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

by Liaden 1-9 (lit)

  "And yet," said the second turtle, with a diffidence that sat oddly upon one so large, "why should they so?"

  Both Edger and the Juntava stared at him, at which he ducked his head, moving his three-fingered hand in a gesture of—apology, thought Sambra Reallen. Or possibly of obeisance to Edger, who was larger-shelled and therefore in a position of command.

  Edger moved his own hand. "You have asked. Can you answer?"

  The smaller—Sheather, his name was—raised his head. "T'carais, I can."

  "Do so."

  "Yes, T'carais. Consider that our sister and our brother are masters of survival, though pursuit of art renders them no strangers to violence." He stopped and Sambra Reallen leaned forward, impatient for once of the mannerisms of long-lived Clutch-turtles, who might take as much as twenty human minutes for a pause of courtesy.

  "Go on," she urged and there was an edge along her voice, so that Sheather looked at her out of his great eyes, then inclined his head.

  "You are correct. I ask forgiveness, that I am careless of your time."

  She waved a hand. "Granted. But say on—why shall your kin hide from us?"

  "Why," said Sheather, blinking his eyes solemnly, "only because when last our kin had treat with yours, the Juntavas did their most to slay them. Neither our brother nor our sister is such a fool that they would willingly place themselves into the hands of a known enemy."

  "Hah!" She sat back, staring at him and feeling dread like ice in the pit of her belly. For he was correct. Val Con yos'Phelium—a Commander of Scouts, no less!—and Mercenary Sergeant Miri Robertson had no cause to love the Juntavas, and many reasons to avoid them. The message the courier ships carried was, perforce, brief, and offered no reasons for the abrapt change of Juntavas policy with regard to the Turtles' kin. Who would of mortal necessity be compelled to consider the message a sham—or bait—and thus exert themselves doubly to avoid anything even remotely attached to the Juntavas.

  Edger was looking at her. "Do you agree with my brother's summation, Sambra Reallen?"

  She took a breath and met his eyes with what calm she could, who faced a being that could destroy her with a note. "Aged One, I do."

  "So." He appeared to consider for a moment, then inclined his great head. "We shall go now, Sambra Reallen, to consider between us what might now be done to retrieve our brother and sister. Do you the same, of your kindness, and let us come to you again in three days' time to compare thoughts and perhaps build a more worthy plan of action."

  They were not going to kill her out of hand? Relief left her giddy, yet she summoned the strength to stand, to bow. "Aged One, I shall be most happy to speak with you, three days hence."

  "So it shall be," said Edger, turning ponderously toward the door. "I thank you for the gift of your time."

  "It is freely given," she managed, though her legs shook with the strain of standing. It took them a few minutes to navigate the door. When they finally passed beyond the entry-eye, the door slid shut on its track and she collapsed onto her chair, uncertain whether to laugh, scream, or cry.

  "It comes to me," Edger murmured into the soft silence of their evening habitation, "that you have thought more widely yet upon our sister Miri Robertson. Is it so, young brother?"

  Sheather lay his hand flat, feeling the tiny rug fibers prick his palm. So many small bits of fluff, united in will to become a carpet!

  "It is so," he answered softly, and raised his eyes from the study of the rug. "In truth, elder brother, there is little else with which I may occupy myself, here in this time and place. We have set motion upon certain projects with regard to our brother and sister. And now we wait. At home, waiting is put to use, for the benefit of the clan. But here, there are no knives awaiting sheathes. There are no young to instruct or any elder requiring my aid. So, indeed, I have thought much upon our sister, and studied what I might of her history."

  This was rather a lengthy speech for Sheather, who was the most retiring of Edger's many brothers. However, Edger merely inclined his head.

  "Ah," he said. "I would hear the tale of your study, if you would honor me, brother."

  There followed a pause, of middling length for Clutch, then Sheather spoke again.

  "Miri Robertson, Mercenary Soldier Retired, Personal Bodyguard Retired, Have Weapon Will Travel."

  Edger moved his hand in acknowledgment. It was not so ill a name, for one yet young. A Clutch person who had seen his first Standard century might easily and without dishonor tend a lesser. Spoken fully, Edger's own name consumed several hours. Edger had seen seven Standard centuries, start to finish, and his name was not yet complete. It was the tragedy of humans, that so many died before attaining even a tenth part of their name.

  "I placed my attention," said Sheather, "upon that portion of our sister's name 'Mercenary Soldier Retired.' I discover that there is a database, elder brother, containing the active rolls of every unit of mercenary soldier registered with Command upon the planet Fendor. It is accessible from yon device." He nodded across the room to the terminal built into the far wall.

  "From this database I find that our sister holds the esteem of Suzuki Rialto, Senior Commander, Gyrfalk Unit and Jason Randolph Carmody, Junior Commander, Gyrfalk Unit, though she no longer holds herself at their word." Sheather hesitated.

  "I comprehend that the bond between our sister and these commanders of gyrfalks is that of kin, T'carais."

  "Ah." Edger felt a flutter of what might have been called excitement. "And your studies led you to believe that Miri Robertson may have called upon her kin to shelter herself and our brother."

  "So they did," Sheather acknowledged. "However, I felt my understanding to be yet imperfect and set myself the task of tracing our sister through the ranks of mercenary soldiers, in an effort to identify others of her kindred."

  "And has our sister other kin among the mercenary soldiers, younger brother?"

  "One other," Sheather said, and closed his eyes for a minute or six. Upon opening them, he resumed.

  "This other is an elder, brother. She has known our sister since our sister was an eggling and stood as sibling to our sister's mother. I believe, if our sister were indeed to seek shelter from her soldier-kin, she would seek it first from this elder."

  Edger considered this for a time, eyes slitted in the dimness. Across from him on the floor, Sheather sat respectfully silent, studying the weave of the carpet.

  "It is well-reasoned," Edger announced in the fullness of time. "Surely even so masterful an artist as our sister must seek an elder's wisdom in the face of such difficulties as the Juntavas offered. An elder of quiet renown, based perhaps upon a backworld… such might offer greater immediate safety than the kin of our brother, who live busy and open upon Liad."

  "These were my thoughts as well," said Sheather. "Most especially might they seek this elder, should one or both be in need of healing." He held up a hand. "I heard the Juntavas say that neither was harmed, my brother. I heard the recording of our kin, stating the same. Yet my heart whispers that the Juntavas have lied to us many times. And how easy to compel our kin to lie, as well! Merely threaten either with further harm, did they not speak what was required. I think we may not assume our kin were unharmed, merely upon the word of the Juntavas."

  "You speak wisely," Edger said. "Have you the name of this elder? Her location?"

  "Her name is Angela Lizardi, Senior Commander Retired, Lunatic Unit Inactive. She makes her home upon the world called Lufkit."

  LUFKIT

  358 EPLING STREET

  The doorchime sounded loud in the cluttered room. Frowning, Liz lowered her book and raised her head, listening to the tinny echoes fade and die. She listened a moment longer, then bent again to her book.

  The doorchime sounded.

  Taking her time about it, she slipped a marker into the book, laid it atop several other bound volumes on the table beside her and levered out of the chair.

  The echoes of the third chime were still fr
esh when she pulled open the front door to look out. And down.

  Large violet eyes thickly fringed with dark gold lashes looked up at her.

  "Angela Lizardi?" The voice was as lovely as the eyes, low and seductively accented.

  Liz nodded.

  "I hope you will forgive this imposition," said her caller, apparently oblivious to Liz's lack of cordiality. "I am come on behalf of Miri Robertson. You are her friend. I thought you might consent to—help."

  Liz frowned and took a moment to consider the rest of the face: high cheeks, pointed chin, biggish mouth, complexion carrying the faintest blush of Liaden gold. The shoulder-length hair was a richer gold, but not as dark as the long lashes.

  She pulled the door wider and stepped back. "Come in," she said, and it sounded like a command in her own ears.

  Her caller seemed to find nothing amiss in her manner; she stepped inside and waited patiently while Liz locked the door, then followed her back to the main room.

  Liz sat in her chair and the little woman stood before her, putting her forcefully in mind of the last person to stand there. "Redhead's Liaden," she called him in her head, since he hadn't told her any name. Liz very nearly snorted. Liadens.

  "Well," she snapped at this one, "you got my name. Let's have yours."

  "I am Nova yos'Galan," the woman said readily, and it seemed she was on the verge of something else, but stopped herself. Liz saw her right hand move, thumb rubbing over the ring on her second finger.

  "And you're here on behalf of Redhead," she prompted.

  "On behalf of Redhead," the other repeated slowly, and moved her head, sharply. "Miri Robertson. And also on behalf of her lifemate."

  Liz blinked. "Redhead ain't married," she said flatly. "Not her style."

  "Her partner, then," the golden woman persisted. "A dark man—green eyes…" She reached into a sleeve-pocket, offered a rectangle of doubled plastic.

  Liz took it; sighed at the hologram it enclosed. Well, at least she'd find out his name.

  "Or her friend," the Liaden was saying, softly, almost pleadingly. "They were together…"

  "He was here," Liz admitted at last, looking from the picture to her visitor and back again. Even given the difference in coloring, the resemblance was striking. She handed the 'gram back.

  "Relative of yours, is it?"

  "My brother," Nova said softly. "He was here some time ago, I think. Perhaps as much as a Standard?"

  "No more'n six, eight months." She shrugged. "Redhead sent him by to collect something. Her partner, is what she told me."

  "So." The word was a hiss of satisfaction. "They were pursued at that time, though I am not certain of the nature of the trouble. It is known that they left planet, traveling together; that they disappeared together…"

  "Then you know more than I do," Liz said. "Last I heard, he thought they'd be able to outrun whatever mess they were in. Said when Redhead left he was going with her. Glad to hear they got off Lufkit. He seemed sound enough, and Redhead's no slack." She frowned. "But you're saying they didn't get wide of it."

  "No. I am saying that they are presently—missing. They are not in places one would expect; they have not contacted appropriate persons. My brother has sent no word to his clan, or to—others."

  Liz straightened in her chair. "That means they're dead." It was suddenly hard to breathe, thinking of Miri dead.

  "No," said Nova yos'Galan again; "only that they are missing. There are indications that they may be missing for good cause. That they dare not send messages." She took a breath. "I must ask a question of you, Angela Lizardi. Forgive the necessity."

  "OK," said Liz, still trying to figure what kind of trouble was that much trouble, and where the girl would go to ground.

  "It is in my mind," Nova murmured, "that Miri Robertson is Liaden. My eldest brother tells me that it sometimes does happen that a half-blooded—even a full-blooded—Liaden will be born on—an outworld. Will have papers stamped 'Mutated within acceptable limits.'"

  Liz sat very still, staring at the lovely face before her, while her mind's eye conjured up another face: Katy's face; worn to fine, supple gold, stretched over a fragile bone frame.

  "Redhead's part Liaden," she said slowly. "Robertson was Terran, no question. Katy could've been half-Liaden, could've been full—she never said and I never asked. Don't even know for sure if she told the kid. Not the kind of thing you tell your kid, if you figured her to be stuck on Surebleak for the rest of her life."

  "But Miri Robertson left Surebleak!" Nova snapped. "Do you know the name of the clan? Katalina Tayzin? There is no such name within the clans, though a few might be possible, given accent, vowel shifts…"

  Liz hesitated; thought again of Redhead dead. "Something," she said, grudgingly. "Katy had a thing…" She closed her eyes, reaching for the memory. "Gaudy thing," she muttered. "Flat disk. Enamel work. Fine stuff—that's what I know now. Probably Liaden. Liadens do that kind of work—so fine you can hardly see the wires holding in the colors. Lots of colors…" She shook her head. "Never did make any sense of it."

  "It looked like this?" Nova held her ring out, room lights skidding off bronze scales and green leaves. Liz narrowed her eyes.

  "Like that," she allowed. "Different design, but that's the idea."

  "Ah." The Liaden woman nodded as if to herself. "Then Miri Robertson is descended from one in the line direct. The search becomes simpler."

  "That a fact."

  Nova glanced up sharply. "Do you recall the design of this disk your friend had, Angela Lizardi? If—"

  "I'd know it if I saw it again," Liz said lazily, watching through half-slitted eyes. "What're you gonna do now?"

  "Run a search across all clans, specifying disappearances of those in the line direct within the last—sixty—Standards. That done, I shall try to match 'Tayzin' and, if the luck is willing, my brother shall be found."

  "Not exactly encouraging." Liz stood. "OK, let's go."

  Nova stared. "Angela Lizardi, I regret—"

  "Don't have to. Redhead's my kin, near as I have any kin, and she's in trouble. Seems to me you're just a little more concerned with recovering this brother of yours than you are about what happened to her. Come here snatching at vapor-trails, thinking the thing's solved because you got a wisp of something to start a computer scan with—" She shook her head. "Seems like I got a responsibility to go along and assist the campaign, if you know what I mean. Make sure Redhead gets a fair shake, if and when we turn the pair of 'em up."

  "It may be dangerous," Nova said flatly.

  Liz shrugged. "I ain't out of practice with a gun, and I figure I still know a trick or two, hand-to-hand." She looked down into her visitor's lovely, cold face. "Eldema, your brother called me. That's 'first speaker,' right?"

  Nova nodded.

  "So, if one of my clan's missing and likely in some kind of jam, then I got a clear-cut obligation, don't I? As First Speaker?"

  A pause, followed by a sigh.

  "That is exactly correct, Angela Lizardi. The obligations of First Speaker are quite clear." Another sigh, and a glance at the watch she wore strapped to her wrist. "When can you be ready to leave?"

  "Just let me get my kit," said Liz.

  LUFKIT

  LUFKIT SPACEPORT

  Their footsteps echoed off the floor end reverberated in the corrugated metal walls of the service tunnel. Liz walked one step behind Nova yos'Galan, duffel slung over her right shoulder and service pistol on her belt, scanning over the little blonde's head into the metallic dimness ahead.

  The corridor bent and straightened in an abrupt dogleg, showing Liz the end of the tunnel and the vapor glow of port lighting against the blue-black drop of night.

  Nova yos'Galan continued her rapid, steady pace; stepped over the edge of the tunnel into the yard and turned to the left, Liz just behind.

  There wasn't much doubt where they were headed; only one ship sat on a pad in this part of the yard—a sleek little scooter, the unfamilia
r lines of which were lit by the honed brightness of a labor-spot, which also picked out several crimson coveralls.

  "Thought you said you were ready to lift," Liz hissed. "Looks like the maintenance crew ain't done yet."

  The Liaden woman flung one sharp glance over her shoulder. "Maintenance crew! That's a hotpad!"

  And she was gone, running toward the spot and the three red-covered figures.

  Liz blinked and swore and jumped after her. She'd figured the Liaden woman was in a hurry, but to go to the expense of a hotpad—a guaranteed short-order lift-off, anytime 'round the clock; and an assurance that no port maintenance crew would do anything but steer wide of the area—!

  Ahead, Nova yos'Galan had checked; Liz came even with her. "Could be just a mistake," she muttered, but her gut didn't believe it, and her head was working the moves, given the three in sight; wondering how many were out of sight, around the other side; wondering if they were the fighting kind or the running kind. The Liaden woman didn't even spare her a glance.

  One of the coveralls turned, started, yelled, hand snatching at belt. The shot sang past Liz's ear as the three of them bolted, fanning wide.

  "I've got left," Nova snapped and Liz was spinning, target marked; gun out and up; spitting—once—and she kept moving, swinging back toward center, crouching, gun ready. A shot chewed gravel at her feet and her answer jerked the man's head up and back before he slammed flat and stopped moving at all.

  The third coverall was down, Liz saw, straightening slowly: a huddle of blurred red in the leakage from the spot. Nova was running toward the ship.

  The fourth one broke from behind the ship just as she came level with the spot.

  Small, slim—Liaden, most likely; Liz thought, holding her fire—sprinting for the tunnel, no weapon out, no backward look.

  Liz straightened. Scared stupid, she judged; might as well let her go.

  By the spotlight, Nova yos'Galan spun, knees flexed, gun up and steady in a two-hand grip, picture-book perfect.

  The slim runner was halfway to the tunnel, arms pumping.