“The admiral knows what he’s doing,” asserted a man stoutly.
“Y-yes. And what he’s not doing. Those could be ships of his—No more! Say on, Targovi.”
Targovi did. He told tales of his farings to the vaz-Siravo in their seas. On Starkad, his race and theirs had often been mortal enemies. Feelings lingered, not to mention abysses of difference. They tried to get along together these days, because they must, and usually they succeeded, more or less, but it could be difficult. This led to chat about the care and feeding of Merseians. . . .
Prisoners were not maltreated, if only because the opposition could retaliate. In particular, officers were housed as well as feasible. Fodaich Eidhafor the Bold, Vach Dathyr, highest among those plucked from ruined ships of the Roidhunate, got an entire house and staff of servants to himself, lent by a prosperous businessman who anticipated governmental favor for his civic-mindedness. It was guarded by electronics and a couple of live sentries. Lesser captives were held almost as lightly. Where could they flee to, on a planet where they would starve in the wilds and every soul in every settlement would instantly know them for what they were? The house was in a fashionable residential district a hundred kilometers north of Aurea. It stood alone on a knoll amidst flowerbeds, hedges, and bowers.
True night never fell on Daedalus. The city was distance-dwindled to a miniature mosaic of lights, sparse because it had no need to illuminate streets. Sunlight was a red-gold ring, broadest and most nearly bright to the west, where Patricius had lately set, fading and thinning toward the east, but at this hour complete. Otherwise the sky was a gray-blue in which nearly every star was lost.
Eidhafor awoke when a hand gently shook him by the shoulder. He sat up in bed. Windows filled the room with dusk. Beside him stood a form shadowy but not human, not Merseian— “Hssh!” it hissed. “Stay quiet.” Fingers increased their pressure, not painfully, but enough to suggest what strength lay behind them. “I mean you no harm. Rather, I wish you well. If you do not cry out, then we shall talk, only talk.”
“Who are you?” Eidhafor rasped, likewise in Anglic. “What are you? How did you get in?”
The stranger chuckled. Teeth flashed briefly white below the ember gleam of eyes. “As to that last, fodaich, it was not difficult, the more so when unawaited. A car that landed well away from here, a hunter who used his tricks of stalking to get close, a pair of small devices—surely the fodaich can imagine.”
Eidhafor regained equilibrium. If murder had been intended, it would have happened while he slept. “Under my oath to the Roidhun and my honor within my Vach, I cannot talk freely to an unknown,” he said.
“Understood,” the stranger purred. “I will ask no secrets of you: nothing but frankness, such as I suspect you have already indulged in, and doubtless will again when you return home. It could well prove in the interest of your cause.”
“And what is your own interest?” Eidhafor flung.
“Softly, I beg you, softly. You will presently agree how unwise it would be to rouse the household.” The stranger let go his grip and curled down to sit on the end of the bed. “No matter my name. We shall concern ourselves with you for a while. Afterward I will depart by the way I came, and you may go back to sleep.”
Eidhafor squinted through the gloom. He had felt fur. And those ears and tendrils—He had seen pictures in his briefings before the fleet took off. “You are a Starkadian from Imhotep,” he declared flatly.
“Mayhap.” The eyes held steady. Could they see better in the dark than human or Merseian eyes?
If so, they beheld a being roughly the size and shape of a big man. Standing, Eidhafor would lean forward on tyrannosaurian legs, counterbalanced by a heavy tail; but his hands and his visage were humanoid, if you ignored countless details. External ears were lacking. The skin was hairless, pale green, meshed by fine scales. He was warmblooded, male, wedded to a female who had borne their young alive. His species and the human had biochemistries so closely similar that they desired the same kinds of worlds; and it might well be that the mind-sets were not so different, either.
“What could a Starkadian want of a Merseian?” he asked.
“It is true, there is a grievance,” whispered back. “Had the Roidhunate had its way, all life of Starkad would long since be ashes. The Terrans rescued some of us. But that was a generation or more ago. Times change; gratitude is mortal; likewise is enmity, though apt to be longer-lived. If I am a Starkadian, then imagine that certain among us are reconsidering where our own best interests lie. Furthermore, Merseia almost took control of this system, thus of Imhotep. The next round may have another outcome. It would be well for us to gain understanding of you. If I am a Starkadian, then I have taken this opportunity to try for a little insight.”
“A-a-ahhh,” Eidhafor breathed.
Captain Jerrold Ronan was in charge of Naval Intelligence for the Patrician System. That was a more important and demanding job than it appeared to be or than his rank suggested. Subordinates had reason to believe that he stood high in the confidence of his superiors, including Admiral Magnusson.
Hence it would grossly have blown cover for Targovi, obscure itinerant chapman, to see him in person. Instead, the Tigery called from his van, away off in the outback. The message went through sealed circuits and an array of encoding programs.
At contact, by appointment: “Well?” snapped Ronan. “Be quick. Matters are close to the breaking point. I can’t spare time for every hint-collector who imagines he’s come across a sensational piece of revelation.” He sighed. “Why did I ever give you direct access to me?”
The least of ripples went across Targovi’s pelt, and underneath. His tone held smooth. “The noble captain is indeed overburdened, if he forgets the honor that his dignity requires he grant those who operate in his service. Let me remind him that he himself felt, years agone, an individual like this one could prove uniquely able to gather special kinds of clues.”
The man’s thin, freckled countenance drew into a scowl. “You and your damned pride! Close to insubordination—” He calmed. “All right. I’m harassed, and it probably has made me rude. You did pick up some useful leads in the past.”
They had been leads to nothing enormous; nevertheless, they had been useful. Like humans, Merseians employed various agents not of their own species. A racial and cultural patchwork such as Daedalus, remote from the Imperial center, was vulnerable to subversion—and not just from Merseia; the Empire seethed with criminality, dissension, unbounded ambitions. To hold the sector, the Navy must be the police force of their main-base planet. Colonists tended to feel less constrained in the presence of an affable nonhuman trader than with somebody more readily imaginable as working undercover.
“I think this time I have truly significant news,” Targovi said.
The screen image ran fingers through its red hair. “You’ve been on Daedalus a while?”
“Yes, sir. Going to and fro on my usual rounds, and some not so usual. Looking, listening, talking, snooping. Scarce need I tell the captain how much discontent is afoot, sense of betrayal, demands for amendment—especially in the Navy—although it may be that many persons spoke more freely before me than they would have before others. Sir, I cannot but feel that this sentiment is very largely being fomented. To a natural aggravation, which should but cause grumbling, come unfounded allegations, repeated until everyone takes their truth for given; inflammatory slogans; hostile japes—”
“That’s merely your impression,” Ronan interrupted. “And, no offense, you are not human. You are not even properly acquainted with Technic civilization. I hope you have something more definite to tell.”
“I do, sir. First, scant doubt remains that spacecraft have been calling at Zacharia island, suspiciously often, for more than a year. I have garnered accounts of sightings by dwellers on the mainland and sailors who were at sea. They thought little about it. Yet when I compared data from the main traffic control bank, a most curious pattern emerged. Activi
ty has been going on yonder, sir, and I misdoubt it is not harmless smuggling. Could it be Merseian?”
“No. Have a care. Remember, the Navy conducts secret operations. You will speak no more about this, not to anybody. Do you understand?”
Targovi glided past the question. “Sir, there is another eldritch thing, directly concerning the Merseians. I have word from green lips.”
Ronan started. “What? How? Who with? How dared you?”
Targovi imitated a human smile. It made his teeth sheen sharp. “The captain must permit me my own small secrets. Did we not agree that any value I might have lies in my ability to work irregularly? Rest assured, no harm was done. Again, I have simply wormed out confidences which would not otherwise be forthcoming—although bits of memory and feeling that the Merseians let drop before their guards should have been heeded more closely than they were.”
Ronan swallowed hard. “Say on.”
“Those officers who know what actually happened are bewildered. Several are embittered. It is like the impression here that Daedalus was left neglected to face danger alone; but this impression has more reason behind it. Sir, the Merseian fleet was led with unprecedented stupidity. Its advance squadrons flew straight into the trap that Admiral Magnusson had set at Black Hole 1571—although the hazard should have been plain to any commander who knew aught of astrophysics or naval history. Then, instead of re-forming to mount a rescue operation, Cyntath Merwyn split his main strength north and south, creating two pincers which Terra’s rear echelons broke one by one. It should never have happened.”
“Aren’t you glad it did?” Ronan asked dryly. “I daresay harsh things have been done to high-ranking people, back in the Roidhunate. It doesn’t publicize its failures.”
“Sir, this was a failure too grotesque. An experienced, senior officer admitted as much to me. His rage came nigh to making him vomit.” Targovi paused. “And yet, captain, and yet . . . our fleet could have pursued the advantage gained further than it did. It could have inflicted far worse damage. Instead, it was content to let the bulk of the enemy armada retreat.”
Ronan flushed. “Who are you to talk strategy? What do you know that Admiral Magnusson did not? Has it occurred to you that his first duty was not to risk our forces, but to save them?”
“Captain, I simply suggest—”
“You have said quite enough,” Ronan bit off. “Do you care to submit a detailed report? No, don’t answer that. It would be worthless. Or worse than worthless, in the present explosive situation.” His image stiffened. “Agent Targovi, you will drop this line of inquiry. That is an order. Return to Imhotep. Do not, repeat not attempt any additional amateurish investigation of matters which do not concern you. If we should have an assignment for you later, you will be informed.”
The Tigery was quiet for a space.
“May I ask why the captain is displeased?” he ventured.
“No. Official secrets.”
“Aye, sir. If I have transgressed, I am . . . sorry.”
Ronan relented a trifle. “I’ll accept that you didn’t know any better.”
“Very good, sir. But—Well, about my Moonjumper, sir. Of course, everybody thinks I bought her, and my piloting instruction, out of my gains from storming a pirate stronghold on Imhotep. I can return now, with half my cargo unsold, claiming a family crisis. But would it not arouse wonder, should I fail to come back soon to Daedalus?”
“Are you that well known?” The man considered. “As you will. You do have a living to make.” Part-time clandestines received a pittance for their efforts, though retirement benefits, when they could plausibly claim to be living off their savings, were fairly good. “But watch your actions. If you step over the bounds, you’re dead.”
“Understood, sir. Aught else? No, sir? Out.” Targovi switched off.
By himself, he sank into thought. Rather, he went racing away on a dozen different trails of thought, the hunter’s thrill along his nerves. Certain suspicions were strengthening.
He needed help, and was unsure where to seek it. Well, since he must go home anyway, he could begin there. If he probed deeper, he might die. Quite possibly. But if not—if he did a deed that they would notice on Terra itself—
CHAPTER THREE
At the Olga’s Landing spaceport, he took his van from the hold of his ship. It was equally plebeian in appearance, a long and lumpy metal box, scratched and dented, meant for hauling stuff, with a control cab and a couple of passenger benches forward. Retractable wheels and pontoons seemed to be as much in case the gravs failed as for surface use.
Unlike the ship, the van had more capabilities than it showed. When Naval Intelligence had recruited and sketchily trained young Targovi, it provided him such equipment as he might conceivably need sometime. That was not usual for an agent whose anticipated job was simply to keep alert and report anything dubious he noticed in the course of his ordinary rounds. However, Targovi was a son of Dragoika, and she was chief among the Sisterhood that led the Tigeries of the Toborkozan region. Moreover, she was an old friend of Dominic Flandry. Though he had not visited the Patrician System for a decade and a half, he and she still exchanged occasional communications; and he had risen to Fleet Admiral, and gained the ear of the Emperor. One gave little extras to the restless son of Dragoika.
Targovi took off in a soft whirr. The mountains reared grandly around. Most were whitecapped; glaciers shimmered blue-green under the shrunken sun. Pioneers had melted the snow off Mt. Horn and emplaced thermonuclear fires underground to keep rock and air liveably warm. Now the ice bulls and the frost-loving plants they had grazed were gone. Woods fringed the city. Agriculture occupied lower reaches, as far down as sea level. But humans dared not breathe there, unless through a reduction helmet. At those pressures, the gases their lungs required became poisons.
It was otherwise for Targovi. After he had left the range behind and was humming east above its foothills, he pulled his oxygill out of its tiny sockets. Already it had been forcing him to inhale shallowly. He stowed it in its case with care, although the fabric was hard to damage, and proceeded to a wholly comfortable altitude. That was no lengthy descent, as steep as the density gradient is under Imhotepan gravity.
The continent rolled away beneath him, a single forest, infinite shadings of green and gold, silvered with rivers and lakes, mysterious as the Land of Trees Beyond where some aged people believed the spirits of the dead went. Overhead, the sky was deeply blue, fleeced with clouds, the great half-disc of the moon Zoser ghostly above the sea that presently hove in sight. A splendid world, he thought. Not Starkad, nothing could be, but why mourn for that which was forever lost? His generation had come to life here, not there. As yet they were few, often baffled or slain by a nature alien to them; but in time they would win to understanding, thence to mastery, and their descendants would dwell throughout the planet.
It was not sufficient for Targovi.
He located the Crystal River and followed its course till it emptied into Dawnside Bay. There, where a harbor could lie sheltered from tidal turbulence, the Kursovikians had built their new town. Other societies had settled elsewhere, seeking to carry on their particular ways, but the Kursoviki folk were largely seafarers.
They were also those who had always been in closest contact with the Terrans, whose mission headquarters stood on a ridge to the west. Low and softly tinted, the building looked subordinate to the gray stone mass on a hilltop that was the Castle of the Sisterhood. Targovi knew how much of an illusion that was.
Nonetheless, Toborkozan had struck roots and grown; it could survive without further help if need be. Houses—timber, often bearing carven totems on the roofs—were spread widely along cobbled streets. The waterships in port were nearly all wooden too, archaic windjammers because those had been what the wrights knew how to make; but most had gotten auxiliary engines, and some were hovercraft of fairly modern design. A ferrocrete field on the northern headland offered landing to aircars, as well as the glider
s and propeller-driven wingboats which various Tigeries had constructed for themselves.
Targovi, privileged, set his vehicle down in the courtyard of the Castle and got out. Guards raised traditional halberds in salute. They carried firearms as well, for emigration had not extinguished every feud or kept fresh ones from arising, not to mention lawlessness, and it was better to watch over your own, yourself, than depend on the Terrans. Targovi learned that his mother was in her apartment and hastened thither.
Dragoika lived high in the Gaarnokh Tower. Gaarnokhs had not been among the species which could be introduced on Imhotep, but memory lingered of their horned mightiness. She was standing in a room floored with slate and walled with granite. Tapestries gentled it a trifle. Books and a single seashell goblet were from Starkad. The rest—bronze candelabrum, things of silver and glass, massive table, couches whose lines resembled a ship’s—were crafted here. Carrying capacity between suns had been so limited; much worse decisions had had to be made than to abandon the works of an entire history. She was looking out an open ogive window, into the salt breeze and onward to surf on the reefs beyond the bay.
“Greeting, mother and chieftain,” said Targovi.
Dragoika turned, purred, and came to take his hands in hers. Though the female mane that rippled down her back was grizzled, she moved lithely. The sumptuous female curves had become lean, but her breasts jutted proud. True, they weren’t ornamental adipose tissue like human dugs, they were organs muscular and vascular, from which her infants had sucked not milk but blood. Targovi had seen Terran speculations that the need to maintain a high blood supply made her sex the more vigorous one, and that this accounted for its dominance in most Tigery cultures. His doubts about that did not in any important way diminish his respect for her.
Flandry's Legacy: The Technic Civilization Saga Page 20