Watcher's Web (38 page)

More soldiers
streamed into the street until the Pengali were hemmed in by a sea
of white uniforms.

Nowhere to
go.

Still, the
Pengali around the cart threw their pearls and Jessica passed them,
while glass knives dripped with blood and bodies littered the
pavement.

Then a scream
rose next to the cart.

Light flashed
on the curved surface of a charge gun. A gleam of reflection on a
silver mane of hair.

Iztho, aiming
his gun at the cart, his face hard and emotionless. Pengali
pearl-throwers pushed away from him as his hand tightened around
the release.

No!

Jessica
scrambled up, but trying to get out of the tray was like walking on
marbles. She slipped and fell hard amongst the by now crumpled
flowers.

Her hand
closed around a pearl to fling at his head, but he was quicker.

He yelled,
“Stand back!” And fired the gun. A flash of blue hit the wheels.
The undercarriage exploded in a shower of wood. The tray listed.
Pearls rolled to one side, rumbling over the top of one another.
Jessica threw herself to the higher side to stop it tipping, to no
avail.

The cloth
tore, and Jessica slid onto the pavement in a waterfall of glowing,
radioactive caviar. Bouncing, crackling, releasing their charge
into strands of blue lightning, which extended from the crippled
cart to cover half the street.

Jessica
scrambled to her feet, grabbed mental hold of as many of the
strands as she could and screamed, “Please help! Anyone!” She
guided the strands to anyone who responded: Ikay, the Amazons, and
a warm presence all the way behind the soldier line.

Daya?

I’m
here.

A web of
lightning wove over the street, as a wave of panic struck her. They
were using up their chance to get the Exchange working—

You
must help me.
Daya’s
mind voice cut into her thoughts. His mind link gripped her hard
and pulled her into a vortex, a maelstrom of light that was so
bright her eyes watered. She wanted to close her eyes, but that
made no difference because the glow was inside her mind. Still,
Daya pulled, his light a powerful presence.

Where
are we?
Although she
recognised this stream of energy. The very first time she had seen
Daya, she had experienced the maelstrom, too.

I am on
the corner of the Barresh town square in front of the Exchange. You
are in the middle of the fight.

Even without
words or shared thoughts, Jessica knew what he wanted. The Exchange
network used life energy; they could both sense and use life
energy—he wanted to send some sort of signal through the network.
That was how she had come in contact with him before
. . . but those incidences had been mostly accidental
. . . hadn’t they?

A window
opened in her vision, and then another one, and another.

*     *     *

A woman sat
half-dozing before an instrument panel, staring out a window into a
star-speckled sky.

*     *     *

A group of
workers dressed in blue shared a joke in a hall where screens
flickered and the hum of voices provided background to their
laughter.

*     *     *

A man typed on
a touch screen, his fingers fast like dancing spiders.

*     *     *

When Jessica
was little and visiting her grandparents in the city, her
grandfather had taken her to a shop where hundreds of television
screens occupied the back wall. This was bit like that, only each
screen displayed a different channel, representing a node in the
Exchange network, and the maelstrom of light connected all of
them.

How can
we talk to those people?

We
can’t, or I don’t know how to do it. Communication requires a
two-way response, a second able mind. All we can do is upset the
system, and hope someone traces the signal back to Barresh. Are you
ready?

Jessica was
dimly aware that she still stood in the street, and that all this
took perhaps a fraction of a second. The pearls still crackled
around her feet. She grabbed as many strands as she could
reach.

I’m
ready.

The lightning
twisted into a rope, shot into the sky, sucked into the vortex.

*     *     *

In the world
where it was night, the panel flashed, lights reflected in the
window. The woman jolted from her doze. On a dozen screens before
her, the same image was displayed: a violent street fight.

*     *     *

In the large
hall, the workers stopped chatting. All stared at the screen
wide-eyed, as a white-uniformed soldier slashed at a small figure.
The image dissolved in snow. Beeping alarms went off, and people
ran past.

*     *     *

The man who
had been typing froze. The text on his screen had changed into
splatters of blood on a white uniform, a small figure falling, and
cheering soldiers.

*     *     *

The world
exploded in a flash of white. Men screamed. Bodies toppled.
Lightning crackled. A whoosh of wind tore at hair and clothing.
Jessica’s consciousness returned to her body.

Then there was
silence.

Jessica
stumbled, black spots dancing before her eyes.

At her feet
lay a body—the Pengali drummer, his face covered in blood and a
hole torn through his chest. To her right, two females helped up a
young male, trembling hands clutching his belly. Rivulets of blood
pulsed down his fingers.

A wave of wild
panic gripped her. There was no one she recognised, none of the
people she had come to love. Iztho—where was Iztho?

Jessica
whirled around to where she had last seen him.

He was still
there; he lay on his belly, very still, his eyes closed, discharged
pearls all around him, his hand draped over the gun. With sickening
feeling, Jessica realised what he had done. A perfectionist, he
wouldn’t have carried a weapon unless he knew how to use it and if
he had intended to kill her, he would never have missed at such
close range.

He had known
what she and the Pengali were trying to do by throwing the pearls,
had seen the process was too slow and, while there was no time for
words, had sped it up. He could easily have killed her had he
wanted to, but instead he had saved her, and probably a lot of
Pengali lives as well.

Had he paid
the ultimate price?

He lay there
so peacefully, as if he were asleep. Splatters of blood caked his
hair and his cloak was wet. She brought a shivering hand to the
soft skin of his neck. It was warm; a vein pulsed weakly. “Iztho,
wake up.” She stroked his cheek, and when he didn’t react, pushed
up his shoulder. “Iztho, please.” He had to wake up; she had to get
him off the ground, get someone to look after him. “Someone, please
help me.”

Three Mirani
soldiers had come up behind her. One pointed a crossbow at her,
blackened, the slide bent. Blood ran down his tunic from a gash in
his cheek.

Jessica didn’t
think the weapon would still be effective, but he gestured with it,
and she backed off.

“At least take
him to a hospital,” she said.

Two soldiers
bent, not taking their attention from her. They grabbed Iztho under
his arms and heaved him up. He mumbled some incoherent words, his
eyes only half open. In this fashion, they dragged him off to where
the soldiers were setting up a sick bay for the injured, who
outnumbered the uninjured.

Jessica
watched him disappear in the shadows. The last she saw of him was a
glimpse of his silver hair. She couldn’t do anything, wasn’t sure
she wanted to do anything. Maybe he spoke the truth, maybe he had
been forced into bringing her and had fallen in love with her
during the trek through the forest. Maybe he had wanted to take her
somewhere else and start a new life, but on the other hand, he had
lied to her about too much for too long. And she wasn’t ready for
what he wanted.

Maybe if times
had been different . . .

Chapter
30

A
HUMID SQUALL
of wind tore at Jessica’s hair. It whipped up branches of the large
trees around the square and sent a flurry of pink petals dancing
between rows of soldiers. Mud or blood stained once-white uniforms.
Many of the men nursed injuries, but they stood, silent as bowling
pins, as the six blue-clad figures walked between them, stopping at
the end of each row to type on their screens. The observers the
Union had sent.

They were
counting. Checking if their numbers matched those as approved by
the Barresh council.

Seated on the
fence, Jessica had counted them in two minutes.

There were
twenty-five soldiers to a row, and there were twenty-five rows.
Yet, the Union delegates scribbled their notes and conferred with
each other.

Commander
Nemedor Satarin, lips pressed in a thin line, stood at the gate to
the airport, flanked by two high-ranking soldiers. Blue eyes
staring into nothingness, he clutched a document to his chest,
white-knuckled hands clenching and unclenching. His gaze avoided
those of the Barresh council, the lines of council guards and the
citizens of the city who had come out in their thousands.

Through the
foliage of the red-flowered bushes that edged the airport Jessica
could see the purple surface of Daya’s aircraft. Two men in grey
had taken off a side panel. He had damaged the engine by leaving
from Miran without defrosting. All sorts of parts and tools lay
spread out on blankets. Jessica wondered if this meant that Daya
would leave soon; he was free to go after all. She wondered if he
cared for the city and their kinship with the Pengali. Most of all,
she wondered if he still cared for her; she missed his voice in her
mind.

She couldn’t
believe he would give up so easily, but maybe he found her too hard
to please. As a handsome and rich man, women would be throwing
themselves at his feet. She already saw it each time one of
Councillor Semisu’s wives mentioned Daya; a dreamy, swooning look
would come over her eyes, and Jessica would feel more lonely.

The place
where Iztho’s craft had stood was empty. Although gossip at
Councillor Semisu’s house told her that he had recovered enough to
fly himself, Jessica had not seen him again. He had not even sent
her a note of goodbye. She liked to think that he had been under
strict supervision of the Mirani army and had not been allowed to
contact her.

On the square,
all Union observers had gathered in one spot. After some talk, the
group moved towards the assembled councillors, the mediator woman
from the council meeting in the lead. Her ponytail blew over her
forehead as she bowed.

“I have here
the results of our headcount. There are one thousand and twenty-one
Mirani military personnel in Barresh. The contract you hold with
Miran provides for three hundred and fifty troops. Under Union Law,
you have a number of options: you could ratify the new contract and
allow the men to stay. You could request that the extra troops
leave. It is also your right to renegotiate your contract.”

Commander
Satarin inclined his head. “Miran has already ratified the
contract. In addition, I would like to sit down and complete
negotiations for our trade relations. Once Barresh is integrated in
the Mirani agricultural cooperatives, benefits can flow into this
city. But we will need to maintain our troops to protect the
merchant class from the whims of the natives.”

“Natives!”
Sheida pushed himself through the crowd. No longer dressed in the
insulting turquoise garb, he had gained in stature. Navy suited
him.

“The natives
are the majority of the population. We grow the things you want to
sell. You negotiate with us. And we will not be mistreated.”

Jisson Semisu
added, “The Barresh council can’t tolerate barbaric acts against
any of the city’s citizens. We are natives, too.”

Commander
Satarin eyed both men in a moment of silence. “If I’m hearing you
correctly . . .” He licked his lips. “Losing the
support of Miran would be very unwise. What do you think would be
the viability of an entity the size of only a city, especially one
dependent on us for services and export?”

The guards
next to him tensed. Sweat pearling on his brow, Jisson Semisu
glanced at the councillor next to him, who gave a tiny nod. “We are
not part of Miran. We are independent. Some independent Traders
have never deserted us, and more will come once we’ve upgraded the
Exchange. We have people who are committed to the education of our
citizens.”

One of the
guards reached for his crossbow, but Commander Satarin held him
back with a hand gesture, directing a smile at the mediator. “Of
course, Barresh has the right to decide.”

“We do indeed.
So here is what I do with our agreement.” Councillor Semisu held
the contract in front of him and ripped it in half. “I know Barresh
has issues to be set straight, but when that is done, we will be
applying for full Union membership. You will be welcome: as
visiting foreign official.” He ripped the card again and again and
scattered the pieces on the wind. They fluttered through the air;
one came to rest at Commander Satarin’s feet.

He ignored it,
his face still an unemotional mask. “Very well. It is your right.
Don’t expect it to solve any of your problems. Worse, we will be
taking everything we have paid for.” He gestured to his guards.
“Evacuate.” Then he turned on his heel.

Within
moments, commands rang out over the square and the population of
Barresh watched, first open-mouthed, then in mounting disbelief, as
line after line of soldiers marched through the gate.

They cheered
and whistled, Pengali pulled out instruments and within moments,
the square was awash with music.