A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows df-7

by Poul Anderson

  Hazeltine sagged back. His glass rolled across the floor.

  “The Imperial detachment brought Intelligence personnel and their apparatus, you know,” Flandry continued. “I’ve asked, and they can take you tomorrow morning. Naturally, any private facts which emerge will stay confidential.”

  Hazeltine raised an aspen hand. “You don’t know—I—I’m deep-conditioned.”

  “By Terra?”

  “Yes, of course, of course. I can’t be ’probed … without my mind being … destroyed—”

  Flandry sighed again. “Come, now. We don’t deep-condition our agents against giving information to their own people, except occasional supersecrets. After all, a ’probe can bring forth useful items the conscious mind has forgotten. Don’t fear if you’re honest, son. The lightest treatment will clear you, and the team will go no further.”

  “But—oh, no-o-o—”

  Abruptly Hazeltine cast himself on his knees before Flandry. Words burst from his mouth like the sweat from his skin. “Yes, then, yes, I’ve been working for Merseia. Not bought, nothing like that, I thought the future was theirs, should be theirs, not this walking corpse of an Empire—Merciful angels, can’t you see their way’s the hope of humankind too?—” Flandry blew smoke to counteract the reek of terror. “I’ll cooperate. I will, I will. I wasn’t evil, Dad. I had my orders about you, yes, but I hated what I did, and Aycharaych doubted you’d really be killed, and I knew I was supposed to let that girl be bought first by somebody else before I told you but when we happened to arrive in time I couldn’t make myself wait—” He caught Flandry by the knees. “Dad, in Mother’s name, let my mind live!”

  Flandry shoved the clasp aside, rose, stepped a couple of meters off, and answered, “Sorry. I could never trust you not to leave stuff buried in your confession that could rise to kill or enslave too many more young girls.” For a few seconds he watched the crouched, spastic shape. “I’m under stim and heavy trank,” he said. “A piece of machinery. I’ve a far-off sense of how this will feel later on, but mostly that’s abstract. However … you have till morning, son. What would you like while you wait? Ill do my best to provide it.”

  Hazeltine uncoiled. On his feet, he howled, “You cold devil, at least I’ll kill you first! And then myself!”

  He charged. The rage which doubled his youthful strength was not amok; he came as a karate man, ready to smash a ribcage and pluck out a heart.

  Flandry swayed aside. He passed a hand near the other.

  Razor-edged, the lid of the cigarette case left a shallow red gash in the right cheek. Hazeltine whirled for a renewed assault. Flandry gave ground. Hazeltine followed, boxing him into a corner. Then the knockout potion took hold. Hazeltine stumbled, reeled, flailed his arms, mouthed, and caved in.

  Flandry sought the intercom. “Come remove the prisoner,” he directed.

  Day broke windless and freezing cold. The sun stood in a rainbow ring and ice crackled along the shores of Lake Stoyan. Zorkagrad lay silent under bitter blue, as if killed. From time to time thunders drifted across its roofs, arrivals and departures of spacecraft. They gleamed meteoric. Sometimes, too, airships whistled by, armored vehicles rumbled, boots slammed on pavement. About noon, one such vessel and one such march brought Bodin Miyatovich home.

  He was as glad to return unheralded. Too much work awaited him for ceremonies—him and Dominic Flandry. But the news did go out on the ’casts; and that was like proclaiming Solstice Feast. Folk ran from their houses, poured in from the land, left their patrols to shout, dance, weep, laugh, sing, embrace perfect strangers; and every church bell pealed.

  From a balcony of the Zamok he watched lights burn and bob through twilit streets, bonfires in squares, tumult and clamor. His breath smoked spectral under the early stars. Frost tinged his beard. “This can’t last,” he muttered, and stepped back into the office.

  When the viewdoor closed behind him, stillness fell except for chimes now muffled. The chill he had let in remained a while. Flandry, hunched in a chair, didn’t seem to notice.

  Miyatovich gave the Terran a close regard. “You can’t go on either,” he said. “If you don’t stop dosing yourself and let your glands and nerves function normally, they’ll quit on you.”

  Flandry nodded. “I’ll stop soon.” From caverns his eyes observed a phonescreen.

  The big gray-blond man hung up his cloak. “I’ll admit I couldn’t have done what got done today, maybe not for weeks, maybe never, without you,” he said. “You knew the right words, the right channels; you had the ideas. But we are done. I can handle the rest.”

  He went to stand behind his companion, laying ringers on shoulders, gently kneading. “I’d like to hide from her death myself,” he said. “Aye, it’s easier for me. I’d thought her lost to horror, and learned she was lost in honor. While if you and she—Dominic, listen. I made a chance to call my wife. She’s at our house, not our town house, a place in the country, peace, woods, cleanness, healing. We want you there.” He paused. “You’re a very private man, aren’t you? Well, nobody will poke into your grief.”

  “I’m not hiding,” Flandry replied in monotone. “I’m waiting. I expect a message shortly. Then I’ll take your advice.”

  “What message?”

  “Interrogation results from a certain Mers—Roidhunate agent we captured. I’ve reason to think he has some critical information.”

  “Hoy?” Miyatovich’s features, tired in their own right, kindled. He cast himself into an armchair confronting Flandry. It creaked beneath his weight.

  “I’m in a position to evaluate it better than anyone else,” the Terran persisted. “How long does da Costa insist on keeping his ships here ‘in case we need further help’?—Ah, yes, five standard days, I remember. Well, I’ll doubtless need about that long at your house; I’ll be numb, and afterward—

  “I’ll take a printout in my luggage, to study when I’m able. Your job meanwhile will be to … not suppress the report. You probably couldn’t; besides, the Empire needs every drop of data we can wring out of what enemy operatives we catch. But don’t let da Costa’s command scent any special significance in the findings of this particular ’probe job.”

  The Gospodar fumbled for pipe and tobacco pouch. “Why?”

  “I can’t guarantee what we’ll learn, but I have a logical suspicion—Are you sure you can keep the Dennitzan fleet mobilized, inactive, another couple of weeks?”

  “Yes.” Miyatovich grew patient. “Maybe you don’t quite follow the psychology, Dominic. Da Costa wants to be certain we won’t rebel. The fact that we aren’t dispersing immediately makes him leery. He hasn’t the power to prevent us from whatever we decide to do, but he thinks his presence as a tripwire will deter secessionism. All right, in five Terran days his Intelligence teams can establish it’s a bogeyman, and he can accept my explanation that we’re staying on alert for a spell yet in case Merseia does attack. He’ll deem us a touch paranoid, but he’ll return to base with a clear conscience.”

  “You have to give your men the same reason, don’t you?”

  “Right. And they’ll accept it. In fact, they’d protest if I didn’t issue such an order, Dennitza’s lived too many centuries by the abyss; this time we nearly went over.”

  Miyatovich tamped his pipe bowl needlessly hard. “I’ve gotten to know you well enough, I believe, in this short while, that I can tell you the whole truth,” he added. “You thought you were helping me smooth things out with respect to the Empire. And you were, you were. But my main reason for quick reconciliation is … to get the Imperials out of the Zorian System while we still have our own full strength.”

  “And you’ll strike back at Merseia,” Flandry said.

  The Gospodar showed astonishment. “How did you guess?”

  “I didn’t guess. I knew—Kossara. She told me a lot.”

  Miyatovich gathered wind and wits. “Don’t think I’m crazy,” he urged. “Rather, I’ll have to jump around like sodium in the rain,
trying to keep people and Skupshtina from demanding action too loudly before the Terrans leave. But when the Terrans do—” His eyes, the color of hers, grew leopard-intent. “We want more than revenge. In fact, only a few of us like myself have suffered what would have brought on a blood feud in the old days. But I told you we live on the edge. We have got to show we aren’t safe for unfriends to touch. Otherwise, what’s next?”

  “Nemo me impune lacessit,” Flandry murmured.

  “Hm?”

  “No matter. Ancient saying. Too damned ancient; does nothing ever change at the heart?” Flandry shook his head. The chemical barriers were growing thin. “I take it, then, in the absence of da Costa or some other Imperial official—who’d surely maintain anything as atavistic as response to aggression is against policy and must in all events be referred to the appropriate authorities, in triplicate, for debate—in the absence of that, as sector governor you’ll order the Dennitzan fleet on a retaliatory strike.”

  Miyatovich nodded. “Yes.”

  “Have you considered the consequences?”

  “I’ll have time to consider them further, before we commit. But … if we choose the target right, I don’t expect Merseia will do more than protest. The fact seems to be, at present they are not geared for war with Terra. They were relying on a new civil war among us. If instead they get hit, the shock ought to make them more careful about the whole Empire.”

  “What target have you in mind?”

  Miyatovich frowned, spent a minute with a lighter getting his pipe started, finally said, “I don’t yet know. The object is not to start a war, but to punish behavior which could cause one. The Roidhunate couldn’t write off a heavily populated planet. Nor would I lead a genocidal mission. But, oh, something valuable, maybe an industrial center on a barren metal-rich globe—I’ll have the War College study it.”

  “If you succeed,” Flandry warned, “you’ll be told you went far beyond your powers.”

  “That can be argued. Those powers aren’t too well defined, are they? I like to imagine Hans Molitor will sympathize.” The Gospodar shrugged. “If not, what becomes of me isn’t important. I’m thinking of the children and grandchildren.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, you’ve confirmed what—Hold on.” The phone buzzed. Flandry reached to press accept. He had to try twice before he made it.

  A countenance half as stark as his looked from the screen. “Lieutenant Mitchell reporting, sir. Hypnoprobing of the prisoner Dominic Hazeltine has been completed.”

  “Results?” The question was plane-flat.

  “You predicted aright, sir. The subject was deep-conditioned.” Mitchell winced at a recollection unpleasant even in his line of work. “I’d never seen or heard of so thorough a treatment. He went into shock almost at once. In later stages, the stimuli necessary were—well, he hasn’t got a forebrain left to speak of.”

  “I want a transcript in full,” Flandry said. “Otherwise, you’re to seal the record, classified Ultimate Secret, and your whole team will keep silence. I’ll give you a written directive on that, authorized by Governor Miyatovich.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mitchell showed puzzlement. He must be wondering why the emphasis. Intelligence didn’t make a habit of broadcasting what it learned. Unless—“Sir, you realize, don’t you, this is still raw material? More incoherent than usual, too, because of the brain channeling. We did sort out his basic biography, details of his most recent task, that kind of thing. Offhand, the rest of what we got seems promising. But to fit the broken, scrambled association chains together, interpret the symbols and find their significance—”

  “I’ll take care of that,” Flandry snapped. “Your part is over.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mitchell dropped his gaze. “I’m … sorry … on account of the relationship involved. He really did admire you. Uh, what shall we do about him now?”

  Flandry fell quiet. Miyatovich puffed volcanic clouds. Outside, the bells caroled.

  “Sir?”

  “Let me see him,” Flandry said.

  Interlinks flickered. In the screen appeared the image of a young man, naked on a bed, arms spreadeagled to meet the tubes driven into his veins, chest and abdominal cavities opened for the entry of machines that kept most cells alive. He stared at the ceiling with eyes that never moved nor blinked. His mouth dribbled. Click, chug, it said in the background, click, chug.

  Flandry made a noise. Miyatovich seized his hand.

  After a while Flandry stated, “Thank you. Switch it off.”

  They held Kossara Vymezal in a coldvault until the Imperials had left. This was by command of the Gospodar, and folk supposed the reason was she was Dennitza’s, nobody else’s, and said he did right. As many as were able would attend her funeral.

  The day before, she was brought to the Cathedral of St. Clement, though none save kin were let near. Only the four men of her honor guard were there when Dominic Flandry came.

  They stood in uniform of the Narodna Voyska, heads lowered, rifles reversed, at the corners of her bier. He paid them no more mind than he did the candles burning in tall holders, the lilies, roses, viyenatz everywhere between, their fragrance or a breath of incense or the somehow far-off sound of a priest chanting behind the iconostasis, which filled the cool dim air. Alone he walked over the stones to her. Evening sunlight slanted through windows and among columns, filtered to a domed ceiling, brought forth out of dusk, remote upon gold and blue, the Twelve Apostles and Christ Lord of All.

  At first he was afraid to look, dreading less the gaping glaring hideousness he had last seen—that was only what violent death wrought—than the kind of rouged doll they made when Terran bodies lay in state. Forcing himself, he found that nothing more had been done than to cleanse her, close the eyes, bind the chin, gown and garland her. The divided coffin lid showed her down to the bosom. The face he saw was hers, hers, though color was gone and time had eased it into an inhuman serenity.

  This makes me a little happier, dear, he thought. I didn’t feel it was fitting that they mean to build you a big tomb on Founders’ Hill. I wanted your ashes strewn over land and sea, into sun and wind. Then if ever I came back here I could dream every brightness was yours. But they understand what they do, your people. A corner of his mouth bent upward. It’s I who am the sentimental old fool. Would you laugh if you could know?

  He stooped closer. You believed you would know, Kossara. If you do, won’t you help me believe too—believe that you still are?

  His sole answer was the priest’s voice rising and falling through archaic words. Flandry nodded. He hadn’t expected more. He couldn’t keep himself from telling her, I’m sorry, darling.

  And I won’t kiss what’s left, I who kissed you. He searched among his languages for the best final word. Sayonara. Since it must be so. Stepping back a pace, he bowed three times very deeply, turned, and departed.

  Bodin Miyatovich and his wife waited outside. The weather was milder than before, as if a ghost of springtime flitted fugitive ahead of winter. Traffic boomed in the street. Walkers cast glances at the three on the stairs, spoke to whatever companions they had, but didn’t stop; they taught good manners on Dennitza.

  Draga Miyatovich took Flandry by the elbow. “Are you well, Dominic?” she asked anxiously. “You’ve gone pale.”

  “No, nothing,” he said. “I’m recovering fast, thanks to your kindness.”

  “You should rest. I’ve noticed you hour after hour poring over that report—” She saw his expression and stopped her speech.

  In a second he eased his lips, undamped his fists, and raised memory of what he had come from today up against that other memory. “I’d no choice,” he said. To her husband: “Bodin, I’m ready to work again. With you. You see, I’ve found your target.”

  The Gospodar peered around. “What? Wait,” he cautioned.

  “True, we can’t discuss it here,” Flandry agreed. “Especially, I suppose, on holy ground … though she might not have minded.”

  She’d neve
r have been vindictive. But she’d have understood how much this matters to her whole world: that in those broken mutterings of my son’s I found what I thought I might find, the coordinates of Chereion, Aycharaych’s planet.

  XIX

  The raiders from Dennitza met the guardians of the red sun, and lightning awoke.

  Within the command bridge of the Vatre Zvezda, Bodin Miyatovich stared at a display tank. Color-coded motes moved around a stellar globe to show where each vessel of his fleet was—and, as well as scouts and instruments could learn, each of the enemy’s—and what it did and when it died. But their firefly dance, of some use to a lifelong professional, bewildered an unskilled eye; and it was merely a sideshow put on by computers whose real language was numbers. He swore and looked away in search of reality.

  The nearest surrounded him in metal, meters, intricate consoles, flashing signal bulbs, dark-uniformed men who stood to their duties, sat as if wired in place, walked back and forth on rubbery-shod feet. Beneath a hum of engines, ventilators, a thousand systems throughout the great hull, their curt exchanges chopped. To stimulate them, it was cool here, with a thunderstorm tang of ozone.

  The Gospodar’s gaze traveled on, among the view-screens which studded bulkheads, overhead, deck—again, scarcely more than a means for keeping crew who did not have their ship’s esoteric senses from feeling trapped. Glory brimmed the dark, stars in glittering flocks and Milky Way shoals, faerie-remote glimmer of nebulae and a few sister galaxies. Here in the outer reaches of its system, the target sun was barely the brightest, a coal-glow under Bellatrix. At chance moments a spark would flare and vanish, a nuclear burst close enough to see. But most were too distant; and never another vessel showed, companion or foe. Such was the scale of the battle.

  And yet it was not large as space combats went. Springing from hyperdrive to normal state, the Dennitzan force—strong, but hardly an armada—encountered Merseian craft which sought to bar it from accelerating inward. As more and more of the latter drew nigh and matched courses with invaders, action spread across multimillions of kilometers. Hours passed before two or three fighters came so near, at such low relative speeds, that they could hope for a kill; and often their encounter was the briefest spasm, followed by hours more of maneuver. Those gave time to make repairs, care for the wounded, pray for the dead.