The Tomorrow Log and Dragon Tide

by Sharon Lee

  "Holy shit."

  * * *

  "Attack globe in place, Acting Captain," the second mate reported respectfully and Mael Faztherot nodded.

  "Open comm lines," she directed, leaning back in her chair and laying her hands casually along the arm rests. "Release override program."

  * * *

  The mood on the bridge was one of vast disbelief as all stations stared at the overscreens, which showed a ring—nay, a globe—of ships, encircling the Big Ship at a uniform one-quarter light-second in all directions.

  They were largish ships—each the size of a small yacht, or an InRing siege-rider—built along old, but very serviceable lines. There were guns, several to a ship; also old, but potent enough; serviceable. The historian cleared her throat.

  "Generation Ship lifepods," she said, as if any of the shift doubted it.

  Security moved a hand toward the toggle that would alert his section chief—and jerked it back as the ship-to line crackled to life.

  "This is Mael Faztherot," a woman's cold voice washed over the bridge, "Acting Captain and First Mate of what had been the Ship Gardenspot."

  Security bent to his board, isolating the line, starting a tracer, barely heeding the words that issued impossibly from the sealed bridge line.

  "It has been brought forcibly to our attention that our Ship has fallen into disrepair, that, indeed, it presents a dangerous environment in which to engender and raise our children," the GenCaptain continued. "We have thus abandoned it and several of your battle-sworn are even now in the process of claiming it for themselves. This is good."

  The tracer went bad, the entire board shuddering into a mess of crazy readings. Swearing, sweating, Security punched up the auxiliary board and initiated another trace.

  "The ship we have abandoned is reparable," Mael Faztherot was saying, "but we are sadly destitute. Since The Combine is in part responsible for this state, since it denies us work, and hounds us from system to system, it seems only just to us that The Combine give over this Star Class ship in trade for which the Crew of Gardenspot does freely give its ship to The Combine."

  The tracer ran a flutter of insane readings and went dead. The third aux board refused to come up at all. Security looked around wildly.

  "They're into the scan lines!"

  Quartercon swore and began slapping at keys. The shift chief jumped for his board, spoke four words into a dead mike, slapped up an aux board and threw the mike down. He stood looking helplessly up at the overscreen; at the unmoving globe of ships, each with guns pointed dead center, directly at the Big Ship.

  "You have fifteen minutes," Mael Faztherot said, "to surrender the inner system keys to me and begin an orderly evacuation of your vessel. If evacuation has not begun within that time, we will take you by force."

  The secure, intruder-proof bridge comm went dead. The shift chief didn't move.

  Security levered himself out of the chair and looked over at the historian.

  "I'm going to the captain," he said. She nodded.

  He made his way across a bridge that was pandemonium as each crew member came to the conclusion that his station was dead, that even ambient readings might be untrustworthy.

  He was astonished, and not really relieved, to find that the door to the main corridor opened at his approach.

  * * *

  Veln had long since fallen asleep, drooping like a thin, fair doll in his web of shock straps. Finchet had debated carrying the boy to bed and had decided to leave him where he was, cushioned by the straps, in case the going got rough.

  He now had occasion to celebrate the wisdom of that decision, though not the leisure. For the going had gotten very rough, indeed.

  Finchet gamely struggled with the controls, fighting to keep the Garden stable in a turbulence that threatened to overturn them. He had expected atmospheric agitation, though he had not expected so much—nor that he would encounter it so quickly. And he had expected that the Garden would fly only slightly better than a rock.

  But there, he thought, fighting for equilibrium in a planetary overwind that might easily disorient a starship, the Garden had never been built to fly—or only to fly in the direst emergency. The most the builders had envisioned was the Atrium descending under its own power, carefully guided by a net of workpods. They could have never thought of this madness, with an ancient gardener and a sleepy boy trying to bring the thing down as if it were a proper ship. . ..

  The Garden shuddered, began to tip, and Finchet leaned to the board, pulling this lever, playing that dial, as if the physical work would correct the list.

  For the Garden had to stay oriented in its certain manner as it descended—treetops must invariably be UP, rocks, stream beds and moss must always be DOWN. Not like a proper ship at all, where up and down were dismissible relativities, saving only that the pilot was correctly oriented to the board.

  Incredibly, the agitation grew; the Garden rocked and somewhere Finchet heard a snap, as if a branch had broken from one of the trees in the glade. Swearing, he slapped up the last-ditch stabilizers: those to be used to aid landing.

  Within his webbing, Veln stirred, moaned and then screamed to wakefulness as the Garden bucked and outside a tree gave up entirely under the strain, shattered and came crashing across the cottage roof.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Anjemalti the Seeker dealt the ship its death-blow and Witness for the Telios was already running, secret heart and duty completely at one.

  He saw Death's Warrior fall, the bright blood blooming like roses across the back of her white shirt and he raised up his voice in song, that this latest of her sacrifices not go unmourned.

  A man stepped forward, blocking the way to the Smiter, gun raised and eyes glittering murder. Witness killed him with a knife-stroke, breaking neither stride nor song.

  He heard, above and between the sound of his own voice, the speech of guns and the panicked words of the gun-wielders, who only now noted that their ship was dead. Between and below the pounding of his own feet upon the hard earth of home, he felt the pounding of others—many others—and his secret heart soared.

  At the base of the dead ship, Anjemalti moved, dragging himself erect by fingertip holds upon the hull. He tottered where he stood and made a grab for the Smiter, which came willingly into his hand. Witness for the Telios stopped his running and his song, and dropped flat to the ground beneath the last of the foolish bullets, his eyes upon the Seeker's face.

  Anjemalti leaned on the Trident like an old man upon his staff, one arm limp and red to the fingers, his hair wild as windchaff and his fey eyes gleaming cold.

  "Surrender!" he shouted and his voice was neither old, nor worn, nor anything else so human. "Surrender or die!"

  The gun-wielders stirred, and one among them laughed. Witness heard the shot, saw the flash as the Trident ate the projectile.

  "Surrender!" Anjemalti cried again. "Your ship is dead and you are at the mercy of the Bindalche, who have no cause to love you."

  They muttered at that, and Witness heard some say that there were a lot of them, uphill and down—look, look at the dust they raised . . .

  "Fools!" snapped a voice from among the others. A figure strode forward, yanking at the ribands holding the war-helmet in place and throwing the helmet itself aside, revealing a woman's luxurious hair.

  Bold, she stepped forward, rifle riding her hip—across rock and baked earth, to the place where Death's Warrior lay.

  A grin, full of tooth and malice, she sent to Anjemalti, then she pulled the bolt on her rifle and lowered the muzzle until it lay against Corbinye's head.

  "Surrender?" she taunted. "Think again."

  One-handed, Anjemalti raised the Trident.

  The gun-woman laughed. It seemed to the Witness that he saw her finger tighten on the trigger—

  The first bolt kicked her backward, rifle snapping upward, releasing its charge into the sky.

  She got her feet under her, swung the rifle down, and brace
d herself, Anjemalti square in her sights . . .

  The second bolt consumed her, rifle, hair and war-suit; swallowed her in one fiery flare that left nothing at all behind, save a glassed-over ring of earth where she had been standing.

  "Surrender!" Anjemalti shouted a third time and his voice carried such blood lust Witness' secret heart went cold. "Surrender, or I'll eat you all!"

  "Trident Bearer!" A voice Witness knew all too well cried from the rear. "The Telios and the Bindalche are here in your service. Shall we rend now the enemies of our world? The Trident Bearer need only ask!"

  The gun-wielders stirred and Witness for the Telios came to his feet, dared face half-away from Anjemalti and the Smiter—and saw the green of Telios robes, forming a barrier along the high ground, while below spread the hundred of Tremillan Tribe, their weapons bright and bristling.

  One of the gunners moved, jamming the safety up on his weapon, unslinging it from his shoulder and throwing it far from him.

  In a moment, all the rest had done the same and Anjemalti the Seeker nodded and lowered the Trident and leaned against it, looking nothing but ill and wounded and mortal weary. He turned his head toward the green robes grouped upon the high ground.

  "These are my prisoners," he said, voice shuddering. "Secure them for me."

  Then he let go the Trident and fell.

  * * *

  The board sparked and something blew with a sharp snap! Finchet swore at screens gone dead, tried to slap up an auxiliary board that wasn't there and coughed as he took a lung full of rancid smoke.

  "Number Six screen gone," Veln was saying, voice steady as a veteran. "Data Bank Two blown. Forward stabilizers on the wobble." A pause. "The front half of the house is down, Uncle. We're trapped in here."

  "Gods be thanked it's not the back half," said Finchet, daring a moment to glance behind him, to the wall of rubble, and the place where the bed had been; "else we'd lose our chance to bring her down."

  Veln threw him a sick look. "Bring her down? We're blind, Uncle. Surely we can't go down—"

  "Oh, we'll go down," Finchet said grimly. He glanced over at the boy and did him the grace of saying it straight. "No choice on that."

  Veln's mouth tightened in a face already hullplate gray. Finchet nodded.

  "How much wobble in that forward 'lizer?"

  The boy glanced at the readings, frowned, and called for a recalibration. "Fluctuating," he said eventually; "twenty to forty percent."

  "Strain." Finchet nodded again, took his hands from the board and closed his eyes, feeling the Garden around him; feeling how it bucked and tipped, but mostly—mostly, by the gods of space—kept orientation. Maybe . . .

  He opened his eyes.

  "Assign your board to main," he told Veln. "Tip that chair back and engage the crash-webs. You've been taught the Hemvils?"

  "Yes, Uncle."

  "Use 'em," Finchet directed. "I want you limp as a willow wand, hear me?"

  "Yes, Uncle," said Veln, and did as he was told.

  "Good boy," said Finchet and then forgot everything but the boards.

  * * *

  The timer on the healing unit chimed and Ria opened her eyes, rolled off the gurney and went to pop the hood.

  Milt looked up at her with drug-hazed eyes, blinked and rasped out, "Ria?"

  "Who else?" she wondered. "You're not dying on me, are you, boy?"

  Memory stirred—his face scrunched and he shivered some, but the grin he gave her was real. "Naw. You don't get off as easy as that. Old woman."

  "Yah."

  His eyes sharpened still further. "Still on GenShip?"

  She nodded. "Dez taking his time."

  "Might be busy," he said and he was suddenly entirely back in his face. "They're going to take the Big Ship."

  "Going to try," Ria agreed and put a hand on his shoulder, though he hadn't tried to get up. "Nothing we can do about that. Just sit tight. Plenty air. Probably a canteen. We'll look, pretty soon. Light's not so bad, after your eyes adjust."

  "Yeah." The urgency had left his face, leaving it drained and grayish in the dim light. "Might take a nap."

  "Good idea," she said. "I'll look around. I'm not here, you wake up, relax. Be back soon."

  "Those big spiders . . ."

  "GenCaptain probably took 'em with her," Ria said practically. "Look useful. You tuck in."

  Milt closed his eyes, opened them. "Ria?"

  "Now what?"

  "You've got blood on your chin."

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Thanks I get," she said and dragged a sleeve across her mouth. "Better?"

  "Better," he returned. "Thanks."

  "Go to sleep," she said, and stood by the side of the cot until he did.

  * * *

  It was not to be expected that the captain of The Combine ship would be so fainthearted as to surrender his secret system codes without a fight. Mael Faztherot perfectly understood his position in the matter.

  It was with no tinge of anger, then, that she gave the order for the first pass.

  Three of the Crew's lifeships, manned by three of the Crew's best pilots, broke formation and went sweeping toward The Combine ship.

  Surprise played for them—by the time The Combine had understood that they were under active attack, it was too late to adjust range. Each of the three lifeships fired, as they had been instructed. Each scored a hit upon non-essential targets.

  Each swept perilously close to the docking bays of the huge vessel, discharged their payload and, mission complete, went tumbling away.

  Surprise did not play so well on the out-trip. One of the Combine gunners gained control of his board—or rode the luck high—and scored on one of the smaller ships, destroying it in a soundless flare.

  Mael Faztherot gripped the arms of her chair and forced herself to watch as the two remaining scrambled for safety—and made it, as the voices of the Combine techs came clearly over the pirated lines, cursing computer readings that went from senseless to mad.

  Mael Faztherot relaxed deliberately back into her chair and looked across at her second.

  "Now?" he asked, eyes gleaming in anticipation.

  She drew a careful breath and let it slowly out. "Now," she said, drawing a sleeve back so she could monitor the wristcomp, "we wait. And trust, if you will, in Grounder madness."

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Several of Tremillan Tribe came forward, weapons leveled, and herded together those of the Vornet ship, who went docile within a ring of warriors up the hill to the Grotto of the Telios.

  Green robes fluttered on the edge of Witness' vision, where he knelt in the broken earth by Anjemalti the Seeker.

  "I greet you, Shlorba's Eyes." Thus, the voice he knew as his own. His heart shuddered, but he kept to duty.

  The green robes rustled and she who had borne him moved out of vision's edge—then came entirely within his range as she knelt at the other side of the Seeker.

  Carefully, she pulled back her sleeves; carefully, turned Anjemalti over; carefully, and with great reverence, laid bare the wound. She conjured a kit from the depths of her robe, brought out padding and twine. Carefully, she tied the rough dressing into place and raised her eyes.

  "We will carry him to the Grotto and give him better there. Does your Witnessing tell you if the Trident still claims him?"

  He drew a deep breath and met her eyes without a quiver.

  "The Seeker's work is not done," he said.

  She bowed her head; raised it.

  "The Smiter is altered."

  "It is," he returned, forcing her to ask the question.

  She did so without apparent anger: "By what means?"

  "Anjemalti the Seeker, seeing with eyes beyond those of men, was given to know both the Smiter's injuries, and that which would heal them."

  "Praise to Anjemalti the Seeker," she murmured. "Praise to his eyes, which saw, and to his hands, which built." She glanced at him sharply.

  "We have tended the woman with the
braid. She is of some importance to the Seeker, ah? One would know her status."

  "She is Corbinye Faztherot, Death's Warrior."

  "Hah." Surprise there, and no little wonder. "We bear them both to the Grotto. Have you Heard the Smiter's will?"

  He was silent for a time, eyes dreaming on the Trident. When he returned to himself, Anjemalti was gone, but his mother still knelt on the earth, patient and tireless.

  "Let there come one who has neither fear nor desire," he said, noting how his voice cracked and how his head felt airy and overfull with light. "The Smiter will go with such a one, as far as Anjemalti's side."

  "One shall come," his mother said. She stood, and shook out her robes, and left him.

  He returned to the Witnessing, hovering in a place not unlike trance, though no dreams came to him there. Floating, he marked neither the failing of the sun, nor the five Bindalche warriors left to guard his honor. He was brought again to himself, indeed, by the merest spider-touch upon his shoulder and a slight, old voice murmuring, with bewitching irreverence, "Shlorba's Eyes, open, and see the world."

  He looked up into the Gatekeeper's wrinkled face without comprehension and she smiled, eyes gleaming in their net of wrinkles.

  "I am come to carry the Smiter to the Seeker," she told him gently. "Bear me company, do."

  As if he had choice. Mechanically, he got his legs under him—and almost cried out at the pain of cramped muscles. His thoughts floated high above his head, distant and cool as the night clouds now forming.

  The Gatekeeper bent and picked up the Trident. Held upright, it towered far over her head, and looked too heavy for her frail hand.

  As if reading his thoughts, she chuckled, deep in her hood. "No dishonor, should an oldster use the Smiter as a staff. True, Eyes?"