Skeen's Search (29 page)

In the Lander, rising.

Zelzony watched the land fall away beneath her, held her breath as joy rushed through her; she was soaring as she'd never dreamed of soaring, even when she seized the idea of the starship and ran with it in the hope of healing her kind. The world dropped and seemed to shrink, details lost definition, colors changed and merged; at some point, between one blink and the next, it folded back on itself and was a cloud-streaked sphere hanging against fire-streaked darkness.

“Coming up on Pic.”

Skeen's voice shattered Zelzony's pleasure in this flight, reminding her that it wasn't her flight, but this alien's, that she was riding along like a baby in a carryweb. She closed her hands about the chair's arms, her claws out, though she didn't know it, the struggle to subdue an explosive mixture of anger, fear and most of all desire was absorbing all her attention.

“That's her, that's my Picarefy.”

Zelzony sighed and opened her eyes. She blinked. At first she thought the fishshape in the screen was small, not much larger than Workhorse down below, then she took a look at the firestreak behind the sleek black shape. It was one of the thicker streaks with a familiar braid of whorls and blotches, even from here familiar. She took several minutes to realize just how much of that braid was occulted by the black fish, an epiphany further delayed by the intimacy of their conversations. Talking with the ship without seeing her, she'd somehow developed the image of a being her own size, perhaps even her own shape; consciously she knew that was absurd, nonetheless the image was there. The reality of the ship, her immensity, was a physical jolt.

A hole opened in the flank of the fish and they the minnow swam into it.

Surrounded by metal, drowned in metal, metal so thick it didn't respond when she touched a claw surreptitiously to it, hardly a sound, as if it swallowed sound. Swallowed hope too, because if it took metal like this to make a starship, it would never happen. Somehow she hadn't thought of that with the tug, the metal there was as thick, as present, but not so much of it, never so much. She followed Skeen from the lock into a tube. The alien looked over her shoulder. “This could be startling. Don't worry about it, go with the flow.” A long unfurred hand, flat useless nails, reached out casually, brushing touched a part of the wall.

Gentle but utterly irresistible, something untouchable unseen closed about Zelzony and MOVED her. Like sliding on ice multiplied tenfold, she WENT. Between one breath and the next she was someplace else. And was angry again because she wasn't given time to be afraid and conquer the fear.

Another casual flick of Skeen's hand and the wall opened.

Zelzony followed her into a room that once again surprised her. She'd expected something vast and echoing, commensurate with the area of the hull, but the bridge was a homey size, her parlor down below was larger. There was one oversize thing, an immense screen that curved across the whole of the front wall which, since the room was wedge-shaped, was considerably broader than the back wall where the entrance was. Two complicated chairs rode on thick round pedestals in front of the screen, and there were several smaller simpler seats scattered about behind these. No instrumentation visible; if there was any, it was tucked away behind what looked like wood panels, the wood waxed and polished until it glowed with life. The floor was a dark brown wood with red and gold lights. There were several plants in pots, even a small tree. Skeen saw her astonishment, grinned at her. “Pic keeps reading ancient magazines and redecorating her inside. Whenever I leave her alone a few days, I come back and get lost.”

She settled Zelzony in the left hand chair and took the other. “Let's have a look, Pic.”

Zelzony bit back a startled exclamation as the chair shifted under her adapting to her form.

Skeen turned her head. “If you want something, Zem-trallen, just ask, Pic will provide.”

Zelzony said nothing, she had a lot of sorting out to do before she felt able to speak. This last bit of unnecessary instruction was a match to kerosene and still she kept the flare inside. The alien hadn't the faintest notion how she was feeling, no doubt the woman didn't really care. Zelzony turned to stare at the other. Skeen was stretched out in her chair watching the screen come to life. So suddenly she didn't understand herself, Zelzony wondered what the alien really thought of Rallen—and, a question much more painful, of her. She writhed inside as she realized how much she craved approval from this dubious stranger. As if she needed the validation of an outsider to know her own value. She couldn't deal with this, not now. She didn't want to think about it, now or ever. She had to think about it. Later, when there wasn't so much pressure. Later later later.… She swallowed and lifted her eyes to the screen.

Like the smaller one in Workhorse, it was divided into a number of hexagonal cells, each one with its own image.

*The Kinravaly in Workhorse. Borrentye with her. Hatenzo? That was a surprise. Tyomfin.

*Tibo, looking rather demonic, his dark face lit from below by the faint reddish light coming from the skip's controls. Tavva and Uszer crowded in beside him. The image switched momentarily to show dark water rolling beneath them. They were out over the sea waiting for the boy to leave. Sunup was the departure time he'd registered, that would be about a half hour away now at the Laby Youl Meridian. A daylight flight to South Island and the wild yaut reserve; he was keeping a record of the changes in a single family of those lanky six-legged predators whose domestic counterparts were bred and trained for racing. They looked awkward, even comical but they could cover ground with astonishing speed. And they were extremely dangerous if the observer got careless; it spoke a lot for the boy that he was being allowed to go there on his own. Zelzony beat her hand twice on the chair arm then forced herself to relax. He was going to be hurt by another predator, but he wouldn't be killed, he might even be proud of what he'd done to save other lives. No matter what, he was going to know what he'd bought with his injuries. She swore that to herself, swore a loyalty to the boy over all other loyalties. It was the only way she could live with what she was doing.

*Lipitero in her skip, her scars like ink spilled across her face. Timka dimly visible curled in the other chair looking as limber as her cat form. Kert and Fescan behind them, recognizable only because she knew who was there. Again the flicker of another image, dark rugged moutain peaks with conifers like mangy fur. The Yaut Reserve.

*Rostico Burn in the third skip, alone, looking stern, the All-Wise only knew what game he was playing. Flicker. Image of an enclosed court, a soaring tower on his left, a tower with lighted windows near the top. The Kinra Residence, Yasyony.

*Kinra Selyas, Elexin at her side, in the Round Room with the table of electronic gear and the circle of windows. Several of the windows are open and a strong breeze catches crumpled papers about Elexin's feet and sends them rustling across the room. At the moment he is reading a note, a grave-faced young page at his elbow. He scrawls an answer, tears it off a pad, gives it to the page who darts across the room and flings herself out one of the open windows.

*In the Round Room with the Kinra, but over to one side, near the windows, Marrin ortza-fej, playing terg with Ellum and Pekkal to pass the time until the call comes that the boy is safely off from Laby Youl. Then they will crowd into the skip with Burn and run for the staging area where Lipitero and her passengers are waiting, a high mountain meadow not far from the camp area where the boy plans to spend his double fortn't.

*Three wings with dark cloaked forms strapped to the carry bars, speeding across dark choppy water, runner lights muffled, the middle one badly, so a few streaks of white burn out of gaps in the black felt.

“Would you care for something to drink while we wait? You could try a wine I like at times like this, not much alcohol in it so you won't fuzz your brain, or I could have Pic brew up some iska for you. Petro likes the stuff so we've laid in a supply of it.” Skeen chuckled. “Don't be so surprised. I'd get insulted at the look on your face if asking you wasn't Pic's idea, she scolds me all the time about neglecting my guests.”

“Iska would be best, I think.” Zelzony tried a smile and found it fairly easy to manage with most of her mind distracted by the screen and what was happening on it. “I don't believe this is the best time for experimenting.”

“Could be you're right.”

In the Round Room. “He's off. A half-hour late, but what boy ever got out of bed on time.”

To Rostico Burn from Picarefy. “Get ready for your passengers, you're clear to go.”

To the Kinravaly, Zelzony speaking, voice transmitted by Picarefy. “It begins. The boy has started. Elexin reports the triad left Laby Youl separately three hours ago. The seed spies show them still traveling across water. Lipitero and Timka have landed in the Reserve. They're waiting.”

From Tibo, a report. “We're moving; some clouds about, enough to keep him from spotting us. We're some seven hundred meters above him and about as many northeast. Tavva has glasses on the boy, no trouble at all keeping him in view.”

To Lipitero. “He's on his way. Anything happening around you?”

Lipitero to Picarefy. “Nothing. There wouldn't be, would there. It's a twelve-hour wingflight there to here. We wait.”

Rostico Burn to Picarefy. “Passengers in, we'll have to come back for the wings and gasbombs and the rest of the junk. Probably need Lipitero if we're to do the hauling in one trip. Those wings are bulky and gassing them up doesn't work, we should have done a bit of experimenting before we tried hauling them.”

Picarefy to Rostico Burn. “You didn't think of it either, chirk, so don't go holier than on me. I'll get the message to Petro.”

To Lipitero. “Ross is on his way, be there in an hour. The equipment has turned out to be bulkier than expected, so be ready to help him ferry it. Should be ample time. Tibo can let us know when the boy is getting close. Swing wide on your rounds to the Residence and back, don't want the targets spotting you, you can afford an extra half hour's flying time.”

Lipitero to Picarefy. “Just as well I've got something to do, sitting around here is making me crazy and I'm not the only one, Ti-cat is out and prowling.”

Skeen to Lipitero. “When you see her, tell her if she's got ants, she should make wings and hunt round the boy's campsite. The triad won't play with him anywhere near that camp, but they might try ambushing him there. And tell her if she isn't back by the time the boy hits the coast, I personally will dump her on a waterworld where she'd have to spend the rest of her life as a fish.”

Picarefy to Tibo. “Give a shout when the boy's about an hour from land. We've had to do some revamping of arrangements, equipment foul-up.”

Tibo to Picarefy. “Hear you. Isn't there always. The boy's sailing along easy in clear skies, no sign of the triad. Me, I think twilight's when they'll do it. Catch him flying, probably half asleep.”

Skeen to Tibo. “I say they'll wait till he's on the ground.”

Tibo to Skeen. “Double or nothing, the take's the stake.”

Skeen to Tibo. “Done.”

Time passes. Lipitero, Ross and Timka have something to do to help it pass. They work hard, loading down the skips until they're dragging tail, then sweat them back to the staging area where Marrin and the other agents work off some of their nervous energy unloading their gear. In Picarefy, watching the screen cells has lost whatever charm it had originally. Skeen has vanished somewhere into Picarefy's entrails, Zelzony has settled to a painful brood over her explosive and ambivalent emotions, trying to wrestle them into a shape more pleasing to her and more conducive to maintaining her self-esteem.

Tibo to Picarefy. “Coastline of South Island ahead. Hour away as requested. From his level, the sun's almost gone. Tavva says after he hits the coast he's got another hour and a half before he reaches the camp. Where are the targets?”

Picarefy to Tibo. “Everything is set at the staging ground. The targets are in the air again, heading toward the boy. Estimated intersect, forty-five minutes. The sooner they do it, the better we'll all feel.”

Tibo to Skeen. “My game.”

Skeen to Tibo. “Looks like, but we'll wait till they take him just to be sure. Hmmm?”

Zelzony to the Kinravaly. “The boy has reached the coast. It's getting dark. The triad is in the air, moving toward him. Soon now.”

Kinravaly to Zelzony. “Please ask ship Picarefy to let us witness the capture. We must see how it is done.”

Picarefy to Zelzony. “With your permission, Zemtrallen, I'll comply with the request.”

Zelzony to Picarefy. “Given. Thank you.”

Picarefy to Skeen in shower-room. “Hey, get your butt up here, things are starting to happen. I'd rather you were here, Skeen, makes me feel more secure.”

Skeen to Picarefy. “Crock of shit, that; I'll be there soon as I dry off.”

Dark wings, dark cloaks wound about them, the triad drifted toward the boy, riding higher than him, silent shadows slipping closer and closer. When they were a short distance from him, they separated and came at him from three directions. One slipped into a long glide that would take him into the airspace in front of the boy. The other two slanted more steeply, dropping until they were beneath the wing and close behind their prey. He was limp, half asleep, not bothering about what was going on around him. The sharp crack as one of the riders behind him snapped a net out of its folds and tossed an end to the other rider broke through his weariness. He started to look around, but it was too late. They swung the net up, tangled him in it. The rider in front of him slipped in until the noses of the two wings were rubbing against each other, then he swung a yautwhip at the boy's head and put him out with a neat precision that spoke of considerable practice.