who’d created a physical body, a functioning telepath hiding himself from the Pontiff’s mind. Suspicion must have fallen on him, and Peter considered his role so important, he’d arranged a diversion to give him time to escape. Jack must evade capture and focus the Pontiff’s efforts elsewhere. If captured, he must not reveal his connection to the Alliance or his telepathic abilities.
He didn’t know him, so he’d been undercover a long
time, at least a century and a half, and he must not speculate on his role lest the echo of his thoughts remain in his mind, yet he already liked him. It would have been so easy to blame Peter for the need to sacrifice someone.
Good luck to him. He’d need it to escape the Pontiff.
Chapter Eight
The Pontiff didn’t look up when they dragged the woman into the room, just continued reading the reports on his desk. The two guards saluted and withdrew, leaving her lying where she’d fallen. The ancient grandfather clock against the wall tolled the passing seconds, its ticks the only sound outside the sibilance of her breath. The black wig was gone, and her red hair was matted and damp. She’d drawn herself into a fetal position, as if trying to hide from notice.
He let her lie there; he needed hope to spawn before he could break her entirely. He finished one report and put it aside before he began the next. The rustle of the parchment sent a quiver through her limbs, and she curled a little tighter.
Good.
She was ripening nicely. Two more reports should be enough. He concentrated on the parchment before him.
He finished the first report, pushed away and reached for the next, the sound triggering another quiver from the woman, this one deliberate. She was recovering nicely. This report would give her time.
The report finished, signed, and consigned for action by another of his sons, he leaned back in the chair, scanning the woman’s mind. “You failed me,” he said. “His ship sank and he drowned. The device was too powerful. There was no need for a rescue attempt, and my people let the other one escape.”
He felt the words penetrate Rachael’s pain; dragging her mind from its haven and making it work again.
The Pontiff’s men must be using the radios supplied by the Federation for him to know what was happening half a world away. That much of the plan had worked. The more they used them, the more they became dependent on the Federation. Jack’s ship would not have sunk unless it broke up on impact or he did it deliberately. The control device was set to operate at a low enough altitude for the ship to survive the impact. Therefore, Jack sank it deliberately. Self-immolation was not a characteristic of Alliance agents, so Jack was alive and still free. The Pontiff had not executed her, the normal penalty for failure. This made her pain a lesson, not a punishment. She would survive.
“You have nothing to say?”
She let a moan escape, keeping it low, full of pain and fear.
“Stop wasting my time. Answer or...” He left the threat unspoken.
Rachael needed time. “I’m sorry.”
His sigh was a gust of exasperation. “Guards.”
“Holy Father?” They’d been waiting outside the door, to respond so quickly.
“Give her another hour of your attention and return her to the temple.”
Parchment rustled as he placed another report before him. He felt Rachael start the disciplines that would divorce mind from body, clamping down on the exultation of having survived.
The Pontiff waited until the sound of the guards died in the distance and pushed the parchment away. The woman was interesting. Enough pain and the mind defenses slipped, letting him peek behind her shield. A lot of it was still garbled, but he could get the sense of it. He acknowledged the risk of dependency in using the radios, but unless he caught the Alliance agent on Trygon, his regime was doomed. A minor dependency was irrelevant.
If she was right and the pilot was also Alliance and had survived, the Treaty Port was his only avenue of escape. His colleagues would send him down the strands of the network toward it, making him an invaluable source of information to capture the other. He must not leave the planet, even if it meant snatching him from the Federation.
The Pontiff turned aside and made a note on his agenda for the next meeting with his cardinals. The task was theirs.
* * * *
Rachael lay on her couch fighting to block out the waves of pain. The Pontiff’s man had left no physical injuries, but every nerve screamed its outrage at what he’d done. Her mind training was inadequate to the task, and desperation made her focus on Jack.
Centuries of practice had made him a good lover, knowing and considerate, and she’d not regretted exceeding her instructions, justifying the lapse by using their relationship to foster the Federation’s aims. She was glad he survived and hoped he made it back to the Treaty Port. The more the Pontiff’s men could be encouraged to use Federation technology, the more dependent they became. It was a colonizing trick as old as civilization. Chasing down an elusive quarry like Jack would try their patience, making them more susceptible to the shortcuts the Federation needed them to use.
He’d have guessed by now what her part in the charade had been and be angry. She smiled. He’d promised her a spanking. If he survived, she’d most likely get it. His kind never gave way to hatred, even if it was galling that they treated Federation agents like children.
Until she joined the Federation, she’d never heard of the Alliance, or of the men and women who served its purpose. An odd legend or two existed, twisted out of all recognition, but no one believed there were immortals living amongst them, descendants of a race isolated to a minor planet in the furthest reach of the galaxy. It was too uncomfortable. Her first reaction had been horror, followed quickly by jealousy, but then she’d met the first of them during an operation and had been saved by her when the plan gone wrong.
Anneke lost a friend in the debacle, but bore no grudge against the Federation for their ineptitude. “They’re so terribly young,” she said as she led Rachael to safety. They’d talked for a great deal during the journey, an education in the way the Alliance saw reality, and Rachael said goodbye with a sense of loss when Anneke walked away between two guards. She wasn’t surprised when she heard she’d escaped. It had looked like Anneke was leading the guards rather than them escorting her.
Jack was like her in that sense, carrying himself with an unconscious air of self-worth that escaped arrogance. Her only glimpse of how dangerous he might be came in the restaurant with his physical reaction to her attempt to hit him. The somersault into a fighting stance had been instantaneous, and he’d radiated menace until he recognized her.
Oddly, she felt safe with him. Her body stirred at the memory of his lovemaking, and she surrendered to its power.
The pain receded more quickly.
* * * *
Jack was clear of the island, sailing south in the general direction of the Treaty Port. The boat was good, the rig balanced, needing only a touch of weather helm, and he was enjoying himself, sailing away from the immediate danger of capture. He’d study the map in daylight, then dispose of it and depend on his memory.
The Pontiff had failed—unless Jack fell into his hands. The deep cover agent would have his own escape planned. It was a pity Peter still kept the pact made with Feodar. Translocation would make things so much simpler, but even Limbo was out of bounds to him.
Daylight saw Jack on the open sea, no land in sight. There was no pole star for this planet, and the orbits of its two satellite moons were so eccentric they were useless for navigation. He had no compass either, and this made navigation a hit and miss affair. He’d studied the chart supplied with the boat at first light and hoped it was accurate, but he needed some way of determining his heading at night before he went further, particularly with the sun near its southern limit lengthening the nights in this hemisphere.
He sailed southward all day, rationing himself to a single sip of water when night fell. His thirst was still manageable. The short tropical twilight gave him time to drop the sail. He unshipped the mast to reduce his profile, rigged a bight of rope from one side of the bow to the other as a makeshift sea anchor, and crawled under the half-deck to sleep.
It was going to be a long voyage.
The dawn found him awake, the mast rigged, the sail hoisted, and the boat running south before a stiff breeze. Apart from another single mouthful of water, rolled around his mouth until it disappe
ared, he didn’t touch any of the food left in the boat by his rescuer. He’d eaten well in the restaurant and could afford to go without food for a while. The water situation was more serious, and he must conserve it from the beginning.
This was the boat’s best point of sailing and he used his leisure to transfer details from the map to the wooden thwart beside him using the point of the knife found with the food. He disguised them in the outline of a woman’s face, oddly like Rachael’s, creating a mnemonic of the map rather than a copy. He must trust his undercover friend to have left nothing else incriminating in the boat beyond the map. The job done, he studied the map one last time, checking everything against his markings, and then cut the parchment into small strips and ate them. He could afford no waste, and there was protein in the sheet.
The first island showed on the southwestern horizon at sunset, a glimpse of a mountain peak catching the slanting rays of the sun when the boat lifted to the top of the swell. According to his map, it was inhabited and dangerous. His first landing lay beyond it, on the northern fringe of a broad expanse of ocean he must cross. A small island rarely visited, the map showed it as a rookery for sea birds. He could make his preparations for the longer voyage and observe the night sky.
Navigation at night was a problem he must solve.
* * * *
The Pontiff was angry. His ancestors should have wiped out the Elite generations ago. They caused trouble wherever they went, and this one was the worst of all. Sneaky, his mind unreadable, he never opposed directly and was all the more dangerous because of it. The Pontiff had suspected an Alliance agent, but his bloodline was impeccable, reaching back unbroken to the Abandonment and Feodar’s arrival for the establishment of the Pontificate.
Feodar had been a strange individual, even for a Pontiff. He’d been extraordinarily long-lived, some seven hundred years according to the Great Book. Many of his entries meandered, made meaningless by their references to a time beyond the Abandonment and geography bearing no resemblance to reality, and concerned a mysterious covenant made with the Soldier. The advent of the off-worlders suggested he’d been writing about another planet entirely, but archeology proved the occupation of this planet for centuries before the Abandonment. A puzzle, but not important. The Pontiff shrugged and turned back to the matter at hand.
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