by Sharon Lee
The main screen flared, awash with Jump-flares—one! three! eight! one dozen! Two!—Pat Rin snapped back, eyes narrowed, the bands fizzing with static; and then the IDs hit, one after another, gathering intensity, until they blurred and became a single shout; a challenge:
Scout.
Tree-and-Dragon.
THE BEAST had vanished entirely.
Not a little disgruntled, Agent ter'Fendil returned to the accountant's bedside—and stared, heartbeat spiking, breath gasping—the Loop, barely submerged since his last check, kicked in, bringing both into normal range, but the bed—the bed remained empty; blankets rumpled, pillow showing an indentation.
dea'Gauss was gone.
THE OLD MAN was recovered.
REN ZEL SMILED at his screen, attention divided between the countdown in the lower corner and a wholly imaginary, but completely accurate, screen in his mind.
"Go home now, beloved," he sub-vocalized.
Soon, she answered. We must wait for Merlin.
THE SCOUT SHIPS had settled into their orbits, and if Tower had a sharp word or two to say to them, it was on a private band and not for the entertainment of common ships.
Steeling himself, Pat Rin extended a hand to the board. The bogus Ring flashed and flared in the cabin's light. He touched the comm switch.
"This is Pat Rin yos'Phelium, speaking for Korval and for the Captain. I call on the Council of Clans to witness formal Balancing with the Department of the Interior."
"SPEAKING FOR KORVAL?" Shan repeated blankly, but Priscilla had touched a key on the captain's board, releasing the recorded warn-away.
"Dutiful Passage, Solcintra, Liad, Captain Priscilla Mendoza. Stand clear. Stand clear! We are on business of Korval and we are armed." The touch of a second key sent the Tree-and-Dragon roaring across the general band.
Silence on all bands for a heartbeat . . . three.
"This is Scout Commander Clonak ter'Meulen. The Scouts call the Department of the Interior to answer for acts of murder and mayhem. We subordinate our claim to the Captain and Korval."
Silence on the bands . . .
"Have you all run mad?" Solcintra Tower demanded. "There is no Department of the Interior!"
"On the contrary," Pat Rin said. "I advise the Tower that I am transmitting a ship's recording of an incident of attempted piracy which took place in the sovereign space of the world Surebleak. You will note that the Department of the Interior claims to speak for Liad."
"Pirates, speaker-for-Korval," the Tower snapped. "Surely you know that pirates are not bound to speak the truth!"
Silence.
Aboard Fortune's Reward, Pat Rin laughed aloud, reached to the board—and froze.
Jump-flare distorted his screen. When the image was steady, there were six new ships in high orbit, their IDs stark and simple.
Juntavas.
Pat Rin bit his lip, remembering the courier who had departed at Natesa's word, leaving her partner to fly as part of this attack upon the homeworld.
In the screen, another flare, a sharp spike of static, and a ship's ID.
Implacable. High Judge. Juntavas.
The broad band crackled, fizzed, and produced a man's voice, speaking Liaden with a slight Terran accent.
"The Juntavas calls the Department of the Interior to answer for acts of murder and mayhem. We subordinate our claim to Tree-and-Dragon."
THE LINES WERE DRAWN, the orders given. Events were set in motion. There was the Plan and the end of the Plan—and the alternative plan, should, unthinkably, they fail.
Commander of Agents sat in his office, awaiting reports, and brooded upon Korval.
Perhaps it had been error, to allow them to continue so long. Perhaps they should have been weeded out quickly, at the very beginning of the Work.
For look at what Korval had cost . . .
First, the Scouts, backed by a ship piloted by a long-missing and presumed dead Korval elder, resist the Department's first open action on its way to fulfilling the Plan. Nor did the Scouts retreat to Liad, but withdrew entirely from the system . . . .
Next, on what should have been little more than a routine pick-up of the dismissible yos'Phelium ne'er-do-well, Departmental ships were lost in the discovery of a capable and disciplined fleet of war vessels flying the Tree-and-Dragon in Surebleak nearspace—a fleet led by none other than the supposed ne'er-do-well in a surprisingly well-armed pleasure yacht.
Then, as if unconnected, comes a ship full of mercenaries to Liad itself, claiming damage at the hands of the Department. Yet, in its many actions the Department had never dealt with the ship or its mercenaries.
In short order came a Korval battleship, several dozen openly Scout vessels—and who knew how many secret ones?—a Juntavas battleship and its escort—ah, and the Surebleak war fleet. All sitting in orbit, shouting Tree-and-Dragon to the universe, while here on the homeworld itself one Miri Robertson Tiazan publicly denounced the Department and described the location of several minor bases of operation, raising the citizenry to arms.
What more?
The Commander need not look at the charts that covered the desk. He need not look at the screens.
For, as difficult as they had been—as costly—Korval had in its actions against the Department revealed a weakness. There was a discernible pattern in their actions.
On Lytaxin, according to the intercepted mercenary reports, Val Con yos'Phelium had waited until action was in place and swept in with aircraft, sowing confusion and winning the battle and the war at once—all the while hiding behind the smoke-screen of his so-called Surebleak mercenary .
At Scout Headquarters, the same pattern—from nowhere came a ship to turn the tide of battle.
At Surebleak—a building of forces and then action by Pat Rin yos'Phelium . . . .
An emergency buzzer went off, startlingly loud. He touched the comm button.
"Commander—Agent ter'Fendil. I report that the accountant is gone. There is a cat inside the facility. My error is that I pursued, but lost it. Upon my return to my post, I found the accountant gone."
Commander of Agents stared. A cat, inside the facility? Impossible. dea'Gauss, in his weakened and doubtless disoriented state, gone? Preposterous.
And yet . . .
Commander of Agents stood, automatically checking the position of his weapons.
"I will lead the search myself. Meet me in the infirmary lobby. Be wary—we may be facing a rogue Agent of Change."
"Yes, Commander," Agent ter'Fendil said.
The Commander cut the connection, walked across his office and put his hand against the plate set into the wall.
The scan crackled across his palm. He reached into the safe and removed a short, squat rod, which he slipped into his sleeve.
KILON pel'MERET held tightly to Nev Art, her heart hammering with fear. Her son labored under no such affliction. He was enjoying one of the great days of his life. Not only had he spotted the soldiers walking in the park, but now came this parade of taxicabs, each stopping at the end of the placid dead-end street to allow even more soldiers to disembark. That these were soldiers was not in dispute; Kilon had no trouble identifying guns, missile launchers, backpacks.
Nev Art crowed as they dashed out of the cabs, forming into lines and units with bewildering speed as each cab roared away, to be replaced by another, and another, and . . .
"Excuse me, ma'am."
Kilon jumped back, staring up into the face of the sudden soldier. A Terran, dark-skinned and sober, carrying a rifle in her own streets, speaking to her in Trade. Why, she hardly ever—
"Ma'am?" he said again. "Please. We're holding a taxi for you and the boy."
"See, Thawla, I bet they're going after the Yxtrang I saw," Nev Art cried. And then, to the soldier, "Are you? Are you an admiral?"
"No." The man smiled as he answered, a slow smile. "I never do want to be an admiral, boy." He looked at Kilon, and pointed to the right, where indeed there was a taxicab, pulled slightl
y to one side of the street.
"I insist, ma'am. Please take the taxi. There's likely to be trouble and—"
"Ten'shun!" A large voice bellowed from lines of soldiers. "Group One, double time, move out!"
Kilon looked about wildly. "Trouble? Trouble? Soldiers in the street is trouble!"
The soldiers did something—one moment they had been still as rocks; the next, one group was spread out and hurrying toward the park, while another group broke away, trotting down the street toward the office complex.
Their own soldier waved at one of his comrades, and said to Kilon, "There's a good chance we'll be using weapons ma'am. I'm sorry. You've got to leave!"
"I saw the Yxtrang!" Nev Art announced, tugging so hard against her hand that she almost lost him. "I want to talk to them!"
The second soldier had waved the taxi close, and opened the door.
"You've got good eyes, youngster, if you saw the 'trang," the first soldier said. "Just remember what they looked like, and get into the cab."
Behind them someone yelled, "Group Three, weapons check!" followed by a loud series of clicks and slaps, and, "Arm your weapons!"
Kilon flung back, found her arm caught, not ungently, by the dark-faced soldier. "Calm down . . . " he began, and was interrupted by the arrival of yet another man, much lighter of face.
He bowed, recognizably the bow of a ranking public servant to person of unknown melant'i, and said in curiously accented Liaden, "I am Commander Higdon. This way, please, civilians must clear the area. I would not want to have to detain you."
He offered her a card, and automatically she took it, and was somehow gently pushed into the taxi, the while her son was proclaiming, "Yxtrang and soldiers, can't we stay?"
The dark soldier handed the driver a twelfth-cantra piece.
"Take them wherever they want to go that's more than five minutes from here. If there's any change from that give it to the kid."
"Look!" Nev Art shouted in her ear. "Big guns, Thawla!"
The cab accelerated into a turn, flinging Kilon sideways in the back seat, so she never did see what her son was pointing at. She righted herself, glancing down at the card she still held in her hand, as the cab slewed 'round a corner.
Higdon's Howlers, the Trade words stated. Military missions. Security to mayhem. Guaranteed service.
THE DEPARTMENT had long planned for this day. There was an undercurrent of expectation in the control room as the master switch was unshielded; the communications web checked; the technicians readied.
Before them the situation screen was clear; several orbiting stations would soon be under the direct control of the Department, and the destroyer Heart of Solcintra, long disguised as a freighter undergoing retrofitting, was already rising to orbit.
In the control room, they awaited the Commander's word. When it came, the flip of the master switch would shunt control of the planetary defense web from Solcintra port to the Department's control room, the power flowing from the selfsame uninterruptible source which supplied the portmaster's office.
The call came; the switch was activated. The screens came live; satellites and warning systems revealed their locations, weapon status, the locations of potential targets . . .
On the control board, an emergency light was blinking—not unexpected with so many ships coming in. An auxiliary monitor displayed the message Captain's Emergency in the lower left corner.
In the main screens, the stations, the destroyer, the satellites, the ships—
The master technician swore and leaned to her board.
Not a single Korval ship showed on the screens. Dutiful Passage was not there. Treacherous Fortune's Reward did not show. There was no range on Korval's four killer ships from Surebleak . . . .
But something was moving, near Station Three.
The master tech upped magnification, as the comm came alive with a shrill, "Danger! Danger! Hostile action on Station Three! Nine wounded, one dead . . . "
Ship ID came out: Lifeboat A off of Jacksbucket Three, Terraport. Somehow, it had escaped the Department's absorption of Station Three.
"Danger! Danger!" the Terran ship screamed, across all open bands, putting similar actions on the remainder of Liad's orbital stations at risk.
The merest touch of a dial and the proper blast-satellite was located. The master technician fed in the firing sequence.
Nothing happened.
The tech touched another switch, invoked a back up screen—
Nothing.
"Check the lines," she snapped, to this aide. "Recycle the interface," to that one; and—"Rebooting . . . "
All for naught. The screen steadfastly refused to show any ship flying the Tree-and-Dragon. And the controls remained unresponsive.
Finally, an aide selected the flashing Captain's Emergency on the auxiliary monitor.
During a Captain's Emergency control of the planetary defense system is invested in the Captain or assigns. There will be a one minute warning when control is reassigned to the port office.
The master tech went to manual and ordered the nearest defensive device to use a pulse-beam against the fleeing escape pod.
Nothing happened.
"Alert Heart of Solcintra," she said to the comm-tech.
THE MOST POTENT dramliza on the planet stood at bay, cornered in a corridor leading to the sealed rooms. She held in her arms a rather large gray cat. Behind her, leaning against the stainless steel wall for support, was dea'Gauss, shivering.
Agent ter'Fendil had alerted what few fellow Agents remained at headquarters. They'd spread out from the infirmary, in a circular search-pattern, and had also triggered an automated rotating check of the internal sensors that had been turned off to conserve power—and which had ironically permitted the man responsible for the loss of power to escape. And quickly found him.
But not alone. It was obvious that the prisoner could not have risen from his bed without serious assistance from the woman holding the cat. It was equally obvious that, even with that assistance, his strength was fading, and would soon fail.
The woman was far more than the Commander had expected. Despite that she was dressed in the torn remnants of what had been formal Council attire, and that her face was dirty, she stood calm and alert before the not inconsiderable threat of three armed Agents.
She might well, the Commander thought, have a gun beneath the cat, or a bomb, or knife, or only her hands. The fact that she stood in this hallway at all meant that she was competent enough to make it past the outgoing attack teams without attracting notice. Worse, it meant that she had managed to avoid the carefully placed external sensors, and that she had slipped past guards on alert.
This was not someone to trifle with, despite her reported softness.
Without warning, the cat moved, flowing soundlessly out of the woman's arms—and fled away down the hall.
No one gave chase. They could take care of it later. The problem now was the woman, as she stood, catless, but holding a scout-issue pistol, pointed at the Commander's mid-section.
He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment.
She said nothing; the gun remained steady.
"DANGER! DANGER! Hostile action on Station Three!"
Fortune's Reward located the source of the warning, and opened a window in the forward screen, showing Pat Rin an unarmed life pod, tumbling free of that same Station Three.
"Nine wounded, one dead! Hostile action on Station Three! Danger! Ho, the port!"
Tower came on-line, reciting coords for an emergency descent. Pat Rin watched the life pod move, clumsily, into compliance—and the glare of a beam weapon flashed across his screen.
"No!" he shouted, slapping up the magnification.
But, yes. The pod was gone, leaving a slight drift of debris along its descent path. Obligingly, Fortune's Reward redrew the detail window, tracing the path of the beam back to the originating vessel.
From the closed comm, Andy Mack's voice.
"I
got a clear line to the bastid, Boss."
Pat Rin nodded. "Fire at will, Colonel."
VAL CON LED, now, Sheather and Nelirikk at his back. The lower service ways were empty, which was not surprising.
The Commander would surely have heard the Passage arrive in orbit, weapons hot and warn-away blaring. From it, he would have deduced Val Con's presence on-world. Being a bold man, he would have seen this circumstance as opportunity. If the Commander played well and audaciously now, the Department stood to win all: the extinction of Korval and the fruition of the Plan.
The goal was a man-high section of stainless steel access hatches built into the wall of a particular inner corridor. Behind those hatches were the cables, pipes, wires, and comm-fibers that connected and powered the facility and allowed the Commander to reach his hand out to the universe.
That the corridor in question was off one leading to the Commander's office was beside the point.
The hallway ahead was intersected by another. Val Con checked his inner map, and raised a hand. Behind him, Sheather and Nelirikk halted. Val Con proceeded at a crouch, hugging the wall, slipping his gun from its holster.
At the intersection of the hallways, he eased the safety off, and listened. He heard nothing but the hum of the air purification system, yet his hunch was that there was . . . something in the hall beyond.
Moving so slowly he scarcely seemed to be moving at all, he leaned forward, peering 'round the corner—
Directly into a pair of yellow eyes.
"Merlin?" Val Con breathed.
The yellow eyes blinked, happily, and Merlin burbled. Tail held high, he danced forward, stropped Val Con's leather-clad knee once, and strutted away importantly, pausing only once to look over his shoulder and be sure Val Con was paying attention. Since he was leading in the direction they needed to go, they followed, with Sheather drawing a long crystal blade as he hurried along.
THE LIFEBOAT was gone, vaporized.
Miri was bent over the schematic, swearing softly and continuously. She had an ID on the murderer—one Heart of Solcintra, claiming to be a freighter—but no clean shots. No shots at all, really, unless she wanted to go through a scout ship, a can carrier and a Juntavas courier to get her target, which did sorta seem a waste of allies and innocents.