“Oh, why the hell not. Go ahead.”
“Very well, my lady. You were always intended to be the next owner of this complex; whatever went into main base memory from your ship would only be returned to you in time. As indeed it has been. In any case, the latest transfer of data proved especially significant.”
Again the robot paused. Beka bit her lip to keep from cursing the Professor’s artistry, and said, “Why?”
“As it happens,” said the robot, “the data contained several triggering factors. I am therefore required by my programming to deliver to you a message.”
“I’m waiting.”
But instead of replaying a voice message, the robot made a brief whirring noise. Part of its black enamel surface slid aside, revealing a small storage compartment. There was nothing inside the compartment except a folded sheet of stiff white paper. Beka stared.
“That’s the message?”
“I must presume that it is,” the robot said. “I have no idea why such a method of transmission would be chosen, when my series-mates and I are quite capable of recording and reproducing a vocal transmission in minutest detail—”
“The Prof had his own ways of doing things,” Beka said.
She took out the folded paper and looked at it. A blob of purple sealing wax held it closed; the design on the seal wasn’t one she’d ever seen the Professor use. The sealing wax was a characteristic touch, though—old-fashioned but elegant like all the rest of him, from his clothes to his manners.
“You can close yourself up and go away now,” she said to the robot. “You’ve done what the Prof wanted you to do.”
The robot said, “Very well, my lady,” and floated off.
Beka waited until it was well out of sight before turning back to the letter. If the Prof hadn’t trusted his message to the robots, he’d probably had a good reason. When the robot was gone, she pulled her knife from its sheath up her left sleeve and broke the seal. Bits of purple sealing wax fell onto the floor at her feet.
She slipped the knife back up her sleeve and unfolded the paper. Inside, the sheet was covered with lines of script, in a classic, unadorned Entiboran hand:
My lady:
I write this on the night before our leavetaking for Darvell; I do not know when you shall read it. I will leave it in the care of my robots until such time as they learn from your ship’s log that you have resumed your rightful name in the galaxy, and are no longer hiding beneath the cloak of Tarnekep Portree. Such an identity is a good servant but a poor master, and if you no longer require its protection then I will be the happier for that.
The robots will have told you long since that the base and all its contents are yours. So, likewise, are my remaining personal funds, currently on deposit at Suivi Point. Dahl&Dahl will release them to you upon your demand. Make what use you can of them; they are yours to dispose of as you will.
The galaxy is coming to a crisis, and the time will be soon. The Iron Crown of Entibor is yours by inheritance, whether you decide to wear it or not. I will not say you must, or even that you should; you have fought too long and too hard for your own choices, and I will not take them from you now.
Live in honor, child, and be well.
The letter closed with a line of symbols in a script and a language that Beka didn’t recognize. It took her several seconds, staring at the page with blurring eyes, before she understood that the alien characters were a signature.
“Damn him,” she whispered. “Damn him. The only time he ever used his own goddamned name …!”
Her hands clenched, crumpling the paper between them. She bowed her head onto her knees and wept.
V.
GALCEN NEARSPACE GYFFER: TELABRYK ASTEROID BASE
ON THE observation deck of his flagship, Grand Admiral sus-Airaalin once again paced back and forth in front of the row of viewports that showed him the blue and green, cloud-streaked sphere of Galcen. On the bulkhead, the twin chronometers kept their time, reminding him that the first phase of the war was almost at an end. The Circles could not suppress hyperspace communications much longer, however valiant their efforts; and then—no matter how much physical damage their work had done to the links and relays—bit by bit the tattered network would begin to mend itself.
“We have crushed the head of the serpent,” sus-Airaalin dictated to the autoscribe on his collar. “Galcen Prime is in our hands, together with the commander of its ground forces; the citadel of the Adepts has fallen to us as well, and the Master of the Adepts’ Guild has become our prisoner. One thing, however, is lacking: our forces have failed to locate the Adept-worlders’ Commanding General, either among the living or among the dead.”
The door to the observation deck slid open. A brown-uniformed crew member entered, carrying a message tablet in one hand. “A report from the surface forces, sir.”
“Thank you, Trooper.”
sus-Airaalin took the tablet and scanned the lines of script displayed on its surface. He recognized the handwriting at once as that of his aide; and the news the report contained had him tensing his jaw to keep from making comments not fitting for the crew member to hear or the autoscribe to record.
When the crew member had gone, sus-Airaalin resumed his measured pacing. The period of self-enforced silence had enabled him to master his emotions and his voice, letting him speak to the autoscribe in the same collected tone as before.
“The question of Metadi’s whereabouts becomes even more pressing in the light of recent discoveries on Galcen. Members of our ground forces, in the process of clearing the Space Force Base at Prime, found references in the security files to the mysterious death of Metadi’s aide. And you will remember, I trust, that the position of flag aide to the Commanding General was targeted for one of our replicant agents.”
sus-Airaalin paused and drew a deep, steadying breath. If the Resurgency did not remember that bit of information, he did; the call for volunteers had taken some of the best of his Circle-Mages. The replication process was delicate as well as permanent, and only the strongest minds could survive the transfer into a vat-grown body, followed by the subsequent destruction of the original flesh. The agent who had been chosen to replicate, shadow, and ultimately replace Commander Rosel Quetaya had been one of the most promising young members of sus-Airaalin’s own Circle.
He was silent for a moment, remembering. Then he continued his report.
“More searching—among the medical buildings, this time—produced a body to match the security reports. Since per your designs the replicant body cannot be distinguished from the target even on the subcellular level, we have no way of determining actual identity with the means at hand. A cross-check of the security records shows that General Metadi has been listed, very discreetly, as missing for some weeks; and at least some of the entries maintain that his aide, or someone using her name, is likewise missing.”
The Grand Admiral suppressed a tired sigh. This had been his most secret fear from the beginning: that the strike against Prime, designed to take out the head of the Adept-worlds’ fighting ability with one blow, would fail to destroy General Metadi at the same time.
For while the heart still beats, he thought, the coils of the serpent remain as deadly as before.
But the Resurgency wouldn’t be interested in the doubts and misgivings of one whom they, at least, would call victorious. sus-Airaalin continued dictating to the autoscribe.
“I am, therefore, planning to send the body from Galcen Prime home to Eraasi on the first available ship, in the hopes that you can examine it and tell me in whose company General Metadi—wherever he may be—is currently traveling. And if, despite security considerations, I could be informed what our agent’s actual orders were, I would be even more grateful.”
The Five Hours to Midnight Bar and Grill in Telabryk had an extensive collection of Gyfferan beers and imported liquors. Ari Rosselin-Metadi sat at the shadowy end of the polished wooden bar, nursing a shot of Galcenian brandy and waiting for the
bartender to finish drawing a half-dozen mugs of beer for the shipyard workers in the corner booth. In addition to serving as a neighborhood tavern, the Five Hours provided Telabryk with its main hookup into the Quincunx—something Ari had discovered by working his way down a list of possibles that had included the Cinquefoil Lounge, the Pentangle Salad Shop, and the elegant and expensive Restaurant at 555.
By now Ari was resigned to looking for help from the criminal brotherhood. With the Space Force pulled out of the Gyfferan system, and with no money in his pocket beyond the Mandeynan quarter-mark that had bought the brandy, he didn’t have anywhere else to go. The credit-and-debit data net was down hard along with hi-comms, so any money in his own account or the family’s was just going to have to sit there until he showed up in person at the GalPrime Bank to claim it. As long as the Magelords held Galcen and Admiral Vallant held Infabede, that wasn’t likely to be any time soon. Ari was going to need a job, and he was probably also going to need a place to hide.
On a shelf behind the bar, the customary holoset glowed and flickered with the local evening news. The tableau inside the tank showed the massive golden dome of the Gyfferan State House rising above a cluster of lesser government buildings. In the foreground, a reporter stood and spoke in appropriately serious tones about the historic debates currently going on somewhere in the pile of architecture behind her.
“ … and communication with the rest of the galaxy remains impossible. As never before in its history, Gyffer stands alone. The Citizen-Assembly at this very moment is discussing possible courses of action … .”
The bartender finished dealing with the booth full of yard workers and came back to Ari’s end of the bar.
“We can talk now if you want to,” he said. “How’s it going, brother?”
“Not good,” said Ari. “Frankly, I’m stranded and I’m broke and I’m a long way from home.”
“Galcen?”
“The accent’s that strong?” Ari wondered aloud. “Yeah, Galcen will do. Maraghai’s good, too.”
The bartender shook his head. “This is a bad time; word is the Assembly’s going to close the port. If you’d come in here a couple of weeks ago, now, I could have slipped you onto a liner bound for Galcen without any trouble.”
“And I could have been dodging Magelords right this minute, if what everybody says is true.” Ari took another sip of the brandy. “I’m just as glad to be on Gyffer as far as that goes. But I’m going to need a job.”
“They’re pretty strict about work permits around here.”
“I figured they might be. That’s one reason I came looking for the Brotherhood.”
“We can fix the permits for you, no problem.” The bartender looked at Ari—who had realized some time earlier that not even removing all the patches and insignia from his Space Force uniform would be enough to disguise it for very long. “Are there some other reasons the Brotherhood ought to know about?”
Ari nodded. “There’s probably some people looking for me who shouldn’t get a chance to find me.”
“Care to name some names?”
“Admiral Valiant, for one. I jumped ship when I heard he was planning a mutiny. And the Magelords for another.”
The bartender pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “You don’t mess around, brother! What did you have to do, to make enemies like that?”
You tell me, thought Ari, and we’ll both know.
He was silent for a moment, trying to think of a more appropriate reply. In the quiet, he became suddenly aware that the reporter in the holoset over the bar was speaking now with a faster, more emphatic cadence.
“ … results of the vote. In the interests of security, the Citizen-Assembly has resolved to seize all spacecraft currently in-system and begin arming them for planetary defense. Selected units of the spacegoing reserve forces will be mobilized, and all shipyards and weapons factories will be converted to a wartime footing. According to the Speaker of the Assembly …”
With difficulty, Ari wrenched his attention back to the conversation at hand. If the Citizen-Assembly knew he was here, he reflected, they would probably resolve to seize him, too, just to keep him from falling into the wrong hands.
“How did I manage to get such important enemies?” he asked finally. “I was born, that’s how. You might as well know—my name’s Rosselin-Metadi.”
There was another long pause. “I’ve heard about you,” said the bartender finally. “You’re the one who took care of our problem on Darvell.”
Ari laughed under his breath, without humor. “So this is what it’s like to have a reputation. Yes, that was me.”
“Then the Brotherhood owes you a lot more than it would any random fellow wandering in,” the bartender said. He didn’t look too cheerful about the thought. “I’ll be honest about it—with the times like they are, I’d just as soon somebody else had been the one to pay up. But a debt’s a debt. What kind of jobs can you handle?”
“I’m a medic. I’ve got a full-range commercial starship pilot’s license, but I haven’t used it. And I’m pretty good at flying atmospheric craft.”
“No good,” said the bartender. “You do any of those things, and people are going to look at you. And—no offense, brother, but you’re a bit too conspicuous as it is.”
“Sorry about that,” Ari said. “When I figure out a way to make myself shorter, you’ll be the first to know.”
The bartender looked thoughtful. “Until then, you still need a job. And—just how particular are you, anyway?”
“These days? Not very.”
“Then we’re in business. There’s at least one place where a big guy like you isn’t going to draw much attention, and that’s right here.”
Ari took the bartender’s meaning at once. “You’re looking for a bouncer?”
“Not me, no. This place doesn’t usually get any trouble that I can’t handle. But there’s a place down near the port called the Pilot’s Joy that draws a pretty rough crowd. How do you feel about working there?”
“I can’t afford to be choosy,” said Ari. “I’ll take it.”
And so much for saving the galaxy, he thought as he downed the last of his brandy. It looks like I’m going to be sitting out the Second Magewar in a house of ill repute.
sus-Airaalin thumbed off the autoscribe on his collar. What he had to do next was not meant for the hearing of those to whom he made his reports; the Resurgency preferred to learn of results without being troubled by knowing the means. Little wonder, he reflected—some of those to whom he answered were men and women of honor, who wanted only to restore the old knowledge and bring back those things which had been lost, but many of them were not.
We have let our defeats make us smaller, he thought regretfully. We fail to see beyond the moment; we struggle for advantage over one another, and forget the greater enemy.
sus-Airaalin, at least, had not forgotten. He left the observation deck and strode down ever-narrowing corridors until he had reached the deepest core of the ship. There he found the detention cells, emptied now of their usual complement of quarrelsome, laggardly, or disobedient troopers in order to hold much greater prizes.
One of the cells contained Brigadier General Perrin Ochemet, taken in the same sweep through Prime that had brought them Errec Ransome. sus-Airaalin passed by the door of that cell without bothering to look within. He wasn’t interested, particularly, in what stories Ochemet might have to tell; the general was a stolid and unimaginative man. He had fought well and killed several before being captured, but he wasn’t likely to know anything that wasn’t already covered in Prime’s extensive files.
The cell next to Ochemet’s was empty, but the third cell in the row was occupied. sus-Airaalin touched the lock and opened it. Errec Ransome lay on the flat metal bunk inside, his black cloak wrapped around him against the cold shipboard air. He sat up awkwardly at sus-Airaalin’s entrance, hampered by the manacles on his wrists—bonds of more than ordinary forging, wrought for this one
purpose only, to hold and keep harmless the Breaker of Circles.
“Lord sus-Airaalin,” Ransome said. His voice was tired but even. If he knew fear at being in the hands of his enemies, he didn’t show it. “Has the time come so soon for questions?”
“The time has come for civil questions,” replied sus-Airaalin, “and for civil answers. Later we will discuss other things. Where is General Metadi?”
Ransome shook his head. “I don’t know the answer to that.” His mouth quirked briefly in what might have been an ironic smile. “Believe whatever you want, Lord sus-Airaalin. But sometimes I will tell you the truth.”
In spite of the Adept’s manacles, sus-Airaalin felt a chill, remembering the words of one who had known Master Ransome well in the days of the last war: “Some people lie to their enemies and tell the truth to their friends. With Errec it’s always been the other way around.”
At least, sus-Airaalin reflected, that meant his own relationship with the Adept Master was an honest one—and in its own way, safe. He waited until the silence between them had outlasted the length of their previous exchange, then brought out his next question.
“Where is Commander Rosel Quetaya?”
Again Ransome shook his head. “I don’t know that either.”
One more …
“The rest of the Commanding General’s family—where are they now?”
sus-Airaalin watched the Adept Master closely. An answer to this question, or even a hint of an answer, would make up for any silence elsewhere. The Resurgency wanted the Rosselin-Metadi line destroyed root and branch; the only motive that sus-Airaalin could discern was pure hatred for the General and the Domina, who between them had made the coalition that brought down the homeworlds.
Starpilot's Grave: Book Two of Mageworlds Page 37