Beyond Varallan

by S. L. Viehl

  “Nice house,” I said to the ruler.

  “Glad you like it,” he replied. He was enjoying himself immensely, even (to the barely concealed horror of his heir) using my abbreviated forms of speech. “Wait until you see the Royal Chambers.”

  Royal they were. Half the interior of the palace was devoted to the Patriarch’s quarters. But I didn’t pay attention to all the luxurious surroundings at first. My elderly patient’s strength was waning fast.

  I helped him past all the staff (another thousand or so devoted subjects) and got him to his bed. Once he dismissed the First Scion, we had a few moments alone.

  “You are a clever and innovative young female, Dr. Torin. I shall remain in your debt for the balance of my existence.” He buzzed with relief as he sank back on his dais, equal in size to our launch. I climbed up, crawled across and knelt next to him so I could run a few scans.

  “Your vitals are good, but not where they should be.” I put the scanner aside and checked his abdomen. “Everything is healing well, and will continue to, if you listen to your doctor and rest.”

  “I suppose you would refuse to become my adopted Second Scion, too,” he said. I pulled the immaculate linens over him. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “I’ve already been adopted by the Jorenians, Patriarch.” I shuffled backward until I found the edge of the immense dais and got to my feet. “Thanks for asking, though. Get some sleep now. I’ll stop in to check on you in a few hours.”

  “My eternal thanks, Doctor.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Third Suicide

  Outside the Royal Chamber, a few dozen guards and personal staff members were waiting, along with Pnor, Dhreen, and Reever. The Captain was deep in conversation with one of the Patriarch’s attendants. Dhreen hovered near one of the thousands of bejeweled panels curving around the Patriarch’s door, closely appraising the inlay.

  Reever was waiting for me.

  “Please see that the Patriarch is not disturbed,” I told the guards, then strolled down the wide, endless corridor winding toward the back of the City Palace. Reever kept pace with me. When we were out of listening range, I glanced at him. “Are you staying?”

  “I have considered it.”

  We passed several portraits of the Patriarch and his ancestors, each nearly twenty meters high and ten meters wide. The material used as paint had a faint metallic glitter to it. On closer examination, I realized precious stones had been ground up and used as individual pigments.

  “That gives new meaning to the term priceless.”

  Reever simply waited without comment. We walked on.

  “The Patriarch could probably use a linguist on his staff. The accommodations are beyond luxurious.” He wasn’t saying anything. “They’d probably even give you your own palace to call home.”

  “I have no home.”

  We had reached a darkened portion of the corridor when Reever put a hand on my elbow and pulled me to a halt. There was only one reason for that. Immediately I flattened a hand against his chest.

  “I can’t, Reever.”

  His hand hovered just above my hair. “Just this once.”

  I didn’t fight the link, but I didn’t help him, either. His hands came around me, spreading over my back to press me against him. I just stood there, my head tucked beneath his chin, wondering where the words were that would tell Duncan Reever how I felt about this whole mess.

  I’ve missed you, Duncan. I didn’t know why I thought that. It seemed to come out of nowhere.

  You and Xonea will find happiness, Cherijo.

  Hardly. I’m leaving him when we reach Joren. I felt him stiffen in shock. I don’t love him, Duncan. I only did this to keep him from being put off the ship. Did you really expect me to stick around and have his kids?

  I did not know your plans.

  I’m leaving the Sunlace when we reach their homeworld. Squilyp will be ready to take over as Senior Healer by then. Dhreen agreed to get a transport and take me wherever I want to go.

  Where?

  Somewhere the League can’t find me. I reached back and pressed my fingers to his cheek. Want to come with us? With me?

  Cherijo. He turned me around. I want to tell you . . .

  Something intruded on the connection we shared, and I frowned. Duncan? Did you hear that?

  Yes. Someone is approaching us.

  Our link faded away as we stepped back from each other. I heard a faint click and electronic hum. A guard? Reever stepped in front of me, shielding me with his larger form.

  “Show yourself,” he said.

  The Patriarch’s heir emerged from the shadows. “Step aside, Terran.”

  I stood on my toes and peeked over Reever’s shoulder. The Furinac looked a lot different from the devoted heir who only hours before had begged me to marry him. Matrimony might not be a part of his agenda now. I wasn’t sure why I felt that way. Maybe it was the large pulse rifle Junior held, aimed directly at Reever’s skull.

  Reever didn’t flick an eyelash. “First Scion, may I help you?”

  “Step aside!” The Furinac gestured with his weapon.

  “I think not.”

  “Silence! Give the woman to me at once!”

  I’d been a little too trusting of the Furinac. “I’m not his to give, First Scion.” I stepped to the side and came around Reever. “Why do you want me?”

  “Cherijo.” He grabbed my arm. “He means to kill you.”

  That was my impression, too. The Furinac raised and sighted down the barrel of the rifle now pointed at my skull. I put out my hands, palm up, the universal gesture of friendship. It was definitely time to start making friends.

  “First Scion, have I offended you in some way? Why are you doing this?” And how much was the League paying him?

  “I’d like to know, too.” Dhreen suddenly materialized out of nowhere, to the right of the heir. He wasn’t armed, but his sudden appearance seemed to stun the Furinac. Dhreen gave me an exasperated look. “Doc, what is it with you and weapon-carrying assassins?”

  “It’s a gift, Dhreen,” I said.

  Reever frowned. “Perhaps the Patriarch’s heir will be good enough to explain why he feels he must murder the physician who saved his parent’s life.”

  “Yes! You saved him!” The heir flung the words at me.

  That puzzled me. “Of course I did. What did you expect me to do? Let him die?”

  “Why did you have to save him? You could have let him go with dignity!” He flicked the firing mechanism to ready. “Now all my plans were ruined!”

  “Preserving life is my job, First Scion.” I used the soothing tone I would have with a terrified patient. “Why don’t you tell us about these plans of yours? Maybe we can help sort the whole thing out.” And nail whoever was killing people on board the Sunlace.

  “You already have the evidence, do you not?” The barrel of the weapon shook slightly. “It took months to convince him to leave Furin. Hire men to track his movements. Arrange the transport accident. All that work and time and investment—for nothing!”

  It had nothing to do with the League, after all. Some devoted heir he was. Maybe if I could prod him a little, Junior would get loud enough to attract some attention. Some of those ten thousand guards had to be hanging around here somewhere.

  “He’s your parent, First Scion, and obviously loves you very much,” I said. “How could you even think of harming him?”

  “He has outlasted his rule!” the Furinac screeched. “I should be Patriarch now! If I wait for him to die, I will be too old and sick to rule! As he is now!”

  That was more like it. If Junior kept this decibel level up, the whole Palace staff would come running. I gave him my best confused look. “But why kill me? Why not go shoot him?”

  “She Who Preserves All Life.” The Furinac sneered. “When they find your body with that of my dead parent, they will call you Assassin Who Wore a Cloak of Lies.”

  “No, Scion. That is what you shall be c
alled.”

  The Patriarch’s heir gasped, his proboscis bobbling as he turned his head. Out of the shadows stepped the Patriarch himself, Captain Pnor, and a group of armed guards. No one looked very happy or welcoming now.

  “Put down the weapon,” one of the guards said.

  First Scion made a sort of buzzing yelp of dismay. The weapon in his hands swung from me to the Patriarch to me again.

  “Hi, Patriarch.” I had to get the rifle away from this idiot before someone got a hole blown through them. “Thought I ordered you to stay in bed.”

  “Doctor Torin, Linguist Reever, Pilot Dhreen.” The elderly Furinac didn’t sound shaken at all. “I must apologize for my heir’s discourteous manner and reckless behavior.”

  “Do not distress yourself, Patriarch,” Reever replied. “No harm has been done.”

  “Distress yourself, Patriarch,” I said. I wasn’t as detached as Reever. “If you hadn’t shown up, a lot of harm might have been done by Junior here.” Still might be done.

  “Yes. Doctor, I confess I am as much responsible for this as my heir. At the reception, I mentioned to several of my people that you and Linguist Reever had evidence as to the identity of an assassin.” The old ruler was doing a great job of faking calm confidence. I could see his appendages trembling. All part of the job, I guessed. “I had my suspicions, but to discover the attempt on my life was orchestrated by my own child . . .” He stared at his heir and shook his head slowly.

  First Scion looked ready to weep. Or shoot someone. Probably both.

  “How did you know someone was trying to kill you, Patriarch?” I edged a step toward First Scion as he stared blindly at the old ruler.

  “We examined the shuttle thoroughly after the accident,” Reever said for him. He glanced at me. Saw what I had in mind. He turned back to the heir, and moved a step so that his body blocked the movement of mine. “You arranged to have the flightshield generator sabotaged, didn’t you?”

  “It should have destroyed the ship!” Junior said. What a prince.

  “Apparently the pilot discovered the malfunction just prior to failure,” Reever said. “He transitioned, ejected the generator before it reached critical mass, and deliberately flew into the meteor swarm.”

  “Too bad he perished,” Dhreen said, watching me, too. “Sounds like my variety of jaunter.”

  Another few feet and I would be within reach of the weapon. If only the First Scion wouldn’t remember he wanted to shoot me first.

  “The pilot did so on my orders,” the Patriarch said. “We did not know if the generator had genuinely failed, or had been deliberately sabotaged in order to render the ship vulnerable to attack, or kill me. In my position, I must assume the worst. I very much regret the sacrifice of his life.”

  “A dangerous way to camouflage a crippled vessel.” Captain Pnor made an eloquent gesture, drawing First Scion’s attention now. I loved it when men were supportive and worked together. Especially when I was trying to disarm someone. “A most effective method, as well.”

  “It does not matter!” The heir finally cracked. “Your rule is finished, Old One Who Should Be Enriching Our Soil! I will end it mys—”

  Last chance. As the heir swung back in my direction, I threw myself forward. I hit the rifle just as he fired. Impact angled the barrel up toward the domed ceiling. A loud boom echoed as the energy pulse hit. Gilded masonry dust rained down on us in a glimmering shower. We wrestled the weapon between us.

  “Let go!” I yelled.

  I heard guards running toward us. Great. I was about to be squashed between the good guys and the bad guy.

  “I will kill you!”

  “You—had your—chance!” I hooked my leg around his lower appendages and threw myself forward. The rifle fired again. My face was so close to the beam I felt the heat sear my cheekbone. We went down together, both of us landing on our sides.

  He lunged. I dodged, and narrowly avoided being stabbed in the throat by his sharp proboscis. So he didn’t want to play fair. Fine.

  I slammed my elbow into the crevice between his hinge-plating. Junior screamed, but didn’t let go. The end of the rifle was between our faces. I jabbed him again, trying to avoid his digestive compartment. No way was I going to operate on this jerk.

  “Give it up!” I said, rolling on top of him. I wasn’t heavy enough to keep him pinned, but he was weaker now. His breath rasped through his spiracles with an audible whistle. I managed to press the weapon closer to his face than mine.

  “The Doctor is correct, Once Scion,” I heard the old ruler say. “Release your weapon.”

  “Once Scion?” The heir’s tone buzzed with new horror.

  “Daddy’s upset with you, Junior,” I said. I kept him down, but he had a death-clutch on the rifle. Guards swiftly formed a ring around us. No one tried to interfere. The business end of the weapon was still too close to our faces. “Do what he says, maybe you can be Prince again.”

  “I will be Patriarch,” he said.

  “No, pal,” I said, jerking on the weapon. No effect. “If you want to get out of this one, think floor-kissing. Lots of floor-kissing.”

  “She Who Preserves All Life,” the former heir said, then buzzed out a faint chuckle. “I will deny you this one.” His appendage slipped down the rifle case. “And tomorrow you will be dead.”

  I couldn’t take my hands off the rifle. I heard the triggering mechanism click.

  “No!” I screamed.

  The Patriarch’s heir jammed the nozzle beneath his proboscis. As the weapon fired, I jerked my face away and squeezed my eyes shut.

  His head exploded, an inch away from mine.

  That night Reever put aside his squeamishness and helped me remove the dead heir’s remains from my upper torso. He stayed with me, too. I suppose all the vomiting I did was the reason. Patiently I explained I wasn’t the squeamish type. I just had a problem combing brain and exoskeletal matter out of my hair.

  I was in good shape, considering I’d nearly had my head blown off. One proximity burn on my left cheekbone. An empty stomach. Nerves that were shattered. Otherwise, I was just peachy.

  I fell asleep watching him watch me. When I woke the next morning, he still occupied the same chair beside my bed.

  “Are you well?” he asked me, sounding tired. I nodded. He rose and left. Well, Reever never was one for a profusion of words.

  We departed Furin that same day. It was a decidedly silent sojourn team that made our very brief farewells, minus all ceremony, and returned to the launch.

  I was as quiet and blank-faced as Reever. Having someone’s face blow up under your nose left a sobering impression. Pnor seemed more disturbed by the First Scion’s muttering about my dying after him than anything else.

  Even Dhreen didn’t say much, until something slammed into the launch. Then he cursed. If we hadn’t been wearing our rigging, the impact would have sent all of us flying across the cabin.

  “Sunlace, sojourn launch is under attack!” Dhreen began weaving and dodging through multiple yellow-orange blast beams. “Sunlace, advise!”

  “Dhreen, four additional mercenary vessels converging on your position!” Xonea’s voice came over the helm console.

  What was Xonea doing at the helm?

  My ClanBrother snapped out more orders. “Sunlace will intercept in three minutes—you must divert to emergency route now!”

  “Execute crash-landing procedures!” Pnor said to the team as he released his rigging. He took position behind Dhreen, who was frantically compensating for the attacking ship and attempting to avoid the others closing in.

  The rest of us prepped the launch by rigging anything that moved with extra restraints. The launch was rocking wildly now. We had to anchor ourselves to the overhead grips to keep our balance. Once geared up, we strapped ourselves back into the rigging.

  Pnor was bending over the display, speaking in a low, urgent tone to Xonea.

  “Reever?” I said. He had moved to sit next to me. �
�Lie to me. Tell me we’re going to make it.”

  He dipped his head and murmured, “Don’t worry, it will be quick.”

  “Lie to me anyway.”

  Displacer fire was getting heavier. Pnor had closed the viewports and was giving the Oenrallian navigation coordinates from the helm display. The launch shuddered violently when something slammed into the port-side hull panels. An automated warning rang out.

  “Caution. Launch hull tolerance range has been exceeded. Caution. Launch hull tolerance range has been exceeded.”

  The hiss of our interior atmosphere escaping into space was immediate and loud. After a brief argument, Pnor switched places with Dhreen. The Oenrallian was swearing in his native language when he came back to don emergency gear.

  “That stubborn old scrapper!” Dhreen said as he slid the pack straps over his shoulders. “Thinks he can outfly me!”

  “He is the Captain,” Reever said. “He can.”

  “Hull breach!” the display’s audio blared. “Emergency measures! Hull breach! Emergency measures . . .”

  “Put your breathers on!” I yelled over the audio loop to the others. I turned, hooked an arm around Reever’s neck, and kissed him. His lips were cold against mine. Then I yanked his breather over his face. I turned to the helm. “Captain!”

  He didn’t respond. Pnor was too busy flying through the mercenaries’ salvos. He also wasn’t wearing any emergency gear.

  I released my rigging, grabbed a pack and stumbled toward him. At that moment, a heavy blast struck the launch squarely, throwing me into an interior component panel. The burn on my left cheek exploded with pain. Hot sparks rained down over me.

  The starboard hull plate was slowly bulging out. I heard the Jorenian alloys screaming, connectors tearing. Had to get to him—had to—

  “Pnor!” I screamed with my last breath.

  The hull plate crumpled. The sudden change in pressure discharged the launch’s artificial atmosphere into space. I would have been sucked through the gap myself, but someone grabbed my hair and the back of my tunic and hauled me back. My breather was shoved down over my face.

  Pnor.