A Prison Unsought (40 page)

The reference to the “half-dozen tutorials” recurred. With
his new insight, Jaim identified them: the murder attempts. Tutorials? But what
more effective way to force conformity onto a foolish drunkard?

Whether Srivashti had initiated those attempts or not, his
reaction made Jaim fairly sure he knew about them. So Brandon had found out how
much he knew about those, as well as about the Dol’jharians possessing hyperwave.

The gig bumped up gently next to the station lock then, and
Brandon opened his eyes. “Let’s go,” he said.

When they reached the Enclave, Brandon seemed to have
recovered his energy.

They found Montrose having just arrived. He gave Jaim a nod,
which Brandon observed. The two Rifters would no doubt find time to take a walk
in the gardens to share whatever it was Lokri had said.

Brandon waved them into the room he used as a study, where
Ki was at work at the console. Ki half-rose, ready to vacate, but Brandon said,
“Please stay. This concerns you, too.” And to them all, “It is time, the Archon
Srivashti reminded me, to spread goodwill through social pleasures.” He spread
his hands, and Montrose rumbled a laugh deep in his massive chest. “Ki, run the
list of invitations we’ve received.”

“Here they are,” came Ki’s quiet
voice.

Jaim wondered what had triggered this change in mood as
Brandon stared down at the ranked lists on the console, his arms crossed and
his head askance.

Then he reached past Ki’s shoulder and tapped once.

“Again, along this axis,” he said.

Ki nodded, worked, then sat back.

Brandon said, “I think, comrades, it is time for the Enclave
to return the hospitality of our outside friends.” He snapped his fingers. “I
know: a concert.” He smiled around, his gaze landing last on Montrose. “Don’t
you think?”

Montrose shrugged his big shoulders. “What I think is, are
we feeding any of them?”

“Just refreshment. And in keeping
with the, ah, spirit of Aerenarch-Consort Vannis’s new fashion for
retrenchment, let us keep it simple.”

“Simple but memorable,” Montrose
said.

“I leave it in your capable hands,”
Brandon said.

Montrose shut his eyes, then smiled. “Capable indeed. Well,
let us see what your ancestors laid down in those storerooms.”

“And,” Brandon added, raising a
finger, “I would request your musical talents as well, to open and close the
affair.”

“Ah?” Montrose turned to him, his
heavy brows raised.

“Yes.” The Aerenarch’s smile
stretched to a grin, the edges of his teeth showing. “‘The dead shall live, the
living die, and Music shall untune the sky.’”

Montrose laughed as Brandon turned to Ki. “Invite them all.”

“All?”

“Yes. With an addition or two of my
own.”

Ki blinked, his high brow faintly puckered. “I think that’s
too many to fit comfortably into your hall here—”

“Exactly.” Brandon gestured toward
the lake. “We’ll use the pavilion. But.” Again that toothy grin. “We will make
it seem like home.”

Montrose rubbed his hands and motioned to Ki. While they
talked, Brandon beckoned to Jaim. “I understand,” he said, “you are taking
Ivard and the
Telvarna
crew to the upcoming
splat-ball tournament. I’d like to tag along.”

o0o

With delicate twists of her tool, Marim finished wiring
the underside of the console. “There,” she called. “Try that, Ozip.”

She waited, appreciating the shape of Ozip’s legs as he
tested the console above. Shortly thereafter the legs shifted, and a dark,
handsome face with laughing eyes appeared upside down. “Up and running green,”
Ozip said. “We’re done!”

“And in plenty of time,” Marim
said, scrambling out. “Shall I meet you there? I have to change and get my
roommate.”

Ozip blinked. “Your mysterious Dol’jharian is actually
stepping out of that hole? I didn’t know Dol’jharians had a taste for
splat-ball. Is it violent enough?”

Marim grinned.
A taste
for escape, chatzhead.

“I can walk partway with you,” Ozip offered.

“You live closer. Save some good seats,” Marim said, shoving
her bare feet into her mocs.

Ozip hesitated, then got to his point. “And after?”

Marim laughed, leaning against the console of the ship they
were in the midst of repairing. “After comes after!”

Ozip echoed her laugh, not trying to hide his desire. Marim
made a slow business of putting her gear together, waiting until he was gone.

Then she moved quickly, sliding a small chip from a
concealed pocket. This she kept pressed against her palm as she hefted her bag
of tools and started out. One last admiring glance around the ship, which was a
well-designed old Guildenfire, popular among traders. It had taken a terrible
beating in some battle; Marim wondered what the story was as she slapped the
lock-plate, then forgot all about the ship and its unknown owner as she
sprinted down the tube to the relay desk.

A tired-looking young Navy ensign logged her in.

Her heart sped up: this was her boy.

His heart sped up; this was his second week on this desk,
and his excitement at being promoted to ensign ahead of time and given a real
assignment had faded into disappointment at the end of the second boring day.
The only relief, he and his friends agreed, was when the Rifters talked to
them. Especially the hot ones.

“Long shift,” Marim said agreeably. She was hotter than
most, the way she leaned down cozily, her tight shirt outlining her shape. “But
we seem to be getting somewhere.”

“Until we get another wave of refugees,” the ensign
answered, sitting back as she leaned over him, smiling.

“More refugees?” Marim asked. “Where’ll they put ’em? No
more room in the oneill. And up here, D-5’s already crammed to the max. And they
just doubled up all those ’dwellers from Cincinnatus in D-4—”

“I don’t know,” the ensign said, as Marim hitched a hip over
the edge of his desk. He tried not to stare at that promising roundness.
Everyone said the Rifters were easy to hook up with. So far, this was the
closest he’d come to a pretty one.

He licked his lips, trying not to stare. “I hear they’re
thinking of opening up a couple of areas in the oneill and shifting over to
hydroponics for some of the crops. But for now, they’ll just jam them somewhere
in the Cap.”

She reached a hand up to fluff her hair, her shirt straining
against her breasts. “Going to the tourney?”

He swallowed. It sounded so loud. He blushed. “Not off duty
until twenty-two hundred,” he said, trying to calm his heartbeat. “Four on,
four off, until further notice. But at least it’s getting our ships finished.”

“Someone said that the
Grozniy’s
almost ready.” Marim held his gaze, grinning.

The ensign grinned back. “Sure is. I’m
Grozniy.
We’re moving back on board tomorrow. Not too soon! You
know it’s crowded when shipboard seems spacious.”

“Poor blits,” Marim said, watching
his eyes track quickly down her body, then away. “Too bad you can’t go to the
tourney. Everyone is going to be there. Civilian, Navy—even us Rifters!”

He looked wistful. “They were all talking about it at chow.
But once we get
Grozniy
back, maybe
we can host one.”

“That’d be fun.” She yawned and
stretched both arms over her head, her shirt straining. “Think they’ll have
this one on the net?”

“Probably.” He blinked, caught her
eye, blushed, looked down at her . . . He blushed even more, his
gaze bouncing. “But when we’re on duty—”

She shifted her hip, and . . . “Chatz!” she
cried as her bag of tools spilled across his console, bounced off his lap, and
clunked unmusically on the floor about his feet. She made a futile dive, one of
her breasts pressing inadvertently against his nose.

The ensign jerked back, a crimson tide suffusing his neck.
“Here. I’ll get them,” he said, ducking hastily down.

“Sanctus Hicura, what a mess,”
Marim crooned. “I’m so-o-o tired, I just don’t know what I’m doing anymore . . .
You’re so sweet . . .” She went on in this manner as her fingers
moved swiftly over his keypads, killing audio, entering a code, sliding her
chip in, and executing the program. She yanked the chip out with one hand and
slapped the audio back on—just as the youth began to straighten up, both fists
full of tools.

She held out her bag to receive her tools. “I must be more
tired than I thought,” she said, smiling directly into his eyes. “I’m so
sorry.”

“I think we’re all tired,” he said,
his ears tingling. “No trouble.”

She waved jauntily, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “See
you!” And she left, holding her breath.

Vi’ya seemed to have pulled it off again: no alarm rang, no
shouts chased her. When Marim reached the transtube, she leaned against the
wall, dizzy with relief, and with laughter. If she was caught, it would mean
death—unless, of course, she could lie or cheat her way out.

Which was a challenge with its own attractions. But for now
she’d stay strictly on the path Vi’ya had outlined, for with Vi’ya, Marim knew,
lay real escape. Marim couldn’t get off this chatzing station on her own.

She reached Detention Five and greeted the bored guard by
name, winning back an answering smile but no relaxation of vigilance. This,
too, she’d noted: on Rifthaven, one could often get past watch-flash by money
or other methods. These nick Marines seemed—so far—hard to get around.

Leave that, too, to Vi’ya.

Marim was in a thoughtful mood when she hit the door-pad and
found Vi’ya hard at work. As always.

“Did it!” she announced, striking a
pose of triumph.

Vi’ya did not even look up. “I know.”

Marim sighed. “Oh. Well, of course. You’re now into the
system. I guess you would know. But—”

Vi’ya looked up, her mouth smiling faintly but her black
eyes steady. “Well done, Marim.”

Marim draped herself across the back of a chair, which tried
unsuccessfully to mold itself to her weight, then gave up with a disaffected
whine. “Ozip said he’d save us space at the tourney. When’s Jaim due?”

“He’s overdue,” Vi’ya said. “But he
will be here.”

Marim sighed, straightening up. “I wish you’d reconsider. I
don’t mind jetting Montrose, but I like Jaim, and Telos knows he’d get the
fiveskip up and running a lot faster than I will working alone.”

“No. He is to know nothing of our
plans. Not even a hint.”

Marim winced. Lokri was beyond their reach, and though Ivard
might be brought in at the last moment, he was more a liability than not. Marim
had always found the tall, somber-faced drive-tech attractive, but he’d been
mated with Reth Silverknife. Now that Reth was dead . . .

Marim got up to head for the shower.
No harm in sounding him out,
she thought.

And a hand gripped her shoulder, not to crush, but with utterly
no give. Off balance, Marim staggered. She righted herself and twisted to look
up into Vi’ya’s face. Her heart bounded. Damn that tempathy! What had she
picked up? “I like Jaim,” she protested.

“So do I,” Vi’ya said. “But he
stays.”

Marim tried to free herself, and when Vi’ya’s grip did not
shift or loosen, she crossed her arms. “Then tell me why.”

The silence attenuated beyond the length of Marim’s nerve.
“I’ve always been a good crew member,” she said, hating to have to point it
out. That and knowing that Vi’ya could read her real emotions put her in
shifting gravity.

“When it suited you,” Vi’ya said,
her soft voice completely without inflection. “I’ll tell you, but I will need a
promise from you first,” she added.

Marim slid a glance upward into the smooth, impervious face,
but she avoided those space-black eyes.
And
you’ll know if I lie.
She struggled silently with her desire to know and
her unwillingness not to use knowledge that might serve as a weapon.

She tried to test the knowledge while sidestepping the
question. “You don’t want him anymore because he’s sworn to be the Arkad’s
man.”

“False,” Vi’ya said. And again,
“Your promise.”

“All right,” Marim said flatly,
letting Vi’ya feel her annoyance. Not, of course, that it would matter a whit.
Dol’jharians, she’d figured long ago, didn’t have emotions. They occasionally
had appetites: for blood, for rape, for power. Luckily, Dol’jharians were rare
outside their own planet, and if they weren’t allies, you left them strictly
alone. “No hints, no word to Jaim. But why?”

“Because he has a telltale in him,
and the nicks hear every word that he does,” Vi’ya said calmly.

Marim stared. “
Sanc-
tus
Hicura,” she breathed. And then her thoughts splintered; fear propelling her
backward through memory, trying to recover what she might have said in Jaim’s
hearing, and curiosity verging on outright laughter considering what this might
mean now—or in the future.

She choked on a laugh. “Did he tell you?”

“He does not know,” was the
dispassionate reply.

Marim gasped. “But . . . the Arkad—does he
know?”

“Doubt it. They certainly wouldn’t
tell him.” Now Vi’ya sounded slightly impatient.

“But—then—how do you know?”

Vi’ya released her shoulder at last, and Marim flopped into
the chair.

“I suspected it would be so, and
tested. Within an hour of our conversation about the Dol’jharians possessing hyperwave,
the Eya’a heard the word passing along among the Arkad’s watch-beasts.” Vi’ya’s
smile was grim.

Marim’s mouth dropped open. Shock quickly gave way to anger.
“But . . . but . . . if you knew he was
monitored—why, we could have all been locked away,”

“It was a risk,” Vi’ya said calmly,
“but I figured they would prefer to keep Jaim’s monitor secret. This is why I
was so very clear about our keeping our knowledge secret.”

Marim shook her head, thoroughly unsettled by a power play
that she hadn’t known about—yet had come too close to involving her. “How did
you guess about the monitor in the first place?”