A Prison Unsought (73 page)

At least there was no sign of a cruiser yet. Not that they’d
know. The system was too dirty to detect a ship even that big until it was on
top of them.

He spun away from the console and paced across the deck.
Maybe the Panarchists didn’t know. He hoped not—he’d played the FF simulation
several times in the past few hours, and would do so again, but it was
painfully apparent that he’d have a hard time up against a Navy captain who’d
gone through the FF test at the Academy.

Fasthand started at the chime of his cabin annunciator. The
look-see revealed the lumpy form of Morrighon standing in the corridor. Fury
boiled up at the implication that Morrighon knew where he was at all times—how
else would he have known to come to the cabin rather than the bridge? The crew
wouldn’t have told the little trog where he was without warning him first.

The captain drew in a deep breath in an attempt to stabilize
his fear, and said, “Open.” The hatch hissed and Morrighon stepped through,
holding a flimsy in one hand.

“We will arrive at Gehenna in less
than four hours. As soon as you are within range, you are to destroy the
Quarantine Monitor and then take up synchronous orbit in its place, which is
the closest sync point to the center of the habitable zone. At that point you
will debark the prisoners in the shuttle now being prepared in the starboard
bay.”

Now being prepared?
Why hadn’t he been told? Having so totally dominated the crew in their sex
games, the Dol’jharians apparently no longer cared for appearances.

“I have prepared the duty roster
for the shuttle.” He held out the paper to Fasthand, who merely stared at him,
blood roaring in his head.

Morrighon smiled thinly and placed it on a nearby table.

“The Tarkans, of course, will be in
charge of the prisoners. You need not concern yourself with that. I have
selected the shuttle crew from your secondaries, to lessen the impact on the
ship’s efficiency should there be an incident.”

“Incident?” Fasthand croaked. Did Morrighon
think those old geezers could overcome even one Tarkan?

“System FF contains no information
on the Gehennans’ capabilities,” Morrighon replied. “You will stand by ready to
destroy the shuttle if my lord so commands.”

So Morrighon had managed to snake out his data on the FF
simulation. What else did he know?

“The prisoners will be transferred
to the shuttle one hour before arrival. Have your crew ready.” He left without
waiting for a reply.

Fasthand’s hand shook as he picked up the flimsy. He had the
sense that there had been layers of meaning within Morrighon’s words, but he
was too tired and too zizzed to unravel them. He scanned the orders. The names
written there made no impression on him except one.

Kaniffer.
That
chatzer would sell his mother for a cup of caf. Fasthand had never let Kaniffer
hold any position of responsibility, despite his piloting abilities: he
couldn’t resist playing the angles. Fasthand had little doubt what kind of
squeeze Kaniffer would try to make out of this.
A vid of the Gehennans grabbing the Panarch would buy him his own ship.

But he couldn’t change that. He was no longer master of the
Samedi
. Emmet Fasthand crumpled the
orders in his hand and looked over at the data console. It was all up to Tat
now.

o0o

The light on the shuttle bay hatch flashed yellow, and as
he stepped through, Gelasaar’s spirits lifted. It was more than the transition
to standard gee after their passage through the Dol’jharian section of the
destroyer, it was an almost joyful anticipation. Whatever the outcome of the
next few hours, there would be no more waiting and no more helplessness. Once
again, perhaps for the last time, the former rulers of the Thousand Suns would
determine their own fate.

He glanced at the others as their captors herded them toward
the shuttle and observed the signs of a similar emotion. Even Padraic Carr,
tortured by the racking cough that never left him, seemed cheerful. He met
Gelasaar’s gaze and his mouth quirked.

Anaris stood next to the shuttle’s ramp, his secretary at
his side. The Tarkans stopped them in front of Eusabian’s son.

At a motion from Anaris, the guards pushed the others up the
ramp, leaving only the Panarch.

“The completion of my father’s
paliach is upon you, Gelasaar hai-Arkad,” said Anaris. “And the lessons are
over.”

“Learning ceases only when life
does,” the Panarch replied, “and the converse, too, is true, that when learning
ceases, death is not far away.” He looked straight into Anaris’s eyes. “I have
not ceased my studies.”

A smile deepened the corners of Anaris’s mouth. “Nor have
I.”

He held out one hand. On its palm lay two rings.

The sight of them squeezed Gelasaar’s heart with an amalgam
of emotions he had never felt before. One was a simple ring of gold, his
wedding band; the other, the Phoenix Signet, worn only by the ruling Arkad.
Slowly he reached out and took them.

As he fitted them onto their accustomed fingers, he looked
up at Anaris. No one else, he thought, could have seen it, but he was sure it
was there: ever so faint, a trace of regret.

The least Dol’jharian
of all emotions.

Gelasaar bowed with gratitude, the deference of equal to
equal, then walked up the ramp.

Eusabian’s paliach was nearly complete, but he was not the
victor.

Londri Ironqueen watched her scout’s hands shake as he
took the mug and raised it to his lips. The blood oozing from the ragged
arrow-graze across his forehead glinted blackly in the firelight. When he
lowered the mug his eyes widened as the still-wine took effect.

The others considered his report, their silence broken only
by the crackle of the fire and the mournful hooning of a fang-bat nearby.

“How long do you estimate before
the Tasuroi arrive?” she asked finally.

He wiped his lips. “The ones I ran across were outriders. If
they’re following their usual pattern, the main horde will be here in less than
thirty hours. Maybe sooner.”

“Thank you, Lannecht Nulson. You
have done well. Tell the quartermaster to give you food and a doss for the
night.”

The scout saluted and strode away, his pride stiffening most
of the exhausted stagger out of his legs.

The Ironqueen swept her gaze over the others seated by the
fire, coming to rest at last on Tlaloc Ur’Aztlan. “If you have any ideas, my
lord Aztlan, now is the time.”

“I can’t suggest anything that
hasn’t already been done, Your Majesty,” he replied, running his fingers
through his bushy black beard. “With the exception of Comori Keep, we hold the
high ground, the artillery is well positioned, and our forces are tightly
interlocked to prevent any flanking movements.”

“Perhaps we should hope for a
miracle,” said Gath-Boru. “Like the sudden collapse of Comori’s walls.”

Londri didn’t miss the glance of dislike between Tlaloc and
her general. Gath-Boru had vociferously opposed their present deployment; while
admitting its strength, he was uncomfortable with the thought of having to guard
against a sally from Comori during the coming engagement with the Tasuroi.

I don’t think he
trusts Aztlan to handle Comori.
Her mother had taught her that neighbors
usually made the worst enemies, with the long history of enmity between Comori
and Aztlan a primary lesson, but Gath-Boru was unconvinced.

Londri looked at the stars far above. Was that, too, a world
of betrayal and deceit? She couldn’t believe so, for all that Stepan insisted
on it. They had so much in the Thousand Suns; what did they have to fight over?

“At least Alyna Weathernose
predicts a windless day tomorrow,” said Stepan. He’d apparently seen the
glance, too. “That’ll make the spore-tox all the more effective.”

The Tasuroi didn’t have artillery, making the chemical and
biological weapons developed by the inhabitants of the Splash one of the most
effective weapons against the barbarians.

“Steel and flesh,” said Tlaloc.
“You can soften up the enemy with artillery, but it’s steel and flesh that
decides it.”

No one disagreed.

Londri stood up. The meeting had long ago wound down into
repetition; only the scout’s report had prolonged it. “We should all retire
now, or it won’t be steel nor flesh that decides it, but lack of sleep.”

As she spoke she was taken by a racking yawn. She tilted
back her head and stretched out her arms, then stiffened in shock as a dazzling
light blossomed high in the southern sky. Instantly brighter than any star, it
grew in intensity until she had to slit her eyes as it lit up the camp as
bright as day. The men and women around her jumped to their feet, exclaiming in
wonder and fear; shouts of terror resounded from all around, echoed by harsh
shrieks from the trees as roosting corbae erupted into the glare-stricken sky.

The light dimmed, leaving behind a dim blotch in the sky
that slowly dissipated.

“The Quarantine Monitor,” said
Stepan in a tone laden with wonder and hope. “Somebody blew up the Monitor.”

“What does it mean?” Londri asked.

Stepan shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.”

“When a new star blazes in the sky
Ferric House against a fallen fortress
Leads both friend and foe to fate defy.”

Gath-Boru spoke slowly, his voice almost impossibly deep. He
put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Now it begins,” he said.

The shuttle crossed the terminator into darkness, flying
eastward against the fall of night. Lufus Kaniffer rubbed his sweaty hands down
his pants. “You see anything yet, Neesach?”

“Prani’s Balls, Lufus!” His copilot
never seemed to be able to speak in anything less than an irritating shriek.
“We aren’t within ten thousand klicks of the landing zone yet.” She slapped at
her console. “We got the coordinates of the infrared concentration from the
Samedi’s
scan. We’ll get there.”

“Whaddya think it is, ’Niff?” came
Bugtul’s voice over the com from the engine compartment.

“Some sort of battle, probably.
Don’t imagine they got anything else to do, with no metals and no tech,”
Kaniffer replied shortly.

“This is gonna be great!” the
engineer exulted. “Nobody’s ever seen a vid like this.”

“Shut up, Buggy. Too many ears.”

“Nah!” came the reply. “This
chatzer doesn’t speak Uni.”

“You sure?”

Bugtul’s voice muffled as he turned away from the com. “Hey,
Shiidra-buttwipe. Bet you only need one finger to flip your nacker, eh?” Then
his voice came back stronger. “See. No Dol’jharian’s gonna put up with that.”

“Yeah.”
But there was no sense taking chances
, thought Kaniffer. Who knew
what that Morrighon crawler might have rigged. “That’s enough yap.”

The remainder of the flight passed in silence. Kaniffer
couldn’t stand Neesach’s sheet-metal voice, so he wasn’t about to offer any
conversation, and he guessed that Bugtul, despite his bravado, didn’t really
feel too talkative with that Tarkan glowering at him in the little engine
compartment. What they were planning was dangerous, even if the mods they had
hurriedly programmed into the computer held off the Dol’jharians in the lock.
He wondered how Bugtul planned to deal with the Tarkan.

He checked occasionally on the imagers he’d set up in the
lock. No action there. The Panarchists sat against a bulkhead, talking quietly
in those singsong voices of theirs—he couldn’t make out half of what they said.
A lot of it wasn’t even Uni. The two Tarkans barely moved, holding their
weapons trained on the geezers like they expected them to pull jacs out of
their butts and start shooting up the ship.

Finally their course took the shuttle over a chain of
mountains that the navcomp indicated was one edge of the habitable zone.

“Getting some readings now,” said
Neesach. “Course three forty-nine. Lotta heat, some high-temp, more body-temp.”
Her voice whined up the scale with excitement. “Looks like you were right!”

Kaniffer brought the shuttle around to the indicated
heading. A few minutes later he could see the glow of campfires on the horizon.
Thousands of them!

Beyond lay darkness, and then more lights, spread around
some big stone building that barely showed up in the IR display. It looked like
the first batch of fires belonged to some group heading toward the second. But
maybe they were just reinforcements. Then he shrugged. Didn’t matter, but if
they were enemies, it’d be rich.
This is
the place.

He commenced the landing sequence as he announced over the
com: “Final approach initiated.”

The sound of the engines roughened, and the little craft
bucked. He glanced Neesach’s way and stabbed his little finger in the air, then
leaned back as she tabbed the com to call the
Samedi
.

Everything was going according to plan.

o0o

Cauldronmaster Strongarm-of-the-Leaning-Rocks, known as
Smegmaniggle to the Raw Ones, felt the rhythms of the Dance mount up from his
feet, infusing him with the certainty of victory and fresh meat. He stomped
even harder, raising his knees high and shouting his courage at the Old Ones
watching unblinking from their sky-abode; his warriors echoed him a thousand-fold.

His wizard threw another bundle of hate-weed on the blazing
fire. Strong fumes puffed up; Strongarm inhaled gaspingly. Soon dawn would come
and they would pour over the hills onto the hated Raw Ones and consume them.
Perhaps they would even overcome the stone house, if Tongue-with-Claws had
sufficiently lulled the Comori with his eloquence.

Colors spilled over from inside his head and painted the
scene around him in pulsing hues that took their vividness from the pounding of
the immense manskin drums. He tore at his arms with his teeth; the hot iron
taste of blood maddened him further.