March To The Stars im-3

by David Weber

  "Well, I guess we'd better go meet him," Pahner said finally.

  * * *

  Harvard Mansul wished he had his camera. Of course, he might as well have wished he were back at Society headquarters on Old Earth, while he was at it. As a matter of fact, he did wish that, too, but he was a realist. He would have settled for getting the tri-cam back intact. The Zuiko was tough—it had to be, to survive around him—but it wasn't invulnerable, and sooner or later they would open it up to find out how it worked.

  At which point, it would stop. Working, that was.

  When he wasn't worrying about his tri-cam, he passed the time in his rather dank cell by wondering how long it would take the Society to mount a rescue. If they ever bothered. He'd reached the point of regretting his habit of disappearing for years at a time. Considering his stint on Scheherazade, the Society might not start looking for decades.

  He sighed and banged on the door again. Usually the horned-ones roused before now, and he looked forward to the morning exercise time. But so far, there'd been virtually no sound filtering down to his little stone cube today.

  "Hellooo! It's morning! Would you kind gentlemen mind letting me out?"

  * * *

  "I felt it was best to let you handle it, Sir," the private said. "I didn't know how you wanted to play it, or even if you wanted him to know we were here, so I sent one of the Vashin down to check on him. He's been ... kind of loud."

  "Okay, come on," Roger said. "Let's find out what they caught."

  "I wonder if they were keeping him tucked away in the larder for munchies later?" Kosutic mused.

  "I doubt it," O'Casey said. "I haven't seen a trace of any religious items here in the fortress. I think they probably just picked him up somewhere and stashed him until they were told what to do with him."

  "Given our own experience, I can guess what that would have been," Roger snorted, leading the way down the flight of stone steps and along the narrow—for a Mardukan—passageway. They reached the cell door, and he threw back the bolt and pulled it open.

  "And who might you be, Sir?" he asked cheerfully.

  * * *

  Mansul looked up at the human confronting him and frowned in puzzlement. Judging by the remains of the uniform, the person was an Imperial Marine. Given the rest of his appearance, he was probably also a deserter, because no Marine of Mansul's acquaintance who wasn't a deserter would ever have allowed his uniform to get into such a state.

  The man in the cell door was not just a full head taller than Mansul. He was also either very clean-shaven, or had almost no facial hair. Good bone structure, a hint of pre-Diaspora Asian around the eyes, but otherwise very classically Northern European. Great hair falling in a golden mass, too. He'd make a wonderful picture all around, the photographer decided. Then there was the odd rifle—chemical propellant, by the look of it—and the long sword tossed over his back. Quite the neobarb. Absolutely perfect. Even the lighting was good.

  It really made him wish those horned barbarians hadn't taken his camera.

  Mansul took another look, and it was actually the family resemblance that caught him first. One of his last assignments before Marduk had been to cover the Imperial Family when Her Majesty had celebrated the Heir's birthday. Mansul couldn't remember having seen a shaggy, broad-shouldered, sword-toting barbarian standing around to help cut the cake or pour the punch, yet the young man before him had the distinctive MacClintock brow. So who—?

  "Good God!" he heard himself exclaim. "I thought you were dead!"

  * * *

  Roger couldn't help himself. The astonishment in the prisoner's expression and voice was simply too great, and a trace of his own recent classical reading came to mind. Despite the response heknew it would elicit from O'Casey, he simply couldn't resist.

  "I am happy to say that the news of my demise was exceedingly exaggerated." He waited for the groans to stop behind him, then held out his hand. "I'm His Highness Prince Roger Ramius Alexander Chiang MacClintock. And you are?"

  "Harvard Mansul," the man replied in a voice which was still half stunned. "Imperial Astrographic Society. You've been here the whole time?"

  "I've been on Marduk, yes," Roger said. "The rest is a somewhat long story. And I believe we've gotten hold of some of your property." He held out a hand to Pahner for the tri-cam, then passed it over.

  Mansul gave the item for which he had so passionately longed for more than a week barely a glance, then flicked the lenses open.

  "Smile."

  * * *

  Roger knocked on the door, waited for the quiet voice from the other side to respond, then opened it, looked around, and grinned.

  "Private room, I see," he observed. "Very nice."

  "Quite the little love nest," Despreaux replied. She was propped up on a pile of cushions on the floor, her arm immobilized in the force-cast. Her face was slightly gray, she was still covered in mud from the trek, and bits of leaf and dirt were caught in her hair and on her pants. Any other woman would've looked like hell, Roger thought, but Nimashet Despreaux managed to come across like a tri-dee star made up to look like a maiden in distress.

  "I'm really upset with you," Roger said, sitting down and taking her good hand. "You're supposed to take care of yourself better than this."

  "I tried," she said, and leaned against him. "God, I'm tired of this."

  "Me, too," Roger said as he wrapped an arm carefully around her.

  "Liar. You're dreading getting back to court, aren't you?"

  Roger paused for a moment, then shrugged.

  "Yes," he admitted. "Marduk is ... uncomplicated. We make friends, or we don't. We negotiate, or we kick ass. It's black and white, most of the time. Court is ... all negotiation. It's all gray. It's all who you pissed off last, and people jockeying for position. There's nobody to ..."

  "To watch your back?" she finished for him, leaning into him. "I will."

  "You've never had to deal with the court ladies as a 'person,' " he replied. "You were just a Marine; you didn't count." He shook his head, eyes troubled. "It'll be different now, and their knives go right through armor."

  "So do mine, love," she said, twisting carefully around until she could look him in the eye. "And, Roger, the Marines see everything, they hear everything. And you're going to be supported in a way that I doubt even another MacClintock ever was. We're going to be at your back."

  He picked a bit of leaf gently out of her hair.

  "I love you," he said.

  "I look like hell," she snorted. "You're just trying to make me feel better."

  "You look great," he said huskily. "Absolutely beautiful."

  She looked at him for a moment, then pulled his head down to hers. The kiss lasted a long time, while Roger ran his fingers up and down her back. But finally she drew back with a snort.

  "So that's it," she said. "You just like me when I'm immobilized!"

  "I always like you. I was in love the first time I saw you out of armor, although I'll admit I was a bit ..."

  "Intimidated?" Despreaux supplied.

  "Yes," he admitted. "Intimidated is probably the right word. You're a bit overpowering, and I really didn't want to get into a relationship. But ... you're as good as it gets."

  "Your mother is going to go spastic," Despreaux said. "I mean, completely ballistic."

  "I don't really care about Mother's reaction," he replied. "Frankly, after what we've gone through, Mother is going to owe me, big time. And it's not as if I were the heir, so I'm not exactly a great dynastic match. Mother can kiss my ass before I'll give you up."

  "I love it when you talk dirty," she said, and pulled him down for another kiss.

  Roger ran his hands up her sides, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. After a moment, the hands migrated around to the front, as if by their own accord, and ran across her midriff in subtle fingertip touches. She writhed to the side, pushing up her T-shirt, and—

  There was a discreet knock on the door.

&n
bsp; "Shit," Roger muttered with intense feeling. Then he sighed, sat up, and raised his voice. "Yes?"

  "Your Highness," Corporal Bebi said from the far side of the door, "Captain Pahner wants a command conference in seven minutes in the fortress commander's office. Sergeant Despreaux is excused on account of her injury."

  Roger didn't have to see the private's face. His tone alone made it eloquently clear that butter would never melt in his mouth.

  "I told you the Marines know everything," Despreaux whispered, pulling her top down with a moue of disappointment.

  "Seven minutes?" Roger asked.

  "It ... took a few minutes to find you, Your Highness," Bebi explained, and Despreaux took the opportunity to run her hands up Roger's back.

  "I'll—" Roger cleared his throat. "I'll be right there."

  "Yes, Your Highness."

  "Two minutes to run from here to the commander's office," Despreaux said. "Now, where were we?"

  "If I turn up out of breath and rearranging my clothes, everyone will know where I was," Roger said.

  "Rogerrr," Despreaux said dangerously.

  "On the other hand," he said, leaning back down towards her, "they can kiss my ass, too."

  She smiled in delight as he ran his hands up her back once more. He leaned even closer, her lips parted, and—

  There was a discreet knock on the door.

  "Bloody ... what?"

  "Your Highness," Dobrescu said diplomatically, "I know you have a conference in a minute, but I'd like to talk to you about Cord."

  Roger shoved himself to his feet, shaking his head and breathing heavily, as Despreaux rearranged her clothes again.

  "Come!" the Heir Tertiary to the Throne of Man said grimly.

  "What now?" Sergeant Despreaux whispered.

  * * *

  Most of the supplies the Krath had laid in were stored in boxes of boiled turom leather. At first, going over the collection in the citadel's storerooms had been a bit like a very leathery Christmas. But after a few hours of opening boxes and cataloging contents, Poertena and Denat were getting worn out.

  "Dried and salted fish." Denat slammed the top of the box closed and resealed it. "More damned dried and salted fish! I'm surprised these Krath didn't grow gills."

  "T'ey needed to grow some damned brains," Poertena said. The company was still chuckling about Julian's find. "You scummies are frigging weird when it gets cold."

  "Well, at least we don't go around bitching about a decently warm day," Denat snapped back. "How many times have I seen one of you Marines writhing on the ground over a little heat?!"

  "Hey, I t'ink t'at was Pentzikis, and heatstroke's no joke!" Poertena protested. "I was only kidding! Get a pocking grip—we're almost done here."

  "Well, pock you, you shrimp!" the Mardukan snarled. "I'm done. You finish. If you can even lift the boxes!"

  "Denat, what's eating you?" Poertena asked, and there was genuine alarm in his tone. The Mardukan was trembling, as if he were having a fit. "We can quit t'is if we need to. You don' look so good."

  "I'm fine!" Denat bellowed. He grasped his horns and yanked furiously at them. "I'm fine. I'll ... aaaarh!"

  Poertena thought very hard about keeping his mouth shut, but he'd just noticed something, and it was really bothering him.

  "Uh, Denat?" the armor asked carefully. "Did you know t'at t'e bases of your horns were swelling?"

  * * *

  Roger smiled and accepted the candied apsimon from O'Casey.

  "Ah, for the days of kate fruit!" he sighed.

  The main command group had gathered, and he turned to the newest member of their party.

  "So, Harvard. What in hell are you doing here?"

  The IAS journalist set down his basik leg and wiped his hands fastidiously.

  "It was a routine assignment, Your Highness. Not much has been done on Marduk, since there's not a regular passenger line that stops here. There was an IAS piece back in your grandfather's time, when they were first planning on opening the planet to colonization, but since then, nothing. And that piece just covered the Krath capital. At the time, the Shin were more or less at peace with the Krath, and a sidebar about the Shin in the article caught my editor's eye. He sent me out to get a story about the 'mountain tribes.' "

  He took a sip of wine and shook his head.

  "I knew as soon as I landed that things had changed. The only information on the planet available was the earlier IAS article and two studies of Mardukan sociology and planetography. They didn't say much, but there were obvious sociological changes in the Krath capital. Among other things, when I tried to get updated photos of their religious celebrations, I was barred from their temples."

  "Updated?" O'Casey asked. "The previous IAS team had gotten pictures? And included them in its article?"

  "Yes, the Krath were very open about their ceremonies," Mansul said. "It was a highly ascetic religion, similar in some ways to Buddhism, stressing personal restraint and meditation. The ceremonies involved small sacrifices of grain and meat to the God of Fire. Most of the contributions actually went to the priests, who were also the primary researchers and archivists, to pay for their upkeep. I don't know what they're doing now, but the rate of sacrifices has certainly gone up, if the smoke from the fires is any indication."

  "You might say there have been a few ... liturgical changes," Roger said darkly. "I wonder what bright person introduced them to the concept of human sacrifice?"

  Mansul choked on his wine.

  "Human sacrifice?"

  "Well, Mardukan, mostly," Roger said. "Cannibalism, too." He took another bite of apsimon and grimaced at the taste.

  "I take it you find their transition ... unusual?" O'Casey asked Mansul.

  "To put it mildly." The IAS photographer wiped daintily at the spilled wine. "All of the source material on the Krath religion insists that it's an ascetic faith, similar in some respects to Taoism in ancient China. Or, at least, that was the case when the original IAS team came through. Its sacrificial aspects were personal: meditation, and acts of generosity. They didn't even sacrifice turom!"

  "Well, they sacrifice their slaves, now," the chief of staff said flatly. "And then they eat them. We saw the inside of the temples. And the kitchens and the bone pits."

  "Are all the slaves from the Shin?" the journalist asked.

  "I don't know," O'Casey admitted, "and our local Shin guide seems to be missing."

  "She's tending to Cord," Roger said. He glanced at Mansul. "It's a long story."

  "I like long stories," Mansul admitted. "Once they're boiled down, they make excellent articles. Why don't you tell it to me?"

  "Where to start?" Roger asked.

  "Start at the beginning," Pahner advised. "Go to the end—"

  "—and fill in all the stuff in the middle." Roger nodded. "Okay."

  "But maybe later," the Marine added. "We need to determine what happens next. Mr. Mansul, you came from the port?"

  "Yes, and there are problems there, too."

  "Saints," Roger said.

  "Really? That I hadn't noticed. What I did notice was that the governor did not want any humans drifting out of the compound. He hadn't been apprised of my visit, and he acted like I was an Imperial spy. Frankly, I was starting to wonder if I was going to be an 'accidental death' when one of the locals offered to smuggle me out. I fell in with the Shin, and I was with a village south of Mudh Hemh when a Krath raiding party fell on the group I was filming. They took the Shin with them to Kirsti, but left me here, presumably for repatriation. Or maybe to wait for the governor to recover me. And then you happened along."

  "How were you 'smuggled out'?" Pahner asked.

  "There are breaks in the defenses," Mansul replied. "Contraband moves in and out." He shrugged. "I was just one more package."

  "Now that's interesting," Roger said.

  "Isn't it, just?" the captain agreed.

  "Oh, there's more," Mansul said. "There's a small ... colony, might be the righ
t word ... of humans living among the Shin. Others who have run afoul of the governor's bully boys. There's about fifteen or twenty of them, and supplies are funneled to them from somewhere."

  "From where?" Julian asked.

  "That I don't know, although I think the local chieftain does. These people aren't given to charity. He'd only be supporting the refugees if there was a reason."

  "Satan," Kosutic sighed. "Complicateder and complicateder."

  "Yeah," Roger said. "And no. The basics are the same, maybe even easier, if their security is so lax smugglers can move in and out at will. We need to get to Mudh Hemh and make contact with this Shin leader."

  "Pedi Gastan," Mansul inserted.

  "Pedi Gastan?" Pahner repeated sharply.

  "Why, yes." Mansul looked surprised. "You've heard of him?"

  "You might say that." Roger's expression was a cross between a grimace and a smile. "Truth being stranger than fiction, we rescued his daughter from pirates." Mansul blinked, and the prince chuckled. "But what I don't quite understand," he went on, "is why we didn't hear anything about this 'colony' of humans from her." He gazed at the photographer with just an edge of suspicion. "She's been very open with us, as far as we can tell, and she's never even heard of humans, much less anything about any refugees her father might be shielding."

  "I don't know why she wouldn't have," Mansul said slowly. "I only met the Gastan briefly, and my understanding is that the refugees' existence is kept very secret. In fact, none of us are allowed in Mudh Hemh at all. Instead, he keeps the 'colony' hidden away in one of the really remote vales under the eye of a very small clan. I was on my way there when my escorts and I ran into the Krath. I suppose it's possible that even his daughter might not know what he was up to."

  "I guess anything is possible," Roger allowed slowly. Then he snorted. "Of course, some things are more possible than others, and keeping a secret from Pedi strikes me as one of life's more difficult endeavors!"

  "But it is possible," O'Casey said. "And if the Krath are in contact with the port, and if the Gastan knows it, then he'd have every imaginable reason to keep the Krath from finding out that he was, too."