The Phoenix in Flight

by Sherwood Smith

  “A little,” said the Rifter carefully. “Sounds like some of the Sodality got a little greedy.” He shuddered theatrically. “After reading up on Dol’jhar and some of their habits, there isn’t anything that valuable, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Barrodagh nodded. “Perhaps you’d better stay here for the time being. I can’t spare an escort for you now. You can wait in the outer office.”

  o0o

  Ivard jogged next to Greywing, clutching his weapon tightly to his side. His guts had been churning, sending bubbles up his throat ever since the Kelly ribbon had wrapped itself around his wrist. What he’d just seen in that torture room made it worse. There had never been anything like that on his favorite serial chip, The lnvisibles.

  He didn’t know which was worse, what the Dol’jharians had been doing to the old man, or what the Eya’a had done to the Dol’jharians. Memory again: when he’d found out that Greywing had seen them fry someone, he’d asked, “What was it like?” She had used that voice that meant Shut Up About It when she told him, “It was disgusting.”

  Well, she was right.

  His mind was like a ship inside his head, swooping back and forth between past and present. It swooped out to Greywing, running along beside him. She was the slow one, now. He could tell her wound was really hurting her, but he knew she wouldn’t complain. She never did. She just went quiet and grim.

  He wished he hadn’t gotten angry at her back there, after she’d called him a vacuumskull right in front of Lokri and the others, just for saying he hoped to get a shot at some of these Dol’jharian blunge-suckers. Not that it wasn’t time for her to stop acting like he was a baby, now that he was a full crew member.

  They entered a large chamber where six corridors converged, with the usual latched-open fire door just back from each adit. Ivard shied as a shadowy something swung past his head. Spooks weren’t fun when they really happened, even if they were made by a computer. He couldn’t help the yellow lightning-forks of pain that the shadows caused—they were too much like dreams he used to have. Still had.

  Scattered about them were large crates and some loading machinery, their placement suggesting hasty abandonment. There was a large rusty stain on the floor.

  “We’re almost there!” the Krysarch said. He pointed down one of the corridors. “A couple of minutes down that way is the flight of stairs that leads back to the closet.”

  Montrose adjusted his grip on the old man. The gnostor’s eyes were half-open, but he was entirely limp and unresponsive. A thread of reddish spittle hung from his lips, and with his shaved head it made him look like an aged infant.

  Ivard looked away, his skin crawling down his back and along his arms. He no longer wanted to play with the jacs, like in a chip. He wanted to get away from these mind-twisted Dol’jharians as fast as they could. And get this chatzing Kelly thing off his wrist.

  The Eya’a chattered again.

  “Another patrol,” said Vi’ya. She pointed at another of the corridors. “Close and coming fast. And there are some of the non-human minds, but the Eya’a can’t locate them.”

  She peered down the corridor Brandon had indicated. “We might not get to the stairs before they see us. Is there another way?”

  “Yes, that way,” Brandon said, indicating a third opening. “That will take us back through the detention areas by a different route to another station on the same transport line. But it’ll be a good deal farther.”

  “We’ll only use it if we have to.” She looked about again, then gave her twisting nod. Ivard had learned that when she did that, she’d made a decision. Orders usually followed. He braced himself. “For now we will make a stand here to buy some time. Montrose, take the old man down to the transport. Get back and have Jaim warm things up. They must have connected us with the ship, and they’ll find it soon.”

  “Montrose, wait a moment,” said Brandon. “Here’s the code to summon a transport to wait for us at the other station.” He tapped his boswell and his lips moved briefly.

  “Go now.” Vi’ya waved him down the corridor. “The Eya’a will guard you.”

  Montrose began running heavily with his burden, followed by the Eya’a, who alone did not seem at all tired after all that running. Ivard was sorry to see all three of them go. Vi’ya studied the fire door latch, then wrenched at it, and the mechanism tore out of the wall. The door swung shut. Ivard saw surprise on the Krysarch’s face at her strength.

  Vi’ya unhooked several petards from her belt. One by one she tapped them on her boswell and tossed them down the other open corridors. Ivard watched one roll a short distance, then flatten into the floor, its camoplast quickly rendering it invisible.

  “Take cover. Quickly!” she hissed. Under her direction they wrestled crates into position as makeshift bunkers with desperate haste, the captain lending her greater strength as needed. Ivard got himself set where she indicated, trying to control the weird shakiness in his knees and wrists.

  (As soon as the patrol enters, I’ll trigger the petard behind them. Be ready,) said Vi’ya.

  Ivard desperately had to pee. He sucked in a breath, held it a moment, then let it out slowly, just as Markham had taught him. He looked over at Greywing. Sweat gleamed on her scalp through her short hair. She looked up and he tried to smile reassuringly.

  Then he heard a weird snarling commotion coming from a side corridor. It grew louder swiftly: high-pitched snarls, a low chuffing sound, and a rapid clicking almost like the sound of the Eya’a’s twiggy toenails. Two brown and black shapes burst out of the adit. Ivard’s jac bobbled in his hand, his finger on the trigger, then he recognized them from chips: dogs!

  One was running awkwardly, favoring a front leg. Both of them had their heads turned slightly back, keeping one eye on a large short-legged, yellow-orange creature pursuing them. It had large, leaf-like scales instead of fur, and the low chuffing was coming from its gaping jaws, which displayed far too many sharp greenish teeth. It was gaining on the dogs.

  Then several things happened as the dogs ran past the crate sheltering Brandon, so fast that Ivard gained only fragmented impressions. They suddenly slowed—the unhurt dog gave a strange yodeling cry, turning toward the Krysarch—the wounded dog somersaulted onto its back as its leg collapsed—the yellow-orange creature with the teeth lunged—Brandon leaped up and triggered the two-handed firejac.

  The jac’s unfamiliar weight spoiled his aim. The blast hit the floor in front of the creature. The flooring exploded in a hail of flaming splinters and the creature went berserk, howling and snapping. Brandon jerked the muzzle up. The stream of plasma faltered and died as it intersected the creature’s body at the same time as shots from Lokri, Greywing, and the captain, leaving only a roiling cloud of bloody steam.

  Ivard ducked back as a wash of stinky, greasy heat blew past. He fought down a cough as Brandon ducked down beside him, laboring under the weight of a squirming, bleeding dog, one arm across its chest under its neck, the other under its rump. As he put it down, the other dog pressed up against his side, its ears flat, tail between its legs. It was growling, an odd, almost querulous sound.

  The dogs had smelled Brandon, Ivard thought, glee mixing with terror. Just like in the vids. They smelled him, and they turned to him for help.

  Vi’ya’s voice came over the boz’l again. (Hold. That’s alerted them.) Even through the boz’l-induced flattening Ivard could hear her anger.

  The only sound was a soft, whining ululation from the wounded dog. Brandon fumbled his pack around, found the medkit, and jabbed the animal with an ampule. Then he stroked the dog’s head and softly squeezed its muzzle. It quieted somewhat. He gently squeezed the muzzle of the other dog, and its growling ceased.

  Ivard risked a peek as Vi’ya stood up and lobbed another petard down a side corridor. This one began emitting bursts of sound resembling footsteps and whispery voices that dwindled as though the sources were running away. Vi’ya sent a hard look Ivard’s way and he hastily crouched down a
gain.

  Then Ivard heard the clink of harnesses and the faint shuffle of feet moving fast. He hated not being able to see what was happening. His hands ached, and he relaxed his grip on his jac. Next to him Brandon pulled his own weapon free.

  (On zero,) came Vi’ya’s voice. (3... 2... 1...)

  The stuttering blast was immediately followed by screams of pain and rage. Ivard ducked out from behind the crate. In the middle of the floor a gray-clad soldier staggered toward him, her face vacant with shock, her weapon dangling from one hand. Ivard brought his jac up but before he could fire, a plasma bolt from Lokri’s position took the woman down , a jet of crimson steam erupting from her shoulder.

  Ivard gaped, all his sim training forgotten. Until now, all his action had been while manning a console, and once he’d had to pilot for Markham. He’d never been in a firefight.

  A bolt of energy sizzled into the crate next to him. Heat stung his face and he ducked back, his eyes tearing up. More bolts hit the crate, but whatever was inside was bulky and dense enough to protect them.

  The chamber now stank of charred meat and excrement, even worse than the torture chamber. Ivard’s stomach heaved and he swallowed frantically against the spurt of saliva at the back of his mouth.

  Next to Brandon the dog stirred, its motions slower. Ivard looked away from the raw-meat look of the tear down its shoulder.

  “Are those your dogs?” he asked. “They smelled you, right?”

  “They know our scent.” Brandon shook his head. “But they’re my father’s. I don’t remember their names.” The dog quieted again and lay panting. The other dog pushed its muzzle into Brandon’s armpit, then lay down at a word from him, its head across one of his boots.

  More jac bolts hit the crate in front of them. Smoke began to pour out of it. The Krysarch laughed suddenly and whispered, “I just remembered—the day I left here—I dreamed we were attacked in the Palace.”

  With a whoosh the overhead firestops let go, drenching Brandon and Ivard. A shrill alarm began to ululate. Steam billowed up from the crate, further obscuring their view. From behind a nearby crate, Lokri threw another petard, this time bouncing it off the ceiling into a Dol’jharian position. The blast elicited another scream, and the return fire from other positions became heavier; now the wall paneling was burning in places.

  “‘Prayers that heaven in enormous vengeance grants,’” Brandon murmured.

  The remaining enemy soldiers had taken cover behind other crates, or in side corridors. Ivard could hear guttural whispers. Another shadow sprang to life and scuttled across the ceiling. The whispers stopped.

  (We need to draw them off, give Montrose more time,) said Vi’ya. (But we can’t outrun them. We need to slow them down, make them reluctant to follow. We’ll set some surprises.) She issued a swift series of commands for petard settings and where to place or throw them. (Arkad, take a petard and tap it on your boz’l. That will set it for smoke. When I give the word, toss it into the middle of the room. The rest of you follow with yours and then withdraw. Lokri and I will cover.)

  Ivard tapped his petards to the banshee setting. The Krysarch holstered his jac and followed Vi’ya’s orders. Ivard’s heart began pounding even harder.

  (Ready,) said Brandon.

  (On the mark,) came Vi’ya’s voice. ( 3... 2... 1...Go!)

  Brandon lobbed the little sphere over the crate. It hissed like a hundred snakes when it hit the floor, and the room darkened as thick smoke billowed out. Ivard heard the crack of jac bolts from Vi’ya and Lokri as he threw his petards and then scrambled out from behind the crate. Shrill, ear-piercing shrieks beat against each other in his ears, and even though he was ready for the noise he was disoriented. Ivard glanced back, uncertain, and saw Brandon look around, then up, then down, then his mouth flattened with decision. He picked up the wounded dog and followed Ivard.

  “Fol-geh!” the Krysarch shouted, and the other dog ran after him. Then Greywing pushed Ivard hard from behind. (Get moving!)

  Another series of stuttering blasts rocked the chamber as Ivard followed Brandon, with Greywing at his side. Their shadows strobed down the corridor ahead of them as jac fire flared behind. Lokri and Vi’ya caught up with them quickly.

  A jac-bolt sizzled down the hallway and vaporized a holographic likeness of an archaically gowned woman with too many chins and no lips. They reached a junction. Brandon veered into the left-hand corridor. The weight of the dog unbalanced him and he bounced off the wall, turning his body to take the impact on his shoulder. The dog in his arms yelped.

  Another blast rocked the corridor they had just vacated. Ivard heard a scream of pain, and sensed the pursuit slowing slightly. This isn’t so bad, he exulted. Then he felt guilty. Greywing’s face was set in a grimace of pain as she pounded along, one arm clutched tight against her. “We won’t ever fight just to be fighting,” she’d said earlier. At first that made him rasty, like she was scolding him. “We’re going to get enough money to go back to Natsu and then we’ll fight for freedom.” He liked that idea fine.

  Lokri broke into his thoughts when he cast a sour look at Brandon’s back. “You’ll never make it, trying to lug that animal, and you’re slowing us down. I hope you don’t expect any of us to carry it.”

  “Got a better idea.” The Krysarch pointed his chin down another corridor. “I just... remembered where we are.”

  They clattered down two narrow hallways, then into a room full of shelves and boxes with a door on the other wall. Brandon paused and hitched up the limp dog cradled in his arms so he could look over the dog’s back and reach the console beside the storage room door. Ivard heard the door bolt snick into place.

  They dashed through the other door and down a new corridor. The walls were a bilious green that looked like Ivard’s stomach felt. Rounding a corner, they came on two black-clad guardsmen in front of a door, who spun around and fired.

  The first attack had been too fast to follow. This time Ivard felt a terrible sense of being frozen. He saw the bolts of light from the weapons. He saw Greywing jerking her arm up, too slow, too late. He felt something harsh as acid shot from his wrist and flooded his body: the sense of frozen time blasted away with the acid, forcing him to move faster than he’d ever dreamed possible. His body convulsed violently, throwing him to one side, his shot going wild.

  A shadow flickered on the ceiling—the Dol’jharians looked up at it—Ivard heard a thin, high cry before red pain-fire closed around him.

  TEN

  Montrose reached the closet without incident, although the worm-shadows kept startling him. If any place were to be haunted, it would be the Mandala. The hopes and fears of trillions of people have been focused on this place for almost a millennium.

  His back and shoulders were aching with the strain of carrying the old man. Getting him down the ladder took every bit of strength he had. Too many of those Briard sauces, he thought with mild regret.

  He shook off the mood and looked down at the old man wrapped in the soiled robe. Osri’s father. I hope he’s not as much of a blit as his son. One of those on board is enough. He muscled the old man into the carrier, then returned to the wall console to key in the combination Brandon had given him, cursing the archaic equipment that wouldn’t interface to his boz’l, which forced him to listen to it and enter the alphanumerics manually.

  The Eya’a followed him into the carrier and he set it into motion. The trip back seemed much longer. Montrose considered the Eya’a, who sat utterly motionless, like statues. He wondered what their perception of time was like, compared to that of humans. What he’d seen of them suggested they lacked the driving urge to be always doing something that made waiting such a torment for human beings. Montrose snorted with amusement. Boredom was looking really good right now.

  o0o

  Lokri cursed as the jac-fire hit the two redheads. Greywing’s arms flew up and she dropped without a noise. Ivard leapt aside, his body contorting, and the bolt lanced across his back.


  Something flickered—the guards’ heads snapped to track it—Vi’ya whipped up her weapon and fired, the sound not quite drowning a guttural snarl of rage. Lokri fired at the same time. One of the Dol’jharians fell instantly; the other fought for a moment to hold himself up, his finger convulsing on the trigger of his jac to loose a stutter of plasma bolts into the floor as he collapsed. Lokri triggered his jac again. Empty.

  Lokri sprang to check Greywing. There was nothing to be done for her. Vi’ya bent over the boy, who rolled slowly back and forth, his breath wheezing. She pinned him down and held him with one hand. With the other, she pulled an ampule out of her pack and jabbed it into Ivard’s arm.

  Ivard jerked, his pupils dilating as the drug took effect. “It burns,” he moaned, the fingers of one hand crawling over his body, not toward the jac-hit but toward the arm where the Kelly ribbon had attached itself.

  Lokri’s guts crawled. The ribbon no longer had an edge. It had sunk into Ivard’s skin, melding with it somehow. “C’mon, Firehead. We’re going to do a little running,” he said softly.

  “What happened?” Brandon jerked his chin at the fallen guards.

  “That’s my question for you,” Lokri said. “What happened? You just stood there holding the damn dog.”

  Vi’ya ignored Lokri. “Without the Eya’a I couldn’t sense them until we were upon them,” she said tersely, her brow tight with anger. And, to Lokri, “Attend to his back.”

  Lokri rolled the still-writhing boy over, and the captain popped open a pack of gel-flesh over the oozing, blackened groove across Ivard’s back. The half-alive symbiont spread out and melted into the damaged flesh, sealing it against the air. As Lokri worked, he tried to get control of his anger.

  He recognized this impulse to blame others for disaster. If Vi’ya couldn’t sense those guards, or bring them down, then a spoiled nick who probably had never handled a jac in his life wouldn’t be able to, dog or no dog.

  And why should he care? Greywing was ugly, annoying with that judgmental stare of hers, and she hovered over the damn boy, keeping him from growing up. Yet his gut felt hollowed out, and his head burned with fury.