CHAPTER NINETEEN
THIS, VAL CON TOLD himself sternly, must stop. There was no indication, however, that it would do so in the near future.
The visuals, as Miri had said, were easily ignored. One simply concentrated on the next order of business and refused to be turned from one’s chosen course by fuzzy doors, edges, or ceilings, or by flaring colors. Such things could not be happening. Thus, one walked through them.
The physical effects were more difficult.
His shirt caressed chest and arms with every move as he delightedly slid his palms down leathered thighs. When he put up an exasperated hand to push the hair away from his eyes, the feel of the thick, silky stuff slipping through his fingers nearly had him weeping in pleasure. Irritably, he put his hand to the flickering wall and dragged it along for several paces before admitting defeat there, as well.
Everything felt so nice!
There was worse. At the moment, Miri was walking ahead, allowing him a fine view of her strong, slender shape and the tantalizing hint of sway to her hips. It was a sight that gave him delight, which was not of itself surprising. He had been aware for some time of taking a certain satisfaction in contemplating Miri’s physical self; he had, indeed, noted a tendency to allow his eyes to rest upon her more and more frequently. It had not seemed particularly worrisome.
Now, with the beat of the drive calling forth multiple songs of sensuality from body and mind, it was very worrisome, indeed.
There was an inward flicker, and hanging before his mind’s eye was the equation showing him how he might take her to his own—though not their mutual—pleasure. CMS wavered between .985 and .993.
Go away! he snarled silently, and it faded, leaving a taste of metal in his mouth.
A position of less jeopardy was required. Stretching his legs, he came alongside her, which put them both in greater safety—he hoped. She looked up at him, grinning, allowing a glance of the sweet curve of her throat down to what lay hidden by the lacing of the snowy shirt.
He slammed to a halt, eyes closed and teeth gritting. Wrong again, he thought. This is getting to be a habit.
Her hand was warm on his arm, and he snapped his eyes open to find her standing closer than he liked, yet not close enough, looking up at him. Sympathy seemed at war with laughter in her face.
“Little bit of lust never hurt anybody.”
He shook his head, as if the motion would clear his brain. “It’s been a long time.”
“With a face like that? Don’t lie to your grandmother.” Laughter triumphed over sympathy. “Bet the galaxy’s full of green-eyed kids.”
“Countless numbers,” he agreed. “None of them mine.”
“Real waste,” she murmured, slipping closer until her hip touched his. Slowly, seeming to take as much pleasure in the sensation as he did, she slid her hands up his arms to his shoulders. “It’ll give us something to concentrate on.”
His hands of themselves had settled around her waist, holding lightly; he noted that he was trembling. Yes, he thought suddenly, with the surety of a well-played hunch, with no taint of drive-effect attached. Yes and yes and—
No.
Easing back a fraction, he searched her face and found what he sought in the soft curve of her mouth and deep in her eyes. It had been there for a while, he realized with startling clarity, yet she had no notion. For all her life, Miri had played singleodds, and if she could deny what she was feeling before it was conscious, dismiss it as drive-induced pleasure . . . .
He pulled back another inch. “Wait.”
She stiffened, mouth tightening. “Guess I’m as bad as Polesta, huh?” Hurt showed on her face—but also relief.
“Oh, Miri . . . .” He dropped his face to her warm, bright hair, rubbing cheek and forehead in its wonderful softness, rumpling her bangs and half unmooring her braid. His retreat was timed to a millisecond; and taking his hands from around her waist required more disciplined timing than the throw that had not broken Polesta’s back.
“Well—” Her mouth twisted, and she half-turned away.
He caught one small hand and waited until she turned again to look at him. “When the drive goes off,” he said.
She frowned. “What?”
“When we are again in normal space, let us speak of this.” He tipped his head, half-smiling. “Don’t be angry with me, Miri.”
The ghost of a laugh eased the tightness of her face as she pulled her hand away and moved on. “You’re a mental case, my friend.”
“Watcher.”
“Yes, T’carais?”
“Extend to our kinsman Selector my regret for any inconvenience I may cause him by requiring you to accompany me to the place where Justin Hostro conducts business.”
“Yes, T’carais.”
“Say also to our kinsman that, should he have heard nothing from us—either by comm or by our return to this place—within three Standard hours, he must inform my brother the T’caraisiana’ab of this event, instructing him in my voice that he is to act as he knows is proper in the case, always keeping in his thoughts that Justin Hostro has been adjudged by our failure to return guilty of capturing the knives of four of our Clan.”
“Kinsman?”
“Such may overstate the case,” Edger said more gently. “But when one deals with the Clans of Men it is well to be prepared for ill-thought action. Do as I have asked. We depart in fifteen of these things named minutes.”
THE MEAT HAD been easy, the pillage of no great worth. But the kill had put fresh heart into the crew, and Commander Khaliiz, satisfied that the luck of the hunt had changed, gave the order to take the ship into the underside of space.
“Which way now?” Miri asked at the branching of the corridors.
Val Con considered it with his new sense of clarity and gestured to the right. “There.”
“You’re the boss.” She followed him down the indicated hall, grimly looking at the tricksy walls, which was not a good idea. Her eyes slid to Val Con, ahead of her. In some ways, that was not much better an idea, though it offered a more pleasing aspect than the walls. Vividly, she recalled the warmth and the slim strength of him and his hands curved with promise around her waist—and bit her lip hard enough to draw blood as she strove to keep her walk even, though she was shaking with desire.
He’d stopped and was bent close to the wall, seeming to study something. Though how anybody could study anything in the present sense-storm was more than Miri could fathom. She leaned against the opposite wall and waited.
Val Con had put his hands against the wall and seemed to be trying to square something off. After a few minutes of effort, he shook his head and straightened.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“This is the storeroom we want,” he said, not turning to look at her. “But it’s locked, and I can’t see the keyplate properly—it keeps running and shifting.”
This was absurd! There was food and drink and music on the other side of the door—he knew it! To be thwarted now by something so minor as an inability of physical eyes to perceive—
The answer formed just behind his eyes, in the space reserved for Loop phenomena, and hung there, glowing, its aura strongly reminiscent of hunch. The keyplate configuration was clear. He thought of the pattern he saw, and the door slid open, untouched.
He stood staring.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” Miri commented from across the hall.
“I can’t,” he said and stepped forward. The open door to the storeroom was not an illusion. He walked through.
A moment later, Miri pushed away from the support of the wall and went after him.
That proved to be a mistake. The moment she crossed the threshold, odors of every kind assailed her: spices, wood-shavings, wool, mint, musk. Added to the visuals and the textual and the need, it was too much. Much too much.
She sat down hard on the first thing that looked like it might be real. Arms wrapped in a tight hug around her own chest, she hunched over, eyes closed, shaking like a kid in a fever.
She would never make it. Eight hours? Impossible!
“Miri. Miri!”
“What?” The word was a hoarse gasp.
“Put out a hand and take this. Miri. Put out a hand and take this. Do it now.”
Obviously, she was not going to have any peace until she did what he said. She managed to get one arm unwrapped and, after a hard struggle, opened her eyes.
Val Con sat on the shifting floor at her feet, holding out an open bottle of wine. She took it from him, blinking.
“Now what?”
“Drink.”
“Drink? Out of the bottle?” Her laughter sounded shrill in her own ears, but any joke was better than none.
“It was difficult enough finding wine without wasting time looking for glasses,” he said repressively. “Drink.”
She shook her head. “Always telling me what to do. No reasons, just—”
“Alcohol depresses the senses,” he said. “Drink your wine.”
“You go to hell!”
He drank. “I suppose,” he murmured pensively, “I could pour it down your throat.”
“Bully.” But she took a pull, drinking it like kynak, not for taste, but to get drunk.
After a time she paused for breath, grinning and shaking her head. “And I had you figured for a kid from the right side of town.”
He lifted a brow. “As distinct from the left side of town?”
“As distinct from the wrong side of town.” She paused to gulp more wine. “I’m from the wrong side of town—no money, no prospects, no education, no brains.”
“Ah. Then you figured correctly. Clan Korval is very old; we’ve had a great deal of time to amass wealth. Quite likely money accounted for the excellence of my education, which made it easier to qualify for Scout training.” He took a long drink. “I don’t think brains are the sole property of people from the—right side of town, however.”
“Yeah?” She leaned forward, which was taking a risk, even though the shakes had largely departed. “Why’d you say no, back there?”
Both brows raised. “Enlightened self-interest. The drive is still engaged.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” She sat back and drank deeply. “How’d you pull that gimmick with the door?”
He took a slow swallow and set the bottle on the bucking floor at his side. “When I became halfling it was seen that I had an ability to—pick up objects—without physically touching them. Within my Clan, such abilities are not unknown. However, testing found my talent too insignificant to train, though I was given instruction in its control, so it would not affect my normal activities.
“The talent neither grew nor disappeared, merely remaining at the same level into my adulthood. I played with it occasionally, but it was too much of an effort to use seriously. By the time I had reached forth with my mind and brought a cup to myself from across the room, I could have walked the distance, picked the cup up in my hands, sampled the contents, and been much less tired.” He paused to retrieve his bottle and drink.
“Then it vanished. I—” He took a breath, reviewing sequences in his mind. Yes, the timing was correct. There was much there that required Balance . . . . “I believe that the—energy—generated by certain nonsurvival functions is what fuels the Loop.”
Miri was not shaking anymore, though she was exceedingly cold. “Nonsurvival functions? Like, maybe, dreaming? Or sex-drive?”
He closed his eyes, nodding. “Or music. Or the very faintest of—paranormal talent.” He opened his eyes. “The night we met was the first time I had made music in nearly four years.”
She tipped her head. “If you didn’t have it and now you do—does that mean the Loop’s bust? Or—is it a machine or something in your head? What’d they do?”
“What they did—” he shrugged. “I am fairly certain it is not a physical artifact implanted in my brain—that would be inefficient, since the tissue tends to reject an implanted machine eventually.” He drank, considering the problem.
“I believe that it must be more like a—master program, superimposed—” He stopped, aware of something akin to anger building in him, except that it was a thing of surpassing coldness, rather than flame.
“Superimposed and overriding,” Miri continued, eyes focused tightly on his face, “that set of programs named Val Con yos’Phelium.”
He did not reply. They had both found the correct conclusion.
“Val Con?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t much like your bosses.”
His smile flickered briefly. “Nor I.”
“But it’s bust now, right?” she insisted again.
Was it? he asked himself. He was immediately answered by the flare of an equation, elucidating the latest figures for his survival. Thirty-day CPS was at .06 now.
“No.”
“What then? Something’s got to be causing—oh.” She closed her eyes and reopened them immediately. “The drive.”
He drank the last of his wine and stared at the writhing bottle for a moment before setting it aside. “It seems likely. Apparently I’ve enough ability to balance everything—that which was originally mine and that which has been forced on me—when the ship is in drive and every electron in my head is firing twice.
“Even more. I was never able to see with wizard’s eyes so well that I could have picked up the image of the keypad and the pattern of the lock.”
She finished her own bottle and put it down. “What’s going to happen?”
“The ship will continue to labor yet awhile and then it will rest.” He looked up at her, smiling slightly. “Do you feel better?”
“Better. Beat up. Knocked down. Stomped on. And rode over. But definitely better. What now?”
He rolled to his feet, remembering at the last instant not to offer her his hand. “I suggest we gather food and whatever else we can use from what is stored, while I have extra eyes to see with.”
THE JUNTAVAS HIT planet brief hours after Port clearance, despite the high rates of cumshaw required for such speed. Once on-world, money was spent with astonishing open-handedness for the purchase of clearance lists, ships parked, new arrivals, visas issued, and papers filed.
“They ain’t here,” Jefferson said some hours later, throwing the last fan of printout from him in disgust.
“Whaddya mean, they ain’t here? Where else would they be? Maybe they hit and Jumped out again—you check that?”
Borg Tanser, second-in-command of the project, was a tight, smallish man, given to nagging; he was a good gunman and a quick thinker in a jam, and Jefferson was fortunate to have him along. He reminded himself of that now.
“We checked. No Clutch ships in or out of system for nearly six months. They ain’t here. And they haven’t been here.” He shook his head. “Beats hell out of me.”
“Yeah? Well, how’s this, then? Let’s split the team. Half checks the planet inside-out. Other half takes the ship and backtracks. Could be they’re hanging a Jump or two back, waiting for the heat to cool.”
Jefferson thought about it, reaching for the printouts and stacking them neatly together. “Yeah—we’ll run it that way. The boss was real anxious to have both of ‘em. Impolite, they were.”
But Tanser was not a man known for his sense of humor. He snapped to his feet, nodding sharply. “Okay, then, I’ll take the crew and get out of here. See ya.” He was gone.
“See ya,” Jefferson said absently. He sat for a moment, staring sightlessly at the stacked sheets, then pushed away from the table and went over to the bouncecomm to make his preliminary report to the boss.
MATTHEW LOOKED UP from his study of the latest data and regarded the two Clutch members expressionlessly.
“I am very sorry, sirs, but Mr. Hostro has given orders that he is not to be disturbed for any cause. I will be happy to give him a message—”
“I have no message to leave,” Edger interrupted. “My business with Justin Hostro is of an urgent nature and will brook no further delay. Please allow him to know that I am here and must have speech with him now.”
“I am very sorry, sir,” Matthew repeated, “but I am not allowed to disturb Mr. Hostro for any cause.”
“I understand,” Edger said. “Therefore shall I interrupt him.” He turned, moving around the comm station with a speed astonishing in someone so large, paused at the locked door long enough to extend a hand and push the panel—which screamed in protest—along its groove and into the wall, then stepped royally across the threshold into Hostro’s office, Watcher at his back.
Justin Hostro was behind his rubbed steel desk, absorbed in a sheaf of papers. At the scream of the forced door, he looked up. At the advent of Edger, he stood.
“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” he demanded. “I left strict orders not to be disturbed. You will forgive me, I know, when I say that I have urgent business—”
“I, also, have urgent business,” Edger said. “And it must be settled with you in this time and place.” He moved over to the only Clutch-sized piece of furniture in the room, signing to Watcher with a flick of the hand to stay by the door.
Justin Hostro hesitated a heartbeat before sitting down also and folding his hands atop the desk with a creditable semblance of calm. “Very well, sir, since you are here and have disturbed me, let us settle your urgent business.”
“I have come to speak with you,” Edger announced, “concerning the proper bloodprice owed by our Clan for the damage we have done to Herbert Alan Costello.”
“Costello?” Hostro frowned. “It is of no matter, sir; we shall take care of his expenses. I am sorry, however, if he has offended you.”
“Ours was the error,” Edger said, “and ours the payment. Our Clan is honorable. We pay what is owed.”
“My clan is also honorable,” Hostro snapped, striving to keep hold of his fraying temper, “and we take care of our own. Pray think no more of the matter, sir. The Juntavas shall care for Herbert Alan Costello.”
“The Juntavas? This is the name of your Clan, Justin Hostro?”
“It is. A very powerful clan—one that spans planets and star systems. We count our members in the hundreds of thousands and we care for each of them, from the lowliest to the most high.”
“Ah,” Edger said. He inclined his head. “This gladdens me, Justin Hostro. It is true that I have not previously heard of your vast Clan—and I beg pardon for my ignorance. Happily, you have enlightened me and we may now deal together properly. Do you not feel that this is correct?”
“Of a certainty,” Hostro agreed, forcing his hands to relax from the clench he had abruptly found them in.
“Know then, as an Elder of your Clan, that it has come to my attention that your kinsman, Herbert Alan Costello, has offered threats of physical harm—and perhaps termination—to three of my own kin.” He waved a huge hand, indicating Watcher.
“That this my kinsman did grave harm to Herbert Alan Costello is not forgiven, and shall in the fullness of time be punished. However, the threat of danger was offered before he struck, which circumstance alters the punishment that must be meted. I ask,”he concluded, “if you have knowledge of the nature of the disagreement existing between your kinsman and the two of my Clan who are not present.”
Hostro took a deep breath and let the rein on his temper out just a bit. “If one of those with whom you claim kinship is the woman known as Miri Robertson, then I must tell you that Costello was acting in accordance with my instructions to him that she be detained, and also her companion, if he still traveled with her.”
“Ah. And, if one Elder may ask it of another, in the interest of an equitable solution after fair judging: Why did you so instruct your kinsman?”
“The woman is declared outlaw by my Clan and has recently, along with her companion, been responsible for the deaths of some of my kinsmen—as well as causing discontent between my clan and the—Clan of policemen.” Briefly, he considered the pellet gun in the top drawer of his desk; recalled the ruined door and sat still.
Edger was puzzled. “Was Miri Robertson then a member of your Clan? I would know the laws she has broken, that she adds ‘outlaw’ to her name while her life is made forfeit. Surely one or the other were sufficient punishment?”
“She hired herself as bodyguard to one who was himself outlawed, slaying in this capacity many of my kin. Her life is ours to take, though she was never a member of the Juntavas.”
“She is not your kin, Justin Hostro, yet you pass judgment and seek to mete punishment?” Watcher looked at the T’carais worriedly: he did not like that note in the old one’s voice.
“That is true,” Hostro said.
Edger moved his massive head back and forth. “You baffle me, Justin Hostro. It is not so that we deal among Clans. Let me be plain, that there be no tragic misunderstanding between us: The woman Miri Robertson and the man Val Con yos’Phelium are adopted of the Clan of Middle River’s Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spearmaker’s Den. It is true that they are young and sometimes over-hasty in their actions. Possibly, they have wronged you in some manner. As Elders of our Clans it is our purpose to determine what harm has transpired and what balance may be made. My Clan is an honorable Clan; we pay what is owed. We are a well-traveled Clan and as such have found it good to allow other peoples their customs.
“But know, Justin Hostro, that whatever wrong they may have done you, the knives of these two are not yours to take. If they are judged after deliberation to deserve death, their own kin shall deliver that punishment, not the Clan of the Juntavas. Is this thing clear to you?”
“The Juntavas,” Hostro snapped, “is a mighty Clan. We take what we will, as we see fit. Including the knives of the kin of the Spearmaker’s Den.”
Majestically, Edger rose from the chair. Watcher dropped his hand to his blade.
But the T’carais inexplicably stayed his hand. “You are of the Clans of Men,” he boomed, “and thus hasty. Hear me further: In our history was there a Clan that meted judgment to a member of the Spearmaker’s Den, against all tradition and without justice. Two persons from our Clan were thus dispatched to construct balance with this renegade family.” He paused, taking the half-step that put him at the edge of Hostro’s desk.
“The name of that Clan is not now written in the Book of Clans,” he said slowly. “Nor is that combination of traits any longer available to the gene pool. Think, Justin Hostro, before you take the knives of any of the Spearmaker’s Den.”
Hostro did not speak. Wipe out an entire family? And he had claimed the Juntavas as family—countless thousands, yes. But those of the Clutch lived two thousand years and more . . . .
“Have you heard me, Justin Hostro?” Edger asked.
“I have heard you.”
“It is good. However, it has come to my notice that those of the Clans of Men have memories shorter even than the span of their years. Allow me to leave you a reminder of our talk.” The Clanblade was then in the hand of the T’carais, flashing down—to slice clean into the steel of Hostro’s desk and stand there, quivering.
Justin Hostro managed to stare calmly at this for a moment before raising his eyes to Edger’s.
“As Edger for my Clan, Justin Hostro, I know that our blades are worthy—the youngest no less than the eldest.” He reached forth a hand, plucked the knife from its nesting place, and returned it to its sheath.
“Think on what we have spoken of, Justin Hostro. I shall return to you in one Standard hour and you may tell me what you have decided, so that we may talk further. Or begin to feud.” He turned toward the door. “Come, Watcher.”
Abruptly, they were gone, leaving Mr. Hostro to gingerly finger the razor-edged gash in his desk.
ONE JUMP BACK from Volmer, a dead ball of dust circled a cold sun, bands of rubble marking the orbits of what had been three—or even four—additional worlds. The sensors reported nothing else.
Borg Tanser gave the order to initiate second Jump.