Liaden Universe 18: Dragon in Exile

by Sharon Lee

  He had been in crowds on Surebleak before, and he’d been among armed throngs before. Here though—here he was responsible for the well-being of his captain and the Scout, so he longed for a proper suite of arms, and not just the four handguns, six knives, crowd control explosives, arm-chains and zhang-wire he carried, as a matter of course, upon his person now.

  The problem was that generally when he was among large numbers of the armed, they were disciplined troops, else Scouts and the like, not groups self-chosen, rowdy, untrained, and capricious. Who would choose to be among a group with no immediate leader or supervisor, no proper captain in charge, no obvious line of command?

  Why, the people he was surrounded by now would choose that, for they were civilians. And they were not merely noncombatant support or world-keepers such as the troop might deal with at home, they were . . . they were the very reason he and his captain were here, since Boss Conrad had become Boss to have such a place as Surebleak at his disposal, and at the disposal of Clan Korval.

  They had been briefed, he and Diglon. The captain had been clear. No. The captain had been forceful.

  “Listen up. This isn’t just today’s order—this is what we’re all doing, all the time. If you’re on your own, without chain of command, this is standard ops. The one rule from which all other rules proceed.

  “That means that we—Val Con and me, as the Road Boss—Boss Conrad, and all his people, we agree on this.

  “So here’s the word: we’re all to work with the least force practical. No willfully shooting through a civilian to get a target. No running them over in an emergency, no hostage taking. We—Clan Korval, and you, as Korval’s Troop—are under contract. Our contract is to keep the road open so civilians can move when they want to, and when they need to.

  “This is our priority on-planet, for as long as we hold this contract. If the contract ends, you will hear it from me or from the Scout. If we are unavailable to you, seek clarity from Boss Conrad. We are committed to making this place, this planet, habitable for all. So people can congregate, so commerce can go forth. So people can do what it is they do without being afraid somebody’s going to come along and burn them out, or cut them, or break them. We are here to keep the peace. Occasionally, that means we’ll make the peace. We—Clan Korval—came to this world because we needed a place to live, and we are here on the sufferance of the people of Surebleak—they own this planet. The spaceport belongs to them and the road belongs to them. We are employed by the people of Surebleak.

  “Clan Korval has authority because of its contract. You have authority because you are our troop; what they call here our crew. When you act—how you act—reflects on us. Be careful, and use the least force necessary to get the job done.”

  The captain had paused then and looked them over.

  “Diglon!” she snapped. “What’s the key?”

  Diglon saluted.

  “Captain. We are to work with the least force practical, Captain. For the Road Boss and the clan and . . . for Surebleak’s people, Captain.”

  “Yes.”

  The captain smiled and saluted, and Nelirikk stood taller that Diglon Rifle had come so far.

  “Right—any questions? Anyone need more training? Anyone need a different assignment?”

  Neither had thought that more training was required.

  There had been, before they set out this day for Sherman’s Shootout, the hint of action. It would appear that some of the civilians were dissatisfied with the new order of Bosses established by Boss Conrad and Clan Korval. It was possible, the captain said, that there would be fighting.

  If there was fighting, she had said, standard ops were in force.

  Well, thought Nelirikk, looking about him; civilians they might be, but the temper of the crowd felt good. And Diglon, with friends about, was all business. This was good.

  An unexpected signal then, from Diglon, and a more unexpected sight: Yulie Shaper, carrying a wrapped bundle, hurrying toward him, following Diglon’s sign. The crowd was easy on Yulie, giving way to a man with a burden, and the farmer was soon at Nelirikk’s side.

  “Fella—pleased to see you. I’m almost late, but lots of folks about, lots of ’em. And I didn’t start till late since I had to check my doors. Had to wait till I was sure that Scout fella met the cats. But now, Mr. Rifle says you know a good spot to watch from, inside . . .”

  “Yes, I do. I will show you.” He nodded at the wrapped bundle, “Why do you carry long arms?”

  Yulie looked seriously at him, nodded, laughed. “Not a secret. Gonna be demonstrations, right? I thought if people was going to be showing off guns, I could. Thought maybe I could show a few tricks, once things thin out, if folks are interested.”

  Nelirikk nodded.

  “Follow me, Yulie Shaper, and we shall see what there is to see. The captain and the Scout are to be demonstrating very soon . . .”

  The room wasn’t exactly dim—the shooters needed to see, after all!—but it was crowded, and more like the auditorium it had once been now that Sherman’s workers had opened up a few movable partitions and let the portions that retained seating, in the back, open to the stage front.

  Miri stood close to Val Con, both in simple vests, their part in the demos set to be some straightforward shooting: they’d each shoot a ring into one of Baker Quill’s biscuit pans—rescued from the fire a little too bent to use—and the other one would knock the center out of the ring. After that, they’d introduce Boss Conrad himself, who was going to shoot a pip out of a card or two . . .

  Pat Rin and Natesa were across the way, also ten rows down from the top, on an inside aisle; Sherman had thought it a fine idea to have them march down in unison to the stage when named, joining at the bottom and coming up the wide stairs . . .

  Val Con’s sub-thoughts were steady, and she could feel it as they watched the pros finishing up their run, with both of them mentally grimacing at missed shots from folks who were supposed to be experts. Learning was surely going on as some of the locals saw Scouts shoot . . . and there on the scoreboard was good news: Professor Kamele Waitley was into the finals in her section. That brought a glow of appreciation from Val Con as well.

  A glance showed Nelirikk back in position—he was to join them in the walk down with them . . . and whoa, Yulie Shaper!

  Her surprise caught Val Con, who glanced up to the spot and smiled.

  They both flexed, ready to move—and here was Sherman, all in red, preparing to give out the prizes, walking onto stage, and then a noise—a shot!—unscripted . . . and he was down, grabbing at his leg. Two others on stage dropped or fell, as three figures in the audience close to the stage rose . . .

  “Kill the New Bosses!” somebody shouted. “Stand with the Vaxter Syndicate!”

  Miri felt too many people move at the same time several rows over; Val Con went from tense to act, their link tagging instinctive recognitions, their reactions as one.

  Together they dove behind the seats at the left, moving toward a clear aisle that would lead them to Nelirikk as a dozen people stood up yelling, turning to where they’d been, firing . . . shots splintering seats and—

  More people moved: there were armed people all about, and they reacted; as they did . . .

  No need to talk—Miri was on the deck, scrambling toward where she’d last seen Nelirikk. The lights had mostly gone out, and then she felt Val Con’s touch, trying to get her to angle back a row . . .

  The shooting paused, but there was yelling—someone screaming in pain, someone else yelling, “Kill the Boss!”

  That yell was cut off as the sound of a heavier weapon erupted—and then Pat Rin’s voice above all: “Hold fire; stop!”

  In the dim there were cries of pain, another shot—and the big gun sounded twice. Miri dared a look over the seats, and found Pat Rin and Natesa and a group of maybe twenty down in front of the stage.

  Natesa had a gun in each hand, and the folks standing with her—ordinary streeters as far as Miri cou
ld see—each held a weapon. Pat Rin . . . had both hands up, showing empty.

  “Hold fire!” he shouted again.

  “Easy target!” somebody yelled, from behind them. Miri felt Val Con’s reaction, felt the knife leave his hand—and turned in time to see the guy fall, gun clattering to the floor.

  “I stand with Boss Conrad!”

  That was a familiar voice. Miri twisted to look down at the floor, and here came Penn Kalhoon, gun in hand, and Thera right there with him, gun in hers. Joey Valish was there, and Kareen yos’Phelium, too. They ranged themselves by Pat Rin, and looked up into the seats.

  “Who here wants the old ways back?” Penn shouted. “If you don’t, come down here and stand with the new!”

  Somebody fired, then Joey did, and there was a thud as a body hit the floor. And people were moving, out from under the seats, from outside, coming in, walking down, and standing by Pat Rin, who still stood there, empty-handed.

  “Selling insurance is against the law,” he said. “Retirement parties are against the law. We would make the streets safe, and see your children educated.”

  There was a movement by the door, and here came the rest of them—the New Bosses, each with their ’hands, and other people following along until the crowd around Pat Rin nearly hid him from sight.

  “Shooters!” that was Nelirikk speaking. “We have your positions marked! Throw down your weapons and stand with your hands on your head. We will target those who continue to hold weapons after my count of three.

  “One! . . .”

  The sound of weapons, and of voices shouting—those were different from the ordered rounds of competitive shooting.

  Diglon crouched low. He had nearly run toward the sounds of battle, but—no. That was not his assigned position. He was to guard the vehicles and insure that they were ready and able when needed.

  The duty was not his alone, for when sounds of shooting had gone from ordinary to extraordinary, his poker friends has closed ranks with him.

  A particular weapon—he could not recognize it as more than a decent-sized long arm—spoke authoritatively several times, and everyone froze, with some then charging forward to see what that was about, and others fleeing. He noted the trucks down the road, moving slowly and then stopping inconveniently; saw then the potential for treachery.

  So, too, did Jon Bosley, a Boss of construction contractors. Jon carried several pistols and, leaving one now with grip clear, came to his side.

  “Now, that’s not how we do things hereabouts,” he said, pointing to the trucks. “Seems to me they’re blocking the road. So see, if they got all the roads blocked, even walkers might be in trouble. Give me the word, and I’ll take Barney up that way . . .” he used his head to indicate a direction, “and get them moved so we can all get out . . .”

  The long arm spoke again, and there were people exiting, trying to squeeze through the suddenly crowded way.

  Diglon turned his head, and saw another truck moving into place. He could not do both—clear the road and protect the vehicles. And the people—they were in danger, if this was a trap being closed.

  “Yes,” he said to Bosley. “The Road Boss says that people must be able to move. The road must stay open.”

  “You got it,” Bosley said, and spoke to the man at his side.

  “Barney, come with me—snatch up anybody you know. The Boss—all the Bosses!—they need the roads clear. This ain’t gonna do!”

  Diglon called to them: “The people need the road. The people own the road. The Bosses only guard it!”

  “The Bosses bein’ busy, we’ll just do ’em the favor,” Jon said, and he and Barney faded into the crowd.

  More injured appeared, and three people carrying a dead woman, two bleak and one just crying, “Can’t be. Can’t be dead. Can’t!”

  Diglon kept anxious eyes on the door Nelirikk had last entered. More injured came now, some limping, some bedraggled, and came also the unwounded, walking swiftly, as if to put danger behind them.

  One of his poker mates, called by the gamers Speedy Kelby because he deliberated so over each card, also exited, and, recognizing Diglon, stopped to report.

  “Boss is okay. Conrad I mean. The Road Bosses’re in there somewhere; guessing they’re okay. What’re you doin’?”

  “I hold the vehicles . . .”

  “Yeah? Well, lemme stand here with you. Two’s better’n one to guard stuff—an’ you’re too far up on me to let you get in trouble!”

  Diglon nodded, pleased to have someone to stand with him.

  Now there was shouting near the trucks, an attempted barricade where someone was shouting foolishness about the Bosses stealing food from children, of Bosses stealing homes . . .

  Diglon turned his attention back to the exit, and here came Nelirikk, carrying a long arm, half-carrying Farmer Yulie, with Professor Waitley and Lady Kareen close behind.

  The Lady’s car, that was the one they would want—

  “The Road Bosses stand with Boss Conrad,” Nelirikk told him. “Yulie Shaper goes to the Lady’s house, to see his wound tended.”

  From behind, there was shouting now, and a pistol shot at the trucks. Nelirikk looked up, frowning.

  “The road—”

  “It is being solved,” Diglon said, and about then there was a shout as men and women swarmed the biggest vehicle, and began pushing it out of the way. Another one moved backwards, also pushed . . .

  “The road—the people open the road that they own.”

  EPILOGUE

  What with the All-Boss Parade down the whole length of the Port Road and the public reception at the port, and the private, all-Boss dinner at Lady Kareen’s house, Miri guessed the day qualified as a long one for everybody. Most of all, though, it had been a long day for Lizzie, who, worryingly, showed no signs of being tired.

  She sat alert on Miri’s lap, her head turning in the direction of house and Tree, the instant Val Con guided the car ’round the corner onto what was properly their own driveway.

  Miri sighed with contentment, and Val Con put his hand companionably on her knee, sharing his pleasure at being in sight of home and the tall green spire.

  Lizzie laughed, and Miri sighed again, half-amused.

  “Brat, you’re so tired you’re not gonna sleep for days, are you?”

  Val Con’s gentle attention bubbled through her back brain as his casual concentration on driving gave him permission to see what she saw . . .

  Indeed, his glance showed alert eyes and eager, fidgety fingers, wanting the world.

  “I warrant we’ll all sleep well this evening, cha’trez,” he said patting her knee in emphasis before regaining the wheel. “And I thought we weren’t to say brat anymore, since Talizea seems to be trying to repeat it!”

  “Habit,” she said resignedly, “but with company due in, I gotta get out of it. This mom-to-a-princess stuff ain’t half as easy as running a herd of mercs!”

  Val Con laughed and accelerated, letting the car briefly hint at its potential, before sighing and bringing the speed down again to what he considered to be stately.

  “Princess she’ll not be under our roof.” The car twitched as he played again for a second. “At least, I swear that I will do my best not to make her a princess. Now, what we must do is convince all of them!”

  He casually flicked fingers over his shoulder, showing the road behind them, and by inference those who followed them: a caravan of sorts containing Mrs. pel’Esla, Nelirikk, Diglon, his wife Alara, the mostly recovered Yulie Shaper, not to mention half of Kareen’s household, and assorted others vetted by her or Kamele, in several cars and trucks.

  In fact, Lizzie’s first visit to her great-aunt’s town house hadn’t boded well for her future as a not-princess. It’d seemed that all of Surebleak, and their twins too, had marveled at the beauty and wit of the Road Boss’s child. Miri had seen Natesa’s eyes seek the comfort of the ceiling several times in response to the hints—subtle, and not-so—that surely Boss
Conrad also deserved the delight of a child’s voice to light his mornings.

  Miri snickered softly.

  “We’re gonna need some help with that. Nelirikk’s an old softy when it comes to kids, is what I’m thinking. Might hafta get us a couple more Scouts on staff just so he knows everything’s shipshape . . .”

  Ahead, the gate was open, falling into shadow as Val Con guided the car to the family entrance, slowing and stopping . . . hesitantly.

  Miri felt his attentiveness, not quite concern, but—and then she smelled it, too. “Smoke,” she said, even as Val Con popped his door and got out. He opened hers and took Lizzie from her so she could get out.

  “Woodsmoke,” he said, sounding more puzzled than concerned.

  “The house?”

  They walked forward, both scanning the roofline, finding no sign of fire, save the smoke, which was getting . . .

  “Master Val Con, how good to see you so soon . . .”

  Jeeves, and several of the cook staff as well, were just outside the kitchen door. A large fan was inside the door, a smaller in the window, grey smoke flowing from both.

  Talizea sneezed gently, and Miri laughed. Val Con turned wide eyes on the AI, whose headball was flickering between orange and blue.

  “Forgive me, Jeeves. Naturally we have surprised you with our unexpected arrival.”

  Jeeves managed to sound both contrite and put upon.

  “Surely not surprised, sir. Merely that, due to circumstances barely under my control, I have become involved with the need to oversee the immediate ventilation of the kitchen, as Mrs. ana’Tak has discovered that the small brick bread oven in the back baking quarters is currently unserviceable . . .”

  “The small bake oven?”

  Miri felt the familiar buzz of her lifemate’s concentration, understood it to be a scan of memory—

  “It has been lately unused,” Jeeves informed them. “And, as I was not consulted . . .”

  “I hope staff has taken no harm,” Val Con said. “Jeeves, to the best of my knowledge the small oven hasn’t been used—as an oven—for nearly four hundred Standards. It has been utilized as a secret hiding place for children’s special snacks for at least that long!”