And then, with one low, hissed word, Mordred shattered more than just Dax’s hopes.
“Silverbrake!”
Shock rippled through Dax at the sound of his name, unheard for so long. The man knew who he was. He wasn’t reacting to the unexpected discovery of a wanted skypirate; he was hunting down a Triotian to slaughter.
“You’re alive,” Mordred said, the eagerness of a bark-hound on the hunt in his voice.
For an instant Dax thought of simply killing the man. But if he killed a Coalition officer, the Arellian who had done nothing but give him information would be subject to the worst kind of torture to pry out all he knew about Dax. The Coalition would never believe that it was nothing.
Mordred shouted across the room to his companion.
“Sorry, my friend,” Dax muttered as he whirled, grabbing his knife from his boot as he shoved the Arellian into the path of the suddenly advancing officer. As they both went down in a heap, Dax leapt to the chaser table, and with a swipe of his blade put out the light. He was across the table, down, and out the door into the dark before Mordred’s first furious bellow died away.
The narrow, dead-end byway directly in front of the taproom was deserted, but there were people at the open end of the path, people who he would have to pass to get away. People who would no doubt quickly surrender his direction to an angry Coalition officer.
He glanced up, at the overhanging stone canopy that protected the doorway from the weather. This planet was a dank one, with a rainy season that lasted ten months out of the year except in the high country where the storehouse was. It was the reason for the popularity of the colony; there was little else to do here, and if not for its strategic position for the Coalition, it would have been left to the small clans of gatherers that populated it.
For an instant Dax was grateful for the climate that required protection such as that overhang; it gave him the only chance he saw right now. It wasn’t much of one, but it was, he told himself, better than nothing.
He bent to pick up a sizable rock from the unkempt byway and slipped it into his pocket. Then he turned to face the canopy, set himself, and jumped. He caught the edge with one hand, then drew himself up to grasp it with the other as well. He pulled himself up and over, flattening himself in the center of the slab of stone, praying that he wasn’t visible from the ground on either side.
He barely made it in time. No sooner had he settled down—in a chilly puddle, he realized with a grimace—then the clatter of footsteps sounded beneath him. He heard Mordred, shouting furiously.
“He can’t have disappeared that fast! Lieutenant, you go that way. I’ll search around to the rear. You there! Go to the Legion Club, tell them we’ve spotted a Triotian traitor! All you others, there’s a healthy reward in it for anyone who finds him!”
Dax heard the sound of running, saw the lieutenant heading off toward the far end of the street and Mordred around the corner of the building. The taproom owner, apparently the one deputized to carry the news to the Coalition, started slowly after the lieutenant, who was still running. Not another soul moved; either not trusting the promise of a Coalition prize, or demonstrating a little rebellion of their own, Dax didn’t know. Perhaps it was simply a desire to stay out of this weather, he thought, as the mist thickened into a light rain.
Dax waited until Mordred was well out of sight around the corner, then took out the rock. With all his strength he heaved it toward a narrow passage that ran at right angles to the byway. It landed with a satisfyingly loud clatter several yards ahead and to one side of the lieutenant, who froze, then took off running toward the sound. The taproom owner slowed down even further, and when the lieutenant dodged down the small side passage in search of the source of the sound, he stopped, shrugged, and turned back.
Dax waited, the chill seeping into him as he mentally counted down the time it would take Mordred to search behind the taproom and come up empty. If he misjudged, if he miscalculated the balance between the man’s thoroughness and his angry need to find the man who had slipped through his fingers, he would be dead, Dax knew. He waited.
There were many possible hiding places to search. Dax knew that, he’d checked the back door himself before he’d ever sat down in the place. But how thorough would the man be? As thorough, Dax thought grimly, as he’d been when he’d helped Corling destroy Trios. He waited.
Califa had been right, he thought as he fought against shivering. Well, maybe not exactly. The visit to the Archives had been fine. It was stopping here afterward that had been the mistake. But he hadn’t been able to resist the possibility of learning more of the rebellion. And hearing it spoken of so casually, so well established now as to be a routine topic in a distant, dingy place like this, had been . . . indescribable. If he got out of this, he’d consider the risk well worth it.
No risk is excessive if you succeed.
He hung on to the words he’d once said to Califa, knowing that if he didn’t succeed, he wouldn’t live long enough to mull over his error.
And then he couldn’t wait any longer. The instinct that had gotten him out of worse scrapes than this kicked in, telling him now was the time. He inched backward, until his feet touched the roof coping of the building. He listened again for a long moment, then stood and vaulted up onto the roof itself. He concentrated on silence as he moved swiftly toward the back of the building. He felt a jolt of pure satisfaction as, when he looked down over the edge, he saw Mordred just disappearing around the corner, heading back to the front at a run.
It was a long drop. He considered it, knowing he would be reasonably safe in a place the man had already searched. But for how long? And how long before, despite the taproom owner’s lack of cooperation, the word got out to whatever Coalition troops were here? They’d tear the place down looking for him.
No, his only chance was to get out now, before they had every byway and path saturated with uniforms.
He looked at the next building. It was the same height, but a good fifteen feet away, whatever might be on its roof hidden in the darkness. Another building loomed beyond it, looking to be about the same distance apart. And beyond that, a clear path to the hills. Clear for now, anyway.
The gap was nothing, he told himself. He’d jumped as much on Boreas. Nearly, anyway. His stomach churned, sending its opinion on the matter.
Easy decision, he told himself. Stay here, get caught, wind up dead. Jump, fall, wind up dead. Or make it, and have a chance of escape. Decision’s already made, then, isn’t it? he asked; he wasn’t sure of whom.
He didn’t understand this. On Boreas he’d taken the jump without a second thought. He’d never worried about dying. So why was he now standing here, thinking that this was a damned stupid way to do it? Just jump, he ordered himself.
He backed up for a running start, marking the location of the numerous small puddles; he didn’t want to break his neck before he ever jumped. After would be soon enough. He took a few deep breaths, listened once more for any betraying sounds. Then he ran.
The jump was fine.
The landing left something to be desired.
He skidded across the damp roof of the other building, slamming into a vent housing with enough force to drive the breath out of him. If there had been anyone left around, they couldn’t have helped but hear it.
And they couldn’t help but hear him gasping up here, Dax thought ruefully as he tried to control his gulps for air. He knew he had to get out of here; if anyone was in this building, they’d probably be up here any second to find out what sort of meteor had just hit them. He struggled to his feet, and staggered to the far side of this roof.
The next jump was a bit narrower. Still, he rested a moment before trying it; his balance seemed a little shaken. This time he landed more steadily, keeping his feet. He ran to the far side of this roof, and stood for a split second, savoring the e
xpanse of the empty hill country before him. The ground fell away here, making the descent double the height of the entire building.
He would have to be careful. If there was any sign of pursuit, he’d have to head away from the Evening Star, or he’d lead the Coalition right to her. He’d have to lose them somehow, then double back. Assuming, he amended as he stared at the sheer drop to the ground, that he got off this bedamned roof in the first place.
The wall was rough, uneven, with a multitude of small clefts and ridges. He supposed it was possible to climb down, but his heavy boots didn’t make the prospect inviting. He’d be better off barefoot.
He groaned as the thought came to him. It was cold, damn it! Then, with a sigh of resignation, he sat on the edge of the roof and began to pull off his boots.
RINA WATCHED Califa pace the storehouse room they were sharing, as she had been doing ever since sunrise.
“What’s biting you?” the girl finally asked, looking up from the microbook she was poring over.
Califa stopped, turning to look at her. “Just restless, I guess.”
“You’re as bad as Dax,” Rina said with a grin. “Nothing he hates more than being on the ground.”
Better on it than in it, Califa thought, then turned quickly away before Rina could read her thoughts. Because she knew what the girl didn’t.
Dax had never come back.
Califa knew the others just assumed he was sleeping in, after that long, late night walk story he’d fed them. Only she knew what his real plans had been. And only she had, just before dawning, crept to the small room he slept in here at the storehouse, to find it empty and unused.
He’d been caught. That was the only logical answer. Something had gone wrong—Eos, the whole idea had been wrong—and he’d been caught. And if he’d fought capture, as she knew he would, he was likely already dead. His head on a pike, on the way to General Corling, for him to gloat over.
Nausea at the bloody image swept her.
How would she tell Rina? Could the girl ever understand the kind of idiotic yet noble whim that had taken him to his death?
Then Califa’s mouth twisted into a grimace. Being Triotian, Rina would probably understand better than she herself ever could. Self-sacrifice, even for a high-minded whim, had never been something she saw any sense in. Yet hadn’t she learned in the last year, just what it meant to be driven by guilt? Hadn’t the very foundation of her life been shattered, so thoroughly that she looked upon the person she’d been before as virtually a different woman?
And hadn’t her life been rebuilt, with the help of a rakish skypirate, into something completely changed? Hadn’t he made her face the corruptness, made her look at the truth, yet left her whole enough to excise the ugliness, to try and change?
And now he was dead. Dead because of some crazy need to atone. Because that was what he’d wished to be, dead, along with the people of his world.
“Califa?”
She came out of her waking nightmare to find Rina standing close in front of her.
“What’s wrong?” the girl asked, looking anxious.
Feeling suddenly unable to stand, Califa sank down on edge of the bunk she’d tried—and failed—to sleep in last night, after Dax had gone. Rina immediately sat beside her. When the girl took her hand in concern, Califa felt a swirl of emotions well up inside her.
“Rina, you know . . . you know Dax loves you, don’t you?”
Rina drew back, puzzled. “Of course I do. I love him, too.”
Califa let out a breath, forcing herself to calm, and the strain out of her voice. “I know you do. And I’m sure he knows, too.”
Rina seemed to relax at the change. “Of course he does. I’ve told him.” Then she made a rueful face. “I had to, to make up for what I said in the beginning.”
Startled, Califa’s brow creased.
“I mean, I was glad he found me, and took me out of that cave. But later, he told me Trios was gone, dead. By then I knew he was a flashbow warrior, like I’d heard stories about as a child. They were our battle heroes, the ones who had made it possible for us to live in peace. So I blamed him for letting it happen. For leaving Trios to its doom.”
“Rina—”
The girl waved a hand. “I know, it wasn’t fair. That he couldn’t have stopped it, not alone, not the Coalition. And I know he must have had a good reason for not being there.” So he had never told her, Califa thought, not even in his own defense. “But I was a child,” Rina said. “And my parents had been murdered. I didn’t think about fair. I just blamed Dax, because he was there, to rescue me, instead of back on Trios, dead along with everyone else.”
“Rina,” Califa said slowly, “is that what you . . . said to him?”
The girl nodded remorsefully. “In the beginning I yelled at him, called him awful things. But then one day I finally stopped, when I grew up enough to realize that he was punishing himself more than I ever could.”
“He still is,” Califa whispered, Dax’s impassioned words coming back to her.
Every damn day I remind myself I should have been there. And if I forget, just looking at Rina reminds me.
And then Rina’s troubled face . . . Sometimes he just looks at me, and it’s like something’s tearing him up inside.
Eos, the girl was part of his punishment, a daily reminder of what he’d done—or hadn’t done.
“Califa,” Rina said suddenly, urgently, “you don’t think he believes I still think that way, do you?”
“I think,” Califa answered, her tone wretched, “that what anyone else thinks doesn’t matter. Not when he can’t forgive himself.”
“But what good would it have done for him to be there? Even with the flashbow, he would have died.”
“Yes,” Califa agreed softly. She said no more. She didn’t have the heart to tell the girl that dying was exactly what Dax wanted.
And that it looked like this time he might have gotten it done.
Chapter 18
IT WAS FULL MORNING before Rina found out.
Califa was sitting outside, in the shelter of the leeward side of the storehouse, staring off into the gloomy hills. She tried to distract herself, idly wondering if Larcos had a night view of that distant valley that was projected after dark, or if he just shut the system down altogether. The distraction wasn’t very effective, and she was deciding how much longer to wait when she heard the shout of her name and the running footsteps.
Rina slipped on the wet ground as she came to a halt. She steadied herself, then gasped out, “Dax is gone! I got worried, he never sleeps this late, but when I went to his room, he was gone. It doesn’t look like he slept there at all.”
She had to tell her, Califa thought. And the others. Something had clearly gone wrong. If Dax wasn’t already dead, he was in the hands of the Coalition, which only meant that he would suffer a great deal before they finally let him die. But then she doubted that. Why would he let them take him alive when he wanted to die anyway?
It was only then that she realized her reaction to Rina’s words had given her away.
“You knew,” the girl said, staring.
Califa sighed. “Yes.”
“That’s why you were acting so funny before, asking me if I knew Dax loved me . . .” Her expression changed to one of dread as her own words registered. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know, for sure,” Califa hedged, unable to bluntly come out with what she suspected. It was as if some part of her clung to the hope that as long as she didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be true.
“Where did he go? Why?” When Califa still didn’t answer, Rina grabbed her shoulders. “Califa, what do you know?”
“Yes,” came a male voice from behind her, “just what do you know?”
She turned to face Roxton, who was lo
oking at her grimly. Nelcar was close behind him, and Hurcon, none of them looking very happy. And Califa knew that now was the time.
“You might as well all hear this,” she muttered, and got to her feet. The men and Rina followed her inside, where the rest of the crew was gathered. Something about their manner quickly caught the attention of the others, and the room fell silent.
“Well?” Roxton prodded.
Califa took in a deep breath. “Dax left last night. About an hour after the last group did.”
“Left for where?” Nelcar asked.
“The colony.”
There was a stir among them. “Why?” Rina asked, looking puzzled. “He almost never goes, not since they posted those placards of him all over half the system.”
“He . . .” Her voice trailed away. She couldn’t tell them the whole truth, not without giving Dax away completely. And on the minuscule chance that he was still alive, she couldn’t risk it. “He said it was personal.”
“That ‘personal shopping’ he was talking about?” Roxton guessed.
Califa nodded.
“If he left last night,” Larcos said, “and he’s not back, he’s in trouble.”
Califa nodded again.
“He’s probably dead,” Hurcon said unhelpfully. Califa heard a tiny, smothered sound from Rina, and she could have slapped the man. But then she relented; how could she be angry at him for stating the truth? A truth she’d been thinking herself from the moment the first rays of dawning began to light the sky and she realized Dax was still gone.
Roxton ground out an oath between clenched teeth. “Hurcon, break open that case of disrupters we liberated. Larcos, is that shuttle you were fooling with working?” At the man’s nod, he went on. “Good, we’ll take it. And we’ll need some line, too, in case we have to do any climbing.”
“I’ll get it!” Rina said, turning as if to race off.
“No!” Roxton’s order was sharp, strained. “You go and . . . er, go and get . . . get the miner’s cloaks. We’ll need them to disguise ourselves.”
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