Firemask: Book Two of the Last Legion Series

by Chris Bunch

  Two guards stood at the foot of its ramp, but neither was paying much attention to his watch, instead watching the glittering aliens entering the other ship. Periodically they left the ramp, made a cursory sweep around the ship, returned to their main post and the spectacle there.

  Njangu moved through the darkness, watching just beyond the guards, never letting his mind or eyes fix on the sentries. Superstitious perhaps, but how often had a watched cop turned for no visible reason …

  He counted how long it took for them to march around the ship. Thirty or so seconds. Time enough.

  Njangu got as close as he dared, and crouched, just a crumple in the darkness. The glare from the ships blinded everyone beyond the pool of light around them.

  He waited, saw the guards move, came to his feet, then something warned him, and he collapsed.

  One guard said something to his fellow, and they came back to the ramp. Njangu braced to run, then saw a guard pointing to a group of humans approaching the mother ship. He wondered what was particularly fascinating, then blanked his mind, became part of the tarmac.

  The humans entered the command ship, and again the guards paced away into the night.

  Njangu was up, moving fast, silent, a dark mote scuddering up the ramp, into the Musth mother ship.

  He stopped just inside the lock as the antigrav took him, confusing his senses. The ramps now wound away on the level, not upward. He chose one, followed it.

  • • •

  In the heart of the command ship, dark gray metalloid bulkheads were broken with pictures, three-dee projections hanging unsupported. Some of the guests breezed past these exhibits without paying much attention, more studied them closely, wondering just what the Musth worlds were like.

  There were unknown mountains; towering buildings in the middle of wildernesses; huge ships even greater than the one they were aboard; somewhat grisly pictos of Musth at play with their bloodied trophies of game animals; strange and beautiful star clusters no human eye had ever seen; stern-looking Musth intent on some unknown duty or cause; and, incongruously, three or four holos of Musth cubs, three or four in a group, rolling about like so many kittens.

  Caud Rao paused by each, looked, adjusted his lapel. Mil Fitzgerald cocked her eye.

  “If I was your tailor, I think I’d commit suicide,” she said.

  “Stop trying to be clever,” Rao growled. “So I’m a crappy spy. Hedley said to get pics of everything.” He touched his lapel again, triggering the tiny camera, and they went on.

  • • •

  Ramps spidered onward, and Njangu followed them. There were no safety rails, he guessed not necessary for a race with a comfortably stabilizing tail.

  He felt the heatsniffer vibrate against his hipbone, remembered an alcove and went back into it, pressed against the bulkhead.

  He saw the flicker of a Musth coming along the ramp, heard a hatch slide open, closed. They’re quieter moving than I am, he thought, disgruntled.

  Like Rao, Njangu had a minicamera, set to relay any pictures shot on a hopefully unmonitored frequency to a pickup in a civilian speedster parked not far away. The Suicidal Spy, Njangu wryly titled the saga to come.

  The ship was huge, but lightly manned. A few hatches yawned, with silent machinery inside, or compartments that looked like troop bays, but with padded floors instead of bunks.

  Njangu wondered about the emptiness, guessed the Musth had other duties when the ship made planetfall. Probably some were dancing attendance on the state dinner.

  Several times he heard hissed sibilances from compartments, but managed to slip past without being seen.

  There was a low humming in the corridor ahead, and he ducked into another empty bay.

  The humming grew louder, and Njangu, gun ready, chanced looking.

  Two Musth passed the open hatch, each pushing a pole with a softly buzzing bar at its base.

  Even aliens have to sweep the deck, Njangu thought, and swore the two deck sweepers looked sullen, like they were on punishment detail.

  He waited until the humming faded, continued towards the ship’s nose.

  • • •

  The food at the Musth banquet was unusual, but tasty, Jasith thought. She thought she recognized some of the flavors, couldn’t quite identify the foods, hidden as they were under strange spices.

  Halfway through the meal, she remembered what they reminded her of, and giggled.

  She leaned close to her husband.

  “This is like when I was a Girl Guide,” she whispered, “and we’d go out into the wilderness … we thought it was a wilderness, anyway … and cook like we were primitives.”

  “So?”

  “Since none of us knew how to cook, we mostly did everything about half-raw. I think the Musth used our manuals for this meal.”

  Loy muttered something, chewed on methodically, as if what he had in his mouth was growing as he did.

  • • •

  Njangu came to a closed hatch. He pushed at it, touched everything that looked touchable, and it remained closed. Now how do you pick an alien lock when you don’t know if it’s got tumblers, slides, beams, or little bitty mice running around inside? Especially if you can’t see anything that looks even vaguely like a lock at all?

  He saw a tiny vertical slit at rib level, puzzled over it for an instant. Then he took out his knife, opened the thinnest blade, slid it through the slit. Obediently, the hatch slid open. Of course. Just right for a Musth claw.

  He entered a room that was quite large, with a slowly rotating ball of a light gray metal in its center. Again he puzzled. It was just about big enough for a Musth, but he couldn’t see an entrance. A pilot cage for zero gee? He didn’t know. A ramp led onward, holding close to the curving wall.

  Wishing he’d brought a blaster just for comfort, he inched his way, close to the wall, thinking invisible thoughts.

  • • •

  “… two great peoples,” Wlencing’s son, Alikhan, translated Paumoto words as he spoke, “meeting across a great … mmmh … distance, each with common things, each with differences …”

  Caud Rao relaxed, stomach comfortably full, if of unfamiliar substances. He began to shut his mind off, thinking that, in the end, all beings were the same, their leaders giving the same meaningless speeches … and then he caught himself.

  Very few politicians of the human variety carried weapons belts with pistols throwing rounds that ate holes in you … and seemed quite experienced in their use. Nor did they generally arrive in battleships if they intended peace.

  Suddenly, he was very awake.

  • • •

  The corridor widened, with alcoves on either side. Ahead was an archway, and Njangu saw screens, control panels, and a low couch. Then he heard Musth speech, and went flat. Another voice came, then silence except for the contented clucking of machinery.

  Hoping that Musth didn’t look up or down any more than cops do, Njangu crawled to the end of the corridor, peered into the ship’s bridge.

  There were screens, more couches, panels that occasionally blinked inscrutably, and two Musth.

  Only a dreamer would have hoped nobody stands bridge watch.

  One Musth was running his paws across a featureless panel, watching symbols scroll on a screen above him.

  Ship’s log?

  The other was intent on a holo display of large machines.

  Drive room watch?

  To one side was a couch, and a screen showing an abstract of a planet. One of the half-cylinder charts was in a slot below the display.

  Now, if these clowns would only go out for a beer …

  Neither Musth showed signs of thirst.

  Njangu thought of shooting them, rifling the room, and running like hell, discarded that as bloodthirsty stupidity that wouldn’t work anyway without a gun, and decided to check the alcoves.

  The third he tried was gold.

  Unlike humans, with their stupid insistence on tidiness, the Musth used doorless c
abinets. Items inside stuck to the shelves, needing no retainers to keep their places.

  This alcove held hundreds of the charts. Njangu was wondering which to steal when he saw a wall panel next to him. A dozen or so charts clung at random to it.

  Theory — these are the most frequently used buggers?

  Cursing himself for probable anthropomorphism, Njangu scooped those charts into his small pack.

  If these don’t help, they can goddamned well come back and play Raffles by themselves. Now let’s see if I can sleaze out of this dump before somebody puts a wasp-grenade up me arse.

  He went swiftly back the way he came, hoping there’d be nothing in the way of surprises.

  Twice he had to retreat, duck back into a compartment as Musth passed. He crept past another compartment, hearing wailing that he hoped was music.

  Njangu reached the lock compartment, and it still yawned open into the night. Praise several gods, he thought, they’re running late tonight. He checked his watch finger, and realized with a shock he’d been aboard the Musth mother ship less than half an E-hour, not half the night as he’d thought.

  He crept forward, saw no sign of the guards. He wanted to pelt down the ramp into the night, but forced calm. Njangu slipped back, waiting until the guards came back into view at the ramp’s end, waited longer, nerves screaming, until they made another round, then, forcing coolness, almost sauntered down the ramp and back into the lovely velvet night.

  • • •

  A planetary week later, inside the central dome on Silitric, Aesc and Wlencing watched Paumoto’s ship lift clear of the surface, climb slowly at first, then increasingly more quickly into the high cover. Just before the clouds swallowed the ship, it went to secondary drive and vanished.

  The dull plop of air rushing into the suddenly vacant space could be heard through the insulation.

  “I think Paumoto’s appearance advanced our plans more than somewhat,” Aesc said.

  “I suspect so,” Wlencing said cautiously. “Although I’m not sure I like someone as important as he becoming interested in our endeavor. I would hate, after all this time, to be cut out of the spoils.”

  “Do not worry,” Aesc said. “If Paumoto isn’t satisfied with the small percentage he may be entitled to, once Cumbre is ours, we can deal with the matter as we must.” He dipped his head. “In the meantime, our plans are fully prepared. We must apply further pressure to the situation, to ensure we have the proper incident we need before moving to the final stage.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  From Matin, Loy’s Kourner:

  As we predicted after the most amiable and productive reception given by Paumoto of the Musth for Leggett and the Cumbre system’s most celebrated citizens (which we are proud to be considered one of), further meetings have been set by Aesc of the Musth and various cultural, commercial, and military leaders, including the above-signed, to tighten the bonds between Man and his newest Ally, although the Musth have not, as yet, been specific as to the agendas.

  These meetings will begin Third Day, at the system-famous Shelburne Hotel, and are expected to continue for at least a week of not only high-level business matters, but social and cultural events as well.

  Your humble publisher is honored to be chosen by the members of the community to host the first day’s orientation, which will begin at …

  Njangu blanked the screen. “Y’know, Monique, the boss’s ex-girlfriend’s husband can’t write his way out of a busted jockstrap. Loy’s Kourner my kurled frigging klavicle! Wonder what she sees in him?”

  “He’s good-looking and has money,” Monique answered. “Better question … what does he see in her? I think she’s about as brain-dead a twonk as I’ve ever seen.”

  “She’s a looker, and richer’n snot,” Njangu said. “Richer’n he is, even. I just wonder why some other …” His voice trailed off.

  “Wonder what other … sir?”

  “Wonder when I’ll learn to keep my goddamned mouth shut about shit that’s none of my business,” Njangu said, getting up from the desk in the orderly room and grabbing his kepi. “Tell the boss when he comes in I’m up at the Headshed if he needs me.”

  Half an hour later, the com buzzed.

  “RaoForce, Intelligence and Reconnaissance Company, First Tweg Lir speaking.”

  No picture came.

  A woman’s voice said, “Alt Garvin Jaansma, please.”

  “I’m sorry, he’s in the field, and not expected for at least an hour,” Lir said. “May I take a message?”

  “I’ll call back.” The connection blanked.

  First Tweg Lir considered the brief encounter between Garvin and Jasith at the Musth reception, thought she might recognize the voice, and decided Njangu’s formula would work well for her, too.

  • • •

  “Cityside,” the bored editor said. “This is Ted Vollmer.”

  “Er, yes,” the man onscreen said, his face as nondescript as his voice. “I’m an amateur photographer … hope to be able to become a pro one of these days, maybe sell something to you … and I’d like to see if I couldn’t get a really spectacular shot of that Musth leader … don’t remember his name … arriving at that hotel whatsit. Where’d be the best angle?”

  Vollmer started to growl, decided on civility as a change of pace.

  “Word we have is the Musth’ll be coming in by air, and landing directly on the bay side of the Shelburne, most likely at the normal boat ladder.”

  “Thanks.” The connection was broken.

  “Goddamned photogs,” Vollmer swore. “Musth whoosit, hotel whatsit … they’re always such veritable founts of hard data.”

  “Whyn’t you tell him we’ll have the staffers covering things like white on rice since this is our fearless leader’s show, and he’ll play hell trying to sell us anything we don’t already have in the can?” his amused assistant said.

  “Because the day I tell a freelancer something like that, every goddamned lenser on the staff’ll have leprosy with his camera up his ass with the lens cover on,” Vollmer grunted. “Goddamned photogs,” he said once more.

  “That’s what I like about you,” his assistant said. “Last of the altruists.”

  • • •

  “Interesting minds these Musth have,” Dr. Heiser observed. “Math to the base eight.”

  “Why should that matter?” Dr. Froude asked. “A number system is a number system is a number system.”

  “For you, maybe,” Heiser said. “I’d keep forgetting I have a couple of extra fingers to count on. But here’s something interesting. All these charts we acquired have a base point.”

  “All charts have that,” Froude said gently. “True north, magnetic north, distance from Capella/Centrum or whatever base point a system or government chooses.”

  “But the Musth use a single point as the center of their universe.”

  “And that is?”

  “I don’t know for sure yet … none of the charts we had stolen go that deep into their empire. But I ran a tentative projection, and home base is way the blazes out there. The only plotting system that gives a hint is the old Langnes listings. I’d guesstimate,” Heiser said, “the 37420 sequence.”

  “I’m not familiar with the Langnes plots.”

  “You needn’t be,” Heiser said. “It’s one of those hellish primitive ones that just happens to be about the most thoroughly compiled. The only reason I remember it is I had a bastard of an astronomy teacher way back at the university.”

  An increasingly irritated Hedley had been listening to the interchange, head moving back and forth like he was at a racquetball tournament. He was already angry enough that he had only the maps, plus Rao’s happysnaps and the transcript of Paumoto’s speech, which didn’t give him enough for an intelligence estimate as to what the Musth visit might’ve meant.

  “Excuse me, and I hate to be flipping mundane and all,” he said. “But were you able to translate the charts we gave you like you c
an the other charts?”

  “Certainly,” Froude said with a bit of indignation. “I said we’d have no trouble, didn’t I?”

  “And the charts give us?”

  “Oh, sixteen, twenty, maybe more of the Musth settled systems. Pity none of the worlds are particularly close to us,” Heiser said. “It’s also interesting the way they appear to have expanded their empire, assuming Dr. Froude’s translations are correct.

  “They jump from cluster to cluster, with no apparent logic in their exploration, as if they just punted expeditions out after picking a destination by spinning a coin. Or using a star chart for a dartboard.”

  “Regardless of that,” Hedley said. “With the charts, we could have potential targets to hit, if or when war starts?”

  “When war comes … easily,” Froude said. Hedley noted, uneasily, the emphasis.

  “All we’d need would be some kind of starship to make the jumps,” Hedley said. “Something better than the rustbuckets we’ve got hidden in the bushes.”

  “I don’t see a major problem,” Froude said confidently. “You do have a thief, a rather good one, at your disposal, don’t you?”

  Hedley thought of saying several things, decided none of them was quite appropriate.

  • • •

  And the gods bless Majormunroe, the man who called himself Ab Yohns thought, admiring his handiwork, and giving a moment of appreciation to the man, epochs ago, who’d made an interesting discovery about the direction explosions could be made to take.

  His device appeared to be no more than a chunk of driftwood that’d been trapped between two pilings of the overhead pier.

  Very pretty indeed, Yohns thought. Virtually undetectable. You’re not a bad craftsman, if I do say so myself He closed his helmet’s faceplate, submerged, and swam away, underwater, back toward his boat moored in a nearby marina.

  • • •

  “Alt Jaansma speaking,” Garvin said.

  The screen cleared, showing Jasith. Garvin felt, not for the first time, that he was in free fall for the first time in his life.

  “Hi.”

  “Hello,” he said, trying to sound neutral, businesslike.