A Prison Unsought

by Sherwood Smith

  On the surface, the visit had been pleasant and agreeable. Brandon’s reaction was mute evidence that Jaim’s instincts were correct: some kind of battle of wills had just taken place, though who had won was impossible to say.

  It was the first indication Jaim had that Brandon was not, after all, steering his tranquil course wide of the maelstrom of reforming government.

  Indication but not evidence.

  Yet Jaim had learned to listen and to evaluate not just what was said, but what was left unsaid.

  Jaim had assumed that Brandon, in finding himself back within Panarchic governance, merely made the best of it with his habitual grace, contenting himself with convivial company, a continual round of parties, and in quiet hours a resumption of his old studies.

  To him, Brandon talked freely about food or drink, about games, navigation, archaic forms of music, the difficulties of retuning a drive cavity when the fiveskip has gone down: all the minutiae of daily life, even—with an objective moderation that rarely failed to entertain—the people he met during a day’s course in that life, but never about those whose energies were expended primarily in shaping, guiding, or destroying the destinies of whole planets. He never confided in anyone, or talked of the things that mattered.

  Once he had confided in a person, in Markham vlith-L’Ranja, Jaim reminded himself. Then Markham was taken away, and by the time Brandon caught up with him, Markham was dead.

  Jaim reviewed the conversation, counting up what had been said and what had not been said.

  The Vows of Service: the Archon had made them, that was said, and what was not said: Brandon had not. Implied: he’d run away.

  Said: the Dol’jharians have hyperwave capability. Srivashti’s lack of surprise meant he already knew about something the Navy was keeping a tight lid on, and but what did his smirk mean? That Brandon is a fool for his careless mention?

  Said: the government is falling to pieces, needs authority. Not said: the Panarch must be declared dead before Brandon can be that authority.

  “Until we know . . .” Adrenaline boosted Jaim’s heartbeat. He’d missed the second meaning of that comment: not just knowing about the Panarch, but about the truth of his last remaining son’s escape from the mass murder at his Enkainion.

  But that accentuated the point of the whole conversation, summed up in its last part.

  Said: that Brandon ought to make more social appearances. Not said: Brandon ought to take Srivashti’s advice. No, his orders. And leave government to those who knew what they were doing.

  Jaim turned around when Brandon dropped into a pod, his forehead sweat-lined, eyes closed, his face drawn. Jaim comprehended that two separate conversations had taken place, and began to suspect that Brandon had lost both games deliberately.

  Jaim rubbed his jaw, wishing he could recall the exact sequence of shots in the first game; he was convinced now that the apparently random shots—sometimes at real balls, sometimes at the faux—had even conveyed some kind of meaning.

  It wasn’t a conversation, it was a duel.

  The reference to the “half-dozen tutorials” recurred. With his new insight, Jaim identified them: the murder attempts. Tutorials? But what more effective way to force conformity onto a foolish drunkard?

  Whether Srivashti had initiated those attempts or not, his reaction made Jaim fairly sure he knew about them. So Brandon had found out how much he knew about those, as well as about the Dol’jharians possessing hyperwave.

  The gig bumped up gently next to the station lock then, and Brandon opened his eyes. “Let’s go,” he said.

  When they reached the Enclave, Brandon seemed to have recovered his energy.

  They found Montrose having just arrived. He gave Jaim a nod, which Brandon observed. The two Rifters would no doubt find time to take a walk in the gardens to share whatever it was Lokri had said.

  Brandon waved them into the room he used as a study, where Ki was at work at the console. Ki half-rose, ready to vacate, but Brandon said, “Please stay. This concerns you, too.” And to them all, “It is time, the Archon Srivashti reminded me, to spread goodwill through social pleasures.” He spread his hands, and Montrose rumbled a laugh deep in his massive chest. “Ki, run the list of invitations we’ve received.”

  “Here they are,” came Ki’s quiet voice.

  Jaim wondered what had triggered this change in mood as Brandon stared down at the ranked lists on the console, his arms crossed and his head askance.

  Then he reached past Ki’s shoulder and tapped once.

  “Again, along this axis,” he said.

  Ki nodded, worked, then sat back.

  Brandon said, “I think, comrades, it is time for the Enclave to return the hospitality of our outside friends.” He snapped his fingers. “I know: a concert.” He smiled around, his gaze landing last on Montrose. “Don’t you think?”

  Montrose shrugged his big shoulders. “What I think is, are we feeding any of them?”

  “Just refreshment. And in keeping with the, ah, spirit of Aerenarch-Consort Vannis’s new fashion for retrenchment, let us keep it simple.”

  “Simple but memorable,” Montrose said.

  “I leave it in your capable hands,” Brandon said.

  Montrose shut his eyes, then smiled. “Capable indeed. Well, let us see what your ancestors laid down in those storerooms.”

  “And,” Brandon added, raising a finger, “I would request your musical talents as well, to open and close the affair.”

  “Ah?” Montrose turned to him, his heavy brows raised.

  “Yes.” The Aerenarch’s smile stretched to a grin, the edges of his teeth showing. “‘The dead shall live, the living die, and Music shall untune the sky.’”

  Montrose laughed as Brandon turned to Ki. “Invite them all.”

  “All?”

  “Yes. With an addition or two of my own.”

  Ki blinked, his high brow faintly puckered. “I think that’s too many to fit comfortably into your hall here—”

  “Exactly.” Brandon gestured toward the lake. “We’ll use the pavilion. But.” Again that toothy grin. “We will make it seem like home.”

  Montrose rubbed his hands and motioned to Ki. While they talked, Brandon beckoned to Jaim. “I understand,” he said, “you are taking Ivard and the Telvarna crew to the upcoming splat-ball tournament. I’d like to tag along.”

  o0o

  With delicate twists of her tool, Marim finished wiring the underside of the console. “There,” she called. “Try that, Ozip.”

  She waited, appreciating the shape of Ozip’s legs as he tested the console above. Shortly thereafter the legs shifted, and a dark, handsome face with laughing eyes appeared upside down. “Up and running green,” Ozip said. “We’re done!”

  “And in plenty of time,” Marim said, scrambling out. “Shall I meet you there? I have to change and get my roommate.”

  Ozip blinked. “Your mysterious Dol’jharian is actually stepping out of that hole? I didn’t know Dol’jharians had a taste for splat-ball. Is it violent enough?”

  Marim grinned. A taste for escape, chatzhead.

  “I can walk partway with you,” Ozip offered.

  “You live closer. Save some good seats,” Marim said, shoving her bare feet into her mocs.

  Ozip hesitated, then got to his point. “And after?”

  Marim laughed, leaning against the console of the ship they were in the midst of repairing. “After comes after!”

  Ozip echoed her laugh, not trying to hide his desire. Marim made a slow business of putting her gear together, waiting until he was gone.

  Then she moved quickly, sliding a small chip from a concealed pocket. This she kept pressed against her palm as she hefted her bag of tools and started out. One last admiring glance around the ship, which was a well-designed old Guildenfire, popular among traders. It had taken a terrible beating in some battle; Marim wondered what the story was as she slapped the lock-plate, then forgot all about the ship and its un
known owner as she sprinted down the tube to the relay desk.

  A tired-looking young Navy ensign logged her in.

  Her heart sped up: this was her boy.

  His heart sped up; this was his second week on this desk, and his excitement at being promoted to ensign ahead of time and given a real assignment had faded into disappointment at the end of the second boring day. The only relief, he and his friends agreed, was when the Rifters talked to them. Especially the hot ones.

  “Long shift,” Marim said agreeably. She was hotter than most, the way she leaned down cozily, her tight shirt outlining her shape. “But we seem to be getting somewhere.”

  “Until we get another wave of refugees,” the ensign answered, sitting back as she leaned over him, smiling.

  “More refugees?” Marim asked. “Where’ll they put ’em? No more room in the oneill. And up here, D-5’s already crammed to the max. And they just doubled up all those ’dwellers from Cincinnatus in D-4—”

  “I don’t know,” the ensign said, as Marim hitched a hip over the edge of his desk. He tried not to stare at that promising roundness. Everyone said the Rifters were easy to hook up with. So far, this was the closest he’d come to a pretty one.

  He licked his lips, trying not to stare. “I hear they’re thinking of opening up a couple of areas in the oneill and shifting over to hydroponics for some of the crops. But for now, they’ll just jam them somewhere in the Cap.”

  She reached a hand up to fluff her hair, her shirt straining against her breasts. “Going to the tourney?”

  He swallowed. It sounded so loud. He blushed. “Not off duty until twenty-two hundred,” he said, trying to calm his heartbeat. “Four on, four off, until further notice. But at least it’s getting our ships finished.”

  “Someone said that the Grozniy’s almost ready.” Marim held his gaze, grinning.

  The ensign grinned back. “Sure is. I’m Grozniy. We’re moving back on board tomorrow. Not too soon! You know it’s crowded when shipboard seems spacious.”

  “Poor blits,” Marim said, watching his eyes track quickly down her body, then away. “Too bad you can’t go to the tourney. Everyone is going to be there. Civilian, Navy—even us Rifters!”

  He looked wistful. “They were all talking about it at chow. But once we get Grozniy back, maybe we can host one.”

  “That’d be fun.” She yawned and stretched both arms over her head, her shirt straining. “Think they’ll have this one on the net?”

  “Probably.” He blinked, caught her eye, blushed, looked down at her . . . He blushed even more, his gaze bouncing. “But when we’re on duty—”

  She shifted her hip, and . . . “Chatz!” she cried as her bag of tools spilled across his console, bounced off his lap, and clunked unmusically on the floor about his feet. She made a futile dive, one of her breasts pressing inadvertently against his nose.

  The ensign jerked back, a crimson tide suffusing his neck. “Here. I’ll get them,” he said, ducking hastily down.

  “Sanctus Hicura, what a mess,” Marim crooned. “I’m so-o-o tired, I just don’t know what I’m doing anymore . . . You’re so sweet . . .” She went on in this manner as her fingers moved swiftly over his keypads, killing audio, entering a code, sliding her chip in, and executing the program. She yanked the chip out with one hand and slapped the audio back on—just as the youth began to straighten up, both fists full of tools.

  She held out her bag to receive her tools. “I must be more tired than I thought,” she said, smiling directly into his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I think we’re all tired,” he said, his ears tingling. “No trouble.”

  She waved jauntily, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “See you!” And she left, holding her breath.

  Vi’ya seemed to have pulled it off again: no alarm rang, no shouts chased her. When Marim reached the transtube, she leaned against the wall, dizzy with relief, and with laughter. If she was caught, it would mean death—unless, of course, she could lie or cheat her way out.

  Which was a challenge with its own attractions. But for now she’d stay strictly on the path Vi’ya had outlined, for with Vi’ya, Marim knew, lay real escape. Marim couldn’t get off this chatzing station on her own.

  She reached Detention Five and greeted the bored guard by name, winning back an answering smile but no relaxation of vigilance. This, too, she’d noted: on Rifthaven, one could often get past watch-flash by money or other methods. These nick Marines seemed—so far—hard to get around.

  Leave that, too, to Vi’ya.

  Marim was in a thoughtful mood when she hit the door-pad and found Vi’ya hard at work. As always.

  “Did it!” she announced, striking a pose of triumph.

  Vi’ya did not even look up. “I know.”

  Marim sighed. “Oh. Well, of course. You’re now into the system. I guess you would know. But—”

  Vi’ya looked up, her mouth smiling faintly but her black eyes steady. “Well done, Marim.”

  Marim draped herself across the back of a chair, which tried unsuccessfully to mold itself to her weight, then gave up with a disaffected whine. “Ozip said he’d save us space at the tourney. When’s Jaim due?”

  “He’s overdue,” Vi’ya said. “But he will be here.”

  Marim sighed, straightening up. “I wish you’d reconsider. I don’t mind jetting Montrose, but I like Jaim, and Telos knows he’d get the fiveskip up and running a lot faster than I will working alone.”

  “No. He is to know nothing of our plans. Not even a hint.”

  Marim winced. Lokri was beyond their reach, and though Ivard might be brought in at the last moment, he was more a liability than not. Marim had always found the tall, somber-faced drive-tech attractive, but he’d been mated with Reth Silverknife. Now that Reth was dead . . .

  Marim got up to head for the shower. No harm in sounding him out, she thought.

  And a hand gripped her shoulder, not to crush, but with utterly no give. Off balance, Marim staggered. She righted herself and twisted to look up into Vi’ya’s face. Her heart bounded. Damn that tempathy! What had she picked up? “I like Jaim,” she protested.

  “So do I,” Vi’ya said. “But he stays.”

  Marim tried to free herself, and when Vi’ya’s grip did not shift or loosen, she crossed her arms. “Then tell me why.”

  The silence attenuated beyond the length of Marim’s nerve. “I’ve always been a good crew member,” she said, hating to have to point it out. That and knowing that Vi’ya could read her real emotions put her in shifting gravity.

  “When it suited you,” Vi’ya said, her soft voice completely without inflection. “I’ll tell you, but I will need a promise from you first,” she added.

  Marim slid a glance upward into the smooth, impervious face, but she avoided those space-black eyes. And you’ll know if I lie. She struggled silently with her desire to know and her unwillingness not to use knowledge that might serve as a weapon.

  She tried to test the knowledge while sidestepping the question. “You don’t want him anymore because he’s sworn to be the Arkad’s man.”

  “False,” Vi’ya said. And again, “Your promise.”

  “All right,” Marim said flatly, letting Vi’ya feel her annoyance. Not, of course, that it would matter a whit. Dol’jharians, she’d figured long ago, didn’t have emotions. They occasionally had appetites: for blood, for rape, for power. Luckily, Dol’jharians were rare outside their own planet, and if they weren’t allies, you left them strictly alone. “No hints, no word to Jaim. But why?”

  “Because he has a telltale in him, and the nicks hear every word that he does,” Vi’ya said calmly.

  Marim stared. “Sanc-tus Hicura,” she breathed. And then her thoughts splintered; fear propelling her backward through memory, trying to recover what she might have said in Jaim’s hearing, and curiosity verging on outright laughter considering what this might mean now—or in the future.

  She choked on a laugh. “Did h
e tell you?”

  “He does not know,” was the dispassionate reply.

  Marim gasped. “But . . . the Arkad—does he know?”

  “Doubt it. They certainly wouldn’t tell him.” Now Vi’ya sounded slightly impatient.

  “But—then—how do you know?”

  Vi’ya released her shoulder at last, and Marim flopped into the chair.

  “I suspected it would be so, and tested. Within an hour of our conversation about the Dol’jharians possessing hyperwave, the Eya’a heard the word passing along among the Arkad’s watch-beasts.” Vi’ya’s smile was grim.

  Marim’s mouth dropped open. Shock quickly gave way to anger. “But . . . but . . . if you knew he was monitored—why, we could have all been locked away,”

  “It was a risk,” Vi’ya said calmly, “but I figured they would prefer to keep Jaim’s monitor secret. This is why I was so very clear about our keeping our knowledge secret.”

  Marim shook her head, thoroughly unsettled by a power play that she hadn’t known about—yet had come too close to involving her. “How did you guess about the monitor in the first place?”

  “Markham,” Vi’ya said. “How do you think he and the Arkad were betrayed, those years ago in their Naval Academy? Markham put it together with certain things he was told right before the nicks exiled him. That bodyguard, the one who died on Dis, carried a telltale in him, and everything he witnessed was eventually heard by the brother on Narbon. I thought they would be using the same methods, perhaps for different reasons, against the Arkad now.”

  Fascinated by all the implications, Marim gave in at last to laughter. “So . . . any plots poor old Brandon tries . . . or even when he bunnies?”

  Vi’ya twitched a shoulder. “If Jaim is there.”

  Marim got up slowly, still snickering at vivid mental images of secret depravities and passions. Her active instinct for self-preservation was still at work; she whirled around. “What if they find out how the Eya’a spy for you? That old chatzer—”

  “They know.” Vi’ya tipped her chin in the direction of the Arkadic Enclave. “It was inevitable that Manderian would find out. Did you notice how much more frequently the Eya’a are going into hibernation? The nicks have mind-blurs set up in their command areas now.”