Korval's Game

by Sharon Lee

  Val Con walked forward, showing open palms. “Certainly, the time draws near. Forgive me that I come to you once more and say—it is not necessary that you accompany us after you have assisted in the opening of the door. Stay and watch, if you will. Return to the ship, by my preference. But, to come within—it is more than my heart can bear, brother, that you might be slain in the course of a hasty and ill-considered human quarrel.”

  “Your feelings do you great honor,” Sheather said solemnly. “Certainly, kin wish to do all within their scope to preserve kin from harm. Just as certainly, we are bound to the word of the T’carais, who has bid me accompany you upon this vendetta, in which you will fully answer those who have slain others of your kin and keeping. This is your duty, as you have told us, and it is a duty the Clutch know as well. The T’carais sends me to his brother, the Deim of Korval, to fight, and to prevail.”

  He blinked, one eye after the other.

  “The T’carais has done me the honor of adding to my name. As time is short, I will refrain from speaking it to you in fullness. However, I will tell you that my name now includes a phrase roughly equivalent to ‘student of men’.” He blinked again, both eyes in tandem.

  “I am the first of our clan to undertake this scholarship. I began because my heart would know certain things. I continue because my T’carais would know in fullness—and my heart is not adverse.”

  Val Con bowed, deeply and with sincere respect. “Scholarship is a heady and dangerous undertaking,” he murmured. “And of course the T’carais may not be gainsaid.”

  Which was true enough, he thought—no word of his would prevent Sheather from following, if the word of the T’carais sent him on.

  He straightened.

  “Attend me, then, brother, if you will. Explorer, guard us—and monitor the broadband. Our signal should find us soon.”

  ***

  THE ANCIENT and weary locking mechanism scarcely resisted Sheather’s song: a note, another—and the thing was done. And done not a moment too soon.

  “Scout,” Nelirikk said quietly, “the signal arrives.” He paused, head cocked, listening to the tiny comm-link behind his ear.

  “Third repeat.”

  Val Con swallowed, thinking of Miri, safe at home.

  Go on then, he told himself. The time is come.

  Dutiful Passage was in orbit.

  ***

  MIRI WOKE with no memory of having fallen asleep, and blinked lazily up at the orange cat sitting on her chest, solemn green eyes fixed on her face as if it sat sentry to her awakening.

  “Hey, cat,” she said.

  The animal blinked its eyes, and a voice spoke from across the room—a male voice, talking up-scale Terran.

  “Good afternoon, Korval,” he said, over a sound like wheels across planking. “Are you feeling well?”

  She turned her head on the pillow, but there wasn’t anybody there, unless he was hiding behind the heavy-looking metal cylinder, fully equipped with three articulated arms, topped by a lighted orange globe, which was itself weirdly familiar, in a not-her-own-memory kind of way.

  “Jeeves?” she asked, but it had to be it—him.

  “Yes,” he said, the orange ball flickering slightly.

  “Great.” She pushed herself up, forgetting the cat, which jumped sideways off her chest to the floor, venting a small, peevish hiss. “Plug into the perimeter’s brains, there’s people trying to get inside the valley.”

  The ball flickered—he’s thinking, Miri caught from Val Con’s memories, and swung her legs over the side of the cot she’d been laying on, unsurprised to find that it was part of a field doc.

  “The interlopers have been dispatched, ma’am,” the robot said. “Though I expect there will be more. Perimeter protections have been intensified.

  “I must apologize for allowing you to be wounded. My attention was engaged by concerted assaults at the south and east gates. The lesser attempt at the north gate was hidden beneath the noise. I sent transport immediately I had your direction from Jelaza Kazone, and brought you in to the ’doc.”

  She moved her right arm, experimentally. It hurt like hell.

  “Again, I apologize if I misunderstood your necessities. Extrapolating from Plan B, however, I merely initiated a quick-heal.”

  “You did exactly right,” Miri told him, standing up. “I’m Miri Robertson, by the way.”

  “I had surmised as much,” Jeeves replied. “How shall I address you?”

  “Miri’s fine,” she said, wincing as her first step jogged the half-healed arm. “Look, I need the control room, quicktime. There’s stuff I gotta be doing, especially if I shot the timing by being an hour in the ’doc.”

  “You were in the ’doc for no longer than a quarter hour,” the war ’bot told her calmly. “You must try not to strain your wound.” He rolled forward, wheels rumbling over the floorboards.

  “Follow me, please, and I will take you to the control room.”

  “Right,” she said, stretching her legs to keep up with the pace he set down the hallway. “Tell Anthora I’m here, and where she can find me, OK? I’ll need her to fill me in on what’s been going on here.”

  “Miss Anthora,” said Jeeves, “is not to home.”

  “Not home?” She looked at him, but the orange ball gave her no clues. “Where is she?”

  “I believe,” he said, as they took a sharp turn into a narrow hallway, “she is at the headquarters of the Department of the Interior.”

  ***

  THEY HAD FOUND out soon enough what the more cryptic of dea’Gauss’ drugged mouthings had referred to. As payment accounts were shut down, so too were the services and supplies they purchased.

  Commander of Agents sat in an office lit by emergency dims, and glared at his screen. Behind him, the radio mumbled along on back-up power, whispering the names and the business of ships.

  The power problems had been resolved. For the moment. The facility was running—as could be told by the noise of the intermittent fans attempting to move sluggish air about, at considerably less than half-efficiency—on its own emergency generation system. This situation would change for the better once the prisoner was under control and functioning on behalf of the Department.

  But the man would have to survive.

  The prisoner’s health was—not good. The third drug, rather than inducing the desired state of submissive obedience, had elicited a strong allergic reaction. On advice of the drug-tech, he had been removed to the infirmary, where he remained stable, but feeble, guarded by a full Agent of Change.

  Perusing the roster in his dim-lit office, the Commander reconsidered that assignment: Agents were in short supply. Surely a lesser operative might be set to guard one ill old man?

  But no. dea’Gauss had deprived the Department of three Agents, each dispatched with a precise shot to the head. Records belatedly obtained from Tey Dor’s demonstrated that dea’Gauss had been a regular at the club for fifty years; that he maintained several weapons and match-pistols, list appended; that he often shot with other of Tey Dor’s patrons, list appended. Indeed, Tey Dor’s records held all that one would wish, save the man’s marksman rating. They also failed to note—though this was scarcely an area where Tey Dor’s could be expected to concern itself—that the old man in question had worn clothing made of anti-pulse and anti-pellet materials; and that he had turned his office into a fortress.

  No, the Commander decided; the dea’Gauss had won the honor of having an Agent at his bedside.

  Which left the diminished roster and the rather longer number of tasks to be done.

  A team of Agents had been sent to the Council of Clans, with orders to arm the devices in place. Likewise at the Council of Clans, the Protocol Officer, long ago subverted by the Department, consulted with the Speaker on the precise placing of Balance against Anthora yos’Galan, who had casually and brutally murdered an unarmed Council Proctor.

  A second team of Agents, augmented by Departmental sharpshoo
ters, was en route to Low Port, explosives and coordinates to hand. Another full team of Agents was attempting to invest Korval’s valley, while others undertook the infiltration of Higdon’s Howlers.

  The Commander blinked, bringing the screen before him into focus. Shipping stats. There were no Tree-and-Dragon ships currently orbiting Liad, which was odd. Scout ships were likewise in short supply—though that was less odd. One would expect Val Con yos’Phelium to have ships in support, whatever his plans. The absence of ships was . . . unnerving.

  As yos’Phelium no doubt intended.

  Commander of Agents extended a hand, calling up the list of secondary operatives. Surely, some use might be made—

  “Dutiful Passage,” the radio blared so loudly the Commander missed his key.

  “Dutiful Passage, Solcintra, Liad, Captain Priscilla Mendoza. Stand clear. Stand clear! We are on business of Korval and we are armed.”

  ***

  SILENCE WAS AS IMPORTANT as haste, and haste they made: Scout, explorer and Clutch turtle. The pipe easily accommodated the larger members of the party, though boots and claws alike sometimes failed to find purchase on the water-smoothed surface.

  Sheather, with his dark-seeing eyes, led the way, Val Con following, carrying a mini-torch to aid his poorer eyesight. Nelirikk brought up the rear, burdened with explosives, extra firearms and ammunition.

  The Passage was in orbit, Val Con reminded himself. Soon, it would be joined by allies. Soon, they would know whether this bold strike at the heart of the enemy was lunacy or genius.

  Speed-marching, they had covered distance, passing three gates at roughly equal intervals. When the aqueduct had been in use, the gates had functioned as flow control devices. They rested at each for five short minutes, then resumed the march.

  “Ahead lies another gate, my brother,” Sheather said in a remarkably quiet voice. “It appears to be both new and locked.”

  Val Con sighed. So quickly. He closed his eyes, allowing her song to fill his head, his heart, his soul. Deliberately, he extended his will, and sang a new phrase into the song. Then, he opened his eyes and stepped forward.

  The warrens the Department had taken for their own had been carved out of sub-surface limestone to create tremendous storage bays for low-pressure gasses. Portions of the original waterworks were marked out as points of historic interest, somewhere overhead. But down here, far beneath the planet surface, the aqueducts had also fed underground pressurizing reservoirs in off-peak moments. Eventually abandoned as Solcintra’s needs grew beyond the water offered by the River Kainbek, and as the necessity for a safer location for storing volatile energy than beneath the city itself became understood, the underground maze was a natural place to house a secret headquarters.

  This door, now. This was the airlock; the interface between the old pipes and the new facility. Val Con inspected the controls, understanding them with a sense of relief twined irrevocably with terror.

  “I had intended to use my blade here,” he said to Sheather, “and on the other side, speed. That is still an option. But I ask, is there a note or two known to you, which will unlock the way for us with less danger?”

  Sheather blinked his enormous eyes. “My brother is wise, to prefer a stealthy entrance to the cave of his enemy. I believe the key to this door may be discovered, if I am allowed a moment of study.”

  “Certainly,” Val Con said, and fell back to Nelirikk’s side. The explorer looked down at him with a grin and gave him a very Terran thumb’s up.

  ***

  LIT BY EMERGENCY dims, only the most essential of machinery online, the infirmary was a place of shadows, enemies and storybook monsters on the lurk for the fanciful.

  Agent ter’Fendil was neither fanciful nor inclined to simile. He kept guard over the old man, as ordered, equally alert for signs of treachery or waking. Neither manifested, as the weary hours crept along—nor did the old man die, and release Agent ter’Fendil to duties more worthy of him.

  That there were such duties, Agent ter’Fendil knew, having been present when the full team was called to attend to the future needs of the Council hall. He had awaited his own orders with anticipation, for surely the Commander would not fail to recall those treasures which Agent ter’Fendil, extrapolating from studies he had made as a scout, had recovered and delivered to the Department. He dared hope that the Commander would place the controls in his hand, allowing him the honor of deploying those treasures against the enemies of the Department.

  Yet, here he stood, on guard at the bedside of an accountant, while he might be—no. The Commander was not one to forget past service; nor to fail of using what weapons came to his hand. That he was assigned this minor duty, now, did not mean he was forgotten.

  The Department taught that all duties furthered the Plan, and Agent ter’Fendil had been well taught. Yet—

  A shadow moved among the shadows, and vanished, into shadow.

  Agent ter’Fendil frowned.

  The shadows flickered again, fluid and quick.

  Agent ter’Fendil blinked, and ran a quick diagnostic. Finding that he was slightly, though not by any means dangerously, low on energy, he accessed the Loop’s energizing routine, feeling an immediate sharpening of his senses.

  Straightening, he deliberately turned his gaze to the place he had last seen the shadows waver.

  Something . . . moved.

  Agent ter’Fendil walked forward.

  The shadow solidified, taking shape as it strolled across a dim strip of illumination, gray tail held high and jaunty, white feet soundless on the noise-absorbing floor.

  “Cat!” said Agent ter’Fendil, in disbelief.

  The cat turned its head, blinked and continued on its way.

  The Loop indicated that a cat in headquarters was an anomaly.

  Agent ter’Fendil went after it.

  MIRI HIT the chair in the control center a little too hard, swore, and opened the board with a sweep of her good hand.

  “Get me some painkillers,” she said over her shoulder to the war ’bot. “And some stim.”

  “I regret,” Jeeves said, his high-class voice sounding apologetic. “Stim is known to cause fetal damage.”

  The screens were up, she fumbled, then found the general shipping band.

  “What’s that got to do with me?” she asked, her mind more than half occupied with locating the other, more tricksy band. This one, even Val Con was hazy on . . .

  “The ’doc reports that you are pregnant,” Jeeves said.

  In the midst of making an adjustment, Miri froze, before spinning the chair around to face the ’bot.

  “That’s the craziest—” she began, and then clamped her mouth shut.

  Oh, Robertson, you prize fool.

  Because it wasn’t crazy, was it? Not with her fresh outta the ’doc, and him, too, both returned to normal baseline functioning—read ‘fertile’—and neither one of them remembering to ask for the shot.

  Miri, let us make love . . . He murmured in memory, and if she found out he’d known—that he’d planned . . .

  She’d kill him.

  Uh-huh. First he’s gotta get home alive.

  She spun back to the control board, adjusting the volume on the ship band, which had been plenty loud enough, and had another go at the local band.

  This time, her fingers were smarter—or the three-times-damned Korval luck was in it. Whichever, her inquiry elicited an answer.

  “Binjali’s,” said a woman’s matter-of-fact voice.

  Miri took a breath. “This is the Captain,” she said, in the mode of Ultimate Authority. “Situation Red.”

  “DUTIFUL PASSAGE, seal your weapons.” Solcintra Tower said—which it had to say, as Shan knew well. Had he been portmaster, faced with a sudden battleship in orbit around his peaceful and orderly world, he would have said precisely the same thing, most likely with a good deal more heat.

  Priscilla touched the reply stud. “This is Captain Mendoza. We are on business of Clan Ko
rval. Our weapons are live and under our control.”

  “That is in violation of regulations, Captain Mendoza. The guild has been notified.”

  Priscilla’s mouth tightened. “Copy,” she said, voice steady, and closed the connection.

  “Never fear, Priscilla, there remains one license between us. And the Code tells us that what one lifemate owns, the other owns as well.”

  She looked at him, black eyes betraying her amusement. “Tell it to the Pilots Guild.”

  Shan snapped his fingers with a grin. “That for the Pilots Guild! We’ll get you a Terran license under an assumed name, and no one will be the wiser.”

  “Now, why don’t I think that will work?”

  “Because you are an innocent and pure of heart.” He turned back to his screens. “The portmaster will satisfy herself with the complaint to the guild,” he murmured, pulling in the traffic reports. “She can fire on us, of course, but we’ve done nothing to merit that.”

  “Yet,” Priscilla said, with a glance to Ren Zel, quiet and efficient at third board.

  “Any sign of our friends, pilot?”

  “Not as yet, captain,” he answered, “but we are ahead of schedule.”

  “By three entire minutes,” Shan said. “Trust a scout to—”

  “Jump-flare,” Ren Zel said sharply. “Close in.”

  His fingers moved, and Shan’s did, too, locating the flare and the coords—close, gods. Which meant it must be the expected scouts, though there was no reason—

  The comm crackled as the flares died and the ships announced themselves, one, two, three, four: Diamond Duty, Timonium Core, Crystalia, Survey Nine. Tree-and-Dragon, Tree-and-Dragon. Tree-and-Dragon, Tree-and-Dragon.

  “What the devil?” He isolated the four of them, Jumped as a unit, had they? Master pilots, then—or, yet, it could be scouts, though in such strange, unscout-like vessels . . .

  “Jump-flare!” Ren Zel cried again—and so it was: a fifth ship Jumping into the hollow square formed by the first four, a maneuver so chancy that Shan half-averted his face from the expected collision.