He flew—swam, the aliens called it—for ten minutes, then turned to look back at the shore.
The town baked in the hot sunshine. Tall spires and glazed-green roof tiles sent the hard light back into the sky; the thrum of the aliens’ machineries gave out a throaty drone.
He floated on his back, and thought about the swizz dealer Berq had slain. He was scum, and death was fitting for the chemical misery he sold. Sooner or later, the Guild would have had a legitimate contract for his removal. But only the
Guild. Who would have paid Berq to kill the man? No one sane, for the penalty for them would be the same as for her. He wondered if she had been hired at all. The murk around the enigma had cleared not at all; indeed, it seemed to thicken as he thought about it.
There were no answers here. He turned toward the shore, and flew the surface of the sea back to the land.
The sunshine dried the last traces of the sea’s moisture. Jiwi brushed the fine layer of salt away from his scales and slipped back into his robe.
The temptation was strong. He could allow her to live, to become his consort, hidden away in some kiosk. There might even be children—the aliens had certain technologies that dealt with such things, so he had heard. Berq was his match, certainly more than any other female had ever been.
He climbed the rickety wooden ladder to the surface of the dock. Yes. She could live—if he broke the Law. But—was there no other way?
One of the Guild stood waiting on the dock. It was Teal, one of his best men. He would be coming to report on a Contract. Jiwi nodded solemnly at the younger man, and began the ritual: “In the matter of Simbala Jeth, Lord Undersecretary to the High Council, I would hear your report.”
“Master, the Contract has been fulfilled.”
“And the manner?”
“A single cast of the zekahn venom star, a distance of five spans three, in the open. There were two bodyguards armed with pattern spikes; they were not injured.”
Jiwi kept his face composed, but he was pleased. At least this went well. That he had not had to kill the bodyguards spoke well of his skill. He gave the ritual response: “A good Contract and well executed.”
Teal hesitated.
“Was there something else?”
“Master, I-I-am ... shamed.”
Jiwi blinked. “How so?”
“I-I felt ... pride, Master. It bordered on contempt for the victim and his guards. It was so—so—easy.”
Jiwi nodded again. “I see.” Indeed, he saw. Teal was young, only seventeen, and had already discharged twenty Contracts successfully. Jiwi had been young once, a long time ago it seemed now, and he remembered the feeling. There was a ritual response—more than one assassin had felt more than necessary pride—and the Master’s answer was well charted. He was to admonish the assassin lightly and speak of practice and humility. A certain amount of pride was allowed, but arrogance would only lead to overconfidence, nearly always fatal in this business.
The Master of the Guild With No Nest gathered his thoughts, to say what must be said. But then, his hand began to itch, and it distracted him, reminding him of his thoughts only moments ago in the sea. The female.
He looked at Teal. Why should he admonish him? The boy already knew his error, else why would he bring it up? He also knew what should be done to correct it.
Why, then, was the ritual necessary?
What purpose did it serve? To paint the Rainbow Cliffs was foolish.
To deny tradition was-was-unheard of, however.
Teal waited patiently, as Jiwi’s mind suddenly reeled under the impact of his heretical thoughts.
Abruptly, Jiwi made his decision. He scratched at the edge of his hand, and said, “Think no more of it.”
Surprise flashed on Teal’s face before he could cover it.
This was not the way it was supposed to go; Jiwi could almost hear his thoughts.
“I have another assignment for you,” Jiwi continued. “It concerns removal of one of the aliens. Find me in four days, for details.”
“One of the Panya?”
“Unless there are other aliens upon our world of which I am unaware.”
“N-n-no, my Master!” The joy in his face could not be disguised. Many of the young hated the occupying aliens. And so far, none of them had been subject to the Guild’s focus.
Recently, however, Jiwi had met with one of their leaders. They were cold and dangerous beings, and cruel to his people. But, it also seemed, not gentle with each other. An understanding had been reached.
After Teal had gone, Jiwi sat on the dock, listening to the waves and wind as something stirred in his mind, swirling around in the depths, unseen but important. That exchange had meant something, more than what had been on the surface.
Why had he broken the ritual?
That it served no useful purpose meant little. There existed a number of rituals for which a purpose, if any had ever existed, no longer seemed apparent even beneath the most searching scrutiny. Perhaps in the past there had been good reason for clinging to the arcane rules, but with time’s passage, change had rendered them obsolete. One no longer wore the feather-masks in polite society, any more than one made the sign of the Great Raptor as protection against the Dusty Plague. Society had learned that these things were no longer valid or appropriate.
Ah. Was this an answer? It wriggled in the corner of his mind, not painful, but an unscratched itch, much like the small irritation that deviled his hand. Yes, perhaps this was it. The subject of change was all around him today, and his deepest soul felt the importance of it.
There would be change. The thing was—what part would he and the Guild play in it?
Jiwi threaded his way through the mass of mostly naked’ bodies, male and female, locked into various manners of sexual congress in the main room of the brothel. There, there was even one of the furred and ratlike aliens, lying on his back with a female of Jiwi’s own species astride the Panya, pumping madly. Perversion? Who was to say?
In the small room behind, Berq was waiting.
“I can see your father was most convoluted in his thinking.” I recognize the test.
“I know this.” But do you, really?
Suddenly, Jiwi wanted no more of fugue, no more hidden meanings. The events of the day had been too convoluted already, and he wanted to speak simply. “Yes. All things change. Living things must change, for if they stop, they die. And organizations are like, life. Rituals and traditions are fine, but if made into dogma, they can be fatal to the believers.”
“So,” she said, smiling. “I live, then.”
He nodded, feeling relief. “Yes.”
“But to what purpose?”
Purpose? Wasn’t staying alive against the weight of the Law enough? What else could there be?
He looked at her, and saw that she clearly expected more.
What?
He turned away and stared at the wall. The old man had trained her; she was better than most in the Guild. There must have been easier ways of testing Jiwi, and Njia had rejected them for this, the most radical thing Jiwi had ever encountered. Why? Why? What purpose could a female so trained possibly serve?
It came to him then, and he felt stupid for having missed it before. There was a simple and logical reason, so simple he had passed over it without thinking.
He turned to face Berg. “Why, you will join the Guild, of course.”
She smiled. Her spirit sang to him, and he knew he had said the proper thing, had passed his dead father’s greatest test. A female in the Guild. That would stir things up.
“He was the wisest among us, our father,” she said. “He had visions, did you know?”
Jiwi nodded. “Sometimes he spoke of them.”
“He knew the aliens would come. He also knew of many things that would happen to our world, of vast e
mpires that would suck us unwillingly into their conflicts.”
“He did not speak of this to me.”
“Yes, he did. I was only to deliver his message to you when you were ready to hear it. He speaks to you now.”
Jiwi nodded again. Part of the test.
“If we are to survive as a Guild—and as a people—we must be prepared for the sweeping changes that will find us. The old Guild would not survive. You have become all that he had hoped you would,” she said.
“But what if I had not? What if I had refused the test?” He smiled, thinking of how it might be between them later. “What if I had refused to consider this twisted lesson about change and merely had you killed? I would never have known, and it would have cost me nothing. Surely the Guild would have survived at least my lifetime. You would have died and I would have lived. Hard to believe our father was so trusting of me.”
She stood, bent, and tore a strip of cloth from the hem of her dress. She extended the ragged patch to Jiwi. “Chew this,” she said.
He did not understand. “Why?”
“Because I know that Dying Dervish is the best reply to Hummingbird-to-Flower.”
Jiwi looked at the swatch of cloth. It was stained with some fluid. He replayed the brief fight in the black sand. He had spun and hit her on the temple ...
He lifted his hand, which itched again, as it had before he had gone flying, as it had when he had spoken to Teal. He laughed softly. “The old bastard!” He began to chew on the cloth, sucking at the bitter taste it produced.
“He left nothing to chance, did he? I would be worthy or I would be dead.”
“Yes.”
Three years into the grave, and still his father taught him.
The old man had risked his teachings, his children and his Guild, and had triumphed. Fugue. Canon. The contrapuntal song of life, ever complex, ever subtle.
Jiwi laughed, as did Berq. Whatever dangers the galaxy held, his people would meet them with confidence. Any race that could produce such souls as his father had a fighting chance against anything.
Or anyone.
“Lieutenant Commander Kanard to see Captain Sein,” Gill announced, standing before the security scanners.
He was already a bit nervous. The wing housing Fleet Intelligence was in an isolated corner of Port. Any farther out and it would be beyond the automated protection of the perimeter. He had to force himself not to glance over his shoulder to see if something with too many teeth was climbing over the durillium wall that surrounded the city.
There were tales about unusual prisoners and unsavory activities in this complex. The fact that two-megawatt lasers were focused on the exact spot Gill stood also contributed to his understandable unease.
It was twenty minutes before Commander Kanard was admitted to Captain Sein’s office. Gill suspected that part of the wait had been simply a show of independence. Admiral Fleisher’s aide had called while he stood right there and had emphasized the importance of the PR man’s mission. The PR man was grateful that the Admiral himself had not called, he might have been kept waiting for an hour.
Sein himself couldn’t have been friendlier.
“Whatever you need,” he’d agreed cheerfully after they had exchanged introductions. “You have a full clearance,” he added just to show he had checked.
“I need a situation where we won one against the Khalia,” Gill admitted candidly. “Something small, preferably against impossible odds.”
He waited, half expecting the Intelligence Officer to burst out laughing. Instead the man’s reply was serious, if unnerving.
“I assume you got stuck with the tax increase. Tough luck.” As a not so casual afterthought he added, “You know that’s what got your predecessor. He’s running a Rec facility in the Jove Sector now. Takes ten weeks to get the mail.”
Somehow Commander Kanard didn’t need the added reassurance.
“Have you got anything?” Gill tried not to sound nervous.
He’d wondered what had happened to Shenks. Now he was sorry he knew.
“Just one, but I doubt you can use it.”
“Classified?”
“Not really, just skim it here.” Sein gestured toward a communications console to his left.
FREEBORN SHOWED a slim crescent of aqua as Retaliation arrowed outward in pursuit of the alien ship. We watched the viewscreens in fascination, sitting quietly, waiting. There was nothing else for us to do. Not yet. The silvery dot of the Khalian raider grew perceptibly larger on one screen. Then the green-gold globe of Brigit floated out from behind Freeborn, our home world. The high-pitched whine of the FTL drive of the new frigate suddenly stopped, replaced by the deeper thrumming of the standard magnetic engines. Retaliation shuddered.
“Just changed drives,” Captain Downing remarked.
“Yessir,” I replied, not daring to point out that even the raw recruits in the company would realize what had happened.
The Captain must have realized how useless his observation had been, for he squared his shoulders, looked at me with a flat gaze, and said, “See that the men have their gear in order, Lieutenant. I’m going to the bridge.” With that, Captain Downing clicked off his field, stood up from his chair, and departed through the hatch in the foreward bulkhead of the troop compartment.
We were gaining on the pirate vessel. The screen showed the enemy ship as a bigger blob now. Retaliation would be within firing range of the raider soon. We meant to stop and board that ship ... or die in the attempt. The Khalian pirates had raided Freeborn once too often. The Fleet was never around when you needed them, but the folk of Freeborn had the answer—our own Navy. The frigate, Retaliation, was it. With the Navy went the Marines. That’s why I was aboard. Lieutenant Franz Hohenstein, second in command of the detachment aboard the frigate. Two officers and thirty men who were meant to capture the enemy ship and rescue its cargo of humans.
The alien race known as the Khalia took prisoners. We weren’t certain if they were for slaves or food. The only “Weasels” we ever came in contact with were dead or dying, so they couldn’t or wouldn’t talk. Some of our local militia who had encountered a small body of the Khalia took the Weasels on and a handful of the brave men actually survived. Their reports confirmed that the aliens were as nasty as their nickname implied, and ferocious opponents in combat. The Khalia neither gave quarter nor asked for it. Now we were closing with a Khalian ship half again as large as the Retaliation, bent on doing battle with these rapacious marauders and teaching them a lesson.
“All right, you men! Listen up,” I said with as hard a tone as possible. I knew the metallic ring carried into the little speakers in their helmets would make me sound far more tough and assured than I felt right now. “The Captain wants to make sure that there’ll be no screw-ups. Check your weapons, make sure your gear’s squared away.”
First Sergeant Bannon took over. “You heard the Lieutenant,” his gravelly voice called loudly. “Move your dead asses! Move ‘em now! Buddy system ... and I’ll be checkin’ up too, so do it once and do it right!”
How much time before we loosed a salvo at the enemy?
Only minutes. I wondered if there were any other Weasel ships in the system. The odds didn’t seem good as it was. I noticed the shiny shape on the forward viewscreen moving laterally toward the right. They had finally picked us up, I thought. Retaliation was coated with a layer of light-absorbent material. The stuff also absorbed all sorts of radio waves, so the frigate was pretty hard to spot. It must have been the gravitational engines kicking in which had alerted the Khalia’s detectors that their vessel had company. Too late for them now. They were swinging by Morrigan, Nuada’s satellite, evidently aiming to use the gravity to spur their ship on until they could kick in their FTL drive and escape. Retaliation would bring the Weasels to battle before that happened.
The sun looked small and
quite green from where we were.
Brigit is an F-type dwarf, a little hotter and bigger than Terra’s Sol, but good to us of planet Freeborn. Originally, Freeborn was called Manannan Mac Lir. Not so strange, I suppose, to be named for the Celtic god of the seas, for the planet’s surface is about eighty percent water. When the first colonists came a couple of centuries back, though, they renamed it Freeborn. When we joined the Alliance we did so under that name. Now charts show the sun Brigit’s second planet as Freeborn.
Brigit has six planets. Goibhnie, the nearest of them, is pretty much like Sol’s Venus, and its orbit is just a little farther out than that planet too. The same is true of Freeborn. Our world is just far enough away from Brigit so that the heat makes only the equatorial belt unbearable. Gravity is a bit higher than Terran Standard, and the seasons aren’t radical because Freeborn’s axial tilt is only about 16° (as a third generation citizen, I found that natural). Trivid tapes of Terra made the ancestral planet seem too crowded, too pale blue, too ... un-Freeborn.
Now my home world was a starlike glimmer behind, and the disc of Nuada shone a livid ochre on one of the big viewscreens in the compartment which housed my company of Freeborn Marines. Thirty-two selected out of almost three thousand volunteers and six hundred regulars. I was one of the chosen.
“Company ready and everything’s checked out, sir,” Sergeant Bannon said over the channel reserved for reports. “Hope we get into action soon, though; the men are really on edge.”
“Thanks Bannon,” I replied informally. “Tell ‘em to keep their eyes on the foreward screen. Commander Fitzosbourne will open up on those Weasels any time now.” Bannon spoke to the men, and I went back to thinking, even as I too watched the viewscreens.
Ideas are entities unto themselves. As long as they are known, passed on, they live. They may grow, change; but they continue to exist and influence people. Ideals are even more vital. Two millennia after the concept of democracy was born on Terra, it found a home on what was then a continent new to that ancient time. From that sprang the ideals which formed the society of Freeborn another three millennia later. Liberty, self-reliance, and the idea that “government is best which governs least” took root on the soil of an alien planet and flourished as never before. On a planet not discovered until a thousand years had passed on Earth after true liberty was established; a planet where humans hadn’t set foot until just a few centuries ago, the ideals of independence and free will flourished and enabled the six million citizens of Freeborn to stand tall and proud, alone in all the hundreds of planets of the Alliance in allowing absolute liberty for all.
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