by Sharon Lee
The fourth was the "victim of circumstance" model, and sig'Alda gave it the least credence of all: the submodels had yos'Phelium dead or hopelessly wandering a savage world. sig'Alda grimaced. As likely he would wander about doing nothing as would yos'Phelium—even more likely, according to the Loop. After all, yos'Phelium had been a Scout commander, a man with a gift for evaluating worlds, for learning languages, and for prospering in alien environments.
The computer having provided a target continent—that with the heaviest overlaying of smog, to sig'Alda's sighing dismay—he went through the files obtained from Scout headquarters, found the appropriate language, and slid it into the sleep learner. In a few hours he would know the names of the mountains and seas, the right way to hold a cup of tea, and the political system as it was at last report.
Setting the computer to wake him if it discovered a match of any the four survival models, Tyl Von sig'Alda relaxed into trance began to learn.
A command of the local tongue failed to soothe his loathing for things not Liaden. The language reported by the Scouts was without subtlety. Unless one was of the elite, there was little to distinguish oneself from others; it was difficult to proclaim precedence or authority—and slightly more difficult for males than for females.
The society itself was bucolic. While one could insult others, it was not a culture where an accidental insult was likely to result in a blood feud or even a fistfight.
The Scouts had indicated that the rate of change was unspectacular, though they had warned that local technology was reaching the Suarez point, the point at which technological advance might become the focus of three or four generations of society, society itself becoming fragmented until the growth was assimilated.
The sleep tapes had also given him a look at the food, which was uniformly off-putting. He could look forward to the flesh of game animals in many areas, as well as fruits and vegetables that would be old by the time he ate them, the world's shipping systems being woefully underdeveloped.
sig'Alda sighed. The creatures there—aside from his quarry—were barely sentient, by any thinking person's standards. Their goals were limited by their backwardness, their vision shortsighted, by testimony of their language and culture—the whole world populated by faulty genes.
There were times when the Scouts, with their insistence on independence for such "developing" worlds, produced nothing but ugliness and waste. Were Liadens merely put in charge there the world would quickly become productive and useful. Once the Department was able to arrange things properly, such waste would be eliminated.
In the meantime, Tyl Von sig'Alda studied the files on local costume, confirmed that at least there was no need to change his skin tone or have the autodoc graft on a beard. He brightened at the thought that yos'Phelium would also not be changing—or hiding—his appearance much.
He studied also the computer grid, ran probability checks, and finally targeted his first search-site: a large, industrial city on the southern shore of the bottle-shaped continent. All he knew of yos'Phelium indicated that he would establish his headquarters in such a place, which was what pitiful vanguard of technology so backward a world could muster. From that point, yos'Phelium would have access to the world's most powerful transmitter; would have quick access to new innovations; would be able, if need be, to influence a group of locals to do his bidding and serve his ends. Also, the climate was somewhat warmer than the second-choice site, farther north.
Well satisfied with his choice, the Loop showing a CMS of .45 and a CPS of .76, Tyl Von sig'Alda prepared to invade Vandar.
DUTIFUL PASSAGE
"Good evening, Priscilla. Delightful to see you return."
She fumbled, found the mechanism, and opened her eyes. "Shan."
"How kind of you to recall. Perhaps after a moment you'll also recall that you promised to cease exposing yourself to this danger." His eyes were silver ice, his pattern a webwork of fury and terror.
"What in hell were you doing?" he snapped, terror rising even above anger.
What had she been doing? She struggled, squirming further into her body—and memory returned with a burst of half-hysterical laughter.
"Priscilla . . ." He was out of the chair, gripping her arms, shaking her where she lay on the bed. "Priscilla!"
"I was—Mother love her!—I had to pick up a package!" She grappled with the laughter, hiccuped into sense and stared up into his eyes. "I have a message from your brother."
Face and pattern went very still. "Indeed."
"Actually," she amended, slipping from between his hands and sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, "I have a package from your brother's lifemate. I assume it holds a message."
"But not from Val Con himself."
Impossible to read all the nuance there. She shook her head. "Val Con has—many protections. I tried twice—awake and asleep—and couldn't reach him. I—" She met his eyes squarely. "Some time ago, I went soul-walking and left a message with the lifemate: an image of you, an image of me, and the message, 'We are looking for you. Help us,' loaded with familiarity, family-caring." She paused, then added softly, "Lina kept watch over my body."
"Did she? What a gift it is to have friends."
She winced. "Shan—"
He waved a big hand and sat suddenly beside her on the bed. "Never mind. You'll have told Lina necessity existed, which it certainly does. For Korval." He looked at her, and the anger was gone completely, the terror fading fast. "Your melant'i is very difficult, Priscilla. Forgive me."
"Lifemates," she said, hearing the Seer-cadence echoing in the words, "are heart-known. He is my brother, too."
"A theory Nova would be just as happy not to entertain. But we are drifting from the subject of your package." He sighed, and she felt him working, shifting internal balances; wondering, she saw him sculpt intuitive understanding and shadowy theory into a clearly recognizable seed-thought.
Healers are not taught such things, she thought. She wondered, not for the first time, if years of close association had sharpened and altered both of their talents.
"Perhaps I can understand how you might leave a message with my brother's lady," Shan was saying, turning his construct over in his mind. "But I cannot for my heart see how she could have left you a package!"
Priscilla grinned. "You've had training, love; and she hasn't had any. She doesn't know it's impossible to leave packages in your mind for pickup." Laughter escaped again. "And she seems to have left it, and I seem to have brought it away—so I suppose it's not impossible, after all!"
"Brought it away . . ." He glanced around the room, eyebrows up. "You tell me you have this package with you."
"Oh, yes." She touched it within herself, reading the lading slip and seeing the angular slant of her own signature.
"Might I see it, Priscilla? Understand that I would never doubt you—"
"Of course." She laid her hand over his, then heard his sharp intake of breath as his inner eyes perceived it.
"Priscilla?"
"Yes?"
"It's dusty."
"It's been sitting on a landing for weeks, awaiting pickup; and she does tend to be extremely concrete in her thinking," Priscilla said with delight. "Entirely unschooled, but very strong-willed."
"Val Con's lifemate could hardly be anything but strong-willed, if she was to survive the mating," he murmured. "The tag says this is for you alone."
"We can open it together, if you like." She sensed his passionate agreement, opened the packet, and nearly laughed again.
Carefully, striving to recall exactly how physical hands would manage it, she unfolded the single sheet of yellow paper; she caught a wordless rush of something from Shan as the two flat-pix clipped to the top were uncovered.
The first showed a man, dark hair indifferently cut, the line of a scar slanting shockingly across one lean, golden cheek, green eyes lit with joy, wide mouth curved in pleasure. The entire image glowed bright, as if with some inner brilliance, and Pr
iscilla felt her throat tighten with that reflected love.
The second picture was less sharp, less bright: merely a redhaired woman, freckles sprinkled across a small nose; gray eyes direct in a willful, intelligent face.
Priscilla heard Shan sigh, but was too enmeshed in her own perceptions to read the echo of his.
Deliberately she turned her attention to the body of the letter, finding again the round, painstakingly clear hand, apparently written in bright purple ink.
We're okay. Clan Korval in danger. Don't talk to Interior Department. Go to Edger if things get bad. Ship coil-blown—world restricted. Tell Shan: Access Grid seven-aught-three Repeat: Access Grid 703 Love to all.
Priscilla opened her eyes and saw Shan staring at her.
"Well," he said, and she was not fooled by the light note in his voice, "we seem to have done everything wrong! Not only has my sister had at least one delightful conversation with the Department of the Interior, but Edger has come to us! And there's no mention of the Juntavas, did you notice, Priscilla? As if that were no trouble at all."
He slipped his hand away from hers and rubbed the tip of his nose. "They're okay, she says—and Val Con looks worn to the bone. Got that scar in a brawl, I daresay—or a crash . . ." He sighed. "Access Grid 703, is it? Well, let us see."
But ship's comp, queried, took far too long to respond to the code, and when it did, the information was not satisfactory:
ADDRESS ON LIAD PRIME.
Shan sighed again and shook his head, and Priscilla felt his bone-deep worry as if it were her own. "It looks like we send it to Nova, my love," he said. "And await events. Gods, how I hate to await events!" He took her hand and smiled at her, wanly but with good intent.
"She looks quite sensible, doesn't she?"
Miri woke in the lightening gray of dawn, shifted up on one elbow, and lightly touched his scar.
He opened his eyes, mouth curving lazily into a smile. "Cha'trez . . ."
"Hi." She stroked the hair back from his face, then bent and kissed his forehead. "Letter's gone, boss."
"Ah." He reached up and pulled her back down beside him. "That is good, then."
LIAD:
Trealla Fantrol
"Ready, Miss," Jeeves said from just behind her shoulder. But still she sat, her fingers poised above the keyboard, chewing her lip in most unNova-like hesitation.
It was not, she told herself firmly, the way they had gotten the message. After all, Korval had produced its share of dramliz over the generations, including her own sister, Anthora. It was rather, Nova thought suddenly, that she feared Access Grid 703 itself. Which was of course nonsense and not, in any case, to be allowed to come before duty and the best survival of the Clan.
Deliberately she opened a channel and fed in the address. "Instantaneous download, Jeeves," she murmured, though he had already reported ready. And she read:
OBJECTIVES AND GUIDANCE
THE AGENT WILL RECALL FROM TRAINING THAT ALLEGIANCE TO A SINGLE CLAN IS ADDICTION TO AN OUTDATED AND LIFE-THREATENING PHILOSOPHY. FOR CENTURIES HAVE THE CLANS, EACH PURSUING THEIR OWN NECESSITY, STIFLED LIAD, ENTRAPPING INTELLIGENT PERSONS IN A FALLACIOUS EMOTIONAL WEBWORK AND SO DENYING THE CHILDREN OF LIAD THEIR RIGHTFUL PLACE AMONG THE STARS.
THE FRUIT OF THIS NONSURVIVALIST WAY OF LIFE IS NOW CLEAR: TERRA SEEKS TO OVERPOWER AND ANNIHILATE US. WORKING FOR THEIR OWN PETTY INTERESTS, SEVERAL CLANS HAVE ALLOWED LIADEN BLOOD TO BECOME DILUTED AND HAVE GRANTED THESE HALF-BREEDS FULL RIGHTS. IT IS WELL-KNOWN THAT TERRA PROMOTES THOSE MATCHES, WHILE IT SEEKS TO BEST LIAD ON ALL OTHER FRONTS, AS WELL. IN VIEW OF THIS THREAT, IT IS THE PART OF THE INTELLIGENT PERSON TO FORSWEAR ALLEGIANCE TO CLAN AND, INSTEAD, TO ALLY HIMSELF WITH LIAD, THROUGH THIS DEPARTMENT.
IT IS THE PRIME OBJECTIVE OF THIS DEPARTMENT TO ESTABLISH THE SUPREMACY OF LIAD AND TRUE LIADENS. TO ACCOMPLISH THIS—
The image on the screen shivered, broke apart, and went blank.
"What!" Nova cried around the pain in her heart. She reached for the keys, noting the channel still wide open.
REPORT FOR DEBRIEFING.
"Yes, certainly," she muttered, and ran quick fingers over the board: RETURN FILE.
REPORT FOR DEBRIEFING, her correspondent insisted, and added an explanation: COMMANDER'S ORDERS.
RETURN FILE, Nova reiterated. "Jeeves! Disengage."
"Disengaged, Miss."
FILE WILL BE RETURNED AFTER DEBRIEFING. YOU WILL REPORT IMMEDIATELY. ACKNOWLEDGE.
MESSAGE ACKNOWLEDGED, Nova typed rapidly. REGRET CANNOT REPORT. APOLOGIES TO COMMANDER. FILE NOT REQUIRED THAT URGENTLY.
There was hesitation then, as if her correspondent perhaps knew Val Con well enough to recognize the authenticity of that reply. Nova glanced down, saw the open-channel light still glowing, and folded her hands in her lap.
REMAIN AT CURRENT LOCATION, the message came then. ESCORT WILL BE PROVIDED.
The channel light went dark.
NEV'LORN HEADQUARTERS
"Come now, Shadia," she muttered to herself in Vimdiac. "What can be hunting you in Auxiliary Headquarters?" The hairs at her nape refused to settle properly down, and she added jocularly, "Besides Clonak ter'Meulen, I mean."
No good. The part of her concerned with keeping her alive in conditions where she might well be hunted kept her hackles up, and against all sense she found herself scanning the dock as she crossed the strip and turned toward the duty desk.
Half a dozen steps was all it took to convince her. Too many techs in sight, or too few; eyes turned toward her that had no need to note her passage. Her mouth tasted of adrenaline, and she began to scan the strip in earnest, looking for a face that she recognized. Looking for a friend.
She saw him coming toward her, his lined face bemused and slightly simian, his light brown eyes bland; beneath his snub of a nose he wore a most unLiaden mustache.
She almost shouted to him, but the unease and the training stilled the urge. Whatever was wrong, it was to be survived. Survival hinged on ignoring them, on allowing them to think she thought nothing amiss—whoever, she added to herself wryly, they were.
She increased her pace then, as the plan took shape, and nearly ran the last little distance between them, hurtling straight into his arms. Raising her hands to his startled face, she sang out in the mode used between those most intimate, "Clonak, I am all joy to see you!"
Surprise flickered in the taffy eyes, then his arms tightened convincingly about her and he bent his head for her kiss. "Well, now, Night's Delight; and of course I am all joy to see you!"
He had caught the look in her eyes and knew that she had understood already that something was amiss. Quick, oh, very quick, Shadia! He released her on the thought, the warmth of the embrace fading instantly as his eyes caught the pattern he had been hoping against.
"And now, my dear, I'm afraid we must return momentarily to your ship." He placed a light hand on her back and felt the resistance melt immediately. Bright girl!
"And what a trip you've had, eh, Shadia? A chance to sleep, to pine away for—"
He chattered on, fitting in, "There, three on the left, two on the right," as if it were a part of the chatter. The pattern had coalesced into purpose: They were moving to cut Shadia and himself off from the ship!
"How bad?" she mumbled, looking brightly at him and matching his rapid walk.
"I need a liftoff, oh, fifteen seconds after we hit the ladder."
"We'll kill someone!"
"Give a five-second warning. If you prefer, I'll lift it!"
"'S'mine."
"Right," he said as they touched the edge of the hotpad.
The sound of rapid steps was heard, too close—breaking into a run as Shadia's hands touched the hatch.
Chonak caught the belt she flung at him, grabbed the first pistol that came to hand, and fired a flare into the hotpad.
Alarms screamed; he slammed the seal even as the ship's emergency blast warning gonged across the lift zone. His last sight of the base was of several people standi
ng straight up, frozen, while others more knowledgeable ran and dove for cover.
"Now!"
He grabbed the seat as the blast warning ceased and nearly fell across it as lift began.
"Lose me that way," he muttered under his breath as he groped his way into the copilot's chair.
"Nine seconds," Shadia snapped.
"Oh. Good. Let's listen to the comm, eh?"
The comm was a nearly unintelligible mix of yelling, pleading, and demanding. Emergency channels crackled; within seconds there were reports of five injured, several seriously.
"Ne'Zame, report in! Do not orbit; repeat, do not orbit. Cut and return to base immediately!"
The ship was accelerating rapidly. Clonak felt crushed by the weight, but managed to get his hand to his lips in the age-old sign for silence.
Ground Control demanded action, and suddenly Orbital Control was getting into the act, too.
"What is it?" Shadia demanded finally, keeping the ship on manual.
"Department of the Interior. No way to warn you . . ." His breath came in gasps. It had been years, perhaps decades, since he had flown like this.
"Should I back off?" she asked, concern evident.
"Fly it!"
She flew it well. He watched her hands and eyes: She would do. She had the reactions.
"Prepare to Jump," he gasped.
"We're in atmosphere!"
"Just be ready. Anywhere. As soon as we're free—"
No wasted motion. Good. No panic. Better.
"Ne'Zame, orbit and standby for boarding. This is the Department of the Interior. Orbit and standby for boarding!"
Shadia threw a glance at him. Clonak smiled.
"Better?" she asked.
"Rainbow," he said succinctly. "Forgive me, child—there was no way to get to you sooner. It wasn't until I saw those techs—all out of position—that I knew. Department of the Interior—been getting into our records; detaching our people—set up Nev'lorn 'quarters to hold them at bay, and damned if they didn't follow us here! They must think we don't know it—they must think we're fools, Shadia . . ."