Daav opened his hands slightly with a half-shrug.
“Information. About that message…” The message that shouted the name of Val Con yos’Phelium to all with ears to hear, near-space and far. The message that had shaken him out of his professorial Balancing and brought him into the office of a Juntavas, seeking news.
The boss pinched the bridge of his nose and nodded.
“Yeah, I figure every quiet hand in the universe will want to know about that. I think it’s the first time the damned ‘danger tree’ was really used…”
Daav sat quietly, watching the man’s tired face. No effort to hide how he felt—Daav’s greeting, as old as it was, was one recognized by Juntavas on many worlds. The short form was: Help this person, he has a right to it. The person in question might be a retired sector boss, an assassin on the way to or from a run—or the whole charade could simply be a test of loyalty.
“What do you need to know?” asked the boss. “What’s the aim?”
“Everything you know. I am, let us say, a specialist in people. I can hide them and I can find them. As may be required. I’ll need the background as deep as it goes.”
The boss man gave a snort.
“I bet you can hide ’em. Standing in my own front room with a whole bag of equipment like you own the place and my guards probably can’t tell me the color of your hair or what kind of shoes you wear. Damn smooth…” He shook his head in admiration, sighed, and went on, looking straight at Daav.
“Where we are is that there’s been—a change of administration. Some of this is official and some’s not…”
Daav looked on with polite interest, no change on his face.
The boss nodded. “Right. He was asking for it if anyone was, but anyhow, politics aside, we have a Chairman Pro Tem right now, seeing how the Chairman was knifed in his own office by a Clutch turtle.”
Daav leaned forward a bit, cocking his head to one side in respectful query.
“Me too! Not what somebody’d expect. A bomb maybe, poison, even just a quiet step-down ’cause somebody had the best of him after all—but no. A pair of Clutch turtles waltzed into his office, had an argument with him, and took him out.”
The man’s gaze had strayed to his desktop; he looked up, frowning.
“The official thing is—straight from Chair Pro Tem!—that there was a busted deal, resulting from a misunderstanding, and that the former Chairman had made the mistake of threatening a T’carais with a shell-buster.”
“With the result that, in defense of his or her superior, a minion used a knife,” Daav murmured into the short silence.
The boss looked impressed, but Daav continued. “Perhaps better for all concerned: Most turtles would merely have bitten his head off, or crushed his spine…”
The boss blanched, but waved a hand and went on.
“Yeah, well, could have been. Unofficial news is that this turtle crew had come to visit twice; got themselves locked into the Chairman’s office and cut their way out through the blast wall with a knife after busting about a thousand gems, and then he had the nerve to try a fast one. Apparently these turtles are the knife clan or something—famous. And by the time the blood’s cleaned up, the Chairman Pro Tem finds out the fuss is all about two people.”
“That would be the individuals mentioned in the whisper for all worlds…” Daav suggested.
The boss smiled wanly.
“Yes, that’s them. The turtles—this is official!—claim them to be ‘a brother and sister of the Spearmaker’s Den’ who must be returned unharmed or self-declared free and safe.”
Daav looked into the ceiling, momentarily lost in thought. When he looked back, the boss was reaching into a desk drawer for a candy.
“What, may I ask, is the or?”
The boss looked grim.
“The or is that if they don’t turn up safe the Juntavas will be wiped out, starting at the top. This is a promise.”
Daav leaned forward, raised his hand to his chin and rubbed it thoughtfully.
“This is,” he said after a moment, “a very, very serious problem. No one has ever heard of a Clutch turtle lying. Certainly no one has ever heard of a Clutch turtle or clan breaking a promise. Even I might not be able to hide well enough if the Clutch knew me for an enemy.”
The boss snorted again, apparently swallowing his candy whole.
“Right. And so what I have going on, starting about the time you walk out the front door here, is a block-by-block search of every Juntavas holding on Delgado, looking for two of the damnedest trouble-makers you’ve ever heard of.”
Daav, very interested, waved his hand, asking for more information.
“Yeah, OK. One is a First-In Scout Commander! Good, right? Get in the face of somebody who can talk Clutch to the Clutch and just happens to have saved one from a dragon. You know, a nobody, a pushover. Then the other one is a Merc-turned-bodyguard, lived through Klamath and got on—and off!—Cloud.”
Daav let out a low whistle. “Do you know how many people lived through Klamath?”
The boss shrugged, tapped his desk. “That’s probably in my notes. I got more notes than you can stuff in a garbage can already about this.” He broke, searched his desktop, pulled up a flimsy image-flat, and flipped it, casually and quite accurately, to the man in the chair.
Daav listened with half-an-ear as the boss went on—the while eyes measured the photos of his son and his son’s companion.
“Getting off Klamath earns you a lifetime ‘I’m tough’ badge or something. But—this is where we come in—these two started a firefight, in broad daylight, I guess!—between the local Juntavas and the city police in Econsey, back there on Lufkit, just to cover their getaway after they robbed the boyfriend of the local boss’ daughter. Then, they managed to get off-planet while the place was under total lockdown, with everybody from the chief of planetary police down to the nightclub bouncer looking for them, and make a leisurely departure from Prime Station in a Clutch spaceship.”
Daav continued to look interested, slowly shaking his head as he listened, still taking in the no-nonsense, rather ordinary appearance of both of the missing. A master mercenary who had survived Klamath might be just the person to balance a Scout Commander, he thought.
“Story gets muddled about here,” the boss was continuing, “but somehow the local capo managed to grab them. Then he gets the news he can’t do anything to them. So he sets them off in a spaceship that’s been in some kind of a fight and can’t go nowhere. Word comes down to make sure these two are really in one piece and to hold ’em, pending the Chairman Pro Tem’s personal visit. He goes back…”
Daav didn’t have to fake the laugh.
“What could he have been thinking?” he asked. “To leave a—what was it, First-In Scout Commander?—in a spaceship and expect it not to go away?”
The boss was nodding now and gestured with the piece of candy in his left hand.
“You got it. Exactly how it was. They were gone, the ship was gone and ain’t nobody heard nothing about any of ’em since. So now I got to check Delgado and…”
Daav raised a palm.
“Please,” he said gently. “You mustn’t be overly concerned. You’ll want to do standard checks on passenger lists and such; but the people you are hunting are not likely to hide out on Delgado. Even if they’ve been here do you think a hardened merc and a First-In Scout are going to set themselves up as shopkeepers or bean-farmers?”
Before the boss could answer Daav stood, demanding a suppleness from his body he did not feel.
“I’ll need the name of the new Chairman, copies of whatever transmissions you may have, details of the former location of the missing ship—dupes of your images, as well—and I’ll be on my way. Also, I have some things for you…” He waved toward the back wall of the office and the bar beyond.
“First, the taller of your security guards stole several of your bartender’s tips, and was helping herself to the packaged snacks. That can’t be good for your busi
ness.”
The boss snorted. “Just color them gone. Hey, you’re good at what you do—but that don’t mean they shouldn’t have seen you!”
Daav nodded agreeably. “Also, you’ll want to get an explosives expert in here. There’s a small package I disconnected and took out of the nerligig—it looks like it might have been connected about six or seven dozen years ago. It may no longer be dangerous, or it may be unstable. In any case, as I am sure you understand, I hesitate to take it with me.”
The boss rubbed his forehead and nodded.
“We’ll dupe your info for you—and in the meantime I’ll call in a specialist.”
“Thank you,” said Daav and went back to the bar to put his tools away, all the while amazed that a phrase learned so long ago and so far away was still potent enough to make a Juntava jump.
Cabin pressure was at one-tenth normal, which should have been counted as good; it signified that Clonak’s work was paying off.
Alas, Shadia did not much feel like cheering. She sat lightly webbed to the command chair, patiently doing hours of work by hand and eye that an online computer might do in a blink.
Clonak had left her to the recognition search while he worked on what he called “housekeeping.” Housekeeping entailed using a small bubble-bottle to find the worst of the leaks and then seal them with the quick-patch sit.
As for her work, so far she had only three possibles and one probable. Dust in the outer fringes of the Nev’Lorn cluster made some of the IDs difficult and she’d not yet found a near opaque patch or two that might also help her…
“Shadia?”
The sound reached her, distorted and distant.
Clonak stood behind her, almost an arm’s length away, beckoning her toward a portable monitor hooked to a test-kit. With his other hand he seemed to be fighting a control.
Indeed, the air pressure was building ever so slightly.
Noting her spot, she locked the star-field scope; by the time she got to him he was using both hands on the control. He yelled at her again through the sack-like Cloak; she could barely hear him.
“Please tell me what you see. I’m not sure this will work for long!”
What she saw, besides Clonak wrestling with a wire-filled metal tube, was devastation. The grainy monitor was showing her what would normally be her Screen Five, inspection view.
“The rear portside airfoils are gone,” she yelled, schooling her voice to the give the information as dispassionately as possible. “There is damage into the hull; I can see a nozzle—likely it’s one of the wing nitrogen thrusters, still attached to a hose—moving as if it is leaking.”
Clonak shrugged, did something else with his shoulder, and the image shifted a bit toward the body of the ship.
Shadia blinked, disoriented. The ship didn’t have a—Oh.
“The ventral foil has been blown forward and twisted—shredded. The…”
The image went blank as Clonak’s hands slipped on the tube; the Cloak vibrated with the buzz of his curse.
Shadia continued describing what she had seen.
“There’s no sign of any working airfoil components. There are indications of other structural damage. I can’t tell you about the in-system engines—the view was blocked by the ventral fin.”
Clonak sat down hard.
“That view was blocked by the ventral? Might be something left to work with if we can get some more power going…” His last few words were lost as he stared at the blank screen.
“Clonak, I have a feeling that the ship is—bent.” Shadia bent close and said it again, this time touching Cloaks shoulder to shoulder.
“Well,” he sighed. “That explains why we can’t budge the hatch.”
They both were silent for a moment; Shadia was glad for the slim comfort offered by touching someone else, even through the plastic.
The ship’s spine had taken some of the heat of the attack and the ship was out of true. The rear compartment—Including the autodoc, the sleeping alcove, and about 60 percent of the food, was accessible only if they could force the hatch against the bend of the ship.
“We have to assume,” Clonak said suddenly, “that we’re not airworthy past the hatch; obviously we won’t want to be trying any kind of atmospheric descent if we have a choice—Might be missing some hull, too.”
He straightened a bit, leaned in to her and said, “Look again. I’ll see if I can force this to scan the other side!”
Her fingers answered yes, and Clonak began twisting the cable yet again. The image reappeared and then swung suddenly, showing an oddly unflawed stretch of ship’s hull and beyond it the fluted shapes of several nozzles poking out from the blast skirts.
Beyond that was a brightness; three points of light; reddish, bluish, whitish. A local three star cluster—
“The Trio!” she said, but then there was another light, making her blink
“Stop!” she yelled, the noise over loud in her ears.
Clonak let go and the image went away. Shadia stood staring at the blank screen, seeing the stars as they had been.
“We’re still in-system,” she said, putting her arm against his. “If the Trio and Nev’Lorn Primary are lined up…”
“We’re somewhat north of the ecliptic,” Clonak concluded, “with Nev’Lorn headquarters safely on the other side of the sun.”
The image of his son—and of his son’s partner—lay on the pilot’s seat along with the rest of the information provided by the Juntavas. Daav tried to imagine the boy—a pilot of the first water, no doubt; a Scout able to command the respect of a Clutch chieftain, who held the loyalty—and perhaps the love—of the very Hero of Klamath…
His imagination failed him, despite the recording furnished by the Juntavas boss.
The boy’s voice was firm, quiet and respectful; the information he gave regarding the last known location of his vessel only slightly less useful than a star map. The voice of Miri Robertson was also firm; unafraid, despite the message she’d clearly imparted: All is not as it seems here.
Yet, despite the image, the recording, and the records his imagination failed him. Somehow, he thought he had given over the concept of heir, of blood-child. Certainly, he should have been well-schooled by his sojourn on the highly civilized world of Delgado, where the length of all liaisons were governed by the woman and where the decision to have or not to have a child was one the father might routinely be unaware of—witness his mistress’s daughter, now blessedly off-planet and in pursuit of her own life.
Daav picked up the flimsy, staring at the comely golden face and the vivid green eyes. A Korval face, certain enough, yet—there was something else. With a pang, he understood a portion of it: the boy, whoever he was, and however he had gotten into the scrape announced to the universe at large, was a breathing portion of Aelliana. Daav projected her face, her hands, her voice at the image of their son, but that did no better for him—what he saw was Aelliana.
The boy was only a boy to him, for all they shared genes and kin.
Daav sighed and laid the picture back on the pilot’s chair. Whoever the boy was, elder kin should surely have taught him to stay away from the Juntavas. He should have been given the Diary entries to read. Er Thom knew—who better? Er Thom should have—but Er Thom was gone.
And in the end the duty had not been done, the tale had not been told, and here was the result. Briefly he wondered what other duties he’d left undone…
He’d have to find Clonak. Clonak had later news. Clonak would know what needed done, now.
He sighed then, rewebbed himself, scanned the boards, checked the coords he already keyed in from some recess of his mind, and punched the Jump button.
They’d slept fitfully in the unnaturally silent craft, each sitting a half-watch in a Scout’s Nap. What noises were, were confined to the Momson Cloaks and their wearers. The Cloaks had a tendency to crinkle when one moved, and though the upper shoulder placement of the air-pack made wonderful sense when standing, it
required some adjustment to sleep semi-curled in the command chairs in order not to disturb the airflow.
The wake-up meals were cold trail-packs, laboriously introduced into the Cloaks through the ingenious triple pocket system, a sort of see-through plastic airlock. Since the Cloaks were basically plastic bags with a few rudimentary “hand spots” the process was awkward, even for two people.
First the trail-packs were located and then held in place with lightweight clamps. Then the outer pocket was opened, with one person pulling lightly on the outer tab and the one inside the Cloak grasping the side wall of the pocket firmly and pulling back. The pocket walls separated, and the resultant bulge had a lip-like seal that was pressed until it opened. The trail-pack went into the newly opened pocket, and the outside was resealed.
The second pocket had a seal at what Shadia thought of as the bottom; by bunching the pocket up from inside it could be made to open, and the trail-pack was moved into that part of the pocket, and that seal to the outside pocket pressed tightly; now there were two seals between vacuum and food. The inner seal, finally, was opened—puffing up the part of the pocket with the trail-pack in it—and finally the food was safely inside the Cloak.
Crumbs being a potential problem, the food bars were handled gingerly and the water squeezed carefully from its bulb.
While she ate, Shadia chewed on the problem of their exact location, with regard to Nev’Lorn ’quarters—and potential rescue.
While knowing that they’d not left the Nev’Lorn system was definitely useful, the camera-monitor wasn’t the tool for finding out where they were or, more importantly, where they were headed. It was impossible to guess how much of their Intrinsic velocity and flight energy might have been transferred to the attacking destroyer and they had nearly as much chance of being in a tight, highly elliptical orbit as they did in being on the outward leg of a hyperbolic orbit that would throw them out of the system, never to return.
Thus, shortly after breaking her fast, Shadia realigned the gyroscope for the auxiliary instruments and changed her search pattern with the star-field scope. Now that she knew which end was up her job had gone from that of a hopeful pastime to an immediately useful necessity. What they might do about where they were was another matter.
The Space Opera Megapack: 20 Modern and Classic Science Fiction Tales Page 3