“If Lisandra Gad-Ayulia comes, you must find her before Aymon Flet and his companions do. Find her, and bring her to me. Persuade her if you can, bring her by force if you must. But bring her to me, at all costs.”
“What about the soldiers? What if they try to take her?”
“Then you have my permission to kill them,” the Muljaddy said. “All of them.”
* * *
“The Muljaddy told me to give you a weapon if you want one,” Curinn said. From the sour expression on his face, Karsman could tell he did not like the idea.
Karsman thought about it, then shook his head. He was a reluctant recruit in the Muljaddy’s private war, a war of whose scope and goals he still had only the vaguest idea. He felt no eagerness to drape himself in lethal weapons and take the war to the enemy. If he could avoid fighting at all, he would. Besides, he suspected that being discovered with a weapon would be grounds for immediate execution. Until he had a real plan to take out the three soldiers, he was better off without one.
“So what’s the story, Karsman?” said Curinn. “Are you some kind of super-soldier?”
Karsman shook his head. “It’s not like that,” he said. “I worked for a Muljaddy in the capital, that’s all.”
“And you weren’t sent here to spy on us?” Curinn’s voice was hard with suspicion.
The interview with the Muljaddy had left Karsman drained. He thought about summoning Diplomat to do his talking for him, to tell Curinn whatever it was that he needed to hear. But Diplomat, like his other personas, had been curiously distant since the Muljaddy had done whatever it was that they had done.
They put me into some kind of maintenance mode, Karsman thought. Rummaged through my head.
He felt the remains of a dull anger, a sense of having been violated. His mistress had never treated him so crudely. She had assumed that his gifts were there for her use, but she had never simply commanded them like that. As far as he could remember, she had never treated him as if he were merely a machine, pressing his buttons at random out of curiosity to see what he could do. In addition to anger, he felt fear. He now knew he could be commanded, that the right words could take him out of himself. A terrible suspicion had begun to form in his mind.
Karsman gave up on trying to coax Diplomat out of whatever deep recesses of his mind the persona had retreated to. “Nothing like that,” he told Curinn wearily. “I was . . . I just wanted to get away. Live an ordinary life.”
Curinn relaxed slightly. “Good luck with that,” he said.
They were retracing the same route as earlier, walking through the underground tunnel from the Muljaddy’s hideaway back toward the place where they had entered the buildings. The passage was not as dark as before, as if the diffuse glow that seeped from the ceiling had brightened a little. He wondered whether it was simply that his eyes had adjusted to the dimness, or whether the slow awakening of the machine-city was accelerating.
“What did the Muljaddy tell you?” he asked. “About the soldiers?”
“Not much,” said Curinn. “Simply to stay out of their way as much as possible. And do what they told us.”
“Good advice.”
“Magnan wanted to take them down.”
“Of course he did.”
The two men exchanged a look, and Curinn smiled.
“And about me? Now?” Karsman asked.
“Much the same. Stay out of your way. Help you if we can do so without risk.” Curinn paused. “If you’re looking for a private army, Karsman, look elsewhere.”
Karsman shook his head. “Do you get the impression that the Muljaddy are changing their plans?”
“Maybe.”
They are, said Strategist. The soldiers, too. Either their mission is evolving, or simply killing the woman was never really the goal. Everyone wants what she has.
What makes you say that?
They are trying to cold-start the machine, Strategist said. Get it up to a level at which a new seed instance can be loaded. How does that fit with a simple ambush-and-kill scenario?
Bait?
Strategist was silent for a moment, as if thinking. Maybe, it said at last, sounding dubious. But there is definitely something more going on.
Meaning?
Ask your new friend what he meant when he said that the soldiers were handicapped.
Karsman frowned. He had almost forgotten what Curinn had said as they made their way along the alley together.
“Before . . . when we were outside . . . why did you say the soldiers couldn’t see us?” he asked.
Curinn stopped and looked at him. “They came with almost nothing in the way of equipment,” he said. “They didn’t even have guns until we gave them ours.”
Reason it out, Karsman, said Strategist. If you’re a Power, and there’s something you want, you don’t send three men in their underwear. You send an army.
Unless?
Unless there are other players in the game. This is Amurri space. They don’t want an Intelligence booting up in their backyard.
Amurri?
A tribe of Intelligences. They—oh, never mind. Let’s just say they mostly run things in this corner of the galaxy.
Is there a reason that you suddenly know so much about galactic politics?
Not suddenly, said Strategist, sounding peevish. I’ve always known this stuff. Of course my knowledge is decades out of date by now.
So, these Amurri—
They don’t want any changes in the local balance of power. They could tolerate the Muljaddy because the Muljaddy are hicks. Simpletons. They can network twenty minds together. Big deal. That doesn’t even get you within shouting distance of entry to the smart club, Karsman. And the Amurri know that the Muljaddy aren’t going to be able to boot this array by themselves, because they’re too goddamn dumb. But the Amurri surely keep a close watch on anyone else who might try.
So—
So someone else got involved. Someone else agreed to sneak these soldiers through Amurri space. But they’re afraid of the consequences if they get caught. So they imposed conditions: only a handful of men. No weapons. No special technology.
I’m sure this is all very interesting in an abstract way, Karsman said, but what does it all mean?
Mean? It means that you’re in a position to make a difference. Congratulations, Karsman, the fate of worlds hangs in your hands. You’re a player on the galactic chessboard. What are the odds, eh?
Yeah, said Karsman, what are the odds?
He became aware that they had stopped walking. Curinn was looking at him curiously. He looked around and saw that they were once again in the room where they had first entered the Builder complex. At least, he thought it was the same room. They all resembled one another so much that it was hard to tell.
“Ready?” said Curinn. He had the flat box in his hand again, the one he had used to open the door.
“Sure. Actually . . . I think I will take that gun after all.”
“Suit yourself,” Curinn said. He reached down and unsnapped his holster, pulling his pistol free. With his other hand he pressed the box against the wall.
The door slid open, and the dim light of day spilled in through the opening. Curinn froze, the gun still in his hand.
There were bootprints in the dry soil just outside the door, faint but still visible. The prints were their own, Karsman realized, his and Curinn’s. They led directly to the wall of the building and vanished.
One of Flet’s men, the giant, was kneeling just a couple of meters away, studying the prints. As the door opened, he raised his head and looked straight at Karsman. The black visor still hid half his face.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I told you we were faster, Warrior said.
Karsman steadied himself against the side of a building, breathing hard. There was a dull ache in his shoulder where one of the giant’s blows had landed. He thought he might have a broken rib as well, but Warrior was doing something to mask the pain, reducing it to little more than a pinching s
ensation each time he inhaled. Maybe it was only bruised, and not actually broken.
Pure luck that I wasn’t holding the gun when the door opened or I’d be as dead as poor Curinn.
We’re just better, insisted Warrior.
Karsman did not try to argue. He looked over to where the giant lay in the dirt like a fallen tower. A little ways beyond, Curinn’s body lay crumpled against the base of the building, his face upturned, eyes staring sightlessly at the sky.
The giant was dead. At least, his neck was certainly broken, and Karsman hoped that that meant he was dead.
He remembered little of the fight. His last memory was of Curinn raising the gun and the soldier turning toward him, ready to counter the threat of the weapon. Perhaps the soldier’s bioware was designed to prioritize armed opponents over unarmed. If so, Curinn’s instinctive gesture and the soldier’s reaction had cost both men their lives. The giant’s momentary miscalculation had given Warrior the split-second opening he needed.
Karsman pushed himself away from the building and limped over to his fallen adversary. Curinn’s pistol lay in the dirt nearby. Not really thinking about what he was doing, Karsman picked up the weapon, thumbed off the safety, and fired a round into the middle of the giant’s forehead. The man’s head bounced once, and a halo of dark blood started to grow lazily around it.
Working quickly, Karsman took the soldier’s pistol and some spare magazines. He searched Curinn’s body, too, rummaging through the pouches on the dead man’s belt. There was little enough in them that he could use, but he took the device that Curinn had used to open the door and some more ammunition. He tucked the weapons into the pockets of his coveralls.
Time to move, said Strategist. They’re probably networked. The other two will be coming this way soon.
Karsman glanced back at the bodies: one dead enemy and one dead ally. He shook his head and broke into a stumbling run.
* * *
Karsman kicked open the door of Kido’s shop. The plastic panels crumpled under the impact of his boot, and the simple lock popped free with a dry snap. The door sagged open, hanging by a single hinge. Karsman pushed it out of the way and went in.
The lights came on automatically as he entered, revealing the shabby interior: the tiny bar with its rack of bottles, the flat picture panels on the walls dimmed and lifeless, a glass-fronted cabinet filled with sealed packets of processed food from the Muljaddy’s vats. The cabinet was not locked. Karsman opened it and started helping himself.
A movement to his left almost brought Warrior to the foreground again, raging and lethal, but luckily Karsman recognized Kido in time. The shopkeeper stuck his head out through the curtain that separated the shop from his bedroom, squinting sleepily through half-closed eyes.
“Karsman? What are you—”
“I need a bag,” Karsman told him, still grabbing food from the cabinet. “Any kind of bag.”
The shopkeeper seemed to notice the broken door for the first time. His eyes widened as he took in Karsman’s general air of dishevelment, his dusty clothing and the bruises on his face. He took a step backward, shrinking back against the doorframe.
Karsman dumped a stack of containers on the bar, then went around behind it to look for something he could use to carry them. Rummaging through the accumulated junk, he found a canvas bag with one broken handle. The bag was filled with plastic cups, so he dumped them unceremoniously out onto the floor. They bounced and rattled around his feet as he started to fill the bag with stolen food. Kido watched him from the doorway but made no move to interfere.
Tucking the bag under his arm, Karsman turned and headed for the door. Kido was still frozen in shock. Karsman stopped. All the scrip he had saved was under the pillow in his shack. He had no time for that now in any case.
“Go to my shack,” he said. “You’ll find some salvage in the locker in the corner. Small stuff, mostly. Take anything you want. Take it all.”
He left the shop without waiting for an answer. Outside, the wind had picked up and billows of red dust were blowing in from sunward. At the far end of the town, the Temple still lay across the Road like a shipwreck, its swooping roofline silhouetted against the muted orange of the sky. A small team of workers were busy with some task on one of the upper levels, but Karsman saw no sign of black-uniformed temple guards or alien soldiers. He hesitated for a moment, then stepped out onto the Road.
He jogged the rest of the way to his own shack, holding the bag against his chest with one hand, one of the stolen pistols in the other. The pain in his side was more intense now, a sharp stab that made him catch his breath with every step. Later, when he had more time, he would summon up Doctor to do whatever could be done. For now he would just have to endure the pain.
He stopped to listen for a moment at the door of his shack, but any sound from inside was drowned out by the rising wind. He put his shoulder to the door and heaved it open.
Mera was seated cross-legged on the bed, Steck sitting on the floor beside her, his back against the wall. They looked up in shock at the sight of Karsman in the doorway with the gun in his hand.
“Karsman? What—”
There was no one else in the shack. Karsman pushed Warrior into the background and tucked the gun away in the hip pocket of his coveralls. He dumped the bag down on the table.
“Get your jacket on and grab your stuff,” he told Mera.
He tried to think what there was in the shack that might be useful. Eventually, he’d want his tools again—his cutting torch and chisels, handsaw and grabs—but now they’d just slow him down. His climbing gear was the only other thing that he could think of that might be useful, but it would take too long to gather all the pieces together. He would leave it all behind, and Kido could take it in payment for his broken door.
He found a spare tool bag and threw a few bottles of water into it, wishing he had time to walk down to the Temple and fill more. But the Temple was the last place he wanted to go right now.
Steck found his voice at last. “Karsman, what’s going on?”
Karsman took a deep breath and felt another stab of pain. “I have to get out of here,” he said. “I killed one of the soldiers.”
“You killed one—How?”
“It doesn’t matter. But if the others find me, they’ll kill me. And maybe her as well. I need to go. Now.”
You’re panicking, said Warrior. Give me control.
We need to make a plan, said Strategist. You can’t just go running off blindly.
Let me attend to your injuries, said Doctor.
Karsman forced the personas to be quiet. Mera was already on her feet, the small rucksack that was the only thing she had brought with her in her hand. He grabbed her wind jacket from the hook behind the door and threw it to her.
“You should go home, Steck,” he said. “You’re not mixed up in this. Just keep your head down and you’ll be fine.”
The little man shook his head. “You have somewhere to go?” he asked.
“I think so,” Karsman said.
“Then I’m coming with you.” He picked up the bag that held all his tools and climbing gear and slung it over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
From the look of determination on Steck’s face, Karsman knew that it would be futile to try to argue with him.
“Fine,” he said. “Follow me.”
* * *
The tunnel was smaller than the one Curinn had led him through earlier, the walls of Builder metal pressing uncomfortably close on either side, the ceiling barely high enough for Karsman to stand upright. A few light spots in the ceiling and walls glowed feebly, shedding just enough light to reveal the basic contours of the tunnel.
“All these years,” Steck said. “I had no idea any of this was here.” He spoke in a whisper, as if afraid that the soldiers might be lurking somewhere nearby.
“How did you do that?” Mera asked. “Make the door appear?”
Karsman peered into the dimness ahead of them. As far a
s he could tell they were still moving parallel to the Road, but he had the impression that the tunnel was sloping downward. He wondered how deep it went.
Rather than go all the way back to the tower that he had entered with Curinn, he had used the device on the wall of the building closest to his shack, hoping it might reveal any hidden doors. It had taken a few tries, but at last a section of wall slid open to allow them in.
“The Muljaddy and his guards have tools that can open the buildings,” he said. “I took Curinn’s.”
“Curinn?” Steck said.
“He’s dead. The soldier killed him.”
“Oh.” Steck hesitated for a moment. “He . . . he wasn’t a bad man. I liked him.”
“Me too.”
“Do you know where we’re going?” Mera asked.
Karsman took a deep breath. “Not exactly, no,” he admitted.
“But you do have a plan, yes?”
Not what I would call a plan, said a voice at the back of his mind. Strategist, Karsman assumed. Or perhaps simply the voice of his own common sense.
“There are tunnels that run off to the side,” Karsman said. “Out under the desert, away from the Road. We follow one of those until it comes to the surface, then turn and walk parallel to the Road until we’re well away from the city. Then we just follow the Road to the next town.”
He did his best not to think about what would happen if the tunnel did not lead back to the surface. He had to admit that he wasn’t really thinking ahead. At the moment, his only priority was to put as much distance between them and the soldiers as possible.
On cue, Strategist resurfaced.
Justify your reasoning, the persona told him. Why won’t the soldiers simply hunt you down wherever you go? They know you can’t live in the desert. Sooner or later you have to come back to the Road, and then they’ll be waiting for you.
They’re professionals, Karsman said. They might want revenge for their friend, but they can’t come after me without abandoning their mission.
And what if you’re right? What if she really is this woman they are looking for? Then they have a reason to follow you.
They don’t know she exists. And they don’t know she is with me. The only other person who even knew she was in town was Steck.
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