Voyage Across the Stars (80 page)

There were three meters of cracked concrete between Ned and the edge of the crowd. Media personnel shouted questions across it, but no one stepped closer. Harlow, at the spade grips of the tribarrel mounted on the upper plating, grinned through his sights as he traversed the weapon slowly across that invisible line on the ground.

“I’m Director Longley,” the woman said. “This vessel is quarantined. Take me to Captain Doormann at once.”

The director was in her thirties, younger than her male assistant. She radiated an inner intensity. Her voice and manner didn’t so much overpower the confusion as much as they rode over it.

“I’m in charge now,” Ned said harshly. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a squad of blue uniforms deploying on the terminal’s observation deck. “Captain Doormann’s dead, a lot of people are dead. But we brought back the capsule—”

Ned was rigidly focused on the step-by-step accomplishment of his mission. It was a series of hurdles, and it couldn’t matter that some of the obstacles might be blood and fire. Part of him wondered, though, what his expression must be to cause Kardon to flinch that way.

“—and we brought Lendell Doormann besides.”

“Got
the fucker!” Deke Warson cried. The crew gave a collective grunt and tipped the large sealed casket out. The plastic box was a clumsy piece of work, but it was as sturdy as befitted the skill of men whose training was in starship repairs rather than cabinetry.

The clear top the crew had added on Dell didn’t improve the casket’s appearance. Lendell Doormann grinned out at the crowd. He looked like the personification of Death by Plague.

Ned gestured. “As you see. Now, one of you take me at once to the board of Doormann Trading. I need to speak to the board immediately.”

There was movement inside the
Swift
as another team carefully walked the capsule up the aisle to the hatchway. Lendell Doormann’s device had been returned to its original status, with all the internal and external panels in place. The front of the capsule was open, displaying the empty interior.

“Keep your shirt on, Master . . . Slade,” Longley said, reading the faded name tape on Ned’s breast. “You’ve landed without proper authorization, and—”

“Excuse me, Director,” Tadziki said, “but we landed normally—as the navigation records will prove.”

“You’re Tadziki, aren’t you?” Longley said, turning her attention to the adjutant. “I’ve dealt with you before. Well, Master Tadziki, I can tell you right now I don’t appreciate you sneaking in on the regular landing pattern this way.
Look
at this chaos!”

She waved her hand at the crowd. “Somebody’s likely to be killed in a mess like this!”

As if that triggered a memory, Longley pointed up at Harlow. “And put that cursed cannon away or I’ll have you arrested right now! I’ll have you all arrested!”

Harlow grinned.

Kardon looked over his shoulder toward the mixture of police, security guards, and civilians. He thrust his way past Carron and started to climb the ladder extended from the
Swift’
s
side to access the gun position.

Deke Warson muttered something. Raff slung his rocket gun and grabbed the assistant director by the wrists, plucking him easily from the ladder.

“Kardon, what are you playing at?!” Longley demanded.

The Racontid swung Kardon around, holding him well off the ground. Kardon bleated with rage. Several of the police and guards had drawn their weapons, but their officers were angrily ordering, “
Don’t shoot! Don’t anybody shoot!”

“That’s enough!” said Tadziki.

Deke Warson slit Kardon’s waistband with a knife sharp enough for shaving, then pulled the man’s trousers down over his ankles.

“That,” Deke said, “is enough.”

He nodded to Raff. The Racontid let his victim down. Kardon bent over to grab his pants and tripped. There was laughter, but it was all from mercenaries and civilians.

“Director,” Ned said, “you’re not a fool, so stop acting like one. If you want real problems, for yourself and for Doormann Trading, then indeed go ahead and arrest these men who have risked their
lives
for Doormann Trading. We are
not
a rabble, mistress! I’m nephew to Slade of Tethys, and my companions are men of rank and power in their individual right!”

“We are here to report, mistress,” Tadziki said forcefully. “To report and to be paid under contract. We’ve suffered enough for Doormann Trading. We don’t choose to be chivied by bureaucrats who can’t control traffic in their own port!”

A pair of three-wheelers bulled through the crowd, carving a path for the limousine behind them. A video cameraman didn’t move out of the way. His bellow of anger turned to fear as an escort vehicle knocked him down from behind.

The trike drove over the man’s ankle and crushed part of the tracery of lenses which provided three-dimensionality for the holographic images. The cameraman’s producer managed to drag him out of the way of the limousine that was following.

Lucas Doormann opened the door of the limousine and got out. Time constraints and the crush of the crowd prevented the driver from waiting on his master in normal fashion.

“Where’s Lissea?” Lucas demanded. His gaze traveled over the
Swift
and those around it.

“Via!” he added with a moue of distaste. “Are all these guns necessary? Put them away, all of you.”

He gestured imperiously to a captain wearing a Doormann Trading uniform. “You! There’s no need for guns! Put your weapons up at once.”

“Captain Doormann is dead, Master Doormann,” Ned said as Lucas’ eyes returned to him.

“Dead?” Lucas repeated.

Kardon, holding his trousers up with one hand, looked as though he was about to interrupt. Longley shushed him with a curt chop of her hand.

“On Pancahte,” Ned said grimly. “We retrieved the capsule, though, and I
must
speak to your board immediately.”

“The capsule is an amazing advance over Transit,” Carron Del Vore said. “Your ancestor was right,
but,
for two-way traffic the device must—”

“Who is this?” Lucas demanded. Before anyone could answer, he spun on his heel. “Clear the crowd back, can’t you?” he shouted toward the red-faced officer who’d been bawling orders to the security personnel. “Blood and martyrs, what
is
this? A circus?”

Longley made a quick decision and stepped away from the discussion. She took a communications wand from her shoulder wallet and began speaking crisp orders. There were by now several hundred blue- and green-uniformed security personnel present. What was lacking was central direction, and Longley could supply that.

“Prince Carron,” Tadziki said, “is the heir and emissary of Treasurer Lon Del Vore of Pancahte. He is in addition a respected scientist, who believes it will now be possible to set up instantaneous communications between Telaria and Pancahte.”

Lucas’ eyes narrowed in surprise. “The lost colony really exists?” he said. He shook his head. “I suppose it must; I . . .”

“I must speak to the board of Doormann Trading,” Ned repeated again. “And the capsule should be returned to its original location in Lendell’s laboratory.”

Ned knew that Lucas was swamped by the situation. The Telarian noble’s mind was on a knife-edge, tilting one way and the next without real composure. If nudged successfully, Lucas had the rank and ability to do all the things necessary for the operation to succeed.

“Lendell?” Lucas said. He looked, perhaps for the first time, at the crude casket. “That’s Lendell. Good Lord, that
is
Lendell! What happened to him?”

“He never really left Telaria,” Carrion said, though “explained” would give too much effect to his words. “Though he couldn’t be seen here and he
appeared
to be present on Pancahte. That’s why the device must be returned to its original location, as precisely as possible, to permit two-way communication.”

“Good
Lord,”
Lucas repeated. “And Lissea . . . I didn’t think anything would really, would—”

He made a fist and broke off. He stared at his clenched fingers for a moment, then relaxed them and looked up at Ned again.

More police and guards were arriving, but the haste and panic of the early moments were over. The security personnel worked in unison, guided through their in-ear speakers by Longley and her assistant.

The crowd continued to grow as word of the
Swift’
s
arrival spread beyond the spaceport boundaries, but nothing was happening to raise the emotional temperature. Harlow tilted the muzzles of the tribarrel skyward, though all the mercs kept watch from beneath easy smiles and gibes to one another.

“I very much regret all of this,” Lucas said. “The—Lissea.”

He looked at Ned. “Yes,” he continued. “An emergency board meeting was called as soon as my father heard of the
Swift’
s
arrival. I will take you to the meeting, Master Slade.
If
you’re worried about your claims for payment, don’t be. I will personally guarantee them.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ned said, “but it’s necessary I report in person to . . . those who sent us to Pancahte.”

“And the device?” Carron put in. “This is an advance beyond conception!”

Lucas glanced at the Pancahtan, then back to Ned. “Should he be present at the board meeting?” he asked.

“No,” Ned said. “But Prince Carron
should
supervise the placement of the capsule back in the laboratory. That isn’t the first thing on your mind or on mine, sir, but I have no doubt that he’s correct in his valuation of the device.”

“All right, then,” Lucas muttered. He turned his head. “Director Longley? Director!”

Longley stepped quickly back to Lucas. “Yes sir?” she said. Kardon, still holding his trousers up, continued to oversee the security details.

“How quickly can you get two separate vans here?” Lucas demanded. “I want this object—”

He gestured to the capsule

“—taken to the laboratory in the basement of the Main Spire in the Doormann estate. And I want my . . . my great-granduncle’s body taken to the family chapel. That will require cargo handlers as well.”

Lucas looked at the mercenaries standing in falsely relaxed postures. “None of these gentlemen,” he added, “will be involved in the work.”

Longley spoke into her communications wand, then met the young noble’s eyes again. “The vehicles and crews will be here within ninety seconds, sir,” she said, “or I’ll remove a department head. They’ll need clearances to enter your family’s estate, of course.”

Lucas nodded brusquely. “Yes, of course; I’ll clear them through. Just get it done and done quickly. It’s not seemly to have—”

He looked at the casket and grimaced.” Was it really necessary to use a clear top?” he muttered, half under his breath.

“I’ll accompany the device,” Carron said to the port director. Longley glanced at Lucas.

“Yes, yes!” Lucas said with an irritated wave of his hand.

Doormann looked at Ned again, and his eyes hardened.

“You won’t be allowed in the meeting room armed, Master Slade,” he said.

“Of course,” Ned said with a sniff of surprise. He unlatched his pistol belt and handed the rig, powergun and all, to Tadziki. “On Tethys, it would be an insult to appear armed in public.”

The first of two spaceport service vehicles pulled through the gap the police had made in the spectators. Lucas turned and strode toward his limousine.

“Come along, then,” he muttered. “They’ll be expecting
my
report. Father didn’t want me to come.”

As he got into the big car, Lucas added, “I just can’t believe someone so alive as Lissea . . .”

“Hey, Tadziki,” Deke Warson called from the hatchway. “Master Customs-Agent here says he’s maybe going to quit hassling us so we can get our asses out of here.”

Tadziki spun his navigation console to face aft. He gestured toward Warson to indicate that he’d heard but continued talking earnestly to someone on the other end of the
Swift’
s
external communications link.

The vessel’s bay looked more of a wreck than it had at any time since initial liftoff from Buin. Men had sorted their gear, but most of it remained on top of their bunks, and spilling into the aisle. In truth, most personal items had been reduced to trash during the voyage, but the bald willingness to walk away from objects that had been companions for so long was alien to civilian sensibilities.

The men of the
Swift
weren’t civilians.

Tadziki finished his conversation and stood up. “There,” he said as he picked his way down the aisle to the hatch. “I’ve got lodging arranged for all who want it at the Clarion House, admission on ID or an expedition patch. And I’ve got a mobile crane rented. Coordinates to both are downloaded. You say the rigmarole here’s taken care of?”

The gray-suited customs supervisor with Warson bridled. “Master Tadziki,” he said, “I realize you men have gone through a great deal, but Telaria is civilized and civilization requires rules. I assure you my people and I have made quite extraordinary efforts to clear you immediately.”

He looked around with unintended distaste.

“Are we ‘go,’ then, Tadziki?” Deke Warson asked in a voice that surprised the customs official for its gentleness.

“That’s right,” the adjutant said.

He stepped to the hatchway and looked out. The security presence had shrunk to about thirty green-uniformed police, but the media were gone and the tension had left the remaining crowd.

The
Swift’
s personnel were drawn up in two lines at the base of the ramp. Three vans rented from a spaceport delivery service waited nearby. The crates in the back of two of the vans were full of weapons and ammunition. Customs officers nearby eyed the vehicles and the mercenaries with disquiet.

“All right, boys,” Tadziki called. “Have fun, and if there’s a problem you’ll find me here.”

He gave the troops a palm-out salute. The men returned it in a dozen different styles. None of them were very good at the gesture. In the field, the only purpose of a salute was to target a hated officer for an enemy sniper . . . and these men were more likely to use self-help for even that purpose.