CHAPTER FIFTEEN
PRIME STATION.
Val Con moved with the rest of the troop through Docking Tunnel 6, Level E, and into the main corridor. He touched his companion’s arm.
“I leave you here,” he said. “Thank you for your care.”
Winston grinned. “Son, I don’t want Sergeant Redhead wastin’ me.” He slapped the Liaden gently on the shoulder. “Be good now.” He went on with the rest as Val Con dropped out of line and slid into DownTunnel Sirius, which accessed Levels F through L.
The DownTunnel was a slow, easy float, designed for tourists, not spacers. He drifted to F Level, snagged a loop, and rolled lazily into the corridor beyond. Docking Bay 327 was to the left and around the curve of the Station’s wall; he set off at a light bound, savoring the slight reduction in gravity.
She was not at the entrance to the dock. He frowned, checking his inner clock. Seven minutes had passed since they’d hit.
Fair enough—he had told her fifteen.
Back against the corridor’s inner wall, positioned so that he could watch the hall in both directions, as well as the entrance to Number 327, he settled in to wait.
According to Winston, the mercenaries were to rendezvous at Dock 698, halfway around the station on Level E. From there, they would board private transport and be en route to Lytaxin within twenty minutes of hitting Prime Station.
He frowned again, groping after some faint sense of importance attached to the planet’s name. Lytaxin?
Footsteps sounded beyond the curve of the wall and he stiffened, hand flicking to gun. With a grating effort of will, he relaxed back against the wall and a moment later exchanged a casual nod with a woman in the uniform and utility belt of an electrician. The sound of her steps faded to nothing in the other direction, and he strained his ears to catch the slight clues of Miri’s approach.
She wasn’t coming. He was certain of it, though no numbers appeared to support the certainty. She’d thrown back in with Suzuki and the Gyrfalks: The mercs were her safety; she wouldn’t believe the Juntavas would hunt her there.
Then he was running, streaking down the corridor, looking for an UpTunnel to Level E—and finally the numbers began, flickering and flashing like lightning before his mind’s eye.
A mistake, Miri! he cried soundlessly. And the harm done only too clear.
He sighted an UpTunnel, grabbed the loop, and rolled inside, giving an extra kick to send himself rising faster; he ignored the loop at E level, tucking and rolling, spacer-style, and running on the bounce.
Val Con ran, dock numbers flashing by and the equations flickering, flickering. At Dock 583 a load ‘bot was jammed cross-corridor, while three humans yelled instructions at each other. He pulled more speed from somewhere, kicked, rose, slapped the top of the ‘bot with both hands, flipped, and hit the corridor beyond, running. The shouts were meaningless sounds, far behind.
Sixteen minutes.
Access Tunnel 698 was empty, though he heard voices ahead. The mercs were still in the holding room, then.
He was three feet into the room before a cry went up; and two more before the first of them moved to block him. He sidestepped, twisting, then parried an arm that came from nowhere, slapped aside a knife—
Seventeen minutes and the numbers within danced maniacally before his mind’s tired eye.
A gun appeared in a hand before him; he scooped it away, spinning, into the crowd of bodies. There were fewer bodies now—he could see his goal and forced himself to slow the pace at which he moved toward her.
A large obstacle dropped into his path; he dodged, only then recognizing the blockage as something called “Jason.” His goal was half a yard ahead, watching him inscrutably. He called her name as heavy hands fell on him and his arms were twisted behind his back.
“Suzuki!” Eighteen minutes.
“I hear,” she said in her soft voice. “What do you want?”
“I must speak to Miri. She is in great danger if she stays with the unit.”
He was breathing deeply, Suzuki saw, but not painfully, as might a man who had been moving so quickly and doing so much. He stood within Jason’s grip as if it were too small a thing to regard, as if he barely knew he was restrained. His eyes were a bright and lucid green.
She shrugged. “We are all of us here in great danger. It is the nature of our business.”
“A different danger. A danger that threatens the entire troop. The Juntavas would make little, do you think, of killing several others with the person they wished to destroy? And even if they proved squeamish, how could you be sure that the next soldier you hire is not an assassin hired to kill Miri?” He leaned forward infinitesimally in Jase’s hold. “You cannot protect her against the Juntavas, Suzuki. Not if you must ever sign on another soldier or share quarters with another unit.”
“And you can protect her?”
“Perhaps.”
An aide appeared at Suzuki’s shoulder.
“Commander? I—there’s been a delay. We leave within the hour, not immediately, as planned.”
Suzuki nodded absently, eyes still on the man whom Jase held captive. Or did he? Was it not rather, she wondered, that he suffered Jason to hold him, that she might feel secure and so hear him speak?
“If she chooses not to hear you?” she asked him. “If she comes with the unit, which is her right and her privilege?”
“She dies within the Standard, even if she never sees action. I swear to you that it is true.”
There was a long silence, during which blue eyes measured green. He was insane, Redhead had said. Certainly he was to be feared. . . .
“Allow me to speak to Miri,” he said, and the measured voice sounded only sane. “I beg you, Suzuki.”
And he was not a man who begged, whatever else he was.
Suzuki drew a breath. “Let him go, Jason.”
There was a fractional pause before she was obeyed. The little man took as much notice of his freedom as he had of his captivity.
Suzuki raised her voice. “Redhead!”
“Here.” And she was at her commander’s shoulder, gray eyes blazing on his face.
“Can’t you tell when you’ve been ditched, you scruffy midget? I gotta spell it out for—”
“Redhead.”
Miri chopped off in mid-curse, eyes snapping to Suzuki’s face. “What?”
“Hear him. It may be that he is truly insane, as you have said. This does not mean that he lacks information or that he holds less than your best interest next to his heart.”
“Providing he has one.” Her eyes were back on his. “Talk.”
“Stay with the Gyrfalks and die within the Standard. True and certain. On my Clan.”
Her brows rose, but she said nothing.
He flung his hands out, palms upward. “Miri, please. Take the ship—alone, if you fear me. But you cannot stay with the Gyrfalks and live.”
“Odds?”
“None,” he told her, flatly. “Point nine-nine-nine guarantee that you will be dead within the Standard. The Juntavas has this reputation.” He drew a deep breath. “Take the ship, Miri.”
“Odds if I do. Alone.” Her eyes were hard on his.
“Point six against five Standards’ survival.”
“If we take the ship together?”
“Even odds over five Standards.”
A brief silence. “Your chance of survival, if I take the ship alone. Figure it for five, if you gotta.”
He opened his mouth—then closed it, brows pulling tightly together.
“There are no odds over five Standards. Point eight against my surviving nine months.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “And if you go with me?”
“Over five Standards, sixty per cent against survival.” He shook his head. “Miri, take the ship.”
“If I leave you, you’ll die!” she yelled. “Didn’t you hear yourself?”
“I heard.”
“Then why?”
He moved his shoulders. “When a man is insane, does he require another reason?”
She sucked in a deep breath and released it, then stepped to Suzuki and hugged her, catching the kiss on her lips. As she strode past the tall man and the small one, her fist flashed out to strike the larger in his treelike arm.
“Take it easy, Jase.”
Val Con stood, watching her go. At the door she turned around.
“Let’s move it, Tough Guy. I ain’t got all day!”
He followed her then, weaving his way through the silent mercs. At the door, he, too, turned.
“Jason!” His left hand flashed, throwing underhand.
Reflex extended Jase’s arm; he snagged the spinning thing and swore.
“What is it?” Suzuki demanded, coming close.
He held it out. “My survival blade. Damn little sneak had it out o’ my belt.”
Suzuki lifted a shoulder. “Well, then, maybe she does have a chance.”
“But she said he’s crazy!”
“Isn’t everyone?”
IT HAD PROVED impossible to check out the mercenaries. First of all, there were just too damn many of them. Second of all, none answered questions, no matter how delicately put, except maybe to snarl an obscenity or show a sudden gun or laserknife in a hand trained to use it.
The other avenues of questioning normally open to him were closed in this instance: Mercenaries took unkindly to the murder of any of their number, and it was hardly in Costello’s best interest to allow a soldier he had questioned under “persuasion” to stay alive.
So, though he disliked it, he sent a terse report of his failure on an extremely tight beam to the surface of Lufkit. He added that Lytaxin was the destination of the troops, more to show that he had the best interests of the organization at heart than because he believed it possible that the boss did not already possess the information. Odds were fairly certain that he had already alerted his contacts in Lytaxin’s sector. It was just that he had had his heart set on stopping them before they’d gotten out of Lufkit’s jurisdiction. A matter of pride. Bosses had a lot of pride.
Ah, well, Costello thought, there’s just so much one man can do.
His board chattered to itself for the space of time it took the message to reach its counterpart on-world, and Costello extended a pudgy hand to cut the power. He stopped short, eyes disbelieving on the bright purple knob that had just lit: Stand By For Instructions Incoming. What the hell?
HE WHO WATCHES was in a dilemma. He had obeyed the commands of his T’carais and made ready the vessel for occupancy by humans, even to removing a container of beverage and another of foodstuffs from the nether hold and placing them where they could be easily seen, by the map table in the control room.
Certain things had been taken from their places and put into containers which were then moved to the storage facility attached to the docking area. The temperature of the water that flowed in the pools had been lowered to the normal blood temperature of humans, and the lighting had been adjusted so that their eyes might not take harm from journeying too long in dimness.
The temperature of the atmosphere within the vessel had been lowered—except, of course, in the Room of Growing Things—and the oxygen-nitrogen mix adjusted. All this had Watcher done, correctly and in great haste, as commanded by the T’carais, and now all was in readiness, waiting upon the arrival of the humans.
Wherein lay Watcher’s dilemma.
Watcher loathed humans. They were soft. They were little. Their high voices squeaked across the ears like nails across a slateboard. They were forever rushing hither and yon, stopping neither for pleasantries nor protocol. It was no wonder, Watcher thought, that they died so soon after they were born. They were without cause or benefit to the universe, and Watcher regarded them—individually and as a species—with the fascinated horror of a man phobically afraid of spiders.
The T’carais had left further instructions, which Watcher was unable to fulfill until the advent of these humans. The instructions included demonstrating the drive and the ship’s controls, as well as aiding in the setting of whatever course the humans deemed appropriate. He was also to instruct them in the proper way to activate the autopilot so that the ship would return in its time to Lufkit Prime Station and He Who Watches.
Well and good. It would not be easy to be in the close proximity to humans necessitated by the teaching of the controls, but he was confident that he could do it. Edger had further instructed—and there lay the horror at the core of the dilemma—that, should it be requested by these humans, He Who Watches was to accompany them wherever they wished to go and to serve them as he was sworn to serve the brother of his mother’s sister, the T’carais.
The thought of a time to perhaps be computed in months in the company of humans—even one human—caused Watcher to experience distinct feelings of illness, to the extent that he actually considered not opening the hatch when the summons let him know that they had, indeed, come. But steadying him was the thought of the punishment that would be his when it became known that he had refused the order of the T’carais.
Clenching his loathing to himself, Watcher went to open the door.
SHOULDER TO SHOULDER and silent, they walked Level E’s long hallway.
At the DownTunnel, Miri stepped in first, floated down, and rolled out. Half a second later, Val Con also rolled into the corridor, using the loop and not hurrying. He landed on the bounce and tottered, catching himself not quite instantly.
She frowned, slanting a look at his face as they went on.
He looked bad, she decided. The skin was stretched tightly over his cheekbones, and his eyes looked as if they were too far back in his head; there were lines engraved around the generous mouth, and his shoulders slumped slightly.
“You okay?” It was the first either had spoken since leaving the mercs.
He spared her a sharp green glance. “I’m tired.”
Very tired, he thought, forcing himself to keep her pace. Well, there was only a little farther to walk and a few moment’s talk with Edger’s watcher before he could rest—would rest. It was imperative that he rest . . . Shutting that thought away before the rhythm sapped the strength he had left, he lifted a hand to point.
“There.”
“Let’s go.” She turned with him into the entrance tunnel. “What’s this one’s name?”
“He Who Watches, Edger called him.”
“Watcher?” she wondered, brows knit.
Val Con shrugged. “It should do,” he said. “I’ve never met him.”
“Oh.”
The hatch was before them, the summoner set dead center. Val Con reached up and pressed it, fighting the desire to lean forward and let the opaque crystal of the hatch hold him up.
Time passed. Miri reached past his shoulder and hit the summoner again. “What if he’s asleep?” she muttered.
There seemed to be no reason to answer, for which he was grateful. Words were blurring in and out of focus, as if his mind were unable to deal with the process of converting sound to meaning.
The hatch began silently to rise.
When the opening was wide enough to accommodate them, they stepped through into the room beyond, where a Clutch person somewhat smaller than the smallest of Edger’s entourage awaited them. He moved his hand on a control board set in the solid rock wall and the hatch slid down and sealed.
The Clutch person bowed—and Miri clamped her jaw on a gasp. No shell! she thought and then saw that she was wrong: a very small shell sat high like a knapsack between his shoulders. Maybe he was a kid.
Completing his bow, their host began to speak sonorously in what she recognized as Clutch speech. He had barely gotten into the first syllables of what could have been a first word when Val Con moved.
He bowed—not as deeply as he bowed to Edger, or even to Sheather, barely a heavy nod of head and shoulders—and cut across the other’s speech.
“No doubt,” he said in Trade, “the T’carais has informed you that we are in great haste. There is no time for the exchanging of names or other formalities. Please take us to the control room and show us what we must know.”
Watcher froze, outrage warring with loathing in his soul. Regretfully, he put both aside. His T’carais, as the soft creature before him said, commanded. His was to endure and obey.
“As you will,” he returned, dropping the jagged shards of the language called Trade from his tongue with what he hoped was seemly haste. “The control compartment is in this direction.” He turned to lead the way, not looking back to see if they followed.
The control room was about the size of the Grotto, Miri thought, or maybe even bigger. It was hard to be certain because of the way the controls faced the large crystal suspended on the far wall. Star patterns were depicted within the crystal and Miri looked at it harder, giving herself a sharp mental shake.
Navigation tank, dummy, she told herself. Pay attention.
She pivoted slowly, taking in the rest of the area. A large table sat near the wall opposite the navigation tank, flanked with upholstered benches. Cubbyholes were cut into the wall to one side and in back—most were sealed, but a couple were open and empty—and two large cartons were pushed into the corner. Stenciled on the side of one was FRAGILE and on the other, THIS END UP.
The wall to her left was blank, though she thought a closer inspection would reveal more storage bins, and a wide shelf was built out from it at what might have been convenient sitting-height for Edger.
She frowned and continued her pivot. The room wasn’t completely symmetrical; her mind kept trying to insist on the proportions she was most comfortable with, and the effort to really look at what she was seeing made her a little queasy. She tried to concentrate on the walls themselves, noting that they seemed to be made of seamless rock, rather than matched plate steel, and frowned harder.
From behind her she heard the rumble of Watcher’s voice and the broken-edged sound that was Val Con’s reply. She went quietly to the control board and leaned over her partner’s shoulder.
“This is the recalibration device. When the ship is at rest you will remeasure and realign. Comfort requires it. If this has occurred, you must also recalibrate, utilizing this device—so.”
Val Con nodded. “How often does the ship rest?”
“The ship rests four hours for every eight that it labors.”
The man took a deep breath, forcing the air far down into his lungs and closing his eyes to better see the mental picture. The initial procedure was thus. To recheck, measure and align, one waited until the ship was at rest and made required adjustments so. The ship returned to labor when its rest was done, with adjustments or without them. He nodded and opened his eyes.
“Very good,” he said, pushing aside that part of him that wondered what the sounds meant. “We must now set our course.”
“Where is it that you wish to go?” Watcher inquired around the terror he felt. Only let it not be years!
“Volmer. Planet Designation V—8735—927—3 . . . ”
Behind him, Miri shifted. “That’s a Liaden planet! I told you, Tough Guy, I ain’t going to Liad and I ain’t going to any world controlled by Liad!”
From somewhere he brought forth a last shard of patience and lucidity and made it her gift. “It is a planet of the federated interests of Liad, Terra, and Clutch.” His voice was nearly even. “From it we can depart to any of the fourteen prime points. I know that you will not go to Liad.”
She wasn’t convinced. “I don’t like it, and I ain’t—”
But his patience was gone and time was running out. “Be silent!”
She blinked—and shut up.
Watcher was pushing at the pastel crystal buttons, lighting and extinguishing them in a pattern that looked random to her nonpilot eyes. After a time, he stood away from the board.
“Your destination has been set,” he said. “You will arrive in approximately three weeks, ship time. Of course, you will have to recalibrate your chronometers at journey’s end. When you disembark, assuming you have no further need for this vessel, you will press this.” He pointed to a large red disk set by itself on the right side of the board.
“You will have sufficient time after you have depressed the disk to exit the ship before the return journey begins.” Was it possible that they would not ask, he wondered, hope beginning to stir.
Three weeks? Miri frowned, laboriously working out the sector designation in her head. No. He was translating the time units wrong somewhere. The trip shouldn’t take more than two days. Oh, well, he was just a kid. As long as he had the destination coded right, they would be okay.
Val Con pushed himself away from the board and made the slight bow once again. “I thank you for your assistance. I—” He paused, his intention clear and glowing within his mind.
“I would that you say to my brother Edger,” he began, forming each word in his head before speaking it, “that, should it come to his attention that I have lived—less long—than others of my kind, it would—please—me that he extend to this, his sister Miri, all honor and—and aid—that he would have made mine, had I—lived—to return to him, as I had promised.” He paused to review this. It seemed to contain the germ of his desire.
“Say also to my brother,” he continued, the words coming more and more slowly, “that I have been honored and enriched by his acquaintance and that my—love—goes with him in his endeavors.” It was insufficient, he knew, but he could go no further. Edger would understand.
Watcher stared at the small, soft, swaying thing before him. He almost understood why his T’carais so honored the creature. Then the red-furred one reached out its many-fingered hand to the one that had spoken; Watcher’s stomach turned and the moment was gone.
“These things shall be said to my kinsman, the T’carais.” He bowed. “I will signal you when I have reached the end of the tunnel. You will then press the disk that is blue, as you have been shown, and your journey will begin.”
Val Con nodded, ignoring Miri’s outstretched hand and forcing himself to stand unaided. “I must ask that you make considerable haste in gaining the end of the tunnel. We must be off within five Standard minutes.”
Outrage again flared in Watcher, not quite overcoming relief. He would not have to serve these monsters, after all! He would only have to wait in the dim quiet of the corridor, with occasional forays out for food, until the ship returned to him. In the face of this reprieve, rudeness could be suffered.
“It shall be as you have said.” He turned without further formality and left the control room.
A minute later, Miri heard the hatch slide up, then down. She looked at Val Con, who was swaying where he stood, his eyes on the blue disk.
“Boss, are you nuts? I don’t need Edger’s protection. You gave us even odds, remember?”
“Miri . . . .” His voice faded off; he did not look at her.
She went to the nearest bench and sat. “Shut up,” she finished for him. “Yes, sir.”
A portion of the board lit and Val Con raised his hand, laid it over the blue disk, and pushed.
In the navigation tank, the stars went away.
“Already?” Miri demanded incredulously. “Maybe he meant three hours.”
COSTELLO ROLLED OUT of the DownTunnel and moved along F Level, not running, but pushing the walk.
Turtles, for Panth’s sake! As if he hadn’t had enough trouble trying to talk to mercenaries, now he had to go and try to talk to turtles. Ah, well, he got paid by the hour and it was overtime tonight, for sure. Maybe even hazardous duty pay.
A largish green person was exiting the tunnel to Number 327. Costello quickened his pace. The green person did things to the door controls and pressed the summons stud. Costello started to run.
“Hey, you!”
The turtle did not turn around. Rather, it laid its head against the tunnel door and stood very, very still, as might someone who breathes free air again after a time in captivity.
Costello arrived panting, and laid his hand on Watcher’s arm. “Hey.”
Watcher opened his eyes. When he saw the horrid, misshapen hand resting upon his arm, he jerked back and whirled to face the perpetrator of that outrage.
Costello held his hands out, fingers spread placatingly. “Hey, I’m sorry. No harm meant. It’s just that I’m looking for some friends of mine. Thought you might have seen them.” He paused, but the turtle only stared at his hands.
“Two kids,” Costello said, picking up the thread of his story. “Boy about—oh, twenty, twenty-five; dark brown hair, green eyes, thin. Girl—pretty little girl—eighteen, or maybe twenty; red hair, gray eyes. Thought you might’ve seen them,” he repeated.
Watcher made no reply.
Costello decided to play it tough. “Look, you,” he snarled, moving closer and jabbing with his finger. “I know you’re hiding something. It ain’t gonna do you no good to play dumb, see? ‘Cause there’s ways of making guys like you talk. So you just tell me where them kids—”
Enough! Enough of outrage and sickness and terror and too many fingers on hands too small! Enough and too much!
Watcher struck.
And Costello screamed, pulling back a hand from which two fingers had been cleanly bitten away.