A Prison Unsought

by Sherwood Smith

  Separated, imprisoned alone for unknowable and unpredictable periods of time, and always, always spied upon, they had learned to read one another’s thoughts in subtle movement.

  At first they semaphored mere signs meant to cheer one another during those rare encounters. The need to communicate, to reassure and be reassured, invested a whispered word, a glance, with a weight of meaning. Those first signs were simple: a fist for interrogations, a sniff for drugs used; lifted fingers for times compatriots had been seen, and later, their positioning indicating levels of well-being. A brush against one’s side meant hunger; a scratch on the ass signified Barrodagh. And a nod meant news, whether real or not they had no way to discern.

  Many backsides itched in those early days. Caleb had wondered if all Barrodagh’s recreational time was spent in dreaming up new torments for the prisoners in his charge.

  Caleb himself had to endure vids of the rape of Charvann and the use of his island home as target practice by a squad of Rifters. He told himself that it was not real—why would Eusabian bother with Charvann at all, which had no vestige of strategic importance?

  But his sense of reality had become unhinged until waking and sleeping seemed merely alternate forms of dreaming. Rage, sorrow, grief, anger again, despair, all haunted him like a pack of howling specters. But specters are unreal; reality intruded in the Ivory Hall when he watched his mate die right after the Kelly Archon. The floor pooled red before a halt was called. Eusabian had made it clear that Caleb and the other seven Privy Councilors had been spared not because of any merit, but because they were deemed too old to be worthy prey.

  After that, solitary confinement once again, interspersed with Barrodagh’s vile persecutions. Caleb endured it all by rebuilding his wind-skimmer in the sunny refuge of his imagination, one stick at a time.

  He had nearly finished stitching seams on the broadcloth sails when they were abruptly transported back aboard the Fist and told they were to be taken to Gehenna.

  Then, finally, they were imprisoned together. And despite the reverberations of battle, and the prospect of Gehenna, they were with Gelasaar again, whose gaze lifted with visionary intensity when he said, the moment they were locked in a small cell together: Brandon is alive.

  That night, after the lights in their cell had dimmed, they had talked, quickly, their spirits high despite the gloom.

  “The Gnostor Davidiah Jones once said that the power of symbols resides in their ambiguity,” Gelasaar had murmured.

  Padraic then rumbled in his native Ikraini, “I read a commentary on that passage, by the Angus of Macadoo, where she noted that the hand that too readily wields a sword cannot grasp the symbols behind the words.”

  Matilde had whispered, “The Sanctus Gabriel said that words were the first gift of Telos:

  The Hand of Telos has five fingers

  Forth from the first came first the word

  The echo of that act still lingers

  Yet to the proud a sound unheard.’”

  One finger tapped lightly on her knee on the last word of each line: fingers, word, lingers, unheard. Subtle shifts of a limb, a shoulder, a chin indicated understanding, and that had begun their pattern: to begin a discussion, usually about history or philosophy, ranging freely among several languages. At some point the real conversation would begin, conducted through isolated words indicated by finger movements.

  That night, Gelasaar had revealed his goal: the education of Anaris, already in progress. To this end, six of the best minds of the Panarchy would willingly bend their focus. Then, by mutual consent, the conversation had lapsed into pure entertainment.

  Now, many days later, Caleb sipped at his caf while three of them carried the discussion. To have a purpose again gave them all a semblance of youth and strength. Caleb, Mortan Kree, and Yosefina Paerakles sat silently, each absorbed in thought.

  Caleb considered Teodric sho’Gessinav, who early on, knowing that the mindripper awaited him, had contrived to hang himself rather than release Infonetics codes. His death at least had been to a purpose, but Casimir Dantre’s had not.

  Was it being stripped of our powers and privileges? Or our belongings? Or merely imprisonment? They would never find out. They knew only that he had drowned himself, head down, in the disposer.

  “I’ve always been fascinated by the dirazh’u,” said Padraic. “Do the Dol’jharians truly believe a person’s fate can be bound up in a knot?”

  Caleb abandoned his musings and turned his attention to Carr. This conversation would proceed along entirely symbolic lines, its subject signaled by the faint emphasis on the word “knot.”

  For that was a crucial question still unanswered. Do we reveal the Knot that guards Gehenna, or take the ship and all aboard with us into death? He shivered slightly. Death might be preferable to whatever awaited those who stumbled into the chaotic fivespace anomaly that warded the Gehenna system.

  “Belief is a complex concept,” Matilde commented. “Do we ‘believe’ in the symbols we use to rule?”

  “That may well be the difference between Dol’jhar and Arthelion,” Gelasaar replied. He smiled. “I believe that it is unlikely Eusabian understands anything by the term as we do. His son, however, was raised among us.”

  “So, does Anaris believe his fate is determined by those knots?” asked Padraic. Caleb sensed interest from Mortan and Yosefina. They were debating the fate of the Samedi: unbeknownst to their captors, this unlikely tribunal held the power of life and death over everyone on board.

  “If so,” said Mortan Kree, suddenly breaking his silence, “there is little to choose between them.”

  “Perhaps,” said Gelasaar, “during our next conversation I can determine the role knots play in Anaris’s life.”

  Or death, thought Caleb.

  “Do that,” Padraic Carr rumbled. “I’ll be interested to hear what you decide.”

  The others agreed. In the end, it would be the Panarch’s decision whether Anaris, and all of them, lived or died.

  TWO

  ABOARD THE GROZNIY

  Galen Perriath ducked his head low over his papers as Lieutenant Commander Tessler entered the junior officers’ wardroom. Then he smiled. Tessler couldn’t see him unless he peeked around the bulkhead into Galen’s little alcove, which was unlikely: Tessler was the type who always expected the best place, and this corner wasn’t it.

  Galen liked retreating here to do his compilation work—it was the only place he could spread out his flimsies. He paused, his stylus poised above the compad, watching the reflections in the shiny steel edging of the bulkhead, which served as a mirror into the rest of the wardroom.

  Tessler fiddled with the caf dispenser, drumming his fingers on a table, and then walked out, the door sliding shut behind him sounding suspiciously like a sigh of relief.

  The little group of officers on the senior side of the room relaxed, one muttering in a low voice, causing another to laugh. Those in Galen’s view glanced at the door once or twice, clearly expecting someone.

  Half a minute later Lieutenant Tang bounded in, her round face flushed from exertion. “Stuffcrotch gone?” she asked, black eyes wide.

  “Was just here sniffing for traces,” Ul-Derak said.

  “Then he’ll be heading down to roust a petty officer or two, or to inspect disposers or something, so let’s have it.” Perriath couldn’t see the speaker, but he knew that high, girlish voice: Sub-Lieutenant Wychyrski, from SigInt.

  Tang sank into a padded chair with a groan.

  “It’s a nightmare,” she said. “Totokili’s on a rampage. Just about blew Ensign Leukady through a bulkhead for transposing two items on a routine status report—like he’d tried to open the engine room to space or something.”

  “They’re all sizzled,” spoke a deep male voice; reflected was tall, red-haired Lieutenant Commander Nilotis. “This mission was thrown together so fast they’re still sorting out all the supplies. I’m surprised we’re not all living on beans.”


  “But Totokili’s the worst,” Tang replied. “If his hair wasn’t already standing up, I’d say it was standing up!”

  Totokili’s strange hairstyle was the butt of many jokes in the junior officers’ wardroom, but no one was really laughing at Tang’s joke.

  “Can you blame him?” Wychyrski asked. “Supervising the refit of a Rifter ship, cramming it with every techno-toy that gnostor can dream up as fast as Navaz’s cims can turn them out.”

  “Everybody in Engineering is racked up about it,” Tang said. “You should have heard Shiffer trying to whang some weird instrument into one of the sensor nacelles on that old Columbiad.”

  Ul-Derak chuckled. “I take it the chief was mighty fluent.”

  “Totokili comes up behind him and asks him what’s the matter,” Tang explained, “and Shiffer says, ‘The chatzing chatzer doesn’t chatz, sir!’”

  The wardroom rang with laughter—more than the ancient joke warranted, Galen thought. We all need the release.

  “The Rifters thought it was pretty funny, too,” Tang continued. “That little blonde almost fell down laughing.”

  “Rifters.” Ul’Derak spat the word. “You think the chief engineer’s hot, you should listen to Krajno. He’d like to space the lot of them and tab the lock control himself.”

  No one spoke for an uncomfortable pause. Krajno’s mate had died at the hands of Rifters in the Treymontaigne system when the Prabhu Shiva was ambushed.

  “Must make it rough in the Captain’s Mess,” Wychyrski commented. “Was the Aerenarch himself asked the captain to give them civ privilege on board.”

  “Had to,” Tang said, shrugging. “Those Rifters are going on a run at least as dangerous as this one, and no danger pay.”

  Wychyrski said plaintively, “What I don’t follow is why, after the Jupiter Project was so secret you could be cashiered even dreaming about it, they’re sending Rifters on the final run.”

  “That was at Omilov’s request,” Tang said.

  Another short pause. Galen pictured the bulky old fellow with the big ears. A professor, a gnostor, and a Chival, who’d turned out to be a Praerogate. No one had stopped talking about that.

  “What’ve those Rifters got—some kind of codes to get around Eusabian’s Rifter fleet, in case they get spotted?” Wychyrski went on. “Eusabian’s pulling his fleet over that side of the Rift, that much we know.”

  Tang sat down with a mug of caf, rolling her head tiredly. “They don’t have it pinpointed that close, or they wouldn’t need this spy run. It’s because of the brain-burners, mostly: they have been weirder than usual, the blonde told me, since they saw the hyperwave. But they can sense something connected to this Urian station Eusabian’s found—they and the Kelly and two of the Rifters. But the Eya’a are key, and they want to travel on that Columbiad, it’s their hive away from hive. Also, scuttlebutt says that Dol’jharian Rifter’s a hot pilot.”

  Ul’Derak grunted. “Main thing is, Omilov wanted them, so he gets what he wants. As for the others’ opinions, Krajno knows how to keep his mouth shut, and the Rifters don’t eat with the captain,” he finished.

  Galen wondered if they felt the same bemusement, the fallout of whipsaw emotions, that he did. For the last week they’d listened, and talked, unable to do anything about the remarkable acceleration of events around the Panarch’s heir. One day it had seemed he would be superseded; then after a matter of hours, he had with Omilov’s unexpected help not only established his authority but also managed to make it clear that he would be part of the rescue mission. Galen felt a visceral thrill of pride at the presence on the Grozniy of the heir to the Emerald Throne.

  “History chip popped up an interesting fact,” Wychyrski put in. “If we pull off this rescue, it’ll be the first time in almost four hundred years that a Navy ship has hosted both the ruler of the Thousand Suns and the heir.”

  “Was it true about his scores?” Ul’Derak turned to Nilotis.

  “Captain said it was a shame he could never be commissioned,” Nilotis replied.

  Somebody whistled. It was not Captain Ng’s nature to be lavish with praise.

  Ul’Derak shook his head and then laughed. “What days! Rifters, Dol’jharians, an old gnostor popping up as a Praerogate.”

  “That one nearly made old Hurli expire,” Nilotis said.

  Galen’s attention sharpened. Commander Hurli was the chief Infonetics officer on the Grozniy; she had an almost symbiotic relationship with the huge ship’s computers.

  “Hurli?”

  “Grozniy was hard-linked to the Ares Node when Omilov activated his Praerogacy. The Worm crawled right down the link and took over ship functions, just like Ares. For a while there, the gnostor could have done anything he liked with us—fired the ruptors, shoved the engines into supercrit—anything.”

  Silence fell as Galen tried to imagine having that much power, even for a short time.

  “How long does the Overt phase last, anyway?” Tang asked. “He isn’t still in charge, is he?”

  “No.” Nilotis stretched and yawned. “There’s no set limit, but I understand that in this case as soon as the Aerenarch issued his first command, Omilov relinquished his authority. And that’s it, for him. The Worm will never answer him again.”

  Ul’Derak snorted. “So Hurli can sleep again. You seen all those Rifters, Tang?”

  She nodded. “Have to. The big one who’ll run comm is a chef and a musician. The little blond drivetech cheats at games, my middy told me. Watch out.” They all laughed, then she said, “But the young redhead, almost cadet age—” She shook her head. “You should see him talking with the Kelly! I swear, the way he moves and honks you’d think he has three arms.”

  “The Kelly are fascinating,” Wychyrski said. “They’re a lot of fun to talk to. What gives me the shillies is the idea of those little brain-burners around our ship.”

  Perriath’s neck was beginning to ache from the uncomfortable angle he had to hold it at to see, but he didn’t want to miss any of the officers’ expressions. He was rewarded by a theatrical shudder from Ul’Derak.

  “Br-r-r-r! You said it. You ever seen the data chips on the Eya’a, what they can do to you?”

  “Please, not before lunch,” Wychyrski said with a theatrical gasp, tossing her curly hair. “In any case, they stay mostly in their cabin, I hear.”

  “That Dol’jharian is almost as nasty.” Tang made a warding gesture. “Bad enough she’s a tempath, but I’ve heard that with those sophonts she can read minds. Luckily she pretty much keeps to herself.”

  Nilotis laughed. “Can you blame her? Knowing how most of the people on board feel about Rifters just now, you think mind-reading is a particularly comfortable thing for her? And I’ve never heard that tempaths have much luck shutting down their emotional sensitivity.”

  “Mzinga said the captain told everyone in Navigation to stay clear of her,” Tang said.

  “What? Why?” Several of the officers spoke at once.

  The young woman shook her head. “Didn’t say, but I think it has to do with Gehenna. Senior officers are avoiding her, too.”

  “They’re the ones with need-to-know.” Tang’s voice was somber.

  Perriath shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Nothing was known of Gehenna, save that no one ever returned from being landed there. Beyond that everything was speculation, all of it unpleasant, and some of it downright horrifying.

  “Gehenna,” said Nilotis flatly. “You think it’s really habitable?”

  “Doesn’t make sense that they’d ship criminals all this way just to shove them out an airlock.”

  “You don’t think it’s worth it, seeing how frightened people are of the place?” Wychyrski sounded thrilled by the thought of such a bizarre conspiracy. “And you know the other reason Totokili’s got his trousers all twisted? They’re running the skip at a hundred ten percent—maybe trying to get there before His Majesty goes out that airlock. You think the Dol’jharians know any more about it than we
do?”

  “Telos, Yeo, where do you get those weird ideas?” Tang sounded almost angry.

  “You got any better ones?” Wychyrski shot back, sounding cadet age. Well, technically she was.

  “Null out, you two,” Nilotis said with a lazy laugh. “We’ll find out when we find out.” He stood up, still a bit stiff from his brush with death at Arthelion. “Meanwhile, we’re all earning the Murphy bonus, and I, for one, intend to be around to spend it.” He yawned. “Which I won’t if I don’t catch some Zs.”

  With that, the conversation broke up and the officers wandered out. As the door closed behind the last of them, Galen heard Wychyrski’s voice: “Pleasant dreams, Mdeino.”

  Galen jerked his shoulders, trying to shake of the doomful images of Gehenna now crowding his mind as he returned to his manifests. Pleasant dreams indeed.

  He doubted it.

  GEHENNA

  The flagstones underfoot gave way to naked rock; the walls glistened wetly in the light of their torches. Londri shuddered as they passed near a pulsating colony of cave-spiders clinging high up on one fissured wall, their grape-sized bodies flexing up and down on their spindly legs in arachnid unison.

  Ahead, Gath-Boru held a stone-wood flambeau aloft, his massive body bent nearly double. Lazoro walked upright, but in silence, without his usual chatter. Stepan limped beside Londri, leaning on his cane to spare his lamed foot. She felt the comforting bulk of Anya behind her.

  The only sound was the shuffle of their feet and the occasional spit and hiss of the flames from their torches.