She frowned, slanting a look at his face as they went on.
He looked bad, she decided. The skin was stretched tightly over his cheekbones, and his eyes looked as if they were too far back in his head; there were lines engraved around the generous mouth, and his shoulders slumped slightly.
"You okay?" It was the first either had spoken since leaving the meres.
He spared her a sharp green glance. "I'm tired."
Very tired, he thought, forcing himself to keep her pace. Well, there was only a little farther to walk and a few moment's talk with Edger's watcher before he could rest – would rest. It was imperative that he rest… Shutting that thought away before the rhythm sapped the strength he had left, he lifted a hand to point.
"There."
"Let's go." She turned with him into the entrance tunnel. "What's this one's name?"
"He Who Watches, Edger called him."
"Watcher?" she wondered, brows knit.
Val Con shrugged. "It should do," he said. "I've never met him."
"Oh."
The hatch was before them, the summoner set dead center. Val Con reached up and pressed it, fighting the desire to lean forward and let the opaque crystal of the hatch hold him up.
Time passed. Miri reached past his shoulder and hit the summoner again. "What if he's asleep?" she muttered.
There seemed to be no reason to answer, for which he was grateful. Words were blurring in and out of focus, as if his mind were unable to deal with the process of converting sound to meaning.
The hatch began silently to rise.
When the opening was wide enough to accommodate them, they stepped through into the room beyond, where a Clutch person somewhat smaller than the smallest of Edger's entourage awaited them. He moved his hand on a control board set in the solid rock wall and the hatch slid down and sealed.
The Clutch person bowed – and Miri clamped her jaw on a gasp. No shell! she thought and then saw that she was wrong: a very small shell sat high like a knapsack between his shoulders. Maybe he was a kid.
Completing his bow, their host began to speak sonorously in what she recognized as Clutch speech. He had barely gotten into the first syllables of what could have been a first word when Val Con moved.
He bowed – not as deeply as he bowed to Edger, or even to Sheather, barely a heavy nod of head and shoulders – and cut across the other's speech.
"No doubt," he said in Trade, "the T'carais has informed you that we are in great haste. There is no time for the exchanging of names or other formalities. Please take us to the control room and show us what we must know."
Watcher froze, outrage warring with loathing in his soul. Regretfully, he put both aside. His T'carais, as the soft creature before him said, commanded. His was to endure and obey.
"As you will," he returned, dropping the jagged shards of the language called Trade from his tongue with what he hoped was seemly haste. "The control compartment is in this direction." He turned to lead the way, not looking back to see if they followed.
The control room was about the size of the Grotto, Miri thought, or maybe even bigger. It was hard to be certain because of the way the controls faced the large crystal suspended on the far wall. Star patterns were depicted within the crystal and Miri looked at it harder, giving herself a sharp mental shake.
Navigation tank, dummy, she told herself. Pay attention.
She pivoted slowly, taking in the rest of the area. A large table sat near the wall opposite the navigation tank, flanked with upholstered benches. Cubbyholes were cut into the wall to one side and in back – most were sealed, but a couple were open and empty – and two large cartons were pushed into the corner. Stenciled on the side of one was fragile and on the other, this end up.
The wall to her left was blank, though she thought a closer inspection would reveal more storage bins, and a wide shelf was built out from it at what might have been convenient sitting-height for Edger.
She frowned and continued her pivot. The room wasn't completely symmetrical; her mind kept trying to insist on the proportions she was most comfortable with, and the effort to really look at what she was seeing made her a little queasy. She tried to concentrate on the walls themselves, noting that they seemed to be made of seamless rock, rather than matched plate steel, and frowned harder.
From behind her she heard the rumble of Watcher's voice and the broken-edged sound that was Val Con's reply. She went quietly to the control board and leaned over her partner's shoulder.
"This is the recalibration device. When the ship is at rest you will remeasure and realign. Comfort requires it. If this has occurred, you must also recalibrate, utilizing this device – so."
Val Con nodded. "How often does the ship rest?"
"The ship rests four hours for every eight that it labors."
The man took a deep breath, forcing the air far down into his lungs and closing his eyes to better see the mental picture. The initial procedure was thus. To recheck, measure and align, one waited until the ship was at rest and made required adjustments so. The ship returned to labor when its rest was done, with adjustments or without them. He nodded and opened his eyes.
"Very good," he said, pushing aside that part of him that wondered what the sounds meant. "We must now set our course."
"Where is it that you wish to go?" Watcher inquired around the terror he felt. Only let it not be years!
"Volmer. Planet Designation V – 8735 – 927 – 3…"
Behind him, Miri shifted. "That's a Liaden planet! I told you, Tough Guy, I ain't going to Liad and I ain't going to any world controlled by Liad!"
From somewhere he brought forth a last shard of patience and lucidity and made it her gift. "It is a planet of the federated interests of Liad, Terra, and Clutch." His voice was nearly even. "From it we can depart to any of the fourteen prime points. I know that you will not go to Liad."
She wasn't convinced. "I don't like it, and I ain't – "
But his patience was gone and time was running out. "Be silent!"
She blinked – and shut up.
Watcher was pushing at the pastel crystal buttons, lighting and extinguishing them in a pattern that looked random to her nonpilot eyes. After a time, he stood away from the board.
"Your destination has been set," he said. "You will arrive in approximately three weeks, ship time. Of course, you will have to recalibrate your chronometers at journey's end. When you disembark, assuming you have no further need for this vessel, you will press this." He pointed to a large red disk set by itself on the right side of the board.
"You will have sufficient time after you have depressed the disk to exit the ship before the return journey begins." Was it possible that they would not ask, he wondered, hope beginning to stir.
Three weeks? Miri frowned, laboriously working out the sector designation in her head. No. He was translating the time units wrong somewhere. The trip shouldn't take more than two days. Oh, well, he was just a kid. As long as he had the destination coded right, they would be okay.
Val Con pushed himself away from the board and made the slight bow once again. "I thank you for your assistance. I – " He paused, his intention clear and glowing within his mind.
"I would that you say to my brother Edger," he began, forming each word in his head before speaking it, "that, should it come to his attention that I have lived – less long – than others of my kind, it would – please – me that he extend to this, his sister Miri, all honor and – and aid – that he would have made mine, had I – lived – to return to him, as I had promised." He paused to review this. It seemed to contain the germ of his desire.
"Say also to my brother," he continued, the words coming more and more slowly, "that I have been honored and enriched by his acquaintance and that my – love – goes with him in his endeavors." It was insufficient, he knew, but he could go no further. Edger would understand.
Watcher stared at the small, soft, swaying thing before him. He almost understood why hi
s T'carais so honored the creature. Then the red-furred one reached out its many-fingered hand to the one that had spoken; Watcher's stomach turned and the moment was gone.
"These things shall be said to my kinsman, the T'carais." He bowed. "I will signal you when I have reached the end of the tunnel. You will then press the disk that is blue, as you have been shown, and your journey will begin."
Val Con nodded, ignoring Miri's outstretched hand and forcing himself to stand unaided. "I must ask that you make considerable haste in gaining the end of the tunnel. We must be off within five Standard minutes."
Outrage again flared in Watcher, not quite overcoming relief. He would not have to serve these monsters, after all! He would only have to wait in the dim quiet of the corridor, with occasional forays out for food, until the ship returned to him. In the face of this reprieve, rudeness could be suffered.
"It shall be as you have said." He turned without further formality and left the control room.
A minute later, Miri heard the hatch slide up, then down. She looked at Val Con, who was swaying where he stood, his eyes on the blue disk.
"Boss, are you nuts? I don't need Edger's protection. You gave us even odds, remember?"
"Miri…" His voice faded off; he did not look at her.
She went to the nearest bench and sat. "Shut up," she finished for him. "Yes, sir."
A portion of the board lit and Val Con raised his hand, laid it over the blue disk, and pushed.
In the navigation tank, the stars went away.
"Already?" Miri demanded incredulously. "Maybe he meant three hours."
Costello rolled out of the DownTunnel and moved along F Level, not running, but pushing the walk.
Turtles, for Panth's sake! As if he hadn't had enough trouble trying to talk to mercenaries, now he had to go and try to talk to turtles. Ah, well, he got paid by the hour and it was overtime tonight, for sure. Maybe even hazardous duty pay.
A largish green person was exiting the tunnel to Number 327. Costello quickened his pace. The green person did things to the door controls and pressed the summons stud. Costello started to run.
"Hey, you!"
The turtle did not turn around. Rather, it laid its head against the tunnel door and stood very, very still, as might someone who breathes free air again after a time in captivity.
Costello arrived panting, and laid his hand on Watcher's arm. "Hey."
Watcher opened his eyes. When he saw the horrid, misshapen hand resting upon his arm, he jerked back and whirled to face the perpetrator of that outrage.
Costello held his hands out, fingers spread placatingly. "Hey, I'm sorry. No harm meant. It's just that I'm looking for some friends of mine. Thought you might have seen them." He paused, but the turtle only stared at his hands.
"Two kids," Costello said, picking up the thread of his story. "Boy about – oh, twenty, twenty-five; dark brown hair, green eyes, thin. Girl – pretty little girl – eighteen, or maybe twenty; red hair, gray eyes. Thought you might've seen them," he repeated.
Watcher made no reply.
Costello decided to play it tough. "Look, you," he snarled, moving closer and jabbing with his finger. "I know you're hiding something. It ain't gonna do you no good to play dumb, see? 'Cause there's ways of making guys like you talk. So you just tell me where them kids – "
Enough! Enough of outrage and sickness and terror and too many fingers on hands too small! Enough and too much!
Watcher struck.
And Costello screamed, pulling back a hand from which two fingers had been cleanly bitten away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Walls, Miri thought, should be stable things. They should not, for instance, be fuzzy one minute and translucent the next. Nor should they be shot, from time to random time, with sudden neon-bright color.
Her hands shouldn't seem to go into the wall when she touched it, and her feet shouldn't look foggy. In fact, things in general shouldn't be that – indefinite. And why did she feel so good? She wasn't drunk!
Miri sighed, which felt very good.
The good news, as far as she could tell, was that they wouldn't be on the ship very long – not the way they'd been able to slip away from Prime without a head start, clearing Jump or anything.
Yeah, that was pretty good, just sliding –
She couldn't concentrate on the thought. The wall she'd been staring at ghosted momentarily, becoming largely green fog, and she thought she saw a diamond the size of a dozen landcars on the other side.
Absently, she ran a hand down her arm. She did it again. How soft her shirt was! She stroked her arm a third time, eyes slitted in pleasure.
Putting her hands on her thighs, she immediately discovered the tactile delight of supple old leather, well-kept and clean – and snapped to her feet, holding her hands away from her body. There was a pattern in the floor she hadn't noticed before: layers and layers of large prints – the prints of Clutch feet – one on top another, pressed into the hard rock floor.
She half-laughed, then frowned as the idea struck her. She was assuming the semipsychedelics were drive-effects. What if instead there was something wrong with – her? What if she was sick? Or crazy?
Well, crazy'll be company for Tough Guy, she thought philosophically. Worse fates could befall.
Still, her fear needed to be checked out. On impulse, she unwound her braid and pulled the length of hair over her shoulder where she could see it.
It was as she had feared. Her hair was foggy, each strand a little brighter and a little less definite than normal.
Flipping the braid behind her shoulder, she turned and strode out of the bookroom, heading for the control area and her partner. When an entire wall went bright gold as she passed by, she stuck her tongue out at it.
Val Con got up when the control board began to shift.
Well, not shift so much as – fade? There was a rainbow iridescence at the edge of things that made him acutely uncomfortable; he tried hard to determine where one of his fingernails actually ended.
That experiment was interesting. He could touch edge of thumbnail to edge of thumbnail and feel it, except he'd swear he could feel it before they touched and after they were parted. Even more unsettling was that his thumbs and the fine hair that grew on the backs of his hands appeared to have a certain lack of substance.
Tired. He was very, very tired. He needed to rest.
But he hadn't been able to rest – and the so-called Survival Loop kept popping up, over and over, unbidden, each time giving him figures which seemed not to concern him, but still initiating bursts of energy as it insisted to that this time he might not get home.
Home? He closed his eyes, trying to picture the place, but the weird effects disrupted the efficiency of his memory's eye.
Shan? he thought, in something like desperation. Nova?
But the faces of his kin did not arise.
Edger? There was no difficulty recalling that person, down to the bone-rattling boom of his voice; and with it this memory brought attendant memories, of life with the Middle River Clan…
Go home, he thought. Rest. Go home and be musician for the Clan…
But there had been those equations when he'd played the 'chora – the Loop, showing him that the longer he played, the less chance he had of ultimate survival. And now these fadings and flashings, when things had been feeling so – unreal – in general…
Seated at the map table, he took quick inventory. The effects observed were not akin to any poison he had been trained to recognize: they seemed to be nearly psychedelic, yet actual – which argued against an airborne spore or something of that nature.
It had to be an artifact of the drive – he hoped.
He massaged his wrist gently, astonished at the intense pleasure the action gave him, and closed his eyes.
CMS: .2.
Not so unusual. Except that he hadn't given the Loop a mission to calculate.
Music. Edger had said there were instruments on board
. Gods, I could use a 'chora now! he thought.
The display in his head dropped the CMS to .1 instantly.
There was no sense to that, was there?
Was there?
Why should music endanger him? He needed to relax; he needed sleep, rest, a chance to let stretched reflexes loosen. He'd used the 'chora for that quite successfully in the past.
If there was space – and there had to be space on a ship this size – he might begin a session of L'apeleka.
He shook his head. Composure was needed to practice that Clutch discipline. He had taken time, between missions, to enter as far as the Fifth Door without a partner, and had never failed to feel more – alive.
I have to go home, he thought.
But no, that wasn't getting him anywhere. The flashes behind his eyes showed a new reading on the CPS, a figure he didn't want to admit to consciousness.
His thirty-day chance of personal survival was down to .09.
"The mind must be composed for proper utilization of the Survival Loops," he recalled.
If only he could relax! He was certain the figures would be higher.
One wall flashed brilliant gold, went to streaked yellow with orange specks, then turned red as the floor flowed green; and his hand looked even less distinct.
It was good that Miri was not there, he reflected.
He would find it impossible to deal patiently with her questions, her demands for attention – yet he was glad that had gotten her out of Juntavas territory, that she'd have a chance to get on with her life when they raised Volmer. Glad that he'd gone back for her.
And why had he? What was she but a deadly danger, growing more deadly all the time? The things she knew – the things that he, himself, had told her! The things she had seen – and she saw much, he was sure. She was a threat and a danger, to himself and to his mission –
"What mission, dammit!"
He was on his feet, glaring around at the chaotic walls.
Deliberately, he took a breath and combed his fingers through his hair.
Lee, Sharon & Miller, Steve - Liaden Books 1-9 Page 44