Lee, Sharon & Miller, Steve - Liaden Books 1-9

by Liaden 1-9 (lit)

  Slowly he gained his feet, approached the fire, and lay down on his back, arms loose at his sides. Miri, sitting beside him, grinned and saw the ghost of the ghost of his smile in return.

  "Okay," she said, schooling her voice to that tone of friendly firmness she used in the most desperate battle situations. "Close your eyes and take a deep, deep breath." She took one herself, eyes only on his face.

  "Now, visualize the color red..."

  When they were at violet, the end of the Rainbow, she asked, "Do you see the stairway, Val Con?"

  "Yes," he said softly. "The stairway is - still there."

  "And are you okay?" she asked, hearing the slight hesitation. "Not frightened? Not threatened?"

  "I am - well."

  "Then do you choose to walk down the stairs?"

  There was a small pause, then he said, "The door is also still in place." There was a hint of wonder in his voice.

  "Will you open the door?" Miri asked. "Go inside?"

  "In a moment..."

  She drew a careful breath. "Val Con? Is something wrong? Maybe I can help you."

  "Not - wrong. It is only that I have not been - inside - since...Miri," he said suddenly.

  "Yo."

  "Thank you - is it only 'thank you'? Nothing more? Cha'trez, thank you for loving me - for loving me so well."

  "I ain't done yet," she said, managing to keep her voice pitched right. "But you're welcome. You going inside, or you gonna stand around on the landing all night?"

  His lips curved in a smile. "Inside..." And there was silence. Miri sat, short nails scoring her palm, eyes glued to his face, teeth drilling into her lower lip so she would not shout and break the web.

  "Miri?" It was a whisper. Then it came again, louder. "Miri!"

  "Right here." And what to do if something was wrong? After all that bluff about not letting anything hurt him...

  But the expression on his face was joy, and when he spoke again he nearly sang the words. "Miri, it's still here! Still whole. They never got inside!"

  "You happy?" she asked inanely against the beat of her own rising joy, not quite understanding what was happening.

  It almost seemed as if he would laugh. "Let us not overstate the case...A moment." There was a long silence. "I will sleep now," he said then, "and key myself to begin L'apeleka tomorrow. A large space, cha'trez, if you can. If not, I will dance outside."

  "And put Hakan to all the trouble of explaining to the neighbors that you were okay yesterday and then just went bang off your head? I'll find you something with a roof over it. And don't worry about the ship. Good as in orbit already."

  "Yes, Miri."

  "Bastard." Grinning in spite of herself, she rose and stood looking down at him for a moment.

  His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of deep relaxation, his body limp, his face looking years younger - a boy's face, fast asleep.

  Cautiously she inspected the new pattern inside her head and was able, after several moments, to be satisfied. It was not nearly as screwy as it had been earlier in the day, when she had made the decision to hike over and talk to him, face to face. Maybe it'll work, Robertson, she thought, and went silently across the room and out the door, taking care that it was shut tightly behind her.

  VANDAR

  Hellin's Surcease

  Hakan, looking up as Miri came into the kitchen, lay a muting palm on the strings and set the guitar aside.

  "How's Cory?" he asked, voice almost soft.

  "Better," she told him, dropping into the chair Kem pulled out for her. "I think better. He's - asleep."

  "Good," Hakan murmured. He leaned forward slightly to peer into her face. "Porlint isn't a cold place, Miri. It's near the equator, so it hardly ever snows."

  She blinked, then she bowed her head with a touch of Cory's formality. "Thank you, Hakan. I'll try to remember."

  "That's all right." He eased back a little. "Do the two of you want to go back to Zhena Brigsbee's? I can drive you."

  "Tomorrow," Kem amended softly.

  Miri flickered forward and touched his hand, flashing a smile to the other woman. "Hakan, thank you again. But it would be better...Do you know a place - a big, empty place - Cory could use for five days - six? If you do, he should go there. Me, I need to be someplace else tomorrow, and then I go back to Zhena Brigsbee."

  At Hakan's distinctly blank look, Miri bit her lip and tried again. "The battle is not easy for Cory - he only comes because I need him..."

  "Cory was in Gylles! How did he know you needed him? Came running in to the store, asking me to take him home..."

  She was aware of a strong desire for a slug of kynak, a quiet room, and a book; instead she took a deep mental breath. "You and Kem are together long enough, you will know when something is not right with the other one."

  "That's right, honey," Kem said. "But why does Cory need a big, empty place? If he's depressed from the battle, wouldn't it be better for him to be with you?"

  "Not until he - " She sighed, hearing the echo of Val Con's voice, snapping with frustration:...You can't explain anything in it! "He must - exercise so body and thoughts run together..."

  She flung her hands out, silently damning the tears that were filling her eyes again. "Hakan, I don't explain so good, and I'm sorry - you and Cory have to fight, and it is my fault!"

  "Your fault? A troop of Bassilan rebels walks in on you and it's your fault? Miri - "

  "Honey, it isn't your fault - " Kem started, but Miri cut them both off.

  "My fault! Because one of them kicks the door down, comes in, and points his rifle at me. Borril jumps, and the man hits him with the rifle; Borril jumps again, and I take the rifle away - shoot the man - and another man comes, so I shoot him - I am stupid, you see? I think they are bandits - maybe five, maybe six - the rifle, it is bad - rust, not oiled. I think I can stay and fight - "

  "Stay and fight?" Hakan demanded. "Against six armed men?"

  "Hakan, if there are six, already I take two - problem is not bad. But the third man - he doesn't come to find his friends. This one has a - a big gun - and I see him set it up and I see others behind him and I know I am stupid and there is no way to run. I have this bad rifle. I have my knife, but I am not Cory, who is good with knives. I am worried - Cory comes and he brings you - neither one a soldier! My fault, Hakan. I should have taken Borril and run away."

  "Cory killed a lot of people, Miri - and I killed some, too."

  "Three, Cory said." She frowned. "Hakan, why do you have a gun?"

  "Huh?" He blinked. "I - well, it's a hunting gun, for - "

  "Hunting? Why do you hunt? There are no stores? You don't make enough money to buy food?"

  "Well, but - "

  "You had no business shooting at those men with such a gun!" she cried. Catching the flare of pain on his face, she snapped forward to grab his shoulders. "Hakan, you were very brave - maybe you save my life. In battle, who can tell? You learn something now. You learn you can kill people. You learn how you feel about it." She leaned back, loosing his shoulders. "Maybe you should give away your gun."

  "What about you?" His voice was husky, his expression still half aggrieved.

  "Me? For a long time I am a soldier, Hakan. Soldiers don't break down doors and shoot people. Soldiers come, say they have taken the area, ask people to leave, and give escort, if the enemy is near." She shrugged. "People sometimes think bullets don't go through doors. Think their house won't burn - I don't know what people think." She shook her head. "You and Cory are not soldiers. You know how you feel. You hear how Cory played."

  "Bad..."

  "Like a machine," Kem added, and Miri nodded.

  "This is why he needs a place - to be alone and to exercise. Please, Hakan - do you know? Kem? Anyplace, as long as no one goes there."

  There was a long silence, and she despaired of their help. Then, Kem said softly, "Hakan? What about the barn?"

  He considered the suggestion, his nearsighted gaze on nothing in particu
lar. "Could work - it's sound, and we've still got the stove in there from when that crazy tourist was using the place as a studio." He nodded. "We'll do it. Cory can exercise in the barn till he grows a long, gray beard."

  Relieved, Miri almost laughed. "Nothing takes that long. Tomorrow I show him where, then I do my errand and go back to Zhena Brigsbee." She looked at Kem. "If Zhena Trelu calls, you can - tell her something? I ask for a lot..."

  Kem smiled. "I can cover you for a day, honey. Don't worry."

  The tears came yet again, so she saw her friends through a sparkling kaleidoscope. "Thank you," she said, getting shakily to her feet. "Thank you both."

  She was halfway across the kitchen when Hakan's voice stopped her.

  "Miri?"

  Now what? she wondered and turned back. "Hakan."

  His expression was calmer, and he held Kem's hand as if he meant it, but his eyes were very puzzled. "Where are you really from, honey? In Porlint - "

  "In Porlint," she interrupted tiredly, "little girls are not soldiers. I know, Hakan. Good night."

  In a moment, the doorway was empty. They heard nothing for the short space it took her to walk the length of the hall, then only the sound of the parlor door, opening and closing behind her.

  VANDAR

  Fornem's Gap

  "That looks like it, Robertson. Hit the timer and go."

  Her hand hesitated over the last toggle, though, and she spun away from the board with a curse and took two steps before stopping to stare at Val Con's map all around her.

  "Gods." Crossing her legs and sitting in the middle of it, she touched a duct-tape mountain, then picked up a paper spaceship. One world. One world to spend the rest of her life on, when she had once had her choice of hundreds...

  "You're stuck, Robertson. Face facts and quit belly-achin'. I don't know what's got into you lately - turning into a damn watering can. You think it's tough here? What about Val Con? Grows up on Liad, goes for First-In Scout - been places; done things - got a family; misses his brother. Hear him kvetch?"

  She sat for a little while longer, staring sightlessly at the map and thinking about Liz, about Jase and Suzuki and a dozen or so others. Thought about Skel - and there was no sense at all to that, because Skel was long dead and rotted on Klamath. If Klamath was still around.

  "There's worse places, Robertson. Get moving."

  Slowly she levered to her feet, moved to the board, and checked it one last time before setting the timer, sealing her jacket, and running for the exit.

  She rolled out of the emergency hatch, spinning as she landed, then pitched the ship's key into the narrowing slit and skittered away in the knee-deep snow, heading for a downhill clump of scrub.

  Ground, snow, and brush shivered; there was a grating, subaural scream, and Miri dove, twisting around to see - and the ship was already twenty feet up, heading straight into the cloud-cast sky.

  She watched until it was nothing but a glint of hidden sunlight on scarred metal; watched until it was nothing at all. Watched until her eyes ached and she came to herself because the tears had frozen and were burning her cheeks.

  She scrubbed them away with cold-reddened hands. Then, rigidly ignoring the gone feeling in her belly, she turned and marched back toward Gylles.

  Body reported cold and darkness growing beyond closed eyes. The inner sentinel assigned to monitor outer conditions allowed the body to burn more calories, to generate more heat. The dark was of no account.

  He danced: beat, breath, thought, movement, without division; only Self and the attributes of Self, thus named: Val Con yos'Phelium Scout, Artist of the Ephemeral, Slayer of the Eldest Dragon, Knife Clan of Middle River's Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spearmaker's Den, Tough Guy.

  He had passed through the three most elementary Doors, taken the designated rest, and approached finally the fourth Door, B'enelcaratak, the Place of Celebrating Fragments.

  He drew yet again upon his name and focused his celebration, his understanding, upon that special portion: Tough Guy.

  There was a flare of bright warmth, perceived wholly, as name brought forth celebration of she who had named. He lived the joy, tears running unremarked from behind shielding lashes, and the dance changed to exultation of so sharp a blade, so bright a flame, so unlooked-for a lifemate - so beloved a friend.

  The dance came back upon itself, joy constant, and he moved close to the Door, opened his understanding to the fragment of his name - and cried aloud, eyes opening to darkness, body shuddering, joy dissolved in an acid torrent of self-loathing.

  He gained minimal control; he pushed his body to the stove in the corner and forced his hands to pick up wood and stack it in a pattern drawn of skill belonging to a man he once had been.

  Hunching over the fire, he strove to warm his body while the coldness raging within filled his mouth with the taste of copper and his soul with despair.

  "Miri." He put his hands toward the flames and spoke to her as if she stood there, in the shadow behind the stove. "This other - it is very strong, Miri - and I am not very strong at all. I tricked you - made you lifemate to a man who does not exist. Ah, gods..." His voice grew ragged with horror. "Gods, the things I have done!"

  Being made over to somebody else's specs - that's dying, ain't it?

  He froze, listening to her with memory's sharp ears.

  Master program'd rather have you dead than have itself shut off again, boss.

  How many tricks had they planted to turn himself against himself? To be sure that he would keep to the Department - or die rather than break free?

  He had beaten them once - on Edger's ship. Had beaten them with one shard of certainty caught and held from the confusion of four years' divorce from his soul: They lied.

  Of his own will, he had shattered the gain of that dance upon Edger's ship, but he held still that shard of truth. It was a beginning, though not the beginning he had thought to make. Humanlike, he had flung himself headlong into L'apeleka before all proper thought had been taken. He smiled ruefully at the darkness beyond the stove.

  "The dance will be long," he said softly. "Cha'trez, do you wait for me..."

  THE GARBAGE RUN

  Pre-entry sounded. Shadia woke and cycled the pilot's chair to vertical, dragging the safety webbing into place with one smooth motion, eyes already sweeping the board. She registered the go-pattern, signaled pilot readiness, and brought up the screens, and the Scout ship phased gently into normal space.

  Hanging in her forward screen was a midsize planet - one of three in the system, the only one habitable. Planet I-2796-893-44 - Vandar, according to the locals - Interdicted and Off-Limits to Galactic Trade and Contact by Reason of Social Underdevelopment.

  Sighing, she kicked in the log - and sighed again as the legend INITIATE DESIGNATED APPROACH scrolled across the bottom of the prime screen. More for something to do than because she doubted the ability of ship automatics, she slapped the board to manual and rolled smartly into the designated spiral.

  "As if," she grumbled in Vimdiac, the tongue in which she most commonly talked to herself, "they have anything remotely strong enough to see me. Ah well, Shadia - consider it a bit of piloting practice, though the problem's hardly knotty. Hah! Getting a trifle overwise, are we? And just how precisely can you overlay the route, my braggart?"

  For the next little while she busied herself with matching the designated approach point for point. In second aux screen, the blue of ship's approach ruthlessly overlaid the black route, while Shadia hummed in contented concentration.

  "A cantra says you'll miss the pace at orbit entry; you were ever a - What by the children of Kamchek is that?"

  It glinted in the light of the yellow sun as its orbit brought it from behind the world. Mid-orbit and holding. Shadia upped mag, directed the sensors, and very nearly snapped at the computer. The second aux screen showed ship's approach steady on the route.

  A vessel, the computer reported, as if intuition had not told her that seconds
earlier. Coil-dead, the sensors added, and the computer provided an image to aux three, delineating an orbit in strong decay. Life-form readings were uncompromisingly flat - not so much as a flea was alive on that ship, though sensors indicated a functioning support system.

  Shadia punched Navcomp, remembered the board was on manual, and ran the calculation in her head, plotting the intersection of the route and the derelict. Velocity adjusted, sensors and scanners kicked to the top, the Scout ship moved in.

  Her ship hung within seconds of the empty vessel. She had pulled the files: The ship was without Liaden reference marks, and the two numbers - a seven and an eleven connected by a dash, with the homeport apparently blotted out by a dab of paint - brought nothing up on the screen.

  The damage the ship had endured was obvious: scars, scrapes, and bright metal-splashes, as if it had gone through a meteor swarm at speed with no screens. The longer she stared at it, the more she expected it to act as a ship should, to roll or orient, to acknowledge the presence of another ship.

  The good news, if there was any, was the lack of major leaks. The spectroscope showed no untoward gas cloud, no signs that the ship had been opened to vacuum.

  The bad news was the location, confirming again the need for the garbage run. Damn! The last time someone had found something around a proscribed world they had spent three years tracking everything down and filling out reports.

  For a moment she considered forgetting that she had seen the thing, knowing full well that eventually her tapes would be audited and someone would spot it.

  "Damn book!" she muttered. "Page 437, Paragraph 4: Report before boarding any suspicious or unauthorized vessel in a proscribed zone."

  Unwillingly she punched up the coords for the nearest report bounce and powered up the emergency pin-beam. She hit the switch that would broadcast her sensor readings on the side band, all the while cursing her luck.