“Trance? She’s turned up?” Harper asked. “What kind of trouble has she managed to get into?”
“I don’t know, but Rommie said to get yourselves as quick as possible to one of those fountain things with the moving statues. They need your neural diving skills.”
“Great—and how are we supposed to find her?” Harper asked, rubbing irritably at his neck, which was red and welted. Putting anything into his neural jack was really, really going to hurt.
“I think,” Beka said, “she’ll find you.”
Harper turned to Cyn. “Well?”
Cyn shook her head. “We’re running out of time.”
Harper’s lips thinned, then he said, “Look. Trance is—well, she almost never asks for help. But when she does, it’s usually something big. Let’s see what she needs, and then we’re off. How’s that?”
Cyn nodded, looking miserable. “If—never mind.”
“Back that way,” Harper said, and they took off.
Beka gave one glance at the snake display, and moved, almost crashing into a tall, dark figure who blocked her path. He stared down at her with those familiar black eyes, and grinned. “Long time,” he began.
Beka whirled and dove through the entrance.
The first thing to hit her was the smell, the warm, dry, weird smell of many, many reptiles in a still environment. Dark shapes shifted back and forth in weird ritual movements as somewhere chimes rang, interspersed with the ticker-ti-tee percussives of bone striking bone.
She glanced once, then jumped, and fell down, down, the null-gravs slowing her fall. Down, to land on a flat surface, surrounding by gently hissing shapes, half seen in the shifting light: blue, green, gold, orange—
—And just before she scrambled up, a long shape slammed her back onto the mat.
She fought hard, though by now it was a hopeless cause. He even laughed a little as he pinned her wrists to the mat at either side of her head, and then grinned down at her, the bones of his face sidelit by the changing light: blue, green, yellow, orange.
“You’re as heavy as a damn Nietzschean,” she said crossly.
And saw a flicker of his lids, a momentary tightening. But he said nothing.
“Well?” Beka demanded. “Is it Vexpag? Nabrot? My uncle?”
“Is it what?” he asked. “The problem? Rafe Valentine.”
She lunged, and almost made it out of his grip, which tightened. Something smooth and cool slithered over one of her wrists, and she shuddered.
Ujio’s dark gaze never wavered.
“My brother sicced you on me?” She could barely speak, she was so angry.
Now he did look surprised. “Nobody sicced me on you,” he replied. “The problem is your brother. Like I said.”
Beka shut her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. Something slithered alongside her hip, but she was scarcely aware of it. What she was acutely aware of, more aware by the moment, was the long, strong body lying atop her. Those black eyes staring straight down into hers.
At least with one sensory overload removed from her brain console, she could think. Sort of.
If—a big if—but if he told the truth, then she’d been running for no reason.
She opened her eyes. “So you are not hunting me for bounty, to be paid on receipt of my fair young body, dead or alive?”
“Correct,” he said. He frowned, then shifted, rolling to his feet and pulling her up. “I think,” he said, indicating an enormous python whose slithering tongue was just flickering where Beka’s head had been three seconds before, “this is not the place to exchange data.”
They left the snake place, Beka’s heart pounding, her sense of danger still high enough for her to by hyperaware of her environment and all possible escape routes: warm, odd-smelling air that gets the hindbrain gibbering about reptile danger; weird lighting, the soft chant rising and falling in the distance somewhere, something she had not noticed until now.
Near her, Ujio’s breathing. She’d forgotten how big he was. Then there was that strange reaction to the mention of Nietzscheans—no, she wouldn’t speculate. Too tired, and there was far too much going on that she really needed to worry about right now.
Like: was he scamming her? No, probably not, for it wasn’t as if she’d been in any kind of negotiating position down in that snake pit.
He turned his head, and said abruptly, “Something to drink.”
“That sounds good,” she replied. “But start talking. What’s Rafe done now?”
“Gotten involved in politics,” was the astonishing answer.
No, come to think of it, not astonishing. He would try anything, if it involved wealth, power, and risk.
“He claims to have reformed his earlier life. That does happen,” Ujio said, with a wry lift to his black brows. “So there were those who believed him. Including me.”
“What world? Where?”
Ujio looked around, shook his head. “Let’s leave names out of it right now. I don’t trust the system here. Too many anomalies I’ve tripped by accident, while searching for you. Here’s the bare facts: When I mentioned life changes, you can include me in that. For various reasons. I found a place worth fighting for. Helping against enemies…worth fighting against. There are two factions, from vastly different worlds and cultures, who banded together in order to survive. Dug in. Defended, with help. Made—let’s call it discoveries, which caught the eye of traders both legitimate and non.”
“And that’s where Rafe came in?”
“Yes. Though he claimed to be attracted to the cause. And somehow he’s worked his way into a position of crucial importance, communicating between these two factions, who have become strained, each making demands intolerable to the other side.”
“And Rafe is the only one each side is trusting?”
“Yes.”
Beka shook her head. “Uh-oh.”
Ujio narrowed his eyes as they threaded through the crowds, many of whom were moving towards the lifts that led to the docking bay. There was laughter, hooting, drunkenness, all around them, but between those both Beka and Ujio sensed worry, tension, and determination.
“They’re going off to their ships,” Beka said. “What’s happening. Do you know?”
Ujio said, “One of the Nietzscheans seems to be using the Than security forces as target practice.”
Beka grimaced. She tabbed her comlink, and Rommie did not answer. Bad sign.
Ujio said, “What I want to know is, what is your brother’s weakness?”
Beka let out a long sigh. “You came all the way here to ask that?”
Ujio’s mouth tightened. “He’s worked his way into a position of leverage between two cultures who must combine to survive. I want leverage on him, if necessary. Assassination won’t work: he knows too much, and has protected himself in such a way that far too many innocent bystanders will be taken down as well if he goes down.”
Beka nodded. “That does sound like Rafe. Look. Here’s the truth. He’s, well, he’s not what anyone would call sane.”
“Ah.”
Beka said, “Don’t get me wrong. I adore my brother. I love him even when he sets me up yet again, and betrays me—and what’s strange is, I know he loves me, too. But his universe has only one center: him.”
Ujio laughed. “He thinks like a Nietzschean, without being one.”
Beka nodded. “I guess you could say—”
Her comlink bleeped right then—the emergency code.
She glanced at Ujio, hesitated less than a heartbeat, and then tabbed it. “Rommie?”
“We need you. In the big arena. Fast.” And she was gone.
“The big arena,” Beka said, frowning as she reached for her chit.
“I know the way. And I know what’s going on,” was Ujio’s surprising answer. He grinned. “What they need is fighters.”
Beka laughed. “And you are volunteering?”
“We still need to talk, but there’s always time for diversion,” he said, his strong whi
te teeth showing. “Fighting has always been my diversion. This way.”
“How will we get in?” Beka asked.
Ujio laughed. “You are asking how to get into a Roman arena? Of course we shall become aediles!”
Director Vandat’s quarters were the oldest living-space on the Drift.
Originally the library aboard one of the Perseid ships, the cabin was long and narrow, the long sides tightly packed with ancient archives of a surprising variety, from old Earth-type scrolls to holographic shimmers from strange worlds. Wedged at the far end lay a complicated console, obviously redesigned several times using the old framework from when the ship was still new.
The director rose as soon as Reflections of the Sun entered. The two were comfortable old friends, having worked together ever since they were mere runners during the last days of the Library. This Drift was their home. Prosperity made their living arrangements more comfortable, but had brought cares they had not expected.
Vandat said, “Where is our respected codirector?”
“Blossoms on the Wind must remain in the security center,” said Reflections of the Sun. “She says that the situation is too dangerous for her not to be in immediate communication with all our force leaders.”
“What do you have to show me?” Vandat said, glancing worriedly at one of his video screens, which showed a view of space. Only thin arcs of plasma fire could be seen, deceptively beautiful at a distance, utterly lethal.
“There appears to be some sort of subroutine within the computer system that does not bear the markings of Director Kodos or her specialists. Furthermore, it seems, perhaps inadvertently, to be aiding us. With its help my own specialists discovered a layer hitherto invisible to us.”
“That was strictly forbidden,” the Than said.
“Yes. You know it, and so do I. But it seems our respected codirector had the same, ah, adjustable view of promises that humans have characteristically displayed. Watch this.”
Vandat’s patient gray hand worked at his console, color flickered in a screen to one side, and they both watched as twin views appeared: Alphyra Kodos, and a Nietzschean sitting in what appeared to be the command chair of a warship.
“I find,” Alphyra said, “that I must request aid in getting free of this Drift.”
The Nietzschean laughed. “So your…colleagues”—his voice gave the word an unpleasantly sardonic twist—“have discovered your plans, and do not approve?”
She did not change her expression. “I require aid,” she said.
“Then you have to prove it worthwhile for me to exert myself,” returned the Nietzschean. “Our original deal was: You bring your knowledge, we give you the lab space to put it all to use. Entering a war against your Drift, even if its defenses are laughable, requires an equal exertion on your part.”
“Like?” She opened her hands.
“You made a lot of promises,” he said. “And I admit they are intriguing. Perhaps you can show proof of at least one or two of them?”
She laughed. “Nothing easier. Watch.”
Her screen flickered, and the directors were both considerably surprised to find themselves staring down into the Roman arena. They recognized Captain Hunt immediately, though his face was bruised, and the old-fashioned white naval costume he had acquired since they last saw him was imprinted with dust and spattered with blood.
Reflections of the Sun hummed, a low stridulation that rasped at Vandat’s nerves, because he knew what it meant.
But he shifted his attention back to the arena, where Captain Hunt was embattled. With him fought his aide, the young ensign; against them swarmed young beings, humanoid in appearance, whose speed and training was truly frightening.
“They could kill him,” Vandat said after a time. “But they are not.”
“Yes,” Reflections of the Sun responded. “And I wish I could get my grasping members on Alphyra Kodos’s organ clusters for this treachery. But why is he there?”
“Perhaps he would not fall into her plans? Perhaps the method by which she had thought to transfer to the Nietzscheans was via the High Guard war vessel?”
“How I wish we had investigated Kodos and her band of ruffians,” Reflections of the Sun keened. “Yet even a larva would know that the High Guard captain would never so blithely put itself into the power of a Nietzschean fleet.” The Than tapped a comlink, sending the entire vid recording down to the Security area.
“Then perhaps she’d thought to remove him, and take his ship. Well, surmise is futile. What we seem to have evidence of is the fact that the two are not allies, and that her plans do not, after all, include the proposed alliance with the new Commonwealth.”
“This changes much,” Reflections of the Sun said. “But first, how may we end this unequal battle? The scoundrel Torbal has complete control of the arena; our security forces may only enter if he passes them through the force field.”
Vandat shook his head. “Our error was in assuming that the open connection between her labs and these arenas was as it appeared to be. It seems her plans far surpassed the superficial—and voluntary—alteration of beings so as to bring entertainment, and thus wealth, to the arena.”
Reflections of the Sun buzzed quietly for a short time, then said, “It was expedient not to probe. We see the result of our compliance. It will be thought, by all, that compliance was willing, not ignorant.”
Vandat said in a low voice, “Both were convenient.”
TWENTY-NINE
When the soul-winter Fimbulvetr breaks his chains Then shall Loki dance the Ragnarok to destruction of the world That’s the old story. The new story begins, today, with Ragnarok
—ADDRESS TO THE STRIKE FORCE ASSIGNED
TO THE EMPRESS’S BARGE, MUSASHI ODIN-THOR,
PROGENITOR OF THE ODIN-THOR PRIDE,
CY 9784
Ashikaga laughed. “He did?”
Takauji nodded, sinking back onto the cushions, and looking around at the pale blue draped silk embroidered with bamboo and flying cranes, hiding bulkheads, the low inlaid tables made of expensive woods, the scatterings of pillows, all satin, with silken tassels at each corner. Ashikaga’s cabin was a sybaritic delight, though their father hated it. Since it was all in ancient Japanese decoration, though, he said nothing.
Takauji helped himself to the warm sake that Kaga always had on hand during this watch, and examined the little bowl. It was fine porcelain, pale silver bamboo fronds against the deep, deep blue of the sky over an ocean planet—like that of ancient Japan.
He looked up at his brother, who lounged against his mountain of pillows, wearing only his silken pajamas. “Daigo-Ujio is apparently on that Drift,” he said, and watched for a reaction.
Kaga’s face scarcely changed, except for a brief deepening at the corners of his mouth. But internally he sustained surprise. He’d always assumed that Daigo-Ujio was dead.
“Alive, you say?”
“Brigga told me,” Takauji said, grinning. “That is why Otomo is attacking the Drift security.”
“And hasn’t informed our father, of course.”
Takauji poured more sake. “Not Otomo! He took his katana, Brigga said.”
“How predictable he is. So he thinks to blindside Minamoto by bringing back Daigo-Ujio’s head?”
“Probably” Takauji spread his hands. “I hadn’t realized just how much she hates our esteemed half brother.”
“Well, of course,” Kaga said, waving a lazy hand. “Who wouldn’t? Especially when he keeps her locked up—and unsuccessfully, too!” He sent an inquiring look at Takauji. “Considering just how much he spies, how do you manage to get to her, by the way?”
Takauji laughed. “She dresses as her maid, of course. Comes to my cabin. Even that is ancient Japanese custom. If the guards know, they aren’t telling.”
Ashikaga stroked his thin mustache. “No, not when Otomo has a penchant for killing anyone who brings bad news. I wonder what it must be like to be hated by everyone. The question i
s, does he realize it, and take pleasure in that, or does he think he’s somehow exempt, unlike everyone else in this benighted family?”
Takauji lounged back. “I’m popular,” he said.
Kaga grinned, his eyes so narrowed they seemed to be closed. “Yes. You are.” He leaned forward. “Drink up. And let us consider the most entertaining way to use this information.”
Alphyra Kodos tabbed the private line once more.
Nothing.
She slammed her hand down onto the console, then turned away. Stupid Delta—
Of course it might not be her fault. Those damn fools, Vandat and Reflections of the Sun, might have her holed up somewhere, unable to communicate. Yes, the more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed.
Even Torbal couldn’t seem to get past whatever problems were marring the system, and locate her. Of course he was busy with that stupid, stubborn High Guard captain. Obviously they were not picked for intelligence, she thought, glancing at the videoscreen where the fight in the Roman arena went on. She turned away, disgusted at the dirt, sweat, blood. She only enjoyed watching the ends of these things—the exquisite moment an enemy realizes there will be no rescue, and that the end is going to be real.
But there was another who should be seeing the Seraphim in action. She swiftly tabbed the single link she had left—one designed by Delta herself, and at least so far, impregnable—establishing a real-time stream to Tokugawa on the Bushido.
She smiled. She could still give the order to terminate him, but while live prisoners could be useful, dead ones were just dead. She would wait to hear back from Tokugawa.
She turned away, and sighed, her gaze running around her chambers. So beautifully decorated, in the highest possible taste. It would be a shame to leave it all, but of course there would be the pleasure of assembling a new living space elsewhere, one with perhaps a different motif. The Vedran, maybe, was old-fashioned, instead of classic. Why not something newer? Either that or far older, so old no one recognized it.
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