“The current project, barring additional interruptions or supply difficulties, should be completed in two hours, seventeen minutes, forty-three seconds from my mark. Mark.”
Merinda strolled tiredly over to look into the stasis field in which the TyRen was working. She wished she had had more time to come up with something a bit more elegant and a little less complicated. Yet, as Griffiths had said, their time had about run out.
“Who are we using for the synth?” she asked quietly.
“Seven-gamma-six-nine has volunteered for this glorious duty in defense of the emperor,” the TyRen responded.
“Lindia,” she said to the room in general. “What is your opinion of this?”
The ship’s omnipresent synthetic mind responded at once in a cool female voice. “The workmanship is impressive and I believe the unit will function as per the stated specifications.”
Merinda rubbed the back of her elegant neck. “Yes, it will function, but will it work?”
“Humans are chaotic creatures, Merinda,” the disembodied voice resounded. “Their actions are not predictable with certainty.”
Merinda looked down at the deck for a moment before she continued. “Lindia?”
“Yes, Merinda. How may I serve you?”
Merinda smiled tiredly to herself. Lindia had been the shipboard synthetic mind for as long as Merinda had captained the Brishan. She realized that the synth was not sentient, as she had so recently and rather dramatically proven, yet there was something comforting about Lindia. The synth had been more of a real companion to her over the years than any flesh and blood creature had been. Woman and machine, they had shared much in their time together. Certainly, she thought, that counted for something.
Yet now Merinda couldn’t think of the words to express herself to this, her only real friend. So long had the fires of self-hatred and blame burned within her that their sudden absence had left her with a quiet relief that was uncomfortable. She knew with true Vestis instinct that real danger was near. Now the anger and the rage that had once given her a keen edge in battle were no longer there. More baffling to her yet was the fact that its absence didn’t seem to concern her. She felt weary and serene. Perhaps it is time to stop running, she thought. Perhaps the chase should end … one way or the other.
“Lindia,” Merinda said, her voice somewhat thoughtful and subdued. “We have gone through a great deal together, you and I. The universe is changing quickly now and in ways that I don’t yet understand.”
“Do you wish an explanation of the universe, Merinda?”
Merinda smiled. “No. I just want you to know that whatever happens—I am at peace now for the first time. Today was a good day for me. Just remember that whatever happens to me in the future, that today, for one great moment, I was at peace.”
“Yes, Merinda, I will remember.”
The sky overhead was lightening slowly. Clouds were building off in the distance, evidence that weather was soon going to assert its chaos over the quiet world of Avadon—and, more particularly, the city of Aden. The world had taken on a delightful soft pinkness before it drifted fully into the light of day.
Phandrith J’lan stood perfectly still before the entrance to the ship, belying the nervousness that threatened to overwhelm him at any moment. He had studied the techniques at the Citadel, of course, and had been somewhat masterful at disguising his emotional state—a must for any successful Inquisitor. He had imagined himself standing before the courts of the Ruqua emperors, being an inscrutable blank canvas upon which the rulers whose courts he visited could imagine whatever emotion they wished. Such ability to hide one’s true aims was essential to the mission of the Vestis Inquisitas, for it allowed them to put on whatever face was necessary to get the job done at the moment.
Yet nothing he had trained for had prepared him for what he was facing now. Ethics had not been part of the training.
There was, indeed, as Targ of Gandri had stated, one thing at which he had excelled during his studies—the question now was how to apply the knowledge and the skill effectively. He had stood in the cold for some time pondering that question. Long-range, of course, was the preferred method in delivering death in any quantum zone. Hit your target from a distance as quietly and as effectively as possible. However, long-range was not possible since his target was most likely to remain inside and could not be counted on to move out of her ship with any kind of reliable timing, if at all.
The job would have to be done inside the ship at close range—a fact that presented a whole additional set of problems. The target was somewhat older than J’lan but certainly in every bit as good of shape. Further, she was far more experienced than he was, giving her all the advantage in a straight-up fight. There hadn’t been enough time to establish any kind of trust between them. It was impossible, therefore, to depend on betrayal to strike when the target’s defenses were down. That normally would limit his attack to some sort of explosive device or temporal bomb. His orders, unfortunately, had been rather explicit on that account. Besides, such devices might damage the ship itself—a ship which he had been promised on his success.
So much for a simple little remote murder.
He moved through the mystical scenarios, discounting each in its turn. The Portable Hole. The Djinn’s Curse. The Ship in the Bottle. Each possible spell tumbled through his brain, was examined and discarded. In the end he determined that there was no help for it but to walk into the ship and do the deed himself with a quick and effective weapon.
He looked down under the brightening sky at the slim device in his hand. The curving glass of the blade ended in a slim hilt and triggered grip. It was an elegant weapon, traditional for assassins. The T/S kris was small but quite effective. It was easy to conceal and operated well in mystic zones. All one need do to activate it was to grip the handle. That act depressed the arming trigger under the palm. The kris utilized a temporal singularity running the length of the curving glass blade. As the edges of the blade existed in another time, the blade could penetrate even the most determined body armor. All that was left at that point was to release one’s grip from the arming trigger to free the temporal singularity. The alternate time sphere would then quickly expand to collapse the target’s internal organs into an alternate timeline. The device was highly discriminatory and most intelligent. J’lan slipped the kris into its robed sheath and patted the grip lightly with affection. Considering the skill of the target, he knew he would only get one chance to be effective, but one would be all he would need.
Strange, he thought behind his impassive mask, that he was already thinking of her as “the target”—some disconnected thing rather than a fellow Vestis. It wouldn’t be the first time he had killed on behalf of the Omnet, but never had he attempted anyone quite so skilled and never before one of his own Order. It occurred to him fleetingly that from this time onward, he, too, would need to be on his guard, lest the duty which caused him to become the hunter somehow cause him in turn to become the hunted. Yet, he was still a youth and, as such, thought of himself as superior and, somehow, immortal. Some part of him whispered, however, that he would most likely never see the light of another day …
But then, neither would Merinda Neskat.
Targ winced as the trumpets blared through the towering Cathedral of the Mantle for the third and final time. He stood at the bottom of the great staircase. He had never had much use for ceremony and this one struck him as no different: a show more for the benefit of the crowd than for the honoring of their adored prophet. Well, he thought, that would soon have to change.
The crowd cheered and Targ winced again. He could see over their heads the parting of the assembly, opening the way to the base of the stairs as, at one side of the circular chamber, the lofty Ninth Gate of Enlightenment swung slowly open.
Let them enjoy the pageant, Targ thought. There’s more show yet to come.
“Vestis Neskat?”
“That depends,” Merinda said casually, standing
at the top of the Brishan’s airlock ramp.
“I am Vestis Novus Phandrith J’lan,” the youth smiled with practiced casualness. “I am currently the Omnet emissary to Avadon.”
“Ah,” Merinda replied flatly, “so you’re the drig that’s kept me here for the last two weeks.”
“Well—yes, I suppose so,” J’lan continued as smoothly as he could. “I bring the compliments of Vestis Prime Targ of Gandri. He asked that I deliver to you this baton of passage as you requested. Sorry it’s taken so long—some kind of mix-up at the Citadel on Deveron IV.”
Neskat smiled, taking the ornamental baton and unrolling the scroll affixed to it. She continued to study it as she spoke. “Hmm. A writ of galactic passage—a bearer writ at that. It’s about time. Convey my compliments to Vestis Prime Targ of Gandri. The ship stands ready at his pleasure to depart whenever he wills it—though I wonder if he will have any real idea where we should steer it. Still, knowing Targ, we’ll be going nowhere as quickly as possible.”
Merinda glanced up from the scroll at the sudden chuckling sound.
“Am I that entertaining, Vestis Novus?”
Patience. She is not close enough, J’lan thought. I must get closer. Patience is always the hardest part. He shook his head, the smile still playing at the corners of his mouth as he spoke. “Sorry, Vestis Neskat. It’s just that—well, you paint a very clear picture of the Vestis Prime. He does seem in an awful hurry to get wherever he’s going.”
Merinda nodded absently, barely hearing Phandrith’s remarks as she scanned the indicators projected before her from the baton. “Thank you, Novus, everything here appears to be in order.”
Merinda turned and stepped back into the airlock.
Patience—must get closer. “Ah, Vestis Neskat?”
Merinda turned around, her eyes coldly critical. “Yes?”
“Well,” J’lan stammered, looking down at the ground and blushing. “It’s just that—well, I’ve been an admirer of yours for some time now. I’ve studied your netcasts over the Omnet. I hope someday to be as professional as you in my own work.”
Neskat nodded, her eyes still critical. Her words came out flat and cautious. “Thank you, Vestis. High praise indeed.”
She turned again.
“Er, Vestis Neskat?”
Again she stopped and turned back to him.
J’lan shrugged disarmingly. “Look—I’ve discharged my duties to Targ and kept you here as ordered. I’d like to give you a hand with your flight preparations—with your approval, of course. Truth is that I’d like to see how you’ve loaded out your ship for the voyage. I’m sure it will help me later—you know, when I’ve got my own ship.”
Merinda’s eyes were fixed on him, as though trying to see into his soul.
“Please,” he smiled shyly. “As one Vestis to another?”
Merinda’s face softened slightly. “Very well, Novus. You may come aboard—but stay out from under my feet. I’ve no time to give you a tour.”
No, Merinda Neskat, J’lan thought as he stepped up the airlock ramp, you have no time at all.
The Anjew flew into the Cathedral of the Mantle and again the cheers of the assembled supplicants rose to greater heights than before. Drums beat into the hall at the head of the procession which, finally, had arrived.
Targ was having difficulty seeing around the massive Thought-Knights standing in honor between him and the path of the procession itself. He had no idea which legion the knights had come from and couldn’t care less. Indeed it suddenly occurred to him that this entire procession was buying Vestis J’lan the time he needed to get aboard the Brishan. Merinda Neskat was a good Vestis and would most likely obey his will as she had always done in the past—still, it was always a good idea to back up one’s faith in others’ loyalties with something more substantial than goodwill. This time, the mission went beyond loyalties. This time …
The orchestra was marching into the hall. He could see that beyond them the flower petals were being cast into the air. The prophet of the Irindris would enter the hall at any moment. He would ascend the stairs and court would begin.
At that moment, Targ thought, the years of planning would end. There would be no turning back. The life he had so carefully groomed would be put behind him. His fate would become as certain as the pathways of the stars themselves. Already he could feel the tide of events he had set in motion carrying him forward, sweeping him toward that destiny with increasing power and authority.
The thought drifted into his mind that he might still be able—even then—to stop what he had begun. He dismissed the notion at once. His vision of the future engulfed his will. In that moment, it truly was too late and his course was set.
Merinda made her way through the maze of tubing, conduits, and mystic transfer coils that choked the cargo deck, her mind racing through a mental gymnasium every bit as complex as the eclectic machinery around her.
This Vestis Novus Phandrith J’lan was about as subtle as a bruk discharge, she thought. His stammering flattery was dreadfully transparent, but his motives were not yet as clear to her. Targ was up to something; something that she knew was contrary to the general interests of the Omnet. This little visit was almost certainly part of it all. The problem for her was—part of what? The pieces were alarming enough in their details but did not yet present a clear picture. She could not take what she had thus far to the Dictorae—there just was not enough factual basis to accuse Targ of anything more than doing his job.
Merinda stepped carefully around a low-mounted transfer coil, ducking to avoid the overhead locking mounts as she made her way across the deck. She could just make out the port-side hatch that led to her quarters and the bridge. She felt certain that when they reached the control compartment this whelp would make his move. Perhaps then, she thought, she would have her answers. It was always a tricky business, she thought, knowing just how much cable to play out to an opponent: too little and they never make their move; too much and they will take you down whether you suspect them or not. One day, she might just judge it wrongly. One never recovered from such mistakes—indeed, one seldom even knew what had killed them.
Merinda noticed a conduit snaking loosely across the deck. She turned slightly. “Watch out for this …”
J’lan was already near.
Merinda felt the searing pain enter her left side. Her turn had somewhat spoiled J’lan’s grip on her. His left hand had not been able to get a proper hold on her and his leverage was bad. Still, he had momentum on his side and the blade slid smoothly upward, its curved edge grating against the lower side of her ribcage.
Unable to get the grip he wanted, J’lan pushed forward with his legs, using his weight to drive the blade home.
Adrenaline surged into Merinda’s body. Instinct and training seized control of her actions. She reached across with her right hand, clawing for the weapon that had violated her so terribly. Her hand closed like a vise over J’lan’s.
Howling in rage and indignation, Merinda tripped backward against the loose conduit. She fell, her back thudding against the deck plates. J’lan fell on top of her, his weight driving the blade up through her lung.
Merinda struggled despite the blinding pain. Her left hand flashed upward, crossing J’lan’s face, and her palm smashed his nose. The Novus growled through the pain, struggling against Merinda’s grip on his hand and desperately trying to let go of the blade.
Kris! Merinda’s mind screamed into her consciousness.
Merinda’s left hand reached down quickly, trying frantically to add its strength to her right hand. The wave-edged blade turned within her. She screamed again but held her grip fast, knowing and fearing what would happen if she allowed J’lan to let go.
She suddenly stopped struggling, though she held her grip tight. She realized that she had already lost a great deal of blood. It was getting hard to focus on the impersonal face of J’lan so horribly close to her own. She knew the battle would be lost soon, one way or anot
her.
“Why?” she rasped.
J’lan’s eyes focused on her as though he were suddenly aware that there was a person beneath him. “It is a Vestis honor to die for the Omnet. This is nothing personal, Neskat. Better you should die than the entire Omnet be destroyed.”
She spat blood in his face.
A rush of motion descended from above.
J’lan glanced upward but had no time to react. The metallic appendages slammed through the air with the sound of a sudden wind. A cobalt-blue arc cut neatly through J’lan’s right forearm, severing it entirely a hand’s width above the wrist. Three more appendages reached down an instant later, two of them coiling around the neck of the shocked Vestis Novus, while the third wound about his left arm. With a sudden rumble, the appendages contracted, lifting J’lan clear off the floor.
The entire action had taken less than a second.
Merinda slammed her eyes shut against the pain, pulling the kris blade free of the gaping wound in her side, her grip still closed over the severed hand of Vestis J’lan.
“Thank you, Babo,” Merinda said, staring with unfocused eyes up at the gasping Vestis.
“I am Seven-alpha-three-five,” the TyRen intoned, floating upside down among the conduits, which looked very much like himself. “It is my honor to do my duty, Merinda Neskat. I am grieved to have arrived too late.”
“We’ve got to get … got to get Griffiths out of here.” Merinda shuddered under the pain. “Seven … Seven-alpha-three … five. Get Griffiths off-world now!”
“Merinda Neskat, you are my priority,” the TyRen stated calmly as he held the Novus suspended in the air. “You are in need of healing assistance at once. Further, I am occupied by this assassin at the moment.”
“Not for long.” Merinda pressed her left hand against the wound in her side. She rolled slowly to her knees, then staggered to her feet.
“As you said, Phandrith, one Vestis to another,” Merinda said, gazing up at the Vestis Novus hanging above her. Her words were obscured by the frothing blood in her throat. “It is a Vestis honor to die for the Omnet—in your case, it would be an honor to die by your own hand.”
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