by Dave Duncan
It was.
He would, too.
Vaun’s trouble was that he did not know exactly what he planned to do at Kohab. Dice? Invite his two brothers to come and spend a comfortable retirement at Valhal?
He snapped open his holster.
Blade’s thin face showed no reaction.
Juvenile dreams of honor and heroism…
Crazy mixed-up randoms!
“Are you prepared to obey my orders without question, no matter how they may seem?”
Flicker. “Of course, sir.”
Vaun sighed and rubbed his eyes. He did not say, Do you really think you can fly this bitch without autos, sonny?
What he did say was, “Take her up, then.”
It was the first time he had seen Blade smile.
THE RENOWNED MOLOCH designers had been a brilliant and imaginative lot, but they had never conceived of anyone being crazy enough to try flying a Sheerfire on manual. Blade did clear the treetops, but he probably lost some paint. He certainly lost Vaun’s stomach. After that nothing seemed too terrible; he took her up to cruising altitude and headed south over the sea. Under the circumstances, he was flying very well. Of course. Not a word was spoken.
Dice. Cessine.
If Roker’s thugs had extracted the truth, then those were the two cuckoos who had never been apprehended. Dice had been second oldest. Cessine had been third. Vaun, the youngest, had never met Cessine, but he would be indistinguishable from Dice, if he still lived. One or other might be dead, of course, because it had been a long time. The others had all been murdered in Roker’s horror chambers—Tong, and Raj, and Prosy, the eldest. Prior also, of course.
But someone was messing about with pepods, in secret, at an uninhabited nowhere-place in Thisly. It had to be either Dice or Cessine, or both.
What was Vaun planning? What did he want?
Information about the Q ship? If Prior had ever been told of the runaway Q ship gambit, then Vaun had failed to assimilate those memories. That was possible—the language complexes had transferred smoothly, but after that the brain had been so traumatized that later retrievals had been extremely spotty. Much had faded after the first few days, too. But Prior might have known, and he might have told Dice and Cessine.
Or was this a peace mission? There was Tham’s Ootharsis evidence. Whatever bitter conflict had erupted” on Avalon, the brethren had obviously lived in peace on Scyth once, and been valued citizens. Here on Ult, Vaun had been accepted and put to good use. Unless his brothers were up to some conspicuous mischief at present, he could certainly obtain a pardon for them now, so that they might live out their days in comfort.
Scyth, though, had gone silent.
Remembering what Maeve had said, he chuckled. Love? Was that all? Family reunion?
Small wonder that Lieutenant Blade did not trust Admiral Vaun. Admiral Vaun did not entirely trust himself.
After an hour he saw the beaded sweat on Blade’s brow.
“I’ll take a turn, now,” he said. “Grab me a snack and then try that featherbed.”
He took the con, and was appalled at the concentration needed to keep the brute stable. The Sheerfire tried to wander like a fistful of water; he gritted his teeth and swore by every god worshipped on Ult that he was not going to do worse than Smarty-Pants Lieutenant Blade.
Who had vanished to the rear in search of the galley.
And who was shortly to be heard shouting…
When the two of them burst into the cabin, Vaun risked a quick glance back. Blade’s face was crimson with shame. Feirn was pale and bedraggled and had obviously been asleep. The barge lurched and Vaun hastily directed his attention to the controls again.
“Under the bed, I suppose,” he said when he had leveled.
“In the closet,” Feirn said grumpily. “Ouch! You’re hurting my arm, Blade.”
“Leave her be, Lieutenant. My fault, too. I must have gone right by her.” But it had been Blade who had left the door open.
Realizing she had won, Feirn at once become cocky. “You told me to stay with you, Admiral! Besides, this will be a historic confrontation and I represent the media.”
“You represent a gigantic pain in the ass.”
“You say the sweetest things,” she murmured, and leaned over his shoulder to kiss his cheek.
The Sheerfire wobbled violently and Vaun yelped in disgust. “Lieutenant! Take her away and throw her out!”
Feirn giggled and struggled as Blade tried to remove her. He did not make a sound, and Vaun wished he could see the expression on his face.
So now they had a press corps along! Vaun would not dare try to put this wallowing monster down anywhere except a standard strip, and to do that would incite the wrath of authority, uncovering and probably terminating his secret mission. He was stuck with the muddle-headed kid. His one-boy scouting trip was becoming a bandwagon.
Going to meet the brethren…
“Well, you might as well be useful,” he said. “Can you cook?”
“No, I can not!” Feirn shouted, stamping her foot. Evidently cooking was not romantic enough for a hero’s lady.
“I can,” Blade said glumly. “You weren’t serious about throwing her out, were you, sir?”
GOING TO MEET the brethren…
Maybe. Maybe not. But what happens if we do?
Space Patrol shuttle Liberty in orbit, Commodore Prior commanding…
The fake Commodore Prior has a fearful urge to scratch the itching, healing scars on his stubbled head. He wonders for the hundredth time why Maeve did not stay to say good-bye. He can remember dozens of Prior’s innumerable mistresses, and none of them compares with Maeve. He tries not to think about Yather and his gun.
The shuttle is almost within contact range, drifting ever closer to the Q ship, whose fire-scarred bulk now fills the tanks and blots the stars. Roker’s clandestine vid stays stubbornly amber on Vaun’s board, meaning he still does not have enough evidence to launch the missiles. If High Admiral Frisde herself is not holding the knife to his back, then she will certainly have appointed others to do so. Destroying a Q ship is sacrilege.
The voices from Unity have remained infuriatingly ambiguous, and the only image has been that of the girl, who does more smiling than talking, and even Vaun can make out little of what she says.
On Vaun’s left, GravOff mutters an aside to his other neighbor, the medic. “Perhaps she’s being held prisoner by beasties and would be grateful for being rescued.”
MedOff counters on predictable lines. “But rescued by something human, like me.”
So neither suspects that the girl is only a sim, or that there is nothing truly human on the Q ship at all. Or is Vaun’s imagination seeing guilt where there is only reasonable doubt?
“What I want,” MedOff continues, “is a hot shower.”
“We’d all appreciate your getting that,” says GravOff.
They have been sitting in this tin bucket for hours. A few formalities, and then showers and food and rest. Inspections start tomorrow. That is the usual program. God knows what’s planned this time.
“Liberty, stand by for umbilical,” says the boy’s voice, quite legibly. A cloud erupts from the ship’s surface, and rapidly dissipates into the vacuum. The umbilical floats out, a deceptively lazy rope, for it bridges the gap in seconds, its free end swelling like a monster snake with a circular mouth, shooting little puffs of steam out of six nostrils as it lines up with the pilot boat’s door….
Thump!
“Contact, sir!”
Vaun acknowledges, and catches Yather’s baleful gaze again. He wants to apologize, somehow, as if there has been anything at all he could have done to avoid this part, when Unity has taken control. That physical linkage has increased the boat’s danger. Now it is tied to the target in Roker’s sights. If the Avalonians go, she goes. And MedOff will have to board that sucker, and Vaun may be sending the boy to his death. Yather’s glare says it’s all his fault, but there has been nothing
he could do to avoid this. He’s only an ensign masquerading as a commodore—a mudslug masquerading as a spacer…a unit of the Brotherhood playing on the human team.
At least, he has played on the human team so far.
The prizes for this team are Valhal, and Maeve. The other team doesn’t get prizes.
“Pressurization complete, sir.”
The first order of business must be to remove that gun of Yather’s. It is too distracting. How can Vaun think straight when his guts are in danger of being blown out? Of course, neither side wants him to think straight; they all prefer to do his thinking for him, but his neck is closer to the ax than anyone’s, and he feels stupidly responsible for the crew, for the five innocents among the crew, at least. Not Yather—Yather knows the score and can look out for himself. And if anything startles the big man, he may make a nasty mistake in Vaun’s direction.
ExOff snaps switches on her board, cutting the boat’s pseudo-gravity, just as a sudden lurch tells of the umbilical starting to haul it in. For a moment Vaun’s head swims with vertigo, and then steadies. Radiation monitors begin to flicker as Liberty approaches the rock, but the cabin is well shielded.
MedOff unfastens his harness. “Permission to—”
“No. I mean permission denied.” Vaun glances quickly around the dim ring of faces, but he sees only surprise, no outrage or mockery, so his disguise is holding. Nor is his decision unprecedented, for ships’ captains are allowed to be wary. “PolOff will make first contact.”
The big man opposite bares his teeth at this innovation by the supposed-commodore, but to talk back will alert the listeners, and the channels to Unity are still open. Glaring, he yields to the inevitable. “Sir!”
Yather unclips his belt and slips out of his chair. Probably only Vaun realizes that the gun in his hand has been there all along.
He floats to the doorway and ExOff breaks the seal for him. Air hisses; the hatch dilates. Then Yather has gone, into the circular dimness of the still-retracting umbilical. The MedOff is puzzled, barely concealing a sulk.
ExOff sniffs and wrinkles her nose. “Phew! Can you imagine twelve years in that stench?”
Vaun smells nothing except a faint mustiness.
“And I’m really looking forward to a nice bowl of algal soup,” says ComOff. His hair is floating around his head like a tawny fog.
“That goop?”
“Tastes like poop!” says MedOff.
“Poop soup!”
“It’s bench stench,” ExOff announces solemnly.
“Wench stench! Makes you clench…”
ExOff and GravOff scream with sudden laughter.
“Stop that!” Vaun shouts. “ExOff, prepare—”
The lights go out. He stares in shock at his board, which has gone equally black. No vids, no lights. Nothing. How did they do that? Close the hatch manually…He fumbles for his belt, and watches in horror as MedOff levitates slowly upward, eyes closed. NavOff is snoring, hands rising limply in loathsome prayer. The only illumination is from the doorway, brightening steadily as the umbilical retracts.
Roker has the evidence he needs. Roker can press the button now.
There is another gun aboard, attached to ExOff’s console. ExOff is mumbling, with her eyes rolling. Vaun must get that gun…
He snaps loose from his belt and lunges for it. In his agitation he misjudges, yanking the weapon from its holster as he goes by, then impacting the board with his shoulder. He bounces off, drifts backward, arms and legs flailing, helpless until he can find some purchase. Up and down interchange a few times, nauseatingly. Mostly the cabin seems to be upside down, with the dead or dying crew over his head.
Roker’s missiles are surely on their way by now.
He tries to orientate on the light streaming in through the hatch, but it dims, blocked by a shadow. It goes up and left and up again and right and settles for being down, below him.
Then, in desperation, he manages to land a kick on the floating MedOff; the recoil sends Vaun spinning toward the hatch. He impacts, grabs at the jamb, reaches for the crank, and is blocked by a sinewy arm. Suddenly he is face-to-face with a mirror.
His reflection is wearing nothing but shorts and a soft cloth cap. He grins and says, “Well met, Brother!”
That voice! His own voice, Prior’s voice.
The missiles are coming. Vaun jabs at the newcomer with the gun barrel and screams, “Out of the way!”
The boy’s grin vanishes. “Hold it, Brother! Wait! I’m Abbot.…” He grabs for the gun.
Vaun shoots him in the chest.
FAR BELOW, EMPTY ocean moved so slowly that it seemed motionless, and the Sheerfire hung in space as if time itself had died. On the borders of space, the sky was a rich cobalt-blue. The sun was overhead, Angel low in the northwest.
Vaun was flying, but his eyes ached, and every limb seemed as stiff as a board. He peered sourly across at Blade, who had taken no rest either. Sometime during the day, though, he had found time to sew a lieutenant’s bars on his shoulders. Where in hell had he found those? Infuriating efficiency!
Well, if it was an endurance match, then Vaun had lost. He must grab some sleep, even if only a few minutes—but he would doze here, in his seat. If he went aft to the bedroom, he would be there for a week. He knew that he had started one night behind Blade, but he still hated to admit defeat by sleeping first.
“Lieutenant?”
“Sir?” The mauve eyes were rimmed with pink, but not much.
“Do you believe in love, Blade?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you? Do you really? Do you love Citizen Feirn?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Much?”
“Very much.” The angular features displayed only respectful attention, no sentiment or emotion.
“So?” Vaun said sourly. “If I ordered you to go back there and bed her, whether she objected or not…would you obey?”
Not a blink. “I do not believe you would ever give such an order, sir.”
It would certainly make for a sensational court-martial.
“Suppose I thought it would be the best thing for both of you? Suppose I did?”
Blade turned to stare straight ahead for a moment, and then looked squarely back at Vaun and said, “I would obey, sir.”
“Why?”
“My duty to obey, sir.”
“That’s all?”
“No, sir.”
“Well?”
“My father always told me I should never answer hypothetical questions, sir. But if I must, he once said, then I should always choose the most unreasonable answer. I…I’m not sure what his reasoning was, sir.”
Vaun grunted, admitting that he had lost again. He did not believe in the hypothetical fatherly advice, either. “Do you ever play poker, Blade?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well?”
Solemnly Blade said, “Yes, sir,”
Now that was believable!
“Take the con, Lieutenant. I’ll go brew some coffee.”
Vaun rose and dragged himself aft, reflecting that if many randoms were as good as Blade, there would be no need for the Brotherhood.
THE KICK OF the gun rams Vaun back, and his head hits something hard in a shower of stars. For a moment he lashes around in panic; too many thoughts, too many obstacles…Roker’s deadly missiles must be on their way by now; the rest of the crew are perhaps dead already, but perhaps only drugged, and he must try to save them, although two of them are drifting around loose and getting in his way.
He comes face to lurid face with MedOff, and sees a swollen tongue protruding from cyanic lips…heaves by him to reach the hatch. Now the hatch is up. He must close the hatch, fire the emergency disconnect, and start the drive. His crew may be all dead already, but they’ll be certainly dead when those missiles arrive, and so will he.
A dark smoke hangs in the doorway lit by brightness behind, and when his hands touch it they turn red. He grabs a handhold and swings
loose, scrabbling with his feet for purchase. The boy he shot has been blown back into the umbilical—by the impact of the shot, and by the jetting of his own lifeblood. His body would be evidence, real evidence. And Yather is out there, somewhere.
Can’t abandon Yather without at least looking…
So Vaun peers through the hatch to see if Yather is within reach, and vertigo grabs him. Suddenly he is staring straight down and he hurtles headfirst into the umbilical.
But the umbilical is fully retracted now, and he flails through into the greater width of the caisson, spins around in the pseudo-gravity that has pulled him, and slams down hard on a painfully hot metallic floor.
For a moment he is jarred and winded. When he tries to scramble up, he discovers that he can’t. The heat is terrific, here in the outer skin of a Q ship.
Yather is not there, but the boy he has shot is lying by a doorway at the far side. He is a huddled, bloody relic, absurdly small. Two other boys are kneeling over him, and they scowl across at Vaun.
One of them wears blue shorts, and the other black. They are Raj and Dice again. Or Vaun himself—slim, slight, and tanned by the sunlamps of a Q ship.
“I’ll take it,” says the one in blue. He jams Abbot’s cap on his own head and stands up. It is not military headgear, just a nondescript cloth thing that a ballplayer might wear. He regards Vaun sadly.
“That was a great shame, Brother.”
Again Vaun tries to rise, and cannot get past a kneel. His body is a heap of sand, and the gun as heavy as a tombstone. Dribbles of sweat rush over his skin in the high gee.
“Give me the gun, please.” The boy with the cap moves forward slowly, hand extended.
“Stop!”
The boy stops, frowning, but more puzzled than angry.
I am Blue. I am Yellow. I am Red. I am all colors…
“You’re Blue!” Vaun says, and does not recognize his own voice in that loathsome croak. The gun droops lower. They have caught him in a gravity trap, like a bug in a web.
“I am Abbot.”
“He was Abbot!” Vaun has hardly breath enough to speak.
“And now I am Abbot. And you are not Prior.” He begins to move again, slowly. “Give me the gun.”