The rest of the guards were huddled between the parked shuttles at the foot of the mountain, trying to shelter around the baleful embers of a dying fire. Brock crouched down on the ledge far above them, his nostrils drawing in the crisp cold air. On the horizon a band of palest gold merged into the smoky expanse of sky. Dawn. There was not much time. He glanced at Ellisne and nodded. She drew a deep breath, took his arm in a firm grip and flicked them down to the shuttles.
“Which?” whispered Ellisne as soon as they materialized at the rear of the shuttles.
Brock listened to one of the guards coughing. It must have been a long cold night for them. Fruitlessly so, since they could have been more comfortable and equally alert sheltering inside the crafts. He lifted a brow at the iron discipline of Colonid military forces and pointed at Falmah-Al’s shuttle. Her transport would be deemed more important; it should be carrying more fuel.
Ellisne flicked them inside and obediently moved down the aisle toward the rear seats while Brock eased his way forward to the cockpit. The door was open, and the pilot was snoring loudly. No cold nights spent outdoors for him.
Brock struck quickly, and the man sprawled to the floor with a metallic clatter. Frowning, Brock grabbed his shoulders to haul him out of the cockpit and realized with a spurt of distaste that the man was a cyborg. Swiftly he rolled the pilot over and searched him for a sleeve knife. It was the inevitable personal weapon of a Colonid. Finding one, Brock made a short incision behind the man’s ear. Nothing. Wrinkling his nose at the hot unpleasant smell of human blood, he turned the pilot’s head to the other side and made a second cut. Ah, there! He pried out the mental protector and probed ruthlessly into the unshielded mind, seeking piloting knowledge and accessory codes. Withdrawing with a slight shudder, Brock rolled the unconscious man into a locker and secured it shut. It would be more expedient to kill the man now that he had the information he needed, but Brock knew Ellisne would see the guilt in his eyes if he did so. Longing for the sleep there was no time for, Brock rubbed gritty eyes and reached out to secure the hatch lock.
Letting the Colonid mind overlay his, Brock fitted himself into the seat and activated the shuttle engines. They whined loudly to life, warming with a speed he was grateful for. There was the muffled sound of a shout and a pounding on the side of the shuttle, but by then Brock was already lifting off the ground and swinging the shuttle around. He pushed the throttle with the deft touch required to bring the mettlesome craft into an efficient launch without stalling. A headache was throbbing into life against his temples, but he ignored it. Overlay was the quickest way to learn a new skill, but it was never a pleasant experience.
He touched the intercom. “Pilot to passenger,” he said with a grin, hearing Ellisne’s startled gasp all the way to the front. “Strap yourself in and enjoy the ride.”
“Brock!” she called.
“Yes, beloved?”
“They’re climbing into the other shuttle. Do you think they’re going to pursue—”
“Damn.” He’d forgotten that. Swiftly he punched up an outside line. “Shuttle One to down craft,” he said, rattling off the words in Imish. “Answering summons from cruiser. No emergency. Repeat. No emergency.”
“Molaud!” barked a plainly relieved voice over the line. “What the hell? You about blasted us out of our skins.”
Brock grinned, wishing he’d been able to do more than that. “Sorry,” he said. “When the colonel says jump, I jump. Alamam.”
The other voice muttered something crude and broke contact. Brock laughed and let his body accept the thrust deeper into the seat as he curved the shuttle up in a long graceful arc through the splendor of Amul’s brief dawn.
“Brock?” called Ellisne. “What are we going to do now? We can’t steal the cruiser, and we can’t go all the way to Felca in a ground/space shuttle. What do you intend to do?”
Brock’s smile faded and he stared unseeingly out past the pointed nose of the shuttle at the gold and pink-tinted clouds. “I wish I knew,” he said softly.
15
On board the Im Naga, Gahiani surveyed his bridge with sleepy eyes. The bridge crew had nothing to do but loll about and chatter to each other. Time hung heavily on their hands, and more than one glance went frequently to the ship’s chronometer as the hours counted slowly down to the end of the shift. Gahiani was perhaps the worst clock watcher of all. He resented his ship being bottlenecked for this duty. After months of glorious, heroic fighting against Heldfleet, his crew deserved to go home to Kentra, to receive their medals and a triumph in their honor, and to enjoy a long-overdue leave. Instead, they sat here at the beck and call of an over-ambitious groundtroop colonel. The fact that she was security director for the governor of Baz I did not impress Gahiani. He had never met Nls Ton, but he knew that Ton’s background was mediocre: military training at one of the minor academies instead of the prestigious Hagara al-Dad on Kentra and a family traditionally civil servants rather than of the warrior class. It was even rumored that Falmah-Al was Ton’s lover. Gahiani sniffed to himself and examined the trim length of his fingernails. If that was the criteria on which Governor Ton chose his security directors, then Falmah-Al was out of her league. Gahiani’s younger brother should have received that appointment.
“Captain,” said the communications officer, breaking into his reverie. “Shuttlecraft is approaching. Pilot Molaud requests access to hangar bay. Correct approach code—”
“Acknowledged,” said Gahiani, bored. He did not believe Falmah-Al was going to really find a goda. The things did not exist. They were old tales designed to frighten children. No modern adherent of Im believed in them, despite an official stance otherwise.
“Opening hangar doors…Shuttle going in.”
“Does the colonel want to talk to me when she comes aboard?” asked Gahiani with a close eye upon the chronometer. Two minutes until the end of his shift.
“Nothing’s been said, sir.”
“Good.” Gahiani rose to his feet, and all bridge personnel snapped to attention at their stations. “Captain retiring from the bridge.”
“Alamam,” they responded in chorus.
The pair of hawk-faced Benshas standing duty on either side of the access well saluted as Gahiani stepped between them and dropped down the well on a swift cushion of air. It was an exhilarating descent that never failed to clear his brain. Counting off the levels under his breath, he saw the blue markings of Level 4 coming up and reached out with practiced ease to grab the rungs and curl himself up and into a horizontal well that spat him smoothly out on his feet into the corridor seconds later. Running a hand through his thick black hair, he stepped across the corridor and into the private haven of his quarters, stripping off his gloves and unbelting his tunic as soon as the door snapped shut behind him.
As befitting his rank, he had the largest quarters on the ship. They weren’t spacious by any means, but the suite consisted of a sleeping cubicle, head, and sitting area with a desk and monitor control panel where he could offer reprimands, commendations, or have private discussions with his senior officers. On one wall hung crossed swords over the Collective’s purple and amber banners, but the swords had been given to Gahiani’s ancestor by Im’s own hands and symbolized the long tradition of service by the Gahiani family. On the opposite wall hung the war axe of Gahiani’s mother and a thick lock of long black hair bound with a leather cord which had been cut from her head when she married Gahiani’s father. As soon as he had taken off his weapons and tunic, Gahiani crossed the room and swiftly kissed the lock of hair in obedient respect. Yawning, he dimmed the lights down to a comfortable glimmer and turned on low Bensha desert music as haunting and eerie as the people themselves. With relief he peeled off the armored vest that was only five millimeters thick and supposedly as comfortable as a second skin but instead was damnably hot, and stepped into the head to clean up.
When he emerged, minutes later, clad only in a short loose robe of white wool, skin tingling and hair still
slightly damp, his mood had improved. He reached out to change the music to something more cheerful, and froze, eyes bulging as a pale ghostly shape shimmered before him. The close-clipped hairs on the back of his neck lifted, sending cold prickles across his scalp. His breath cut off. His mouth grew dry. His heart thudded violently into his ribs.
What in the dear name of Gazal was it?
Then the shimmering solidified and split into two shapes, and with a blink Gahiani recognized the Sedkethran prisoners.
“You!” he blurted out. It was a stupid thing to say. He was gawping. Where were his wits? He should be reaching for a weapon. Instead, he grabbed the open ends of his robe and tied it hastily together, using the action to cover a surreptitious sign of warding. He was a modern Imish; he believed in the reformed teachings. He was not a superstitious man, but although his intellect reminded him that the translucently pale couple with their narrow, almost human faces and grave eyes were simply aliens with unusual abilities of stepping through dimensional waves, his gut told him they were marinnis, demons of the air.
The male took one step toward him and stopped, drawing a disruptor and pointing it at Gahiani. His grey-green eyes held the watchful stillness of a man accustomed to violence. The intricately swirled scar of a dire-lord stood out boldly upon one white cheek. Long-ingrained hatred stirred within Gahiani, burning away the startlement. He had not been this close to the Sedkethrans earlier when Falmah-Al had first brought them aboard his ship. He did not know how they had managed to get away from Falmah-Al down on the planet. But whatever they were up to now, they were not going to succeed!
He moved, but the dire-lord was quicker. A minute blast of deadly energy seared past Gahiani, scorching his arm so that he flinched to one side with a choked cry, and sliced off a corner of his desk with a faint hiss. The stench of charred synthetic fiberboard filled the air. Gahiani swallowed hard.
“What do you want?”
The dire-lord looked at him quite calmly. “Your ship.”
For a moment the world froze. Gahiani fought down the unwise urge to laugh. This is madness, he thought and could not quite curb his smile.
“Do you now? The two of you really think you can hijack a heavy cruiser. Do you know how many crewmembers there are? Do you know how many people it takes to simply operate a ship of this size? More than two.”
The disruptor pointed at him did not waver. “I do not intend to operate this ship,” said the dire-lord evenly. “Your crew will do so.”
This time Gahiani did not hold back his laughter. “Gazal! You are mad—”
“No, but I have you in my sights,” said the dire-lord. His eyes bored steadily into Gahiani’s. “And you will give them their orders.”
Gahiani stiffened. “Never! I am not your puppet!”
The disruptor lifted a fraction. “You can die.”
“Yes, and if you kill me where will you be?” Drops of sweat beaded around Gahiani’s mouth. Sedkethrans do not kill, said one corner of his mind. But his eyes kept staring at that dire-lord scar. He had heard about Held dire-lords. They killed. And very effectively too. “If I am dead, you have no plan at all. You would be wiser to surrender yourselves back into custody. This little escapade could be overlooked, providing you have not harmed Colonel Falmah-Al.”
He started to lift his hand, but froze as the disruptor hummed to full charge.
“Brock,” said the female, stirring nervously. “This is a stalemate. They aren’t just going to deliver us to—”
“There are other ways to die than by disruptor,” said the dire-lord. He ignored the female’s outburst entirely and kept his gaze on Gahiani. “Do you know what I am, Captain?”
Gahiani’s mouth dried until he could barely speak. “D-dire-lord.”
“Very good.” The Sedkethran bared his teeth in a way that looked very distant from a grin. “The Chaimu honorables are carnivores by tradition. Did you know that old-humans, such as yourself, used to be the quarry in arena games for the Gwilwans? The Chaimu are great lovers of tradition. Now and then they bring back old practices. It is also a tradition that when raw meat is to be served, it must be fresh, so fresh the throat is cut only seconds before an honorable dines. As a dire-lord it was my duty to cut throats for my suprin. Not with a knife, but with the teeth. Like so—”
As he spoke, he sprang at Gahiani with a quickness impossible to elude. Crying out, Gahiani tried to dodge, but powerful hands closed on his neck and arm, pinioning him in a strangling hold he could not escape although he struggled until his lungs threatened to burst. The dire-lord held him easily, and with slow deliberation bared his teeth once again.
“Infested dog, let me go!” cried Gahiani hoarsely.
Fingers as strong as pinchers closed on the vertebrae running up the back of his neck. The top of his head went numb and little black dots swirled in front of his bulging eyes as his head was pulled back, exposing his throat.
“Gazal-ma!” he whispered desperately. “Don’t—”
He felt the pressure of teeth upon his jugular. Sweat was pouring off him now, running into his eyes, blinding him. Thoroughly terrified, he fought the urge to scream. He was a warrior of Im. He would die with dignity. But let it be quick. Oh, Great Im, let it be quick!
“Or,” said the dire-lord abruptly, releasing him and pushing him back so that he staggered against the desk and nearly fell. “There are other ways. I believe you call my species ghosts. I could get inside of you and—”
“All right!” said Gahiani, breathing hard. He still clung to the desk, barely able to comprehend that he’d been spared. “Enough,” he said, defeated. Shame and humiliation boiled through him, but at the moment he was too demoralized to care. “Enough. What do you want me to do, mar—What do you want me to do?” He had nearly said marinni. Rubbing an unsteady hand across his damp brow, he managed to straighten. Marinnis did not exist. This dire-lord was not a spirit. He was a creature, a thing as solid as anyone.
“Take the ship to these coordinates,” said the dire-lord, extending a scrap of flimsy. “Tell your crew you are on maneuvers. Tell them anything you like, or nothing, if you command that much discipline. We’ll launch the shuttlecraft from there.”
“That’s all?” Gahiani reluctantly took the flimsy and studied it. “A week to get there. I can’t abandon the colonel and her people on the planet that long!”
The dire-lord lifted a brow. “Colonids are supposed to be tough survivalists. She will not come to harm.”
“And what do I tell her when I return?” asked Gahiani, seething at the insulting term. Call us Imish. We are Imish!
“The truth. She is a great believer in truths, is she not?” The dire-lord’s grey-green eyes hardened and he gestured at the intercom with his disruptor. “Start giving orders, Captain. Now.”
Gahiani thought about the proud tradition of his family warriors. He thought about his duty and the shame of being defeated by a mere alien. He thought about the court-martial and the humiliating attempts to explain his actions. It was his duty to kill this alien, or at the very least to die himself in the attempt to resist such demands as these. His eyes shifted to the crossed swords on the wall, then returned to meet the steady gaze of the dire-lord. Were the dire-lord human, the shame of this moment would be less. It was not a humiliation to accept defeat at the hands of a human. Gahiani’s mouth tightened. A dire-lord was by repute the greatest warrior of the entire Held. Human or not, he was a worthy opponent.
“It appears,” said Gahiani slowly, trying not to acknowledge his relief at his own decision to do as he was told and live, “that I have no choice but to obey you.”
The dire-lord blinked as though he had not quite expected such a rational response.
We are not all fanatics, thought Gahiani defensively and as he reached out a hand to the intercom he tried not to think about facing the wrath of Falmah-Al later.
“Bridge,” he said crisply, lifting a not quite steady hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Execute a de
parture from orbit. We’re going on special maneuvers into Quadrant One.” Glancing at the flimsy in his hand, Gahiani read off the coordinates. “Make fastest speed. Captain out.” And he snapped off the link before startled bridge personnel could voice any questions.
“Thank you,” said the dire-lord.
Gahiani snorted, glancing at the female as she made a graceful gesture with slender hands. “This is futile, you know. The moment I leave my quarters to return to duty on the bridge, you will have no power over me. You dare not leave the safety of concealment here.”
Annoyance sparked from the Sedkethran’s eyes, and the respect which had momentarily shone in his face faded. “How short is the human memory,” he said softly. “I warn you not to forget that we can strike from thin air if necessary. Do not test us, Captain.”
And Gahiani, dry-mouthed once again, was left to watch as the dire-lord contemptuously turned his back and led the female into the other room.
Four days later the shuttle emerged from the hangar bay of the Im Naga and darted off into the cold emptiness of unpopulated space. Gahiani watched its progress on the bridge viewscreen, well aware of his officers’ curiosity as to exactly what was going on. Unauthorized maneuvers in Quadrant One, tangent activity during assigned duty under Col. Falmah-Al’s temporary command, and the launching of a shuttlecraft with an unlogged pilot raised more than one questioning look. Gahiani sat with outward impassivity at his command post, but inside he writhed at each speculative glance cast his way by the first officer.
He knew what it all looked like; he knew very well.
Treason.
The very word made his blood run cold. Coerced assistance to the enemy fell under what was called Honorable Treason. There was no need to look up the legal codes. He had them memorized from his cadet days at the Hagara al-Dad. He knew the punishments for each offense as well.
To commit Honorable Treason meant obligatory discharge, statuatory fines, and denial of public office.
The Goda War Page 18