Renegades

by Thomas Locke

  Then the tiny young woman in uniform transited back into the hut. She was accompanied by a much larger guy, this one holding a weapon Dillon did not recognize. A rifle of some sort. The guy held it like he knew his business.

  The woman spoke in a throaty whisper, her voice like her eyes, belonging to somebody much older. “You want to live, yes?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Tell us why you are here.”

  Dillon hesitated, which only caused the man to lift his gun and take a more careful aim.

  He decided it was time to throw the dice. Gamble with a life that some people thought was down to its last few puffs.

  He transited from one side of the room to the other. Then back. Again. A third time, only faster.

  The pair watched in open-mouthed astonishment.

  “I’ve come looking for you guys,” Dillon told them. “Take me to your leader.”

  23

  Dillon transited with the scrawny young woman and the trooper to a balcony perched to one side of a giant stone cube. When they arrived, she released them both and slid down the banister like a professional dancer. Or a thief. The guard ordered Dillon to descend the stairs in a more orthodox manner.

  Dillon took his time, studying what he assumed was a battlefield garrison HQ. It had the orderly bedlam of a tight and efficient troop. He watched a transit team arrive with a clutch of prisoners whose terror-stricken expressions suggested they had no idea what had just happened to them. Which was interesting, as it suggested a world where transiting was unknown. He had to assume this was an outpost world. But if so, how did a military group form itself around a transit squad?

  The lumpish guard pointed him to a spot directly below the balcony. A stone guardrail ran down the room’s center. The chamber reminded Dillon of a police station. The guard watched him carefully but kept his weapon pointed at his feet.

  “Where are we?” Dillon asked.

  “We wait for the commander.” The guard held up a hand to Dillon’s next question. “He asks the questions, not you.”

  The warning carried no heat, so Dillon said, “Okeydokey.” And went back to rubbernecking.

  The room was maybe sixty feet to a side. The shuttered windows were set along one wall that also contained broad double doors. The high ceiling and walls and floor were all carved from the same porous stone, more grey than yellow but pleasant to look at. Dillon wondered if the room had started life as a cave, for the corners were not completely symmetrical and the ceiling light-fixtures dangled from what appeared to be stumps of stalactite.

  He asked the guard, “Are we underground?”

  “We are indeed, good sir, and you must thank your lucky stars that’s the case. For this planet has no atmosphere of its own. None whatsoever!” The man who approached was only slightly older than Dillon, and despite his dusty and unkempt appearance, he carried himself with the air of a prince. He had flashing grey eyes and hair more russet than red. “Are you from the Human Assembly?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What a grand response! ‘Sort of.’ I take it you are not the Assembly’s official Examiner?”

  “I’m a lieutenant with the Praetorian Guard,” Dillon replied. “Sort of.”

  “I positively adore a man who can bend his words! Flavor and nuance are essentials to surviving tight spaces and wooing ladies, no?”

  “Absolutely,” Dillon replied, liking the man already. “I’m Dillon.”

  “And I am Vance. An honor to meet you.” He gave a courtly bow. “What sort of capacity brings you here to our corner of Aldwyn?”

  The crowd that had grown around them consisted of young faces, none older than the officer who addressed him. Most were grinning, save for the girl who had brought him here and a taller woman now standing beside her. The woman’s cautious intelligence, her taut awareness, and the way the others gave her space suggested to Dillon that here stood another officer. She was also quite attractive, if one liked their ladies as beautiful as a polished blade.

  Dillon did not respond to Vance, because the crowd parted and the team’s leader stepped forward. There was no question as to who Dillon now faced. He was no older than any of the others. But he carried himself with the bitter strength of a man either born or determined to rule. Dillon doubted the officer had slept in days.

  The man nodded a greeting to Vance and asked, “What have you learned?”

  “His name is Dillon, he’s with the Praetorian Guard, and he’s an unofficial representative of the Assembly. Sort of.” Not even his superior officer’s presence could stifle Vance’s affable good cheer. He said to Dillon, “Allow me the distinct pleasure of introducing Commander Logan. And this is my fellow officer, Subaltern Nicolette.”

  Logan demanded, “How do you come to speak our language?”

  “We’re prepped in advance of all landings, sir.”

  “In what way?”

  As Dillon opened his belt pouch, both Vance and the guard stepped in front of their commander. Dillon liked that, how they instinctively protected their chief, even if it meant risking their own safety. He slowly extracted the small case, opened the lid, and unfolded the device. “It’s called a language headset. You wear it while you’re asleep.”

  Logan accepted the device, inspected it briefly, then handed it back. “How do you know your superiors won’t indoctrinate you with something other than a new tongue?”

  Dillon folded the device and slipped it back into the box. “You don’t.”

  “A dangerous implement,” Vance said.

  “Almost as risky as transiting,” Dillon replied.

  “As what?”

  “Transiting. What we did to get here.”

  Logan and his officer exchanged looks. “We call it ghost-walking.”

  “I like that name,” Dillon said. “A lot.”

  Nicolette stepped up to Logan’s other side and asked Dillon, “Why are you here?”

  “I’m a spy.”

  Logan’s smile transformed his features, erasing the harshness, at least for a moment. “Should you be telling me this?”

  “Not if you’re my enemy,” Dillon replied. “But I’m pretty sure you’re not.”

  Logan seemed to find that amusing as well. “Explain yourself.”

  “I’ve been sent here to find a weapon.”

  “What sort?”

  “I have no specifics. We don’t even know if it actually exists.”

  “This ‘we’ being the Praetorian Guard,” Logan said.

  “Right.”

  Vance offered, “It must be quite a device, to have the Praetorian Guard send a spy.”

  “It is,” Dillon assured him. “If it exists.”

  “Describe it,” Logan ordered.

  “I was specifically not given details, because nothing concrete is known. But the rumors suggest it has the capacity to break through the shields that transiters create with the same energy they use to shift from place to place.” Their lack of surprise made him ask, “You can do this too?”

  Nicolette demanded, “Why does this surprise you?”

  “It’s just . . . we were told no one in this system could transit—ghost-walk.”

  Their mirth was shared by all. Logan asked, “This transit energy can also be developed as a weapon?”

  Dillon thought the guarded manner of their gazes suggested they already knew the answer. “Many different weapons.”

  Logan asked, “You will show us?”

  Though it would mean breaking about a dozen regs, Dillon did not hesitate. “Absolutely.”

  Vance asked, “And what if we were to tell you that we possess the weapon your Praetorians seek?”

  “Then I’m a dead man,” Dillon said, and matched his smile.

  Logan asked, “So a rumor of this weapon brought you here to this wandering planet.”

  “The merchant’s hut where your squad found me—he was a spy for the Assembly. He claimed the weapon exists and offered enough evidence to raise the alarms. Why di
d your squad enter that hut, by the way?”

  “The squad clearing the area found a group of our foes gathered outside,” Vance replied, then pointed to the thin woman. “Sidra checked it out.”

  The commander was clearly unimpressed. “You have been sent on a fool’s errand.”

  “What makes you say that, sir?”

  Vance replied, “Because ghost-walking has not existed in this system for over a thousand years.”

  Nicolette added, “Long enough for ghost-walkers to become legends. Most people do not believe they ever existed.”

  Which explained the prisoners’ terrified expressions. “And yet here you are,” Dillon said.

  Both officers glanced at Logan, who replied, “Even so, there is no use for such a weapon as you describe.”

  Dillon asked, “Mind if I stick around, you know, just in case?”

  “You are wasting your time,” Logan replied. “Will there be more like you?”

  “Not unless you want,” Dillon replied. “Not unless you invite them.”

  “Which I most certainly do not. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal. Sir.”

  Logan inspected him with an officer’s gaze, probing far beneath the skin. “Why should I trust you?”

  “I’ve been completely honest with you,” Dillon replied. “And who knows? I may be able to offer some support.”

  “Then you may stay, under two conditions. First, you remain under guard at all times, and do not ghost-walk unless given express permission.”

  “Agreed,” Dillon said.

  “And second, you teach my ghost-walkers your methods of combat.”

  24

  Sean was awoken by the sound of a giant BONG.

  For a single heart-stopping moment, he was back at the Academy, about to reenter the nightmare of arrest at the hand of interplanetary cops, there to drag him back to prison . . .

  The second chime found him standing beside his bed, heart pounding and breath coming in tight gasps. He fought off the urge to transit to safety. He told himself he was free—the trial was over, the charges dropped.

  A third bong, and the one-armed colonel who had introduced him and Dillon to transiting stood in the middle of his dining area.

  Carver said, “I never thought I would see this place again.”

  Sean did his best to fit his heart back into its proper position. “What are you doing here?”

  “That’s precisely what I want to ask you.”

  “I got arrested,” Sean replied. “And imprisoned. And put on trial. Or did you miss that news?”

  “I missed nothing.”

  “Really nice of you to visit us, by the way.”

  “I was ordered to stay away,” Carver replied.

  “Who by?”

  A second voice replied, “By me.”

  And there he was. Elenya’s father, former Ambassador to the Lothian system, now a senior mover and shaker in the Assembly, stood beside Carver. Anyon grimaced as he surveyed the loft. “I had forgotten how this place is so . . .”

  Sean cut him off with, “Homelike. Cozy. Welcoming. At least to the people who belong here.”

  Anyon sighed but did not rise to the bait.

  Sean decided whatever it was that had brought them here required pants. He said to Carver, “Make coffee. Give me five minutes.”

  Sean carried his ire and a change of clothes into the bathroom. He tried to tell himself that the Ambassador had ample reason to dislike his home. Anyon’s daughter had fallen in love with an off-worlder here in this loft. And then she had offered to divorce her family when Anyon and his wife had tried to pry them apart. Only now Elenya was gone. And confronting the Ambassador’s disdain only rubbed salt in Sean’s open wound.

  He took his time showering and shaving and dressing. But his anger only strengthened with each passing minute. Anyon and his wife had detested Sean’s relationship with their daughter from day one. Sean had long suspected their opposition had played a major role in driving Elenya away.

  And then there was the other issue—how Anyon had wanted to erase Sean’s and Dillon’s memories. Steal from them the very concept of transiting. And all the worlds they had come to know, all the adventures, his every memory of loving Elenya.

  Sean brushed his hair, tucked in his shirt, and decided it wasn’t all bad, Anyon showing up like this. Truth be told, what Sean needed most on this foul day was a quarrel.

  But when he emerged from the bathroom, Anyon disarmed him with just four words. “We need your help.”

  Sean was surprised enough to confess, “Of everything I might have expected to hear from you, that doesn’t make the list.”

  “Our need is desperate,” Carver added. He and Anyon were seated at the dining table directly below the skylight. Carver indicated a steaming mug and a plate with dried fruit and cheese set by the empty chair next to his. “Come join us.”

  “Forgive me for arriving unannounced and now launching straight in,” Anyon said. “But time is of the essence.”

  “Anyon has just been appointed planetary Ambassador to Cygneus Prime,” Carver explained. “He is taking Ambassador Kaviti’s place and is due at the opening ceremonies in less than four hours.”

  Sean opted for a chair on the other side of the table. He slid the mug and plate over in front of him. “Cygneus is a renegade system.”

  “They were,” Anyon said. “And the fact that you paid attention to your lessons helps us immensely.”

  “Six months ago, they formally requested to join the Assembly,” Carver said. “After refusing our envoys the right to even visit for centuries.”

  “Their request arrived precisely when our sources began sending us rumors of a new weapon,” Anyon continued. “One with the capacity to break through the Praetorian shields.”

  “I thought that was something only the aliens could manage,” Sean said.

  “So we claim,” Carver said, as grim as Sean had ever seen him. “But there are legends from our distant past of weapons that could carve right through our strongest defenses, and armor that deflected every Praetorian means of attack.”

  Sean saw the unspoken message on both men’s faces. “These weapons came from the Cygneus system?”

  “Dragon blades, they were called,” Carver said. “Wielded by a group known as Assassins.”

  “They were not just legends,” Anyon said. “I have studied the records. The threat was very real. But it remained only within the Cygneus system. And they wanted nothing to do with the Assembly.”

  “Until now,” Carver said.

  Sean looked from one man to the other. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  “The group who tried to have you imprisoned is seeking to quash these very same rumors,” Anyon said.

  “But why?”

  “We have no idea.”

  Carver amended, “Actually, some of us think—”

  “We will not cloud this discussion with unfounded theories,” Anyon said.

  Carver sighed and went silent.

  Anyon went on, “We are here because Dillon has been sent to seek out evidence of these weapons. We thought there was a support group in place to assist him. But our guardsman has vanished, along with the merchant who was our source of intelligence. And the Messenger who formed our link to this crew claims he and Dillon arrived in the midst of a pitched battle.”

  Sean finished his meal in thoughtful silence. He pushed his plate aside, drained his mug, and said, “You want me to go help Dillon.”

  “What I want,” Anyon replied, “is for you to become an official member of my staff.”

  While Sean digested that, Anyon declared, “Whatever you decide, you are hereby graduated from the Academy.” He gestured. “Colonel, if you please.”

  Carver slipped a heavily embossed envelope from his pocket and offered it to Sean. The packet was sealed with the Academy’s gold stamp. “Congratulations. You are hereby welcomed to the ranks of Diplomats.”

  “Junior ranks,” Anyon c
orrected. “Most new graduates are expected to serve within the bureaucratic system for several years.”

  Sean resisted the urge to tell them to skip the windup and get to the pitch. He decided whatever Dillon had going on, it could wait a while longer. “I’ve tried serving you people, and look where it got me.”

  Carver said, “You will address your superior in the proper fashion.”

  “See, that’s where you both have it all wrong. I’m not his subordinate. If whatever you’re leading toward requires that attitude, you can bounce on out of here. Because this conversation is permanently over.”

  The bald statement and the calm way Sean spoke silenced them both. Anyon was the first to recover. “It is precisely this attitude that may serve us well.”

  “There’s that word again,” Sean said. “Serve.”

  Anyon chose to ignore his reply. “We represent the same cause as Commander Taunton.”

  “This cause,” Sean said. “Does it have a name?”

  Carver replied, “We call ourselves Allies.”

  “And the bad guys?”

  “Officially, they do not exist,” Carver reminded him. “But we’ve heard that they call themselves the Order of the Scepter. A scepter is a staff held by an emperor as a sign of his authority. Sort of an ornamental weapon.”

  Sean protested, “But the Human Assembly has no emperor.”

  His words made the two older men become grimmer still. Finally Anyon said, “You are hereby assigned a place in the Institute of Higher Learning.”

  “The youngest ever,” Carver added. When Sean remained silent, Carver said, “A word of thanks is in order.”

  But Sean was still trying to get used to the idea of having shifted from a rudderless existence to being counted among the Assembly’s elite cadre. Incoming Institute cadets carried the official rank of major.

  Anyon said, “It is customary for a new member of the Institute to serve under the guidance of a senior Diplomat.”

  Sean had heard of this. “My official sponsor.”

  “In your case, you had three,” Carver said. “Insgar, myself, and the Ambassador here.”