The Gathering Flame

by Doyle, Debra; Macdonald, James D.

  Brehant shook his head in mock disapproval. “That’s not going to make you any friends in the High Command.” “So nobody comes to the bye-bye party before they shoot me for treason. It doesn’t matter, as long as somebody at Central listens to us first.”

  The ride back to the airport from the Tarveet estate was a short one—Jos supposed that the driver had instructions not to take the scenic route this time. Young Tarveet had made his good-byes to Perada after breakfast, back in the sunroom. If the Domina felt disappointed that her old school friend wasn’t going to stand on the front steps and wave farewell as the hovercar pulled away, she didn’t show it. She looked cheerful and pleased with herself, in fact; whatever she’d come to Pleyver for, she’d obviously found all of it she needed.

  Politics, Jos told himself. Remember that, hotshot. Where she comes from, they play politics like Tilly and Nannla play two-handed kingnote. And that happy little smile means she’s getting ready to reach out and scoop up the pot.

  Be glad you’re leaving her behind on Entibor; these people gamble for higher stakes than you can afford.

  The hovercar passed through the gates of the spaceport without stopping for an ID or customs check. Jos wondered if Tarveet had arranged everything with an advance comm call, or if the hovercar’s relay transponder had some kind of “don’t even think about stopping this one” code embedded in it.

  Before long the hovercar reached the quarter of Flatlands Field given over to independent merchant craft, and pulled up at the safety line. The ’Hammer stood on her landing legs in the middle distance—far enough away to make for a longish hike, especially with the Domina’s newly acquired luggage. Jos noted with gratitude that Nannla had thought to bring out one of the nullgrav skipsleds and wait with it.

  The ’Hammer’s number-one gunner looked worried about something, though. I’ll have a talk with her as soon as we’ve got the luggage stowed, he thought. It’s no good jumping into hyper with an unhappy crew.

  The hovercar stopped and the door swung open. Jos got out first—as long as he was on Pleyver, he might as well keep on playing the bodyguard—and stared at the by-now-familiar figure standing on the pavement. Garen Tarveet.

  “What are you doing here?” Jos demanded.

  “I’m coming with you to Entibor.”

  “Like hell you are. I didn’t sell you passage.”

  “I have the money—” Tarveet began.

  “You don’t even have a carrybag.”

  Tarveet looked scared but stubborn. “I didn’t dare pack anything. Somebody would have tried to stop me.”

  Perada took a step forward. “Captain—”

  Jos cut her off with a sharp gesture. “Let me guess,” he said to Tarveet. “Your family doesn’t want you off-planet.”

  The young man nodded. “There’s a lot of stuff I can’t access from here—it’s blocked, and Mother likes it that way. Once I’m away from Pleyver, though, I can get at everything.”

  You have to give him credit, Jos thought reluctantly. It takes nerve to make a decision like that on a moment’s notice.

  “You’re throwing in with the Domina, then?” he asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “‘That’s right, Captain.’” Jos folded his arms across his chest. “Let me explain a few things. First off, I own my ship free and clear. There’s nobody anywhere I have to answer to. And second, there’s no law past high orbit. What I say, goes.” He paused and fixed Tarveet with a penetrating glare. “Think fast—can you live with that, or not?”

  Tarveet blinked a couple of times but didn’t hesitate. “If it gets me off Pleyver, I can live with it.”

  “Good. Hop on the skipsled and let’s get going.”

  It didn’t take long to pile the Domina’s luggage onto the sled. Nannla raised an eyebrow at the amount of it, but said nothing to Jos until the sled had lifted off the pavement. Then, under the hum of the nullgravs, she murmured, “Good thing you called us in when you did. There’s trouble.”

  Jos closed his eyes briefly. Dirtside liberty—I swear hunting Mages is safer. “Didn’t everybody make it aboard in one piece?”

  “As much in one piece as we ever are,” Nannla said. “The problem’s Errec. He says he heard something on the Strip.”

  “‘Says’?” Jos frowned. “Come on—you know Errec doesn’t lie about stuff like that.”

  “Right. But catching a line or two of portside gossip shouldn’t have brought him back to the ship looking like death on a holiday, either.”

  “Damn. Where is he now?”

  “In the common room. Tilly’s pouring cha’a and soberups down him, and he says he’ll be all right in time for lift-off.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” Jos waited impatiently for the skipsled to reach Warhammer’s loading ramp. He jumped off the sled before it stopped moving, speaking over his shoulder to Nannla as he did so. “Get the passengers and their gear strapped and stowed. I’ll handle Errec myself.”

  He took the ramp and the inner passageway at a run, slowing down as he slapped the lockplate to open the common-room door. Inside, Tilly and Errec sat on opposite sides of the mess table. Jos caught Tilly’s eye and jerked his head back at the door.

  “Go help Nannla with the passengers,” he said. “Get everything ready for lift-off.”

  Tilly nodded and hurried out. Jos went into the galley nook, poured himself a mug of cha’a, and slid into the chair the number-two gunner had vacated. Then he braced himself and took a good look at his copilot.

  Nannla hadn’t exaggerated. Errec was always pale—he came by it naturally, like a lot of Ilarnans—but right now he looked downright bloodless. He sat gazing into the middle distance, barely seeming to notice when the captain sat down across from him.

  Jos spoke quietly. “Nannla tells me you’ve got some news.”

  Errec gave a brief nod. “I was at the Meridian Grill. Two pilots … there’s going to be an ambush … somebody paid them to kill us all.”

  “You don’t think it was just portside bragging?”

  “No.”

  “Hard to see why they’d be talking, if it was real.”

  Errec shuddered convulsively. “They weren’t talking.”

  Jos thought about that idea for a minute, and decided to leave it lying right where it was. Some things aren’t healthy to know too much about.

  “Right,” he said. “Any word on who’s behind it, or when it’s supposed to happen?”

  “The Web. As for who—” Errec shrugged. He’d gotten some of his color back, and his voice wasn’t as tight. “We’re dealing with paid help. They didn’t know who was behind the offer, and they didn’t care.”

  “Mages?”

  “I don’t think so. It didn’t smell that way.” Errec looked down at his mug of cha’a as if noticing it for the first time, then swallowed the contents at a gulp. “Whoever it is, they want to kill Perada—but they don’t want it to look like Pleyver’s to blame.”

  Perada had expected to ride out lift-off on the acceleration couch in the captain’s cabin—or, possibly, on one of the couches in the common room, along with Garen Tarveet—but that didn’t happen. She’d known for a while that something was wrong, ever since Nannla and Captain Metadi had started their low-voiced conversation on the sled ride out to the ship. She hadn’t been surprised when Metadi dashed off as soon as they reached the ’Hammer’s ramp, leaving the trunks and boxes to get put away by Nannla and their owners. Garen had opened his mouth to protest—as if he hadn’t carried his own day pack on field trips back at school!—but she’d stepped on his foot before any sound could come out.

  They’d almost finished stowing the luggage, under Nannla’s direction, when an alarm sounded over the ship’s audio system, followed by Jos Metadi’s voice saying, “Places for lift-off, everyone. Passengers to the bridge.”

  “‘Passengers to the’—what’s going on?” Garen asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “I expect you’ll find out when J
os is ready to tell you,” said Nannla, dogging shut the airtight door of the cargo space as she spoke. “But I wouldn’t waste time on questions.”

  Perada grabbed Garen by the sleeve and pulled him along with her toward the ’Hammer’s cockpit. “Come on.”

  The air on the bridge was thick with tension. Metadi and Errec Ransome were running down a checklist of some kind and frowning as they worked; Metadi waved a hand at Perada and Garen without turning around.

  “Both of you strap in on the navigator’s couch. It’ll be snug, but nothing you can’t manage.” He flicked on the switch to what Perada guessed was the ship’s internal comm system. “Nannla, Tilly—ready on station?”

  Perada heard the gunners replying “Ready” over the link as she and Garen strapped themselves into the empty couch. As Metadi had predicted, it was a close fit.

  “Get your elbow out of my ribs,” she muttered in Garen’s ear. “If you don’t, it’s going to poke clear through to my spine when we lift off, and I’ll have bruises for a week.”

  He squirmed into a new position under the safety webbing, and Perada breathed more easily. Garen Tarveet had been her good friend and fellow-conspirator ever since she’d found him crying in Zeri Delaven’s office all those years ago, but he had sharp elbows.

  “What are we doing crowded in here anyway?” he complained under his breath. “They’ve got more couches—I saw them.”

  This time the captain did look up from his work. “There’s a chance we might have some trouble out in the Web. I want to be able to close down the nonessential life-support systems if I have to. Now shut up.”

  Garen didn’t say anything for a while after that. Perada wondered if he’d been frightened by the prospect of trouble, or frightened by Jos Metadi.

  Metadi, she decided. Garen hasn’t been on the ’Hammer long enough to understand what’s normal and what isn’t. But people were shooting blasters at us in the streets when we left Waycross, and Jos didn’t talk about shutting down systems then.

  If knowledge is such a great thing, then why doesn’t having it make me feel better?

  “What’s wrong?” Garen whispered.

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  Jos Metadi and Errec Ransome kept on working their way through the lift-off checklist. “Engines?” Metadi said.

  A growl of Selvauran came over the internal comms.

  “Good. Shields?”

  “Repaired and ready,” Errec said.

  “Good,” said Metadi again. He reached out and flipped more switches on the control panel. “Combat overrides, off.”

  Perada felt Garen stiffen with surprise. He drew a sharp breath. She shook her head furiously—No! Be quiet!—before he could speak, and Metadi and Ransome kept on running down their checklist.

  “Coursebook?” the captain asked.

  “On-line. Linked and logged.”

  “Roger. Let’s talk to Port Control.”

  Perada lay back on the acceleration couch, gazing at the access panels and instrumentation that filled all the overhead space, and listening to the talk back and forth between Captain Metadi and Flatlands Port Control. Finally the colloquy ended, and Metadi did something to the controls that caused the freighter to shift position, tilting its leading edge upward.

  Forward nullgravs, she thought. The change in position was a lot more apparent here in the cockpit that it would have been to someone back in the main part of the ship. We’re getting ready to lift.

  “All right, people,” she heard Metadi saying into the audio link. “Stand by for lift-off—we’ll take it nice and easy this time, no reason to let anyone know we’re nervous. Ten … nine …”

  On “one,” the deep full-throated roaring of the ‘Hammer’ s realspace engines filled the cockpit. Perada felt the acceleration couch begin to vibrate in sympathy, and the pressure of the lift-off pushed her down and down and down—

  The sky went black, laced with colored fire outside the viewscreens. Then, suddenly, the acceleration ceased, and she could breathe again.

  “Heading for orbital approach to the Web,” Metadi said. “Calm and normal, but everybody keep your eyes open.”

  “Captain,” Errec Ransome cut in. “Someone’s broadcasting on fire-control frequencies.”

  “Got a position on ’em?”

  “No, they aren’t pointing our way.”

  Nannla’s voice came over the internal link. “Captain—I’ve got four single-seat fighters rising from orbit.”

  “Stand by,” Metadi said. “If they get too close, you can shoot, but make sure your first shot misses. Errec—can you get an ID on them?”

  “No match in ship’s memory.”

  Next to Perada, Garen made a convulsive effort to sit up, thwarted by the safety webbing. She turned her head around to stare at him. He was pale and sweating—tension had always done that to him, even back at school—but the look on his face was something that went beyond fear.

  “Captain Metadi,” he said. It came out as a faint croak. Perada shook her head at him, but he swallowed audibly and spoke again, louder. “Captain Metadi.”

  “Later,” Metadi said without turning around. “Errec—”

  Garen drew a deep breath and said in a rush, “Captain Metadi, I think I know who sent those fighters.”

  As soon as he’d spoken, Perada knew it, too. His mother never did like me. Now that I’m the Domina, she thinks I’m dangerous enough to kill. Flattering, I suppose, considering I haven’t even been crowned yet … .

  Metadi, from the sound of it, hadn’t taken long to reach the same conclusion. “Your family’s taking the direct approach to getting rid of your off-world connections?”

  “I think so.”

  “Think they’ll call off their hellhounds if we let them know the family son-and-heir is on board?”

  Perada felt the webbing shift and stretch around her as Garen shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s worth a try. I’m setting the audio pickup on High—talk loud, and let them know you’re here.”

  She heard Garen swallow again. Then he started speaking in a high, strained voice: “This is Garen Tarveet of Tarveet Holdings. I am a passenger on this vessel. Go back to the surface. I say again, go back to the surface.”

  “No reply,” said Errec, after several minutes had passed. “And they aren’t changing course, either.”

  “That’s it, then,” said Metadi. He glanced back over his shoulder at Garen. “Looks like you’ve been disinherited, Gentlesir Tarveet—and I think the party’s about to get rough. Gunners, stand by.”

  “Captain,” Errec broke in, “I’ve worked out the intercept point on those fighters. It’s inside Web space.”

  “I wonder if they’ve got a few more friends waiting around for us inside?” Metadi said. “I’ll bet you a round of drinks that they do.”

  “You know I don’t bet when I’m sure to lose … . Contacts astern show up Doppler.”

  “We’ll get to the Web before they do,” Metadi replied. “Shields full. Taking down sensors and external comms, now.” The cockpit dimmed as screens and readouts went dark all over the control panel. “Give me a DR track.”

  “Bearing niner-six-one to first aid to navigation,” Errec said.

  “Good. Beacon in sight—Damn!”

  The dimly lit cockpit filled for an instant with lurid purplish light.

  They’re shooting at us, Perada thought. We could get killed up here.

  For some reason, the prospect was worse than the idea of getting killed by blaster-fire had been. At least in Waycross she’d been able to do something about the threat; here, she could only lie in her cocoon of safety webbing and watch.

  Another flash of light washed over the viewscreens, and she felt the ’Hammer shudder as the shot connected.

  “The shields are taking it and holding,” Metadi said. “Errec, where’s that beacon?”

  “Coming up on it bearing one-one-niner range twelve. Mark in five seconds … four …
three … two … now—”

  —and the glowing obscurity of the Web was all around them.

  JOS METADI: FREETRADER QUORUM

  (GALCENIAN DATING 959 A.F.; ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 23 VERATINA)

  FREETRADER QUORUM dropped out of hyperspace over the Casheline system and began her approach to planetfall. Observers at Cashel Inspace Control, monitoring the readouts from a mixed array of orbital and groundside platforms, followed the subsequent events in almost-realtime.

  The starship held a course that would bring it to Cashel’s primary spaceport of Venfy Kai. At the outermost edge of planetary atmosphere, a streamer of gas burst out of Quorum’ s ventral side, sending the vessel tumbling. As the ship grew more and more unstable, a single lifepod blasted free of the main hull. Moments later, Quorum disintegrated into a spray of hot metal fragments that lit up the night sky over thirty degrees of arc.

  The pod used its jets to push away from the path of the burning wreckage. After the pod had fallen some distance into Cashel’s atmosphere, it fired jets again to retard descent, then deployed it chutes. Slowed and supported by a billowing spidersilk canopy, the tiny craft came down to within a few hundred feet of the surface, where it fired its jets again to achieve a braked landing.

  When the team from Fire and Rescue reached the grounded pod, they found it intact and already open. A very young man with tawny hair and changeable hazel eyes sat on the ground nearby. Nobody else from Quorum appeared to have survived.

  “Your name?” the leader of the Fire and Rescue team asked.

  “Pel Cendart,” the survivor said. “Engineer’s apprentice. From Wrysten.”

  Fire and Rescue entered the survivor into their records under the name he had given. They had little choice, since a search of the area revealed no other members of the vessel’s crew, and all of Quorum’s records had perished in the upper atmosphere. If Cendart looked a bit young for his post—well, it wouldn’t be the first time a space-happy kid adjusted his personal file in order to qualify for working papers. Nobody could prove anything, and Wrysteners tended to be on the small side anyway.