Montrose shifted the gnostor’s dead weight and ran heavily toward the ship, followed by the Eya’a. As he reached the ship he could hear the sound of the engines already winding up to readiness.
o0o
Barrodagh was panting and breathless when they arrived at the kitchen where the intruders were trapped. He had been rehearsing explanations for the Lord of Vengeance, handicapped by ignorance of just what he’d find when he arrived. The guard, sensing his impatience and anxiety, had upped the pace until the shorter Bori could hardly keep up.
Now he could hear the sounds of battle: the sizzle of jac-fire, shouted commands, amplified roars of anger, and heated Dol’jharian curses. But he also heard a noise that puzzled him. What kind of weapon went clang-whizz-splat? Then he remembered the kyltasz’s report and he slowed as his skin crawled. Explodes their brains through their eyes— Where could Hreem have found such a thing? Was it some secret Panarchist weapon?
A strange smell tickled his palate: heavy, greasy, with an unfamiliar bitter-sour tang to it. Barrodagh’s imagination threw up a series of gruesome images of splattered brains dripping from the walls and sliming the floor. His stomach heaved and he stumbled to a halt. His escort had stopped, too, his firejac pointing this way and that as he tried to find whatever caused that stink.
Twenty meters off were the double doors into the kitchen, with the blue-white glare of jac-fire flickering through the crack in the middle. A tide of some lumpy, scummy grayish substance was slowly bubbling out from under the doors. Bile spurted into the back of his mouth and he swallowed repeatedly, fighting the urge to vomit as he backed slowly, trembling violently.
Something made a whining rattle behind him.
Panic gripped Barrodagh. He whirled—and heard a sound that nearly stopped his heart—clang-whizz-splat.
Barrodagh screamed as the world turned green and his eyes burned. His brain was being boiled away by some horrible Panarchist invention! He clutched his skull, trying to hold it together. He could feel his eyes coming out of their sockets as the glop oozed into his mouth, burning and stinging. He screamed and screamed.
Clang-whizz-splat. Another blast from the terror weapon caught him square in the chest. Barrodagh’s panic reached an insupportable level and he passed out.
o0o
Lokri’s anger flared again when they reached the terminus under the gazebo and discovered the bot there, the wounded dog supine on its tray. Next to it the other dog came to its feet, its tail thumping against the little machine.
“Shoot them,” Lokri said under his breath. He knew it was not quite loud enough to hear, but Vi’ya’s head turned anyway.
Of course she’d hear, the intent if not the words. And Lokri knew how cowardly it was to communicate this way, that his out-of-control emotions had swung through the entire spectrum to settle on spite. Because they'd actually made it back.
Brandon wiped a streak of blood off his jaw onto his already gory dun jumpsuit, then rested a hand on the dog as he turned to Vi’ya. “I can leave them here. At least they’d have a chance,” he said to her.
Nothing more—no commands, no begging, either. Just that hand resting on the dog with exactly the same absent tenderness that Markham had once expressed toward all living things.
Lokri watched Vi’ya’s chin lift, and her body tighten. He hated the inequality of tempathy, particularly in this tempath: they could see past the shield of tone, of emotion, of the body’s deflections that had nothing to do with clothing. But no one could read her.
Markham could.
Vi’ya said, “You take the animal. Lokri and I will bring Ivard.”
Brandon’s smile hollowed Lokri, and he turned away, unsettled—angry—and was this grief? Damn it. Damn.
In silence they got their burdens to the ground level and hurried out of the gazebo toward the Telvarna. Vi’ya’s pace checked briefly when she spotted the mobile cannon crumpled against a tree.
As they approached the ship its ramp lowered. A dim light spilled out into the darkness from inside the lock, silhouetting the deceptively frail shapes of the Eya’a.
Ivard had gradually sunk into delirium. His arm around Lokri’s neck felt clammy.
Vi’ya slowed again, and Lokri perforce slowed with her. The forward under-cannon was twisted and seared, evidently unable to retract into its nacelle, the hull around it discolored and warped. A slight shimmer over the scorched metal showed that the teslas were up. As they ran up the ramp the rumble of the engines increased. The trunks of the trees behind the Telvarna reflected in umber tones the red glow of the radiants discharging waste heat.
Vi’ya shifted Ivard’s weight into Lokri’s arms and slapped the comm key in the lock as the hatch cycled closed. “Montrose, Ivard’s been hit.”
“On my way,” came the reply.
Brandon followed Vi’ya, the Eya’a closing in behind the captain. Lokri hauled Ivard toward the dispensary, where he gratefully relinquished him to Montrose, who picked the boy up and placed him on an examination table. “Greywing?” Montrose said.
Lokri lifted his finger, imitating a jac. Montrose scowled, then his brows shot up as Brandon came in and carefully deposited the unconscious dog on the other examination table without a word. The unharmed dog took up station next to the table, silent and watchful.
“Well, at least it’s DNA-based,” Montrose said, and then turned away, intent on Ivard.
Lokri dashed back to the bridge and slapped his console to life. They weren’t safe yet.
o0o
Osri gritted his teeth as the old monster’s voice erupted from the comm in his cabin. “Captain wants you on the bridge right now.” He levered himself off his bunk where Jaim had thrown him after keeping him face to the deck under a pointed jac until that cannon attack had ceased.
Still seething at the barbaric treatment by that pair of loathsome no-family Rifter scum, he stalked forward. As he passed the dispensary, Ivard lunged out, Montrose pursuing him.
“No, Ivard. The captain wants you to stay here.”
The boy’s pale skin was blotchy-green. One shoulder of his jumpsuit was charred, and something glistened on his back. As Osri paused, Ivard twitched violently and threw out his arm. Something glinted as it fell to the deck.
“Greywing. No.” His voice trailed off into incoherence, as Montrose caught him up bodily and bore him back inside the dispensary. The door hissed shut.
Osri stooped and picked up a coin wrapped in a bloodstained ribbon of raw silk. He knew that ribbon! It was the highly-prized, fiercely-contested Piloting Award from the Military Academy. The other object, also blood-smeared, shocked him cold when he recognized it from an art history course: the Tetradrachm, an ancient coin from Lost Earth, the only one of its kind, part of the Mandalic Collection in the Ivory antechamber.
Righteous indignation turned to rage. They were not joking. They really did loot the Palace. The Mandala, fouled by these lawless scum. Led by a Krysarch of the House Royal.
He straightened up. I will not let them get away with this criminal act, even if it costs me my life. Osri shoved the coin and the ribbon into his pocket with a convulsive movement and continued forward. And the Krysarch, either. There can be no loyalty here, after this.
When he reached the bridge the ship was already hovering under geeplane.
“—cut away some of the wreckage with a lazjac. I’ve focused the teslas over it to try’n maintain the streamlining.” Marim ran her hand through her disgustingly sweat-matted tangle of hair, her attitude subdued and uncharacteristically grim. “I wouldn’t push it past mach twelve or so.”
On the main screen the giant trees slipped past as the Telvarna accelerated out of the forest, slowly at first. Osri noticed that one of the consoles, the one usually handled by the red-haired woman, was empty.
The Krysarch settled in at the fire-control console and smacked the console to life. Another shock wrung through Osri when the console lit with a full tactical Tenno configuration.
The ship left t
he forest and leapt forward as the plasma jets ignited with a muffled thump. The ground wheeled underneath as Vi’ya pulled the ship into a tight turn and headed over the forest, away from the Mandala. The Telvarna shuddered alarmingly as it went transonic; Marim stabbed at her console and the motion ceased. “Make that mach eight,” she said.
Lokri looked up from his console. “There’s increased traffic on some bands—coded, can’t read it. Sounds like they’re looking hard for us.”
Finally Osri said, “You called me.” He kept his voice flat.
“You are trained in navigation?” the captain asked.
Osri bridled. She knew very well. It was a deliberate insult. “As I informed you,” he replied acidly, “I am an instructor at the Minervan—”
“Fine,” Vi’ya interrupted. “Take that console and plot me a course to the S’lift. Priority ranking: minimum altitude, minimum concussion over population centers, maximum speed. Give me an ETA at maximum mach eight.” As Osri hesitated, Vi’ya added, “Now,” her even tone and lack of expression adding more emphasis than a shout.
Osri glanced angrily at the Krysarch, who returned his regard without expression. Why was he all bloody? Osri’s fury reached white heat. Had Brandon been shooting his own people?
“Now,” the captain ordered.
Osri seated himself stiffly at the console, considering his options as he tapped at the keys to gain time. As he worked, the meaning of her command penetrated his consciousness. Minimum concussion? He risked a glance, but she had turned away to her console. Why did she care about that? This escapade had already earned everyone on the ship a one-way trip to Gehenna, if the defense systems left anything for the Justicials.
“I’ve got Ivard stabilized, and the old man as well,” Montrose’s voice came from the com. “Do you need me anywhere?”
Old man? Did they grab someone for ransom? A horrid thought ripped through him and he sent a horrified glare at the Krysarch, who was absorbed in his console. No, that’s impossible.
“It’s going to be rough, but if you think they will be safe unattended, stand by with Jaim on the engines.”
“As long as you keep the dispensary in null gee the old man’s heart should be all right. Ivard’s in no immediate danger.”
Osri trembled with the enormity of what had happened—and with awareness of his duty. The captain had handed the ship to him. He must turn them all over to justice, and likely death.
Vi’ya transfixed him with a cold stare. “I warned you, Schoolboy, I am a tempath.”
Shock flooded him again. His fingers hesitated on the console. But tempaths can’t read minds. He struggled to project a feeling of innocence, wondering if the emotion came across as false as it felt. Now he knew viscerally why so many people hated tempaths.
“Pay attention to your task. Your anger could kill us all, including that old man in the dispensary.”
The shock gave way to relief: she must have misinterpreted his feelings. He still had a chance. A slight miscalculation of their course would lengthen their exposure enough that the defense emplacements of the S’lift would ensure a swift end to this criminal endeavor. He wondered if it would hurt much.
Then curiosity surfaced at the additional reference to the old man. It couldn’t be, but he had to know.
“What old man?”
Vi’ya’s gaze flicked to Brandon, then she turned her attention to handling the Telvarna, which was now traveling at mach eight only a hundred meters above the ocean. The rearview showed the sea boiling in their wake under the impact of their concussion wave.
“Your father, Osri,” Brandon said softly. “We found him in the Palace.”
Osri’s mind emptied of thought as the Krysarch’s bald statement cut the world out from under him. He no longer understood anything about their situation. What was his father doing on Arthelion? How had he escaped the Rifter invasion of Charvann? Why would they hold him to ransom? His thoughts spun off into nonsense and he merely stared at Brandon.
The Krysarch’s eyes widened slightly. “You don’t know, do you?”
Osri shook his head dumbly, his fingers and a well-trained part of his mind still automatically working at his navigational task. Then his hands fell away from the console as Brandon completed the demolition of his world.
“Arthelion has fallen. Eusabian of Dol’jhar occupies the Mandala.” The Krysarch’s voice was light, uninflected by emotion. Only the subtle hunching of his shoulders revealed to Osri’s Douloi sensibilities the Krysarch’s well-bred reluctance to be the bearer of bad news. “Your father was tortured, but Montrose believes he will recover,” Brandon finished.
Osri jumped up. “His heart? I must go to him.”
“There will be time for that when we have escaped,” said Vi’ya. “How long to the S’lift?”
Osri glared, then turned away from her calm gaze. He fought the impulse to touch the Tetradrachm still resting in his pocket and flexed his shaking hands. Tapping at the console a while longer, he reset the course to avoid the trap he’d tried to set. “Eight minutes,” he replied at last.
TWELVE
Ferrasin half ran, half walked down yet another anonymous hallway, pausing more and more frequently to catch his breath as his heart thundered in his chest.
He hadn’t realized how big the Palace was, how confusing the under-corridors could be. His view had been a neater one, based on the system interconnections that he navigated so effortlessly on his console. The physical reality was entirely different. And the flickering shadows didn’t help any. He was almost certain they were a computer artifact, but the gloomy byways underneath the Mandala left his certainty ever on the edge of crumbling into panic, the more when he smelled fresh dog urine. That was another terror, hiding from Barrodagh the fact that the computer kept overriding his attempt to keep the kitchens from dispensing dog food, not just at one location, but all over the palace complex. Why was it was doing that?
He finally spotted a wall console. Overwhelming relief drove him to it at a dead run. He had to bend down to wipe his sweaty hands on his knees, as the rest of him was drenched, before he dared touch the console. Carefully, almost tentatively, he tapped in the combination they had enforced on the house system after the sensors were destroyed. The screen lit.
Will it cooperate? They’d only managed to reprogram for basic housekeeping services. He sent the code for their own housekeeping staff, adding the directions from the console so they could clean up after the dog before the Dol’jharians found it.
Then he hesitated, afraid that trying to coax directions from the system would bring it down yet again.
He tapped with care, then sighed in relief as the console windowed up a map. He located himself in relation to the service kitchen and ran off down the hall, one hand clutching his side.
Behind him the console flickered and the map reversed itself. Then the screen went dark.
o0o
Barrodagh felt a sting in his arm and opened his eyes. A gray-clad guard with the green knife of the medical service on his uniform was just withdrawing an ampule from his arm. The medic stood up and moved aside, revealing a pair of glossy black boots coated with grayish slime. Oh, Dol! My brains—!
Barrodagh came fully awake. He was still alive, his brains intact!
Then his eyes lifted from the boots to the thunderous visage of the Lord of Vengeance, and he wondered fearfully how long that would be true.
He scrambled to his feet. “Lord,” he said, bowing deeply. A dollop of green goo slithered off his head and plopped onto Eusabian’s boot with a quiet splat.
“Explain this,” said Eusabian. His voice was soft, a low rumble, like the thunder of a storm invisible over the horizon.
That was a very bad sign. Fear thrilled through Barrodagh, who sidled a desperate peek at Jesserian, standing at attention with the visor of his battle armor cocked open. The man’s face was expressionless, giving him no direction. All up and down the hall Barrodagh could see the smoking, plasma-se
ared ruins of little machines of some sort. Everything was liberally coated with the same corrosive green glop as he himself was.
Had the Rifters been apprehended? There was no sign of prisoners. Barrodagh had learned never to reveal unproven surmises unless all evidence was in hand, and understood. Until then? Report the minimum.
“Lord, we had reports of looting in the Ivory antechamber. I gave orders for interception and execution, explicitly stating that the stolen art was to be recovered unharmed.”
He swallowed. Eusabian’s face might as well have been carved from stone. Barrodagh would have welcomed any expression, even that frightening, inexplicable quirk of cold humor he’d seen too often lately, but there was nothing. Then the Avatar’s eyes flicked sideways, and his expression altered subtly as motion reflected in his dark eyes.
Barrodagh shuddered. Somehow his lord’s acknowledgment of the shadows haunting the Palace made them something truly to be feared.
“Who are these looters?” the Avatar asked.
“They are probably Rifters,” Barrodagh said. “It seemed unlikely Panarchists would bother to loot. Then they struck at the senx-lo Evodh and carried off the prisoner. It is possible they attempted to capture the Panarch, too: they killed the Tarkans there, but they were foiled in this regard by the prompt appearance of Kyltasz Jesserian’s force.” There. That will help keep Jesserian on my side, if only he has the wit to understand that we’re both in this together.
“The kyltasz also reported that the intruders had used some sort of terror weapon to kill the Tarkans. Despite this, I directed him to preserve the prisoner’s life at all costs, as the recording equipment in the transfiguration room had been destroyed, along with the mindripper.”
At least I don’t have that to worry about, he thought as his mind raced ahead of his words. But that was cold comfort. Dol’jharians had perfected the infliction of pain hundreds of years before the invention of the mindripper.
“Your pardon, Lord,” interrupted Jesserian. “I did not say that the Tarkans guarding the Panarch were killed by this weapon. Only senz-lo Evodh, his assistant, and the Tarkan there. All the others were killed by jac-fire.”
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