I Dare

by Sharon Lee

  "Right," she said, stretching her legs to keep up with the pace he set down the hallway. "Tell Anthora I'm here, and where she can find me, OK? I'll need her to fill me in on what's been going on here."

  "Miss Anthora," said Jeeves, "is not to home."

  "Not home?" She looked at him, but the orange ball gave her no clues. "Where is she?"

  "I believe," he said, as they took a sharp turn into a narrow hallway, "she is at the headquarters of the Department of the Interior."

  THEY HAD FOUND out soon enough what the more cryptic of dea'Gauss' drugged mouthings had referred to. As payment accounts were shut down, so too were the services and supplies they purchased.

  Commander of Agents sat in an office lit by emergency dims, and glared at his screen. Behind him, the radio mumbled along on back-up power, whispering the names and the business of ships.

  The power problems had been resolved. For the moment. The facility was running—as could be told by the noise of the intermittent fans attempting to move sluggish air about, at considerably less than half-efficiency—on its own emergency generation system. This situation would change for the better once the prisoner was under control and functioning on behalf of the Department.

  But the man would have to survive.

  The prisoner's health was—not good. The third drug, rather than inducing the desired state of submissive obedience, had elicited a strong allergic reaction. On advice of the drug-tech, he had been removed to the infirmary, where he remained stable, but feeble, guarded by a full Agent of Change.

  Perusing the roster in his dim-lit office, the Commander reconsidered that assignment: Agents were in short supply. Surely a lesser operative might be set to guard one ill old man?

  But no. dea'Gauss had deprived the Department of three Agents, each dispatched with a precise shot to the head. Records belatedly obtained from Tey Dor's demonstrated that dea'Gauss had been a regular at the club for fifty years; that he maintained several weapons and match-pistols, list appended; that he often shot with other of Tey Dor's patrons, list appended. Indeed, Tey Dor's records held all that one would wish, save the man's marksman rating. They also failed to note—though this was scarcely an area where Tey Dor's could be expected to concern itself—that the old man in question had worn clothing made of anti-pulse and anti-pellet materials; and that he had turned his office into a fortress.

  No, the Commander decided; the dea'Gauss had won the honor of having an Agent at his bedside.

  Which left the diminished roster and the rather longer number of tasks to be done.

  A team of Agents had been sent to the Council of Clans, with orders to arm the devices in place. Likewise at the Council of Clans, the Protocol Officer, long ago subverted by the Department, consulted with the Speaker on the precise placing of Balance against Anthora yos'Galan, who had casually and brutally murdered an unarmed Council Proctor.

  A second team of Agents, augmented by Departmental sharpshooters, was en route to Low Port, explosives and coordinates to hand. Another full team of Agents was attempting to invest Korval's valley, while others undertook the infiltration of Higdon's Howlers.

  The Commander blinked, bringing the screen before him into focus. Shipping stats. There were no Tree-and-Dragon ships currently orbiting Liad, which was odd. Scout ships were likewise in short supply—though that was less odd. One would expect Val Con yos'Phelium to have ships in support, whatever his plans. The absence of ships was . . . unnerving.

  As yos'Phelium no doubt intended.

  Commander of Agents extended a hand, calling up the list of secondary operatives. Surely, some use might be made—

  "Dutiful Passage," the radio blared so loudly the Commander missed his key.

  "Dutiful Passage, Solcintra, Liad, Captain Priscilla Mendoza. Stand clear. Stand clear! We are on business of Korval and we are armed."

  SILENCE WAS AS IMPORTANT as haste, and haste they made: Scout, explorer and Clutch turtle. The pipe easily accommodated the larger members of the party, though boots and claws alike sometimes failed to find purchase on the water-smoothed surface.

  Sheather, with his dark-seeing eyes, led the way, Val Con following, carrying a mini-torch to aid his poorer eyesight. Nelirikk brought up the rear, burdened with explosives, extra firearms and ammunition.

  The Passage was in orbit, Val Con reminded himself. Soon, it would be joined by allies. Soon, they would know whether this bold strike at the heart of the enemy was lunacy or genius.

  Speed-marching, they had covered distance, passing three gates at roughly equal intervals. When the aqueduct had been in use, the gates had functioned as flow control devices. They rested at each for five short minutes, then resumed the march.

  "Ahead lies another gate, my brother," Sheather said in a remarkably quiet voice. "It appears to be both new and locked."

  Val Con sighed. So quickly. He closed his eyes, allowing her song to fill his head, his heart, his soul. Deliberately, he extended his will, and sang a new phrase into the song. Then, he opened his eyes and stepped forward.

  The warrens the Department had taken for their own had been carved out of sub-surface limestone to create tremendous storage bays for low-pressure gasses. Portions of the original waterworks were marked out as points of historic interest, somewhere overhead. But down here, far beneath the planet surface, the aqueducts had also fed underground pressurizing reservoirs in off-peak moments. Eventually abandoned as Solcintra's needs grew beyond the water offered by the River Kainbek, and as the necessity for a safer location for storing volatile energy than beneath the city itself became understood, the underground maze was a natural place to house a secret headquarters.

  This door, now. This was the airlock; the interface between the old pipes and the new facility. Val Con inspected the controls, understanding them with a sense of relief twined irrevocably with terror.

  "I had intended to use my blade here," he said to Sheather, "and on the other side, speed. That is still an option. But I ask, is there a note or two known to you, which will unlock the way for us with less danger?"

  Sheather blinked his enormous eyes. "My brother is wise, to prefer a stealthy entrance to the cave of his enemy. I believe the key to this door may be discovered, if I am allowed a moment of study."

  "Certainly," Val Con said, and fell back to Nelirikk's side. The explorer looked down at him with a grin and gave him a very Terran thumb's up.

  LIT BY EMERGENCY dims, only the most essential of machinery online, the infirmary was a place of shadows, enemies and storybook monsters on the lurk for the fanciful.

  Agent ter'Fendil was neither fanciful nor inclined to simile. He kept guard over the old man, as ordered, equally alert for signs of treachery or waking. Neither manifested, as the weary hours crept along—nor did the old man die, and release Agent ter'Fendil to duties more worthy of him.

  That there were such duties, Agent ter'Fendil knew, having been present when the full team was called to attend to the future needs of the Council hall. He had awaited his own orders with anticipation, for surely the Commander would not fail to recall those treasures which Agent ter'Fendil, extrapolating from studies he had made as a scout, had recovered and delivered to the Department. He dared hope that the Commander would place the controls in his hand, allowing him the honor of deploying those treasures against the enemies of the Department.

  Yet, here he stood, on guard at the bedside of an accountant, while he might be—no. The Commander was not one to forget past service; nor to fail of using what weapons came to his hand. That he was assigned this minor duty, now, did not mean he was forgotten.

  The Department taught that all duties furthered the Plan, and Agent ter'Fendil had been well taught. Yet—

  A shadow moved among the shadows, and vanished, into shadow.

  Agent ter'Fendil frowned.

  The shadows flickered again, fluid and quick.

  Agent ter'Fendil blinked, and ran a quick diagnostic. Finding that he was slightly, though not by any means
dangerously, low on energy, he accessed the Loop's energizing routine, feeling an immediate sharpening of his senses.

  Straightening, he deliberately turned his gaze to the place he had last seen the shadows waver.

  Something . . . moved.

  Agent ter'Fendil walked forward.

  The shadow solidified, taking shape as it strolled across a dim strip of illumination, gray tail held high and jaunty, white feet soundless on the noise-absorbing floor.

  "Cat!" said Agent ter'Fendil, in disbelief.

  The cat turned its head, blinked and continued on its way.

  The Loop indicated that a cat in headquarters was an anomaly.

  Agent ter'Fendil went after it.

  MIRI HIT the chair in the control center a little too hard, swore, and opened the board with a sweep of her good hand.

  "Get me some painkillers," she said over her shoulder to the war 'bot. "And some stim."

  "I regret," Jeeves said, his high-class voice sounding apologetic. "Stim is known to cause fetal damage."

  The screens were up, she fumbled, then found the general shipping band.

  "What's that got to do with me?" she asked, her mind more than half occupied with locating the other, more tricksy band. This one, even Val Con was hazy on . . .

  "The 'doc reports that you are pregnant," Jeeves said.

  In the midst of making an adjustment, Miri froze, before spinning the chair around to face the 'bot.

  "That's the craziest—" she began, and then clamped her mouth shut.

  Oh, Robertson, you prize fool.

  Because it wasn't crazy, was it? Not with her fresh outta the 'doc, and him, too, both returned to normal baseline functioning—read 'fertile'—and neither one of them remembering to ask for the shot.

  Miri, let us make love . . . He murmured in memory, and if she found out he'd known—that he'd planned . . .

  She'd kill him.

  Uh-huh. First he's gotta get home alive.

  She spun back to the control board, adjusting the volume on the ship band, which had been plenty loud enough, and had another go at the local band.

  This time, her fingers were smarter—or the three-times-damned Korval luck was in it. Whichever, her inquiry elicited an answer.

  "Binjali's," said a woman's matter-of-fact voice.

  Miri took a breath. "This is the Captain," she said, in the mode of Ultimate Authority. "Situation Red."

  "DUTIFUL PASSAGE, seal your weapons." Solcintra Tower said—which it had to say, as Shan knew well. Had he been portmaster, faced with a sudden battleship in orbit around his peaceful and orderly world, he would have said precisely the same thing, most likely with a good deal more heat.

  Priscilla touched the reply stud. "This is Captain Mendoza. We are on business of Clan Korval. Our weapons are live and under our control."

  "That is in violation of regulations, Captain Mendoza. The guild has been notified."

  Priscilla's mouth tightened. "Copy," she said, voice steady, and closed the connection.

  "Never fear, Priscilla, there remains one license between us. And the Code tells us that what one lifemate owns, the other owns as well."

  She looked at him, black eyes betraying her amusement. "Tell it to the Pilots Guild."

  Shan snapped his fingers with a grin. "That for the Pilots Guild! We'll get you a Terran license under an assumed name, and no one will be the wiser."

  "Now, why don't I think that will work?"

  "Because you are an innocent and pure of heart." He turned back to his screens. "The portmaster will satisfy herself with the complaint to the guild," he murmured, pulling in the traffic reports. "She can fire on us, of course, but we've done nothing to merit that."

  "Yet," Priscilla said, with a glance to Ren Zel, quiet and efficient at third board.

  "Any sign of our friends, pilot?"

  "Not as yet, captain," he answered, "but we are ahead of schedule."

  "By three entire minutes," Shan said. "Trust a scout to—"

  "Jump-flare," Ren Zel said sharply. "Close in."

  His fingers moved, and Shan's did, too, locating the flare and the coords—close, gods. Which meant it must be the expected scouts, though there was no reason—

  The comm crackled as the flares died and the ships announced themselves, one, two, three, four: Diamond Duty, Timonium Core, Crystalia, Survey Nine. Tree-and-Dragon, Tree-and-Dragon. Tree-and-Dragon, Tree-and-Dragon.

  "What the devil?" He isolated the four of them, Jumped as a unit, had they? Master pilots, then—or, yet, it could be scouts, though in such strange, unscout-like vessels . . .

  "Jump-flare!" Ren Zel cried again—and so it was: a fifth ship Jumping into the hollow square formed by the first four, a maneuver so chancy that Shan half-averted his face from the expected collision.

  But no. The comm crackled, and a fifth ID rang across the general band.

  Fortune's Reward, Solcintra, Liad. Tree-and-Dragon.

  Tree-and-Dragon.

  THE TRANSFER was complete. The last light on the status board was lit.

  Miri wiped a sleeve across her damp forehead, leaned forward in the chair, bum arm braced against the board; and pushed the button that connected to her to receivers located at the Council of Clans; Scout Headquarters; each of the major halls: accountants, pilots, trade, and Healer; the offices of Solcintra and Chonselta portmasters; the editorial offices of The Gazette; the general shipping band; and a number of strategically placed public speakers.

  We cover the world, she thought, as the master light went to green. You're on, Robertson. Don't forget your lines.

  NORMAL SPACE. The screens reformed. The comm came live.

  On the private band: "Boss is here, let's party!" "Well flown." "Make a master outta you yet, son!" "Good work, Boss."

  He'd done it.

  Pat Rin sagged back into the pilot's chair, shivering with relief.

  He'd done it.

  Now, to do the rest.

  THE VOICE that came out of the old, forgotten receiver was female. Her accent was Solcintran and her message, thought Speaker for Council, raising her head and staring, entirely absurd.

  " . . . Captain's Emergency. I say again: This is a Captain's Emergency. In accordance with the conditions put forward in paragraph 8, section 1 of the original contract of hire between the Houses of Solcintra and Captain Cantra yos'Phelium, which requires the captain, her heirs, or assigns to safeguard the welfare of the passengers, I, Miri Robertson Tiazan, Delm Korval, declare a Captain's Emergency. The Council of Clans will hold itself subservient to Captain's Law. Control of the planetary defense net rests with the Captain.

  "Passengers are advised that the name of our enemy is the Department of the Interior. They have stolen and murdered members of every clan, High House and Low. They have subverted the cash flow of entire clans. They have pressed ships and pilots into service, to the detriment of Liad. They will be stopped. Now. Locations of known Departmental offices and safeplaces follows.

  "Repeat, repeat: This is a Captain's Emergency."

  IT WAS THE CUSTOM of Kilon pel'Meret to visit the old Waterway Park with her small son every day before Prime. This exercise gave double benefit, refreshing Kilon and allowing young Nev Art room to run off excess energy in a manner not likely to earn him a sharp rebuke from his grandmother.

  The pattern of the walk was well known to both mother and child. Kilon would stroll along the old path from the park's entryway down to the silted-in pond, while Nev Art might run circles about her, or dart off in all directions at once, saving only that he did not disappear entirely from her sight. He would rejoin her at the pond and they would then both walk back along the path to the entrance, practicing seemliness; thence down the city sidewalks to home, and grandmother, and Prime.

  Today, Nev Art darted up and grabbed her hand. "Thawla, look! Yxtrang!"

  Kilon was a sensible woman. She was also familiar with her son's imaginative prowess. So, she did not scream, or gather him up in her arms and r
un. Rather, she allowed herself to be tugged 'round by the hand, fully expecting to see a tree wearing an uniform of shadow, or a stealthy weed peering over a crumbling section of ornamental stonework.

  "Look!" Nev Art said again; and look Kilon did, breath caught in her throat.

  For across the rumpled grass toward them came three tall persons—two much taller than the third—dressed in what was indisputably military style, packs on their backs and their belts hung about with all manner of objects.

  "Yxtrang, Thawla," Nev Art insisted, pulling on her hand. "I want to see their guns!"

  "No!" she said sharply, and tightened her hold on his hand. "They are only Terrans, my son." She hesitated. Terran soldiers, here, strolling through an abandoned and all-but-forgotten park in the Low House district of Solcintra? Abruptly, she turned, dragging Nev Art with her.

  "Come along, child, it is time to go home."

  "It's not!" he protested, but she was adamant.

  Walking briskly, holding her son firmly by the hand, she went down the path. He stretched his short legs until he was all but running, and so they gained the entrance—and, a moment later, the street.

  "GO AFTER THEM, Commander?" Diglon asked hopefully.

  Liz shook her head. "No. It ain't like they're the only ones gonna see us." She pointed. "Let's go."

  "BOSS?" Cheever McFarland's voice came low and easy across the tight band. "You ready to cook?"

  Pat Rin took a deep breath, and another, deliberately calming.

  "A moment, Mr. McFarland. I am afraid that I found the Jump in . . . exhilarating."

  "Was close, wasn't it?" The Terran said, cheerfully. "Just think what we could do with practice."

  Alone in his ship, Pat Rin smiled. "Next, you will have us touring as a precision flying unit."

  "Something to that. We're out here if you need us, Boss. All lines open."

  Pat Rin inclined his head. "Thank you, Mr. McFarland."

  "Right." The line closed.

  Another deep breath and Pat Rin leaned to the board, his finger on the switch . . .