A Prison Unsought (61 page)

Morrighon’s step quickened, and he turned his thoughts back
to the best ways to deepen the discord in Fasthand’s crew, and how to amuse
himself while doing so.

o0o

Caleb Banqtu drank deeply of his mug of caf, then sat
back, enjoying the burn on his tongue and in his throat and stomach. Sitting
across the table—the clean table—from him, Gelasaar sipped at a steaming mug,
eyes closed. Tiny Matilde Ho cradled hers in her one good hand, the broken arm
now secured in a proper cast.

Caleb had ceased to feel surprise at anything. Torment by
the Rifters had been predictable. Unforeseen, and perhaps more sinister, was
the rescue by the Tarkans followed by a dramatic improvement in their
maintenance.

The Panarch, by his pose, invited discussion, so the others
shifted a haunch, turned a shoulder, adjusted their seat so that each could see
the others. Padraic Carr limped to the bench and sat down on Matilde’s other
side, moving easier since the visit to the medic. Until this surprising rescue,
his pain had been obvious in every step, every harsh breath, though his long,
craggy face had shown nothing. The admiral had not told any of them what the
Tarkans did to him that first terrible week after they were captured, but Caleb
knew they had exacted their own kind of vengeance for the defeat at Acheront
twenty years before.

Separated, imprisoned alone for unknowable and unpredictable
periods of time, and always, always spied upon, they had learned to read one
another’s thoughts in subtle movement.

At first they semaphored mere signs meant to cheer one
another during those rare encounters. The need to communicate, to reassure and
be reassured, invested a whispered word, a glance, with a weight of meaning.
Those first signs were simple: a fist for interrogations, a sniff for drugs
used; lifted fingers for times compatriots had been seen, and later, their positioning
indicating levels of well-being. A brush against one’s side meant hunger; a
scratch on the ass signified Barrodagh. And a nod meant news, whether real or
not they had no way to discern.

Many backsides itched in those early days. Caleb had wondered
if all Barrodagh’s recreational time was spent in dreaming up new torments for
the prisoners in his charge.

Caleb himself had to endure vids of the rape of Charvann and
the use of his island home as target practice by a squad of Rifters. He told
himself that it was not real—why would Eusabian bother with Charvann at all,
which had no vestige of strategic importance?

But his sense of reality had become unhinged until waking
and sleeping seemed merely alternate forms of dreaming. Rage, sorrow, grief,
anger again, despair, all haunted him like a pack of howling specters. But
specters are unreal; reality intruded in the Ivory Hall when he watched his
mate die right after the Kelly Archon. The floor pooled red before a halt was
called. Eusabian had made it clear that Caleb and the other seven Privy
Councilors had been spared not because of any merit, but because they were
deemed too old to be worthy prey.

After that, solitary confinement once again, interspersed
with Barrodagh’s vile persecutions. Caleb endured it all by rebuilding his
wind-skimmer in the sunny refuge of his imagination, one stick at a time.

He had nearly finished stitching seams on the broadcloth
sails when they were abruptly transported back aboard the
Fist
and told they were to be taken to Gehenna.

Then, finally, they were imprisoned together. And despite
the reverberations of battle, and the prospect of Gehenna, they were with
Gelasaar again, whose gaze lifted with visionary intensity when he said, the
moment they were locked in a small cell together:
Brandon is alive.

That night, after the lights in their cell had dimmed, they
had talked, quickly, their spirits high despite the gloom.

“The Gnostor Davidiah Jones once
said that the power of symbols resides in their ambiguity,” Gelasaar had
murmured.

Padraic then rumbled in his native Ikraini, “I read a
commentary on that passage, by the Angus of Macadoo, where she noted that the
hand that too readily wields a sword cannot grasp the symbols behind the
words.”

Matilde had whispered, “The Sanctus Gabriel said that words
were the first gift of Telos:

The Hand of Telos has five fingers
Forth from the first came first the word
The echo of that act still lingers
Yet to the proud a sound unheard.’”

One finger tapped lightly on her knee on the last word of each
line: fingers, word, lingers, unheard. Subtle shifts of a limb, a shoulder, a
chin indicated understanding, and that had begun their pattern: to begin a
discussion, usually about history or philosophy, ranging freely among several
languages. At some point the real conversation would begin, conducted through
isolated words indicated by finger movements.

That night, Gelasaar had revealed his goal: the education of
Anaris, already in progress. To this end, six of the best minds of the Panarchy
would willingly bend their focus. Then, by mutual consent, the conversation had
lapsed into pure entertainment.

Now, many days later, Caleb sipped at his caf while three of
them carried the discussion. To have a purpose again gave them all a semblance
of youth and strength. Caleb, Mortan Kree, and Yosefina Paerakles sat silently,
each absorbed in thought.

Caleb considered Teodric sho’Gessinav, who early on, knowing
that the mindripper awaited him, had contrived to hang himself rather than
release Infonetics codes. His death at least had been to a purpose, but Casimir
Dantre’s had not.

Was it being stripped
of our powers and privileges? Or our belongings? Or merely imprisonment?
They would never find out. They knew only that he had drowned himself, head
down, in the disposer.

“I’ve always been fascinated by the
dirazh’u,” said Padraic. “Do the Dol’jharians truly believe a person’s fate can
be bound up in a knot?”

Caleb abandoned his musings and turned his attention to
Carr. This conversation would proceed along entirely symbolic lines, its
subject signaled by the faint emphasis on the word “knot.”

For that was a crucial question still unanswered.
Do we reveal the Knot that guards Gehenna,
or take the ship and all aboard with us into death?
He shivered slightly.
Death might be preferable to whatever awaited those who stumbled into the
chaotic fivespace anomaly that warded the Gehenna system.

“Belief is a complex concept,”
Matilde commented. “Do we ‘believe’ in the symbols we use to rule?”

“That may well be the difference between
Dol’jhar and Arthelion,” Gelasaar replied. He smiled. “I believe that it is
unlikely Eusabian understands anything by the term as we do. His son, however,
was raised among us.”

“So, does Anaris believe his fate
is determined by those knots?” asked Padraic. Caleb sensed interest from Mortan
and Yosefina. They were debating the fate of the
Samedi
: unbeknownst to their captors, this unlikely tribunal held
the power of life and death over everyone on board.

“If so,” said Mortan Kree, suddenly
breaking his silence, “there is little to choose between them.”

“Perhaps,” said Gelasaar, “during
our next conversation I can determine the role knots play in Anaris’s life.”

Or death,
thought
Caleb.

“Do that,” Padraic Carr rumbled.
“I’ll be interested to hear what you decide.”

The others agreed. In the end, it would be the Panarch’s
decision whether Anaris, and all of them, lived or died.

Galen Perriath ducked his head low over his papers as
Lieutenant Commander Tessler entered the junior officers’ wardroom. Then he
smiled. Tessler couldn’t see him unless he peeked around the bulkhead into
Galen’s little alcove, which was unlikely: Tessler was the type who always
expected the best place, and this corner wasn’t it.

Galen liked retreating here to do his compilation work—it
was the only place he could spread out his flimsies. He paused, his stylus
poised above the compad, watching the reflections in the shiny steel edging of the
bulkhead, which served as a mirror into the rest of the wardroom.

Tessler fiddled with the caf dispenser, drumming his fingers
on a table, and then walked out, the door sliding shut behind him sounding
suspiciously like a sigh of relief.

The little group of officers on the senior side of the room
relaxed, one muttering in a low voice, causing another to laugh. Those in
Galen’s view glanced at the door once or twice, clearly expecting someone.

Half a minute later Lieutenant Tang bounded in, her round
face flushed from exertion. “Stuffcrotch gone?” she asked, black eyes wide.

“Was just here sniffing for
traces,” Ul-Derak said.

“Then he’ll be heading down to
roust a petty officer or two, or to inspect disposers or something, so let’s
have it.” Perriath couldn’t see the speaker, but he knew that high, girlish
voice: Sub-Lieutenant Wychyrski, from SigInt.

Tang sank into a padded chair with a groan.

“It’s a nightmare,” she said. “Totokili’s
on a rampage. Just about blew Ensign Leukady through a bulkhead for transposing
two items on a routine status report—like he’d tried to open the engine room to
space or something.”

“They’re all sizzled,” spoke a deep
male voice; reflected was tall, red-haired Lieutenant Commander Nilotis. “This
mission was thrown together so fast they’re still sorting out all the supplies.
I’m surprised we’re not all living on beans.”

“But Totokili’s the worst,” Tang replied.
“If his hair wasn’t already standing up, I’d say it was standing up!”

Totokili’s strange hairstyle was the butt of many jokes in
the junior officers’ wardroom, but no one was really laughing at Tang’s joke.

“Can you blame him?” Wychyrski
asked. “Supervising the refit of a Rifter ship, cramming it with every
techno-toy that gnostor can dream up as fast as Navaz’s cims can turn them
out.”

“Everybody in Engineering is racked
up about it,” Tang said. “You should have heard Shiffer trying to whang some
weird instrument into one of the sensor nacelles on that old
Columbiad
.”

Ul-Derak chuckled. “I take it the chief was mighty fluent.”

“Totokili comes up behind him and
asks him what’s the matter,” Tang explained, “and Shiffer says, ‘The chatzing
chatzer doesn’t chatz, sir!’”

The wardroom rang with laughter—more than the ancient joke
warranted, Galen thought.
We all need the
release.

“The Rifters thought it was pretty funny, too,” Tang
continued. “That little blonde almost fell down laughing.”

“Rifters.” Ul’Derak spat the word. “You think the chief
engineer’s hot, you should listen to Krajno. He’d like to space the lot of them
and tab the lock control himself.”

No one spoke for an uncomfortable pause. Krajno’s mate had
died at the hands of Rifters in the Treymontaigne system when the
Prabhu Shiva
was ambushed.

“Must make it rough in the
Captain’s Mess,” Wychyrski commented. “Was the Aerenarch himself asked the
captain to give them civ privilege on board.”

“Had to,” Tang said, shrugging.
“Those Rifters are going on a run at least as dangerous as this one, and no
danger pay.”

Wychyrski said plaintively, “What I don’t follow is why,
after the Jupiter Project was so secret you could be cashiered even dreaming
about it, they’re sending Rifters on the final run.”

“That was at Omilov’s request,”
Tang said.

Another short pause. Galen pictured the bulky old fellow
with the big ears. A professor, a gnostor, and a Chival, who’d turned out to be
a Praerogate. No one had stopped talking about that.

“What’ve those Rifters got—some
kind of codes to get around Eusabian’s Rifter fleet, in case they get spotted?”
Wychyrski went on. “Eusabian’s pulling his fleet over that side of the Rift,
that much we know.”

Tang sat down with a mug of caf, rolling her head tiredly.
“They don’t have it pinpointed that close, or they wouldn’t need this spy run.
It’s because of the brain-burners, mostly: they have been weirder than usual,
the blonde told me, since they saw the hyperwave. But they can sense something
connected to this Urian station Eusabian’s found—they and the Kelly and two of
the Rifters. But the Eya’a are key, and they want to travel on that Columbiad,
it’s their hive away from hive. Also, scuttlebutt says that Dol’jharian Rifter’s
a hot pilot.”

Ul’Derak grunted. “Main thing is, Omilov wanted them, so he
gets what he wants. As for the others’ opinions, Krajno knows how to keep his
mouth shut, and the Rifters don’t eat with the captain,” he finished.

Galen wondered if they felt the same bemusement, the fallout
of whipsaw emotions, that he did. For the last week they’d listened, and
talked, unable to do anything about the remarkable acceleration of events
around the Panarch’s heir. One day it had seemed he would be superseded; then
after a matter of hours, he had with Omilov’s unexpected help not only
established his authority but also managed to make it clear that he would be
part of the rescue mission. Galen felt a visceral thrill of pride at the
presence on the
Grozniy
of the heir
to the Emerald Throne.

“History chip popped up an
interesting fact,” Wychyrski put in. “If we pull off this rescue, it’ll be the
first time in almost four hundred years that a Navy ship has hosted both the
ruler of the Thousand Suns and the heir.”

“Was it true about his scores?”
Ul’Derak turned to Nilotis.

“Captain said it was a shame he
could never be commissioned,” Nilotis replied.

Somebody whistled. It was not Captain Ng’s nature to be
lavish with praise.

Ul’Derak shook his head and then laughed. “What days!
Rifters, Dol’jharians, an old gnostor popping up as a Praerogate.”