The Phoenix in Flight

by Sherwood Smith

  “I wanted to know,” he said finally, “if Markham left any chips—writing—anything tangible.”

  Greywing had expected anything but that. Ivard wasn’t even pretending to play his game, but then the captain would know he was listening.

  “No,” Vi’ya said. “The few personal things, mementos from his father mostly, I burned.”

  “I wish I’d known, I wish I’d known...” The Arkad spoke in a strained, bitter voice, then stopped. When he spoke again, it was with his usual polite tone, with the nick cadences that reminded Greywing of Markham. “I suppose the new leader has to remove all traces of the old in order to transfer power?”

  Her answer was completely unexpected. “So you think he is gone without a trace?”

  “No,” Brandon said, so soft now Greywing could barely hear him. “I feel him all around me, so much this vessel seems haunted, and he is never far from my thoughts. I had hoped there was something tangible so I could either have raised his ghost or laid it to rest.”

  “I burned his things because I deemed it proper,” Vi’ya said. Then she shut down her console, picked up her plate, and left the bridge.

  FIVE

  ARTHELION

  As the Satansclaw grew rapidly larger, Barrodagh kept his hands gripped together, hoping the pilot next to him wouldn’t notice how tense he was. He hated spaceflight, and he cursed Rifellyn for assigning him a shuttlecraft so small it had no passenger cabin. Instead of a comfortable cabin with blanked-out viewscreens, he was trapped in the secondary control pod of a two-man shuttle with a sickeningly large direct-view dyplast viewport.

  Rifellyn knew how much he hated spaceflight. This shuttle was a deliberate affront, one of the many Rifellyn and her kind had been aiming at him ever since the arrival at Arthelion.

  As technical staff, they knew they were safe from Evodh, barring egregious misconduct, but Barrodagh would find a way to re-establish his authority. Oh yes.

  The pilot glanced sidelong at him as the shuttle closed in on the destroyer hanging in low orbit above Arthelion. Barrodagh ignored him, desperately trying to keep the infinite void just beyond the dyplast at bay. He held his breath as the Satansclaw filled the viewport, the shuttle lurching as the destroyer’s tractor beam grabbed them. He jerked as they slipped through the electronic airlock into the main shuttle bay in a slithering display of static discharges crawling across the dyplast, and then relaxed when they finally settled to the deck.

  As the engines of the little craft spun down into silence, Barrodagh controlled the urge to leap to the lock. He walked deliberately, and with relief too profound to hide, cycled it open.

  Outside, a man approached, holding a long wand-like tool with a metal cable dangling from it to the deck. A Rifter in dark blue followed him. Beyond them Barrodagh glimpsed a sprawling confusion of pallets and boxes with their contents spilling out of them, and strode down the ramp with determination, liking the boom under his heels that reinforced the image of a busy man, and not a fearful one. The best way to convince people of your authority was to take it.

  The pilot backed hastily up, waving his hands. “Wait a minute, sir, you can’t go out yet.”

  “Don’t tell me what I can do!” Barrodagh snarled.

  The man with the wand waved frantically at him as he stepped off the ramp to the destroyer’s deck, but Barrodagh ignored him.

  There was a loud snapping sound and the Bori found himself lying on his back staring up at the lights overhead. An evil smell singed his nose and his feet hurt. He shook his head and sat up shakily, then yelled with surprise when he discovered that his boots were on fire.

  A uniformed crewman ran up and triggered an extinguisher, dousing the flames and splattering Barrodagh with smelly foam. The second pair of boots ruined in a matter of hours. Barrodagh scrambled to his feet, glaring around. If anyone was laughing, there would be another summary execution.

  But all he saw was the Rifter, who wore a ridiculous uniform of deep blue velvet with diamond-studded lace at the throat and wrists. Barrodagh shifted his gaze to the man’s face, and recognized Tallis Y’Marmor, who stood straight-backed, one forearm behind him, the other making a dramatic gesture, like some actor in a wiredream.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” he said unctuously. “It’s a side effect of the lock field—a massive static charge. We were about to discharge it when you stepped out. I trust you are unhurt?”

  Only slightly mollified by Tallis’s use of the undeserved honorific, Barrodagh glared. “Yes. Is Lysanter here from the Fist of Dol’jhar yet?”

  “He’s over there now,” said Tallis.

  Barrodagh followed the long pointing finger to see the slight form of the xenoarchaeologist emerge from behind a large crate. The man hurried toward them through the jumble of artifacts and objects that covered most of the deck.

  “I haven’t found any Urian artifacts yet, senz-lo Barrodagh,” he said, using the proper inferior-to-superior inflection. The Dol’jharian honorific sounded odd in the midst of the man’s smooth Uni intonations. “But I’ve only just started.”

  Barrodagh turned to Tallis, who was staring at Lysanter in surprise.

  “Urian artifacts? We weren’t told what you sought, or I could have saved us all time.” Tallis Y’Marmor gestured even more theatrically at the massive collection of crated possessions and artifacts. Barrodagh watched the lace flop over the man’s ringed hand and thought sourly, This fool wouldn’t last but moments on Dol’jhar, before he said, “You were told precisely as much as you needed to know.” Because that way you could betray nothing to the more perceptive greed of Hreem the Faithless.

  “Did you supervise the packing?” he asked the Rifter captain.

  “Of course.” Tallis sounded slightly offended.

  “Good. What we are looking for is about the size of your fist or smaller, a mirrored sphere with an odd feel to it.”

  Tallis rolled his eyes up and touched three fingers to his chin in an affected pose, a large sapphire on his longest finger winking in the light.

  Barrodagh gritted his teeth and waited.

  “I think,” said Tallis finally, “that I know where there is something like that. Over here, in this sector.”

  He led the way through the mess to a point on the other side of the bay, where a large crate lay unopened.

  “It might be in here. I’ll have someone open it.” He motioned to a waiting crewman, who brought a small, blunt-nosed device, which he applied to the top edge of the crate. It began emitting a muffled snarling noise as the top of the crate slowly peeled back, accompanied by the smell of heated plastic.

  Barrodagh said to Tallis, “Did Hreem interfere at all with the search at Omilov’s estate?”

  Tallis smiled. “No, he didn’t dare, since you cut my orders for Arthelion before you assigned me to the search.”

  The patronizing implication of Tallis’s words grated on Barrodagh. But at least he saw why I did it that way. I can still use him for the time being.

  “He was rather unhappy when your orders came through changing the assignments you’d made before the attack,” continued Tallis. “Some of his comments were rather unguarded.” He looked hopefully at Barrodagh, who ignored his leading tone. I know Hreem hates me. What this fool doesn’t recognize is that hatred tends to make an enemy predictable. He wondered how Tallis managed to be such a mix of perception and blindness. And as for that battlecruiser at Malachronte...

  Barrodagh had to put the thought away as the crewman finished peeling off the top of the crate. There might be some way yet to keep Hreem away from Malachronte. But that would have to wait.

  Tallis pointed to a large glossy wooden chest inside. “It’s in there, I think.”

  Barrodagh stood back impatiently as the others wrestled the chest out and opened it. Inside was a neatly nested set of trays with some incomprehensible objects in them, along with a leather-bound book. Lysanter picked up the book and started to leaf through it while Barrodagh and Tallis lifted out the tra
ys.

  “We searched through this chest before we packed it, and I think what you’re looking for is in one of the lower layers,” said Tallis.

  Barrodagh looked in bewilderment at some of the artifacts as he put the trays aside. He could readily believe that they were Urian in origin—he’d never seen anything like them. There was a basket-like contraption of some dull metal that looked like the most uncomfortable underwear conceivable; a thing like an elongated cup with two curving thongs of metal springing out of its lip like pincers; and other even less likely objects.

  The Bori shook his head. Why would anyone collect such nonsense? If this was an example of the concerns of the Panarchic aristocracy, it was no wonder Eusabian’s paliach had succeeded so completely.

  Then he forgot his perplexity as Tallis lifted aside a tray to reveal a smoothly gleaming metal sphere beneath. Barrodagh grunted and slapped Tallis’s hand aside as the Rifter reached for it. He picked it up gingerly. It felt oddly light in his hand.

  Behind him, Lysanter gurgled a laugh. “Oh my.”

  Barrodagh paid no attention, turning the sphere over in his hands. Excitement raced through him. The Heart of Kronos! He could already see the approval in Eusabian’s eyes when he put the final key to conquest into his hands.

  Wait a minute. There was a hole in the sphere. The description of the Heart never mentioned a hole. The hole was about the diameter of his thumb. And there was another, much smaller hole on the side opposite.

  “Senz-lo Barrodagh!” said Lysanter urgently, but Barrodagh pushed his thumb into the hole. The substance of the sphere yielded oddly, enlarging just enough to fit around his thumb. The sphere’s interior was warm.

  “These are not Urian artifacts,” said Lysanter, glancing at Barrodagh’s hand, then quickly away.

  “No?” said Barrodagh, pulling at the little sphere. It seemed reluctant to come off.

  “I wasn’t sure at first—none of the artifacts in the top layer were Urian, certainly, but there was no indication of what else the chest was supposed to contain.” He bit his lip, his gaze fixed on a distant point across the cargo bay.

  The sphere had now flowed up Barrodagh’s thumb all the way to its base. He struggled to free his hand, while dealing with a horrible sense that Lysanter was trying very hard not to laugh.

  “But the book here identifies this as a collection belonging to a Basilea...” He looked more closely. “Her name is Risiena Ghettierus.” The xenoarchaeologist’s voice was higher now, his eyes suspiciously bright. “I believe the Basilea is Gnostor Omilov’s wife. Her handwriting is rather difficult to decipher.”

  Barrodagh was almost panicky now. The sphere was stuck tight. He banged it against the side of the crate, with no effect. Now he couldn’t even feel his thumb anymore.

  “What is it?” he yelled. “Get it off!”

  He waved his arm in an effort to fling it free—and smacked Tallis square in the face, provoking a copious nosebleed. Tallis yelped and bent over, trying unsuccessfully to keep the blood off his uniform. The crewman, the opener forgotten in his hand, stood gaping.

  Lysanter finally lost control, tears spurting from his eyes, the words uneven amid helpless giggling. “Forgive me... senz-lo Barrodagh. It’s a part... of a collection of... male chastity devices—” The man bit his lip, then went on in a wooden voice that was somehow worse than a fit of helpless laughter would have been. “—and I don’t think it’s supposed to come off.”

  o0o

  TELVARNA

  Greywing clenched her teeth.

  Montrose worked quickly, his huge hands gentle as he changed the dressing. Despite the numb-spray, she felt the ache of tender, raw flesh right down to her bones.

  “Looks much better,” Montrose said, nodding.

  Greywing’s stomach tightened when she glanced down at the raw, oozing flesh still showing in places through the web of pseudo-skin that was guiding regrowth, but Montrose wore the air of an artist well pleased as he scrutinized it closely.

  “Wrap it so I can move free,” Greywing said. “Emergence soon. If I need to be fast—” She shrugged her good shoulder.

  Montrose looked up, his heavy brows beetling. “You mislike our errand?”

  Greywing tried not to shrug. She did not want to move. The ceaseless throb was dead, and she didn’t want to waken it. “Vi’ya says the Arkad promised us big take. Maybe he’s got enough to back that up. But you want the nicks running scan on your background?”

  Montrose shook his head. “We’re coming in on lawful business, and if we do not debark from this vessel while in the Mandala’s area of governance, there will be no opportunity for them to do so.”

  She sniffed. “You believe that?”

  Montrose tipped his head. “If we break no laws, they will not board us. Little as I respect the Panarchist government, I do know the limitations it imposes on itself.”

  He ran his fingers lightly over the tabs in the bandage and sat back. Greywing knew when Montrose was finished with a subject.

  She left the dispensary and wandered to the rec room, hating the restless knotting inside that always hit before emergence on a run. Vi’ya never had her work before emergence unless they’d taken damage—she liked Greywing to start fresh. Greywing understood that, but she would rather have been doing something.

  She found Brandon seated at a table with a cup of something steaming in front of him, holding out his hand and snapping his fingers as Lucifur cheek-polished the edge of another table, assiduously ignoring him.

  Brandon lowered his hand and tipped his head the other way, as if trying to get the cliffcat into perspective.

  Greywing lowered herself into a chair and punched up a game of solo-Phalanx. She usually found it soothing, but she blinked at the display, her mind refusing to translate the symbols into meaning. Her eyes were dry anyway, and underneath the cottony sensation of the pain meds, the inevitable slow throb of the burn had started up as soon as she began moving.

  Brandon gave up on the cat and got to his feet. He drained his cup and took it back to the monneplat. As he turned to leave, he paused, his chin lifting in an inquiring expression.

  Greywing turned her head, knowing the new arrival had to be Ivard. Everybody else came in loud, but Ivard lurked around like somebody was going to kick him. She hated it that he did that, that he didn’t feel synced in, no matter what he said.

  Ivard slunk in, but instead of coming her way, he didn’t even seem to see her. He took a quick look over his shoulder, then walked up to Brandon. “I got something.”

  Unlike Lokri, Brandon didn’t sneer. Or wave Ivard off like he was a bug, the way Marim did. He was like Jaim, he waited for Ivard to talk. Ivard!

  Greywing was as startled as Brandon looked when Ivard said a little louder, “I got something.”

  Brandon gravely regarded Greywing’s brother, who never offered information to a stranger of his own accord. It was rare enough when he asked questions.

  “You want to see a thing of his?” Ivard went on. “I keep it on me.” His voice cracked as he slid a hand into an inner pocket in the chest of his coverall.

  Brandon gave him a polite nod. “Certainly,” he said.

  Ivard’s face twitched anxiously as a familiar series of tones sounded overhead. “Emergence soon,” he muttered. “Here.” His hand came out of the pocket, holding out a small, crumpled object on his open palm.

  Greywing watched, amazed. Ivard had never shown anyone but her his single prize, the only thing he treasured.

  Her gaze shifted from the gold-and-silver-striped raw-silk ribbon to Brandon’s face as he took it from Ivard, and though his expression did not change, all the muscles in his face tightened.

  “You know what this is?” Brandon asked, his fingers closing over the ribbon.

  Greywing watched him grip the highly prized Piloting Award, an award given out only at the Minerva Naval Academy. The neatly embossed printing displayed the year that Markham and the Krysarch had been thrown out.
/>   Ivard swallowed, his larynx moving in his skinny neck. “He told me when he gave it to me. Told me once about some of the stunts you two pulled.” His eyes narrowed in pleasure. “Gave it to me when we squeaked out of a bad one. I helped by something I did with a scout craft. He told me I would have won it myself if I’d gone to the Academy.” Longing quirked Ivard’s almost invisible brows. “He was teaching me.”

  Brandon laid the ribbon back in Ivard’s hand, and Ivard stuffed it back into his chest pocket.

  “How’d you find your way into his crew?” Brandon asked. Ivard’s pale skin flushed.

  “We’re bond-breakers,” Ivard said, and his sister hoped that this Arkad nick heard the pride in his voice. “Me and Greywing. That’s why she picked a new name, see? I was bonded over to a mining combine right after I turned ten, and after I’d had enough of beatings and crawling through pipes I ran away. Lived as a thief, until Greywing found me. She’d run, too.”

  “On a planet? A ship?”

  “No. No ship.” Ivard shook his head.

  “How’d you find your way off-planet?” Brandon’s voice sounded interested, even sympathetic.

  Greywing had stopped trusting nicks long before she and Ivard had left their home planet, and if she had been alone she would have warned her brother not to blab. But they were not alone—And if Ivard doesn’t know what I think about blabbing now, he never will.

  She waited fatalistically to see how much he betrayed to this smiling, blank-eyed Douloi.

  Ivard said, “I really wanted to fly, all along.” His face lifted, as if toward the sky, a gesture that immediately identified a born Downsider, Greywing had learned. “That’s why I kept my name, Ivard. You ever see The Invisibles? Markham had all these chips. There was one when the Invisible discovered this boy pilot. His name was Ivard.”

  Greywing watched narrowly, reading to intervene if the Arkad made the slightest noise about chips, or The Invisibles, or anything else. But Brandon Arkad just sat there.