by Thomas Locke
This time, Sean had no choice but to say, “Thank you both.”
Anyon might have smiled. Sean did not know him well enough to tell the difference between a smirk and genuine mirth. “Your brother is on Aldwyn, a mining planet in the Cygneus system.”
“Aldwyn is a phenomenon known as a wandering planet.” Carver waved that aside. “Everything else must wait. The Ambassador has to prepare.”
Anyon continued, “You will be installed as a member of the official cadre responsible for determining whether the system is ready for admission to the Assembly. Your official title is Junior Planetary Examiner.”
Now Sean could think of nothing to say except, “Wow.”
“You will journey with my team initially. Once your credentials are well established, you will transit to Aldwyn and coordinate with your brother. Cylian and I will be your contacts.” Carver handed over a palm-size tablet. “This contains an outline of your official duties. There is also a summary of what little we know about the situation on Aldwyn. Its capital is called Loghir. You are formally charged with making an initial survey. Your official remit allows you entry to any place at any time. You are required to travel without guide or monitor.”
Anyon said, “You must locate your brother as swiftly as possible. The Messenger’s name is Aldo. He will serve as your point of entry. Report back as soon as you can.”
“Take great care,” Carver said. “Aldwyn’s other name is the Dead World. From all accounts, the planet deserves its reputation.”
25
The corporal guard’s name was Kyle, and he proved to be a nice guy, once the officers decided Dillon was no threat. Sidra shadowed them but did not speak to Dillon at all. The pair took him to the mess hall, where he ate a meal as good as many he’d known at the Academy. While he ate, Kyle told him, “I was a corporal in the supply depot. All my future held was eight more years of sheer boredom. No chance of any real duties.” He pointed to his left knee. Dillon had already noticed how he slightly dragged his leg with each step. “Had this since birth.”
“But they drafted you anyway?”
“Oh, no. I enlisted. It was my ticket out. At least at the supply depot I ate well. Most of my unit share two traits—hard beginnings and a desire to better ourselves.”
“How did you come together?”
“Through Logan,” Kyle replied. “So he should be the one to explain.”
Thankfully, it was approaching their downtime, because Dillon was at the end of a very long day. He was assigned a bunk in a barracks with about a dozen male troopers. He had intended to stay awake and see what useful items might arise during the lights-off chatter. But he was asleep the instant his head hit the pillow.
The next morning they breakfasted in the mess, then waited in the front room for orders. Dillon saw another squad arrive with four new prisoners in tow. The captives were ushered back through a side door, which opened long enough for him to spy a trio of holding cages.
Logan’s leash proved both long and flexible. First Vance and then Nicolette took Dillon on forays into the market area. They clearly enjoyed watching Dillon’s reaction to his first sight of a crystal dome. A river of silver formed a pendant across the black sea.
The market held a tawdry, careworn air. It reminded Dillon of stories he’d read about the Marrakech casbah, the sort of place tourists might come looking for trouble, and find it. He imagined that when the place was in full swing, almost anything could be had for a price, including the buyer’s own limbs. Dillon thought the vast cavern held an almost irresistible appeal.
They showed him the guarded tunnel leading to Clan Havoc’s main holds. They explained the wandering planet’s unique history. When Logan joined them at a restaurant for bowls of some unnamed stew, Dillon asked, “How did you find the walkers?”
Logan finished his bowl and asked for tea. He then turned back to Dillon and waited. There were five of them at the table—Logan, Dillon, Kyle, Nicolette, and Sidra. Dillon ate and waited with them. The stew tasted good, a lot better than many of the meals he’d eaten at the Academy. Of course, he was on an airless planet and had seen no area set aside for growing real food. Dillon could see the headline now: Former Praetorian cadet, recently released from prison, dies on secret mission after eating rat stew spiced with tunnel fungus.
Then he realized Logan was waiting for him to answer his own question. Dillon said, “There’s a specialist division of transiters called Watchers. One of the abilities that all senior personnel must learn is how to detect a potential transiter, even when the individual doesn’t know they hold the gift. That’s how we were found.”
Nicolette asked, “We?”
“I have a twin brother. Sean.”
“He walks the ghost paths as well?”
The ghost paths. Dillon loved how that sounded. “He does.”
“How many specialties for the walkers are there?”
“A lot. But they break down into six main groups. Admin, Instructors, Messengers, Watchers, Diplomats, and Praetorian.”
Nicolette continued to play interrogator, allowing Logan to sit back, sip his tea, and observe. “No merchants?”
“That would put us into direct conflict with planetary interests,” he replied, giving them the party line. “Some transiters disagree. But that’s the status quo for now.”
“All of you develop weaponry?”
“Just Praetorians. The planetary Assembly likes to pretend we don’t exist.”
Logan cradled his mug and said, “To answer your question, I sniffed out the ghost-walkers. As you said, it happened before they knew it was even possible.”
Dillon nodded. “With training, you can learn to sniff from half a world away.”
“Even when I can’t ghost-walk myself?”
He shrugged. “Everybody has abilities that come easy, others that only surface after a lot of work. My guess is, a few months of intense instruction and you’ll develop that ability as well.”
“I would like that,” Logan said. “A great deal.”
Dillon’s next question was interrupted by Vance rushing into the stall. “You need to come right now!”
Logan rose from the table and told Kyle, “Take our guest for another sortie.”
“No, no,” Vance protested. “He must come as well.”
“What are you saying?”
He pointed back toward their temporary headquarters. “A prisoner just confirmed the weapon Dillon seeks is real.”
26
Once Anyon departed from Sean’s apartment, Carver asked, “Do you have something appropriate to wear?”
“Yes,” Sean replied.
“The Institute’s uniform won’t work,” Carver insisted. “You have risen beyond that. And not something that will tag you as originating from an outpost world. There are some among the Ambassador’s party who’ll be looking for a reason to dismiss a newcomer.”
The more things changed, Sean reflected, the more they stayed exactly the same. He reached toward the back of his closet and extracted an outfit he had only worn once before. “Will this do?”
Carver’s eyes widened. “Where did you come up with that?”
“It was Insgar’s idea.” The suit was an elegant copy of the senior Diplomat’s formal attire. Only this one held neither medals nor rank. His jacket and trousers were both of midnight blue, tailored from the finest cloth available. The velvet collar was of the same color and matched the column hiding his jacket buttons. “I wore it to the dinner she held for Elenya’s parents.”
“That will do perfectly.” As Sean changed, he said, “You know the story of the outpost twins who saved the Assembly?”
“Professor Kaviti claimed it was a trifling affair and refused to teach it,” Sean replied.
“Ambassador Kaviti is a fool,” Carver said.
“No argument there.”
“When this is over, I will personally instruct you and Dillon in the matter. For the moment, know this. Your actions in defeating the alie
ns and the rescue of your friend’s relative—both indicate that same potential.” Carver gave that a long beat, then asked, “Do you know the definition of a hero?”
“No sir.”
“A hero is a common soul who rises to meet the challenges of his or her time. I urge you to think on that.” Carver rose to his feet. “Ready?”
“Yes,” Sean replied. And now he was.
They made Sean stay with the official group through an excruciatingly long day. First came speeches in a language he had not yet had a chance to learn. Four hours spent sitting and trying not to fidget or yawn. Then Anyon and a potentate from Cygneus Prime signed some documents. Which meant another hour of standing around and applauding on cue. Then a press conference. Military parade. And finally a banquet. Sean had no idea what the planet looked like, other than some fancy rooms and the view from a balcony where he stood and watched an army march past.
The food at the banquet wasn’t bad. At least, Sean enjoyed the first seven courses. After that, he kept hoping one of the servants would offer him a pillow. He was seated at the far corner of the central table, beside the same Cygnean official who had shadowed him all day. The guy didn’t speak any lingo but his own, was about five hundred years old, had the face of a desiccated prune, and possessed all the personality of a cadaver.
After the banquet, Cylian stepped up beside him and said, “One more meeting and we’re done.”
Sean groaned softly.
“I take it you did not enjoy yourself.”
“If this is a Diplomat’s life,” Sean replied, “you can count me out.”
Only then did he realize she was smiling. It transformed her features. The cold hardness was completely erased. In its place was an elfin mischief. “This shouldn’t take long,” she promised.
But she was wrong. They met in Anyon’s palace suite and went over the next day’s schedule, which was basically more of the same. Nobody else seemed the least troubled by the prospect. When they finally broke up, Cylian motioned for him to remain behind.
After everyone except Carver departed, Anyon said, “Are you ready to begin your true work?”
“Absolutely,” Sean replied.
“Our Sean did not enjoy himself today,” Cylian offered.
“This is merely window dressing,” Carver said. “Theatrics required by the job.”
Anyon moved about the room, shifting the position of small items, then stepping to the next table. “I am wondering if it might be better to send in a bevy of Praetorians.”
“No,” Carver said. “No troops. Not yet.”
“We don’t even know if his brother is still alive.”
Suddenly Sean was no longer sleepy. “What?”
“Dillon was supposed to have checked in,” Carver said, then continued to Anyon, “There are a hundred reasons for him not having reported back. That is why we selected him as our field agent. A good agent must be able to live beyond the rules.”
Anyon shifted to the window. “A dozen seasoned troops—”
“—will break the conditions being set in place by the treaty you are negotiating. We had to agree to that point before they issued our formal invitation.”
Anyon shifted the curtains, stared at the night, then let the drapes fall back in place.
Carver turned to Sean and Cylian. He gestured silently. Go.
Cylian reached for his hand. They went.
27
Dillon thought the jail was the most cave-like portion of the entire militia enclosure. It was connected to the main headquarters building by a windowless rock corridor that extended between the rear hydroponics sheds. The barred enclosures filled a long, high-ceilinged room. Half of the cells were empty, which Dillon thought was curious, since so many prisoners had been brought through. He asked where the prisoners had been taken, but his guard replied that his question was not proper.
Dillon was beginning to spot the local transiters, or ghost-walkers, for they all shared the taut builds and hardfisted expressions of early poverty. As they passed through the jail, he saw how the caged prisoners shrank away at their approach, clearly terrified of being forced to walk the ghostly ways another time.
They had shifted the captive from the cages to a room that probably had belonged to a senior prison guard. It was windowless and whitewashed and became cramped when they all piled in—Dillon, Logan, Vance, Sidra, Nicolette, and the two soldiers who had been interrogating the prisoners before they were sent wherever.
The inmate looked like a nervous bank clerk, all except his hands, which were far too large for his scrawny frame. Dillon put his age at late forties in Earth years, and his weight at 120 soaking wet. Which this guy was definitely working toward, the way he was sweating. He was mostly bald, with two raccoon stripes of rat-brown hair running above each temple. He looked underfed and eager. Clearly the guy thought that this gathering meant he was one step closer to some kind of reward.
He wiped his nose every few words, like he had a nervous tic. His eyes burned like coals and were never still. Neither were his hands, big mallets that jerked and fluttered, like they fought against being attached to his gaunt arms.
Logan asked his questioners, “Does he speak our tongue?”
“Not a word, sir. Least, that’s what he claims.”
“Vance.”
The gallant officer stepped forward and addressed him calmly. The guy’s response was guttural and gunshot swift. Vance spoke again. The man barked in reply.
Vance turned to Logan and said, “He insists on seeing gold before he says anything else.”
Nicolette said, “He had a blade hidden somewhere and tried to knife two of my crew when we brought him in. Let them have a few minutes alone and we’ll see how fast he sings.”
Logan shook his head. “We want the truth, not some carpet woven from Havoc lies.” He turned to the interrogators and said, “Give me everything he’s said so far. Word for word. Start from the beginning.”
The woman who served as spokesperson for the pair was squat and had a pockmarked face. “We’ve been bringing them for the quick interrogations, one by one just like you ordered. Some are scared enough of the ghost-walk to tell us the little they know. Havoc is definitely planning a big push into Hawk territory. Duke Tiko is after claiming the Hawk province as his own.”
“What we suspected,” Nicolette said.
“Anything else?” Logan asked.
“Not until we started on this one. Soon as the door was shut and his mates couldn’t hear, he claimed Havoc’s been working on a new weapon. Something from long ago. Said Duke Tiko had a force training in secret. Just waiting for the right moment.” She shrugged. “Then he demanded gold.”
Logan turned to Vance. “If it’s so secret, how does he even know it exists? Ask him that.”
Vance used the same affable tone, and the guy responded with the same nervous snarl. “He claims to have been one of the early recruits to test the weapon. And that’s all he’ll say until the gold is in his hands.”
“Tell the prisoner we will resume when payment is at hand.” Logan said to the two guards, “You did well. This prisoner is to stay under constant watch.”
“Aye, sir.”
Logan waited until the prisoner had been led away, then said to Dillon, “I could go to my contacts here and ask for their gold. We’ve done enough to justify their help, clearing most of the Havoc troops from the market. But my uncle is a cautious man. He will want to negotiate. It could require hours. Days. Plus, going to him means using up the debt they now owe me.”
Dillon liked Logan’s up-front manner. “I can get the gold here pronto.”
But Logan wasn’t done. “If I agree and let you return to your home planet . . .”
“Not my home,” Dillon replied. “Serena. The capital of the Human Assembly.”
“How do I know you won’t return with a hundred of your Praetorians? I don’t want your gold that much.”
“I read you loud and clear,” Dillon replied. “An
d I guess it all comes down to trust. But I have one thing I’d like to try that might just make my travel unnecessary.”
28
Sean transited from the meeting with Anyon back to Cylian’s office on Serena. Since she had left Kaviti’s team she had been reassigned to another unit in the main judiciary building, one separated by several floors from Kaviti. She gave Sean long enough to anchor himself, then they transferred to her apartment.
Cylian’s living quarters were surprisingly warm and feminine for such an aloof person. Sean did not know what to say about being there, and Cylian did not give him much of a chance. She handed him a language headset and bid him a good night.
Sean transited back to the loft and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. The next morning, he took his time over breakfast, then had a long shower and dressed in jeans and an unironed knit shirt. As he hung the tailored outfit back in his closet, he stroked the sleeve, thinking back to the night in Insgar’s compound—the dinner with Elenya and her parents and the love strong enough to defy planetary opposition. Or so Sean had thought.
He made himself another cup of coffee and drank it on the balcony. It was late afternoon Earth time, and the trees danced to an incoming summer storm. He returned inside, washed out the pot and his mug, then packed a bag.
As he prepared to transit back to Cylian’s apartment, Dillon blasted into his consciousness.
During the aliens’ first assault, Sean had developed an ability to communicate with Dillon by thought alone. It took them the better part of a year to get where they could control the process to a certain extent. But it never grew easy for either of them. Many within the transit community doubted they could do it at all, for the process had never been accomplished by anyone else. And now the emotions resulting from their unraveled relationships left them unable to do it at all.
Or so Sean had assumed.
Which magnified the shock of Dillon contacting him. The communication was fragmented but still carried the unmistakable sense of achievement.