She was nantana, too, and knew how to read them despite that.
You son of a bitch, she thought. You thought that he was dead.
Only one man would think that.
She looked to the technician. “What were the readings as Masada came in?”
He showed her the screen. Level, absolutely level. Not a tremor in his whole biosystem to match that response of shock on his face. Even a nonprogrammer like herself could see how damning that was, how clearly he had done something to feed the verification program lies. All that agitation, and not a single peaked reading to show for it.
My poor, stupid, traitorous love.
She nodded to Masada, who left the door open. There were four armed guards outside. “No more questions for now,” she said quietly. She could feel the weight in the corner of her eye, and hoped that no tears would come in public. She was the Prima of the Ainniq Guild, and a certain strength of demeanor was expected. No matter what.
“No more questions until trial.”
She left before Devlin could respond.
Sometimes the only way to preserve a life is to destroy it.
J. XAVIER MONROY,
What Price Destiny?
PARADISE NODE PARADISE STATION
MIKLAS TRIDAC was not in a good mood.
It had been nearly an E-week now since the girl had evaded his people. A humiliating failure, that. Two teams of trained operatives and half a million to cover costs, and still she had gotten away. One girl, unarmed, a stranger to the outworlds, versus two dozen of his best.
Not good. Not good at all.
It was Ra’s fault, of course. She had proven to be a major irritant from day one of this project. First she had confiscated his weapon shipments, then she’d had her customs people harass his operatives, and now . . . now she had the girl. Tridac’s power was vast and its resources almost unlimited, but even the Corporation wasn’t about to raid the household of a Guild official.
None of which would matter to them when he reported his failure. The Corporation didn’t care much for excuses.
He was about to call up the day’s intelligence report—it came to him in hourly increments, a breakdown of every operational statistic that might possibly impact the girl’s behavior—when there came a knock on his door. “Come in,” he called out, and he thought, It had better be good news.
It was Dhera, one of his lieutenants, and although her face was impassive as always, her step seemed confident as she came to him where he sat and laid a piece of plastic on the desk before him. He noted the heading which revealed it to be a communique from the Guildmistress’ office, one of the thousands that his people were scanning through various illegal means. This one seemed to come from the office of Sonondra Ra herself.
MIA PRIMA,
IN ACCORDANCE WITH YOUR INSTRUCTIONS I AM RELEASING THE GIRL. SHE HAS ASKED FOR TRANSPORTATION, AND I HAVE ASSIGNED HER AN INSHIP, TERM OF USE INDEFINITE.
PLEASE NOTE THAT I DO NOT CONSIDER THIS A WISE COURSE OF ACTION. I AM NOT AT ALL CERTAIN THAT THE PARTIES WHO PURSUED HER HAVE ABANDONED THE CHASE. THERE IS EVIDENCE OF THEIR CONTINUED PRESENCE ON MY STATION. I URGE YOU TO RECONSIDER, AND IF YOU DO NOT WISH HER TO REMAIN IN MY DOMAIN, THEN GIVE HER SHELTER IN SOME OTHER NODE.
A BILL FOR THE USE OF THE INSHIP WILL BE FORWARDED TO YOUR OFFICE.
SONONDRA RA
PARADISE NODE
He read it over three times before he responded. Making sure. Savoring the moment. “Is it possible she knows we intercepted this?”
“No, sir.”
He looked up at her. “You’re sure?”
“Quite sure, sir. We’ve taken all possible precautions. Ra’s security hasn’t responded with so much as a cursory probe.”
He allowed himself a smile. A small one, not of triumph—that would be premature at this point—but anticipation. “All right. You’ve done well. Now I want to know what ship she’s taking, and the time and place of departure. And I want you doubly certain that Ra knows nothing of your inquiries. One hint of any security response, and you warn me immediately.”
“I understand, sir.”
The girl was leaving Paradise Station. Even better, she was leaving alone, and Tridac would know where and when. With news like that he could call in another team of operatives, specialists in safespace interception. Within hours of the girl leaving Ra’s station, Tridac would have her in his possession.
He allowed himself the indulgence of a real smile then, and hurried to give the proper orders.
The ship was a small one, and it left from a public dock, presumably because Ra expected her private facilities to be under surveillance. Half a dozen guards in civilian disguise had escorted Jamisia Shido safely there, seen her aboard, and stood by while she received her transit instructions and backed out of the ring and into the blackness of space.
So Miklas’ men had reported. They had also reported that there was no one on board with her, which meant that the girl could pilot her own ship. Good enough. It also meant that even if the ship had armaments, she’d be hard pressed to use them; mustering a sound defense while in flight usually required one mind devoted to nothing else. If they kept her running fast and hard, she wouldn’t have time to take action against them.
Miklas drew in a deep breath as his own ship launched and tried not to feel too exultant. The girl wasn’t exactly in his hands yet ... but she would be soon, and when he delivered her safely to the Board of Directors, they’d reward him as his action deserved. Perhaps someday he might even earn a seat in that august body himself.
“I’ve got her on screen,” his pilot informed him.
The skies were crowded, transports and shippers and yachts and pods all maneuvering for the proper alignment to enter or leave station space. There was no way to reach the girl now, and certainly no way to chase her down safely. Traffic Control would have the pol on him faster than he could give the orders.
“Follow at a distance,” he ordered. “Vary the approach path.”
She was heading away from the ainniq, toward a less densely populated sector. That was perfect, Miklas thought. The last thing he wanted to be doing was tripping over tourists as he chased the girl.
Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. Hopefully the Fed ID on his own ship would reassure her that everything was on the up-and-up, and she would submit without a fight. But this chase had thrown him too many surprises already, and he wasn’t going to bet on anything going right. Tridac Corporation didn’t want to hear about another failure.
He sent out a signal to his waiting ships, telling them where to meet up with him. There was an industrial station in that sector they could use for cover and a harvester compound right next to it. His people could tuck a good dozen ships in behind there and be ready to come to his aid as soon as he called for them.
She was well out of Paradise Station’s space now and past the tourist sector. The last garish casino station passed behind them, and then a few hotel rings, and finally only open space and the stars lay ahead. Thus far she didn’t seem to have noticed him. Or maybe she simply thought that a ship from Federated Safespace Security was nothing to worry about.
He gave the orders that would bring them in closer and thought, So sorry to disappoint you.
She didn’t appear to notice him at first. Or she noticed, but didn’t worry. He told his pilot to keep to a direct approach and slowly come in closer. Half the distance between them was slowly taken up. Closer, closer . . .
“She’s pulling ahead,” the pilot told him.
“Stay with her.”
It would be clear to her now that a fed ship was pursuing her. Would she try to get away from it, or just establish a safe distance and wait to see what happened?
“Picking up speed now,” his pilot warned him.
So much for that question. He nodded for the pilot to keep pace and then sent out a direct signal to her. It started with an ID code that verified his FSS identity. It ended with a command to slow down and prepare
for boarding, allegedly for a routine security search. Such procedures were not uncommon in this stretch of space, where smugglers and their patrons were known to congregate, and hopefully she would reason to herself that if she truly had nothing to hide, the easiest thing was to simply submit to a cursory search and let the fed see that for themselves. Dozens of tourists and business folk made the same choice every day.
He waited in silence, wondering what her answer would be.
“Picking up speed,” his pilot said again. Miklas didn’t need to be told this time; he could see quite clearly on the screen that the ship was pulling away from them. All right, he thought, so it won’t be easy.
“Get us into combat range,” he ordered. He had two gunners on board, crack men from Tridac headquarters, and he signaled for them to get ready. “I want the engines, and only the engines,” he told them firmly. “Disable the ship, don’t destroy her.”
So close and yet so far....
He could feel the pressure shove him back into his chair as the ship accelerated suddenly; he felt the thrill of the hunt heat his blood. She was running now, and both of them knew it. There was no question of what the outcome would be. He knew from his spies that he was better equipped than she was for either battle or extended flight. At this speed she couldn’t even dock somewhere for safety, but would soon have to head out into truly empty space, where he could run her down at his leisure. Yet she was running. Human instinct, the eternal dance of predator and prey.
“Stay with her,” he muttered.
Closer and closer they came, his pilot maneuvering to get them a clear shot at the girl’s engine housing. As they finally drew into position, he saw his gunner stiffen in anticipation, ready to fire ... and then suddenly the other ship swerved, and he cursed as he aborted the shot.
“We’ll get her,” Miklas promised.
She was fleeing them now at full speed, her flight pattern erratic. No doubt that was deliberate, Miklas mused, to keep them from being able to fix her in their target field. Not a bad move, for a habitat girl. He doubted that before this journey she had ever flown anything more complicated than a pleasure yacht.
“Station coming up to port,” his pilot told him.
It was the harvester station, surrounded by a field of massive ore samples, some nearly as large as the station itself. Did she mean to try to take shelter behind one of them? She was going too fast for such a maneuver. And if she thought she would thread her way through that field to throw him off her tail, then she was stupider than he thought. His outworld pilot could handle a ship far better than any habitat fugitive. Besides, he had three ships hidden behind that station that would join in the chase as soon as she came around it. The chase was all but over.
You were a good opponent, he thought to her. But the chase is only truly enjoyable when it ends in victory.
She was heading for the far side of the station now, skirting the ore in a zigzag path meant to throw off pursuit. His own ship was larger and not quite as maneuverable, but his pilot was good and managed to keep pace. His gunner couldn’t land a shot on her, though he tried several times; one slammed into a vast piece of ore with enough force to split it in two, sending sparks showering into the blackness.
But that didn’t matter. They were coming within range of the other ships now, and as soon as those moved into position, the chase would be over. Barely a minute more ...
“Get ready,” he warned them over the com.
She was picking up speed again. Making for open space. Did she hope to outrun them?
“Now!” he ordered.
They moved out from behind the station and took up position ahead of her. In unison they fired warning shots across her bow, a gesture replete with warnings: We’re out here. There are three of us. Give up the chase now and save yourself the trouble of being shot down.
He hoped she would slow down. Any sane pilot would.
“She’s accelerating,” the pilot said.
He gritted his teeth. All right, if that’s the way she wants to play it.
She turned. Toward the ore field.
What the hell—?
Maybe she meant to take shelter behind one of the captured meteors. Maybe she meant to try to dodge between them, slipping through spaces where the larger ships could not follow. Maybe she just meant the move to confuse them, or to dodge their fire, or ... who knew what was going through her head?
She couldn’t make the turn fast enough. No pilot could. Perhaps if she’d been born in the outworlds, she would have known that and adjusted her course accordingly. But she wasn’t. And she didn’t.
She hit the meteor head-on with a force that sent huge chunks of ore spinning off into space. The explosion was a burst of light that filled the viewscreen, all the more blinding to his eyes because it was unexpected. A second later, warnings began to sound from the pilot’s console as bits and pieces of the shattered ship went flying across their flight path. Her ship. Her engines. Her body.
He just stood there and stared. There were no words for such a moment. Not even curses had power enough.
“Sir—”
He waved all questions to silence. His hand, he noticed, was shaking.
“Check for biosigns,” he said at last. “Get me confirmation.”
The pilot’s tone was almost apologetic as he said, “They’re there, sir. Just pieces. I’m sorry.”
Sorry isn’t going to save my neck when the Board finds out.
Amazing, how fast your career could disappear. All in an instant, like a ship exploding into a vast wall of rock. One moment there, and the next ... debris.
He drew in a long breath, shut his eyes for a minute, and at last growled, “Take us home.”
Those who hope to lead with strength cannot afford to let others see in them any sign of personal weakness.
What they hold in their hearts, of course, is another matter.
SORTEY-6,
On Human Power
GUERA NODE MOSKVA PRISON STATION
“IT’S TIME.”
Devlin Gaza looked up at the guards in the doorway, drew in a deep breath, and nodded. His eyes had been bloodshot for lack of sleep, but he’d had his wellseeker correct that. The moisture content of his skin had been corrected also, so that its dull, dry state wouldn’t reveal his exhaustion. His fear.
Now, as they gestured for him to leave his cell, he wondered if those had all been good choices. Would she be more moved by seeing him thus, without visible sign of fear, or would he gain more sympathy by appearing to be a mere shell of a man, tormented by guilt and anxiety? Such signs meant much to a simba, and making the right choice could well make the difference between life and death for him.
But it was too late to change things now. He rose to his feet and left the cell as ordered, falling into place in the center of a squadron of a dozen armed guards. A dozen! Good God, what did they think him capable of, that such force was deemed necessary? He was a programmer, not a warrior!
They think you are a terrorist, an inner voice intoned. And they know you work with terrorists. So is all this really such a surprise?
Terrorist. What a joke. An ancient word, applied blindly to anyone the Guild would like to blame for their troubles. Didn’t they understand what the League was all about? Couldn’t they open their minds enough to grasp that the destiny of mankind was something you sculpted with care and precision, not something you left to chance? It had been centuries since the League had last been accused of true terrorism, that blind, random violence which all civilized stations abhorred. Couldn’t they understand that this was about much more than that? This was about the very future of humankind.
Look, he had begged her after the trial, you know and I know how much we need to be free of Earth. All I did was provide the excuse. It is such a terrible thing to leave them to make their own fate, without our technology, without our aid? It’s barely a shadow of what they did to us!
And then: We need to be free of them, Alya, you know that
as well as I do. Can you honestly condemn me for trying to make that freedom possible? Take what I’ve given you and use it! My God, there are Guildmasters who would sell their souls for something like this—
She had said nothing. Nothing.
Ten years his mate, his lover, his partner. He thought he knew her.
Nothing.
They were taking him to the dock of the prison station, he saw. Thus far they had told him nothing of where they were going, or why. ‘When he asked them, the guards did not even turn their heads to acknowledge his speech. He tried to access the prison’s innernet, hoping to route the query elsewhere, but though his headset made the connection his queries were shunted to a dead end and extinguished. Of course. They had given him a headset to facilitate communication and biological observation—they had locked it down onto his head in the manner common with prisoners—but they were hardly going to allow the galaxy’s most notorious programmer free access to their system.
He could have been free in a day if he’d tried hard enough, despite that. He could have reprogrammed his interface and sprung the locks and reassigned the guards and prepped a ship and gotten out of there, with enough time to spare to compose a farewell speech and post it to the outemet for all to see. In any system run by computers he was master, and all their precautions could not stop him from doing what he wanted. Not even Masada could stop him.
But that way he would have lived his life in hiding, the most notorious fugitive ever known to the outworlds. Where would he run to? What friend would protect him? Any station that took him in would be assuring its own Isolation, the most dreaded of all Guild punishments. And the Hausman League was certainly under close observation now; running to them would be the same as running right into the arms of the Guild. No, it was better this way. Tell Alya the facts of the case, plain and simple, and trust that in time she would understand what he had done, and pardon him.
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