Brandon strapped himself into his seat as the gravitors cut out and they went into free-fall. He half listened to Vi’ya’s subsequent orders while he ran the fire console through a wake-up check. Partway through the sequence a small window popped up on his screen and almost immediately vanished, but not before he caught the word personal.
A personal setting? He ran the program back. Someone had set the console to automatically come up in the default configuration. His eyes stung when he saw the second choice: Alt L’Ranja gehaidin! The motto of Markham’s adoptive family, the branch now expunged from the Ranks of Service.
He tabbed “Accept.”
The screen blanked, then lit up with a completely different configuration. Tenno Major! A change rippled through the keypads, colors and tactiles altering and labels adapting to the new configuration. When it settled down, Brandon was staring at a fire-control console equal to anything he had seen at the Academy. His throat hurt. Markham’s last gift.
His hands ranged across the console many times faster than before, accelerating as familiarity returned. Markham had been assigned to that class a full year earlier than most began, but as always, he taught Brandon at night. Don’t think about the Tenno, Brandy, just let them move your hands. You’re not playing Phalanx. Get out of the way and let the glyphs do the work.
It’s just as he said, Brandon thought, you never forget them!
The Tenno Major battle glyphs—tactical ideographs—had been refined over hundreds of years to cover every possible configuration of warfare, and since they were built up from simpler conceptual modules, they could be, and had been, extended to cover new technologies and tactics. A simplified version—tenno minor—was standard for ship operations, and a slightly more complex version made Phalanx an entrez-vous for naval training. But the full Tenno conveyed information at near the theoretical maximum predicted for visual input, using color, form, and movement, forging a link between human and machine that made the two one.
Brandon could almost feel Markham grinning over his shoulder, and hear his bantering voice, Well, Brandy, you’re pinned against the planet by a battlecruiser that you can’t touch with anything you’ve got... what do you do now?
“Blind ’em with my brilliance, or baffle them with...”
He broke off when he realized he’d spoken aloud. The crew stared at him, Vi’ya with her hands poised over her console. Then she tapped, and the echo window from his console on the main view-screen echoed the glyphs flickering brightly.
o0o
“What the chatzin’ hell are you doing setting up for L-3 with a battlecruiser chasing us?” yelled Marim.
Greywing stood up so that she could get a better look at the strange phenomenon glowing on Brandon’s screen. If that was L-3, then she’d been drinking Vilarian Negus. She could parse out some of the basic forms, but the glyphs were impossibly complex.
Lokri was staring at Brandon’s hand, his face closed, almost angry. “So that’s how you did it.”
“You cheated!” Marim sounded honestly outraged.
The Arkad made a soft sound, too strained and humorless to be a laugh. “No. Pulling up the Tenno Major in Phalanx against untrained opponents would be like bringing a blaster to a pillow fight, which is why it’s not allowed.”
He gestured at his console. “I had no idea Markham had installed these.” He paused, then looked confused. “Didn’t you ever notice when he used them?”
Vi’ya gave her head a slight twist, her dark eyes steady. “He was working on something... a surprise... when he was killed. He never got a chance to show anyone.”
“And Jakarr never said anything,” Marim said with a snort of disgust.
“Probably never found them,” Lokri put in. “I sat at that console twice when Jakarr was at the other base, and I certainly never saw them.” His drawl sounded bitter to Greywing, almost resentful.
Jaim’s voice interrupted. “Ready here, Vi’ya. Rigged for overload conditions. You’ll get up to thirty seconds or so, then you’d better be ready to stick your arms through the hull and flap ’em like crazy.”
Vi’ya turned back to Brandon. “Are you ready?”
“Yes. I think I can stop any missiles, and there are ways to cut down the efficiency of the cruiser’s ruptors, this close to the planet.”
She slammed her hand down on the big go-pad, and Arthelion ballooned in the forward view. There was no sense of acceleration, since the geeplane affected the entire ship at once, but Greywing knew they were accelerating toward the planet at better than fifteen gees. Everything depended on Vi’ya’s skill now. If they entered the atmosphere at the wrong angle they’d either break up or skip back into space like a rock off a pond.
Behind them the Fist of Dol’jhar dwindled and fell toward the horizon, then began to swell with alarming speed. The Arkad tapped his console, considered the glyphs, then triggered a staggered cluster of missiles from the aft launcher.
“What’re you doing?” Marim demanded. “Those dimpy things won’t even dent a cruiser’s hull metal, even if he left his teslas off.”
“They’ll confuse his sensors and weaken his ruptor beams,” Vi’ya said tersely. “Watch. And learn.”
Behind them the missiles began their deadly bloom, their neat coins of blue-white light suddenly shredding as the bone-jarring squeal-rumble of a ruptor rattled the bridge. Greywing’s teeth clicked together painfully. Ivard cried out in pain and blood ran out of his mouth.
“Marim!” shouted Vi’ya over the rapidly increasing roar of atmospheric entry. The little Rifter’s console was sprinkled with red lights, her fingers blurring on the console.
Brandon triggered another cluster of missiles as a wave of changes rippled through the glyph display. Another ruptor beam shook the Telvarna, weaker this time.
“Chatz!” screamed Marim, her usual command of invective deserting her. “Double chatz!” she wailed. “The blunge-eating logos-lovers nackered the fiveskip. It’s down but good.”
The ship began to quiver, a trembling that rapidly grew to a jarring, violent shaking. Gee-forces pulled at them as, with a stuttering roar, the plasma jets cut in and the ship leveled out and stopped jittering. Weight returned; they were in aerodynamic flight now.
Behind them, the green lances of laser-boosted missiles reached out from the distant battlecruiser now denied its prey, its ruptors useless, dissipated by the atmosphere that sustained the Telvarna. Brandon triggered a counter barrage, and light flared behind the racing ship, then faded. The rearview was dark.
“Altitude twenty-six, mach twenty-two,” Ivard sang out, his face pale around the blood smears but his hands steady.
Greywing smiled at her little brother in pride.
“Marim, get down to power and give Jaim a hand,” said Vi’ya. “Let me know how long fiveskip will be down.” Marim scampered out and Vi’ya motioned Ivard over to her console. “Take over, Firehead. Marim will need some feedback.”
Ahead pale dawn began to bleach the sky as the Telvarna caught up with the sun. Far below, moonlight glittered off water.
“Arkad. Do you know anything about the Panarchist defense plans?”
Brandon looked up, his face distracted. “No. I suspect, given that they have a battlecruiser on interdiction patrol, that all the defense systems are down—that’s standard practice once a planet is lost. Makes it easier for any resistance movements.”
“So there’s a chance that no one’s tracking us.”
“A chance. It may vary from place to place.” He paused, obviously weighing his words, but Marim’s voice halted him before he could go on.
“Things are chatzed up good down here, Vi’ya, but most of it can wait, except some of the plasma guides to the radiants, and the fiveskip. That’ll need at least six hours of work before we can trust it again.”
Vi’ya acknowledged and turned back to Brandon. “You had a proposal to make.”
“There is one place where the odds are likely to be considerably better.”
She lifted her brows interrogatively.
Brandon windowed up a relay from Ivard’s console, a chart showing their present course. “The Palace Major. We were headed to a field less than 300 kilometers away from it, and we’re not that far off course even now.”
Vi’ya snorted derisively. “Don’t let your homesickness run away with you. At this point that’s the last place I’d set the Telvarna down—it is now Eusabian’s palace.”
Brandon’s jaw muscles tightened and he looked away, almost a flinch. But then he looked back, his expression so bland that Greywing wondered if she’d imagined that first reaction.
“That’s why it’s the last place they would expect you to. Look, the Mandalic Archipelago covers millions of hectares—even close to the Palace there are forests that could swallow a ship this size without a trace. My Royal override will deal with any defense systems that are still up, and if the household computer is still running, we might even be able to find out what’s happening.”
He hesitated. “I’d also like a chance to see if any of the Family are there in need of help. Remember, as far as those security computers are concerned, I’m supposed to be there.” Then he grinned at her, his blue eyes wide with irony. “Besides, how do you expect to pay for all the work the ship will need after this?”
Vi’ya frowned slightly, and Greywing wondered what the captain was reading from him.
“You haven’t anything but the ring on your finger,” she finally replied. “That will hardly be sufficient.”
“And you call yourself a Rifter. Haven’t you ever dreamed of looting the Palace of the Panarch of the Thousand Suns?”
Lokri crowed with laughter and Ivard grinned. Marim cackled over the intercom. “Ya-ha-ha! If you pass this up, Vi’ya, I’ll send your hide to Hreem myself.”
Vi’ya’s lips quirked, then relaxed in her rare smile. “Give Ivard the coordinates, then. We accept your invitation.”
Brandon rose from his console and gave her one of those flourishing Douloi bows, like they did to each other but never to a common citizen. His hand pressed over his heart, his other one sweeping back and then up again.
Vi’ya’s expression smoothed as she turned back to her console. “Keep your eyes on your screens, Arkad,” she said. “We’re not safe yet.”
o0o
The lingering light of a long summer evening slanted through the high clerestory windows in the antechamber to the Phoenix Hall, bringing a warm glow to wood paneling and woven tapestries. The room was a long, broad corridor. At regular intervals along the walls were recessed arches backed by pale amber stone, each with a sunburst mosaic radiating out from it onto the floor. Within each niche a bust shone in the mellow light from the high windows, commemorating the rulers of the Arkad dynasty.
The air was aromatic with sandalwood and the warm scents of polish and wax. At intervals a gentle tone sounded, seemingly from the air itself, each time a different timbre and pitch. The sound was evocative at times of bells, at times of hushed and distant voices. It filled the room with an expectant peace, and a sense of the slow weight of centuries.
Eusabian stood for some time before the bust of Jaspar I, founder of the dynasty, seeing in it an unmistakable echo of the features of his defeated enemy. The features were recognizable, though rounded, in Jaspar’s successor, the Kyriarch Alenora I, his daughter. Eusabian began to pace along the corridor, pausing at each bust. The familiar features echoed in each succeeding image, sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker.
The style of the statuary evolved as he advanced down the hall, changing in slow cycles from stark formality through increasing ornament to mannered excess. Then the styles returned to classical again, yet with something of the preceding modes remaining. The eyes of the Panarchs and Kyriarchs seemed to follow him as he passed, reminding him forcibly of Gelasaar Arkad’s gaze.
About a third of the way down the hall, Eusabian stopped, rage welling up within him. One of the busts had been rudely vandalized, the face chipped away jaggedly, the name at its base effaced. Doubtless one of his worthless Rifter hirelings had done this, striking in childish fashion against an enemy worthy of a respect the fool could not conceive. I will have the guards crucified for this. And when the vandal is found...
The thought died. There were no fragments around the bust, no stone dust. The pedestal, and the floor beneath it, were clean, gleaming with polish. He bent closer. The jagged edges of the bust’s ruined face were softened by age, with a faint patina like that left by the touch of many hands over many years. Only then did he remember. The Faceless One.
A faint chill gripped his neck and he stepped back. This man’s place in history is gone. Here was a level of retribution that he had never conceived, a justice more terrible than any paliach recorded in the long and bloody history of Dol’jhar. They have made him as if he never lived.
A movement broke his reverie. Barrodagh waited with two men in the doorway. He motioned them forward, noting that Barrodagh clutched a small, silver object in his hands. Something about the way he gripped it looked odd, and a fierce exultation kindled in the Avatar. The Heart of Kronos!
When Barrodagh stopped in front of him, Eusabian held out his hand to receive the key to his kingdom.
Barrodagh gaped at Eusabian in confusion, then the awful realization hit him. He thinks it’s the Heart of Kronos. He jerked his hand back. And he doesn’t know any more about the Heart than I did. Why shouldn’t it swallow my thumb? He won’t hesitate to cut it off!
Fortunately there were no Tarkans present. Barrodagh could almost feel the zhu’leath each carried slicing through the tendons and bone at the Avatar’s command.
Eusabian’s face darkened with the flush of rage, the lines between the corners of his mouth and his nose deepening. “Give it to me.”
Barrodagh held out his hand, conditioned by years of obedience. Eusabian grasped the sphere and pulled, then twisted. Barrodagh gasped and half sank to his knees. “Lord, please.” The Dol’jharian’s greater strength threatened to twist his thumb off. “It’s not the Heart of Kronos.”
The Avatar stared at the sphere, and let it go. “Then why have you brought it to me?”
The heat of mortification prickled up Barrodagh’s body. “It swallowed my thumb and no one knows how to get it off.” He heard a snicker behind him, but he didn’t dare turn around to glare at Tallis.
Eusabian looked past him. “Perhaps you will explain this?”
Tallis came forward, bowing deeply. “My lord, it is a Dyzonian Emasculizer.” When Eusabian frowned in incomprehension Tallis hurried on, “A male chastity device from Dyzon. It was among the artifacts we took from the gnostor’s estate.”
The Avatar snorted, then eyed Barrodagh. “And you don’t know how to remove it?”
Barrodagh’s stomach twisted at that strange humor narrowing Eusabian’s eyes.
“I assume it will not impede you in the performance of your duties?”
He’s going to have it cut off anyway! “No, Lord!” he protested. “It will be no trouble. I’m sure someone will know how to cut—” He stopped, appalled at his tongue’s betrayal. “—how to remove it.” He twisted again at the sphere, as he had been doing all the way back from the Satansclaw.
“I shouldn’t do that if I were you.”
They turned to Omilov, who looked back, his jowly face somber. “You might trigger the reward circuits in it.”
“What do you mean?” Barrodagh snarled.
“If you trigger the reward circuits it will attempt to bring you to orgasm. Since you were incautious enough to install it on your thumb, I assume that will not be possible.” The gnostor’s grave tone, with just a hint of irony on the last word, was somehow worse than outright laughter.
Barrodagh noticed a slight curve to Eusabian’s lips. He’s enjoying this.
“However,” continued Omilov, “it is designed to continue trying until it succeeds.” He paused. “I don’t know what will happen to your thumb in that case.”
“You must know how to take it off,” said Barrodagh desperately.
“As I told you during the flight down, I’m afraid that my spouse never explained that part of the device’s operation.”
Barrodagh was astonished to hear Eusabian chuckle. “That was amusing, Gnostor. My poor Bori will be terrified now until we get it removed, even though I’m sure he realizes as well as I do that your little speech was pure invention.”
Omilov’s face settled back into impassivity. “Perhaps.”
Eusabian’s tone grew serious. “I trust you will not be as inventive concerning the Heart of Kronos?”
Omilov did not reply.
“Come, Gnostor, you must know that you will tell me where it is, whether you want to or not.”
“Yes, but honor and loyalty require my silence while I am still able to choose.”
“Gelasaar hai-Arkad stood before me not long ago and bleated a similar refrain. It did him as little good as it will you. His sons are all dead, and he won’t last long on Gehenna.”
Omilov’s face revealed grief, quickly hidden.
“But you, Gnostor, have even less time than he.” Eusabian studied him. “I see in your demeanor the thought that perhaps you will surprise us. I’m afraid not. One of our prisoners from Lao Tse was a woman with the interesting nickname: ‘The Spider.’”
Barrodagh enjoyed the flicker of Omilov’s eyelids. Grief? Worry? Oh yes, you self-righteous old fool. You will soon find out what you have to worry about, and I intend to watch it happen.
Eusabian said, “She, too, was unacquainted with the mindripper, which is a uniquely Dol’jharian instrument. Her introduction to it killed her, but not before we tore her ciphers out of her. We know you are one of the Invisibles, Sebastian Omilov.”
Tallis gasped, stepping back to stare at the gnostor.
A praerogate? Barrodagh stared. The gnostor’s portly frame was at variance with the popular image of those most trusted agents of the Panarch.
Eusabian smiled. “But your hidden allergy to veritonin will do you no good at all. The mindripper works on entirely different principles, the least of which is pain.”
He gestured to Barrodagh. “Give him to Evodh. Make sure that my physician understands this is for information only, not for honor.”
The Avatar turned back to Omilov. “Good-bye, Gnostor. Your useless Douloi scruples will remain intact, even as we shred your cortex. I hope that’s of some comfort to you.”
Barrodagh grabbed Omilov’s arm and shoved him toward the door.
Eusabian turned to Tallis. “Captain, your report of the Krysarch’s death was incomplete. Since your action deprived me of one third of my paliachee, to which I have dedicated twenty years of my life, I want you to recount it now, omitting nothing.”
Barrodagh wished he could linger to watch Tallis suffer Eusabian’s cold interrogation, but he was also hoping to observe Evodh at work. As he pushed Omilov out of the antechamber Barrodagh wondered if Tallis would survive. Perhaps he needed to talk to his other contact on the Satansclaw.
o0o
The Telvarna backed slowly in among the huge trees, hovering under geeplane as it floated tail-first away from the edge of the forest, merging with the shadows. Finally Vi’ya brought the ship down so gently that Greywing wasn’t sure they were on the ground until the engines spun down into silence.
The captain rested her hands on the console for a moment, then tabbed the intercom. “Jaim, any further damage?”
“No,” came the answer. “Once we went aerodynamic I took the hardest-hit systems off-line. But things are still chatzed up—we’ll need a major refit back on Dis—and I’m afraid it may take up to eight hours to get the fiveskip back to where I’d trust it. Worst is, of course, that we can’t really test it down here.”
Marim thrust her face into the vid pickup next to Jaim’s in order to corroborate his statement with a rueful shrug.
“All right, both of you get up here to the bridge.” Vi’ya tapped the intercom again. “Montrose, come forward, and bring the Schoolboy with you.” She turned to Brandon as Jaim’s acknowledgment came back.
“This is the spot you chose, Arkad. I assume you don’t intend us to walk.” She inclined her head toward the main screen, which displayed the broad shadowy forest corridor the Telvarna had backed into.
Lokri’s chin jerked up. “Walk? We’re not really going in?”
Greywing stared at the comtech in surprise. She had never seen him show fear before. What was he afraid of? She did not believe that it was mere physical danger. He was always ready for a firefight, and sometimes almost reckless during one.
“Blit!” Marim scoffed. “Want us to sit here till someone comes after us? That cruiser, maybe?”
Vi’ya said calmly, “If either the Fist or the Panarchists tracked us we’re already dead, but I don’t think they have. The ground defense system seems to be down, and Telvarna is well enough hidden. Jaim and Marim can defend it if need be.” As Jaim appeared, “The rest of us will go inside and have a look.”
Lokri drummed one hand on his console. “We step inside the Mandala and we’re dead.” He glanced toward Brandon, eloquent with scorn. “If anything in there does work, it’ll be used against us.”
Jaim murmured agreement, and Ivard cracked his knuckles nervously. Brandon sat in his pod, looking down at his hands.
“By whom, and to what end? We have seen and heard nothing of the Panarchists,” Vi’ya said to Lokri, making a gesture toward the sky. “You fear the Arkad will give us to the Dol’jharians?”
The twist she gave to the word Dol’jharian caused the Krysarch’s intense blue gaze to shift from the captain to herself, as if he remembered her saying about the other crew members, They want to talk about themselves, you ask them. That made a new thought occur: did Lokri fear being killed—or scanned and identified? Out of all of the Dis crew, he talked the least about where he’d come from.
Lokri’s mouth tightened, then he shrugged.
“We will use the Arkad’s knowledge of the defense systems and find out what is happening, or we will not be able to lift once we do repair the engines,” Vi’ya said to Lokri.
“Maybe we’ll get that loot he promised us,” Marim said cheerily.
While they were talking, Greywing gave in to impulse and leaned over Brandon’s console to whisper, “She’s Dol’jharian. Birth, not choice. Left years ago.”
The Krysarch gave her a brief, absent smile.
“So ask him,” Marim said, and everyone swung around.
“Ask me what?” Brandon shrugged, then said before anyone could answer, “The Palace Major is about forty kilometers from here. But the entire Mandala is riddled with tunnels, some for service functions, others whose purpose has been forgotten and aren’t on any system maps that I know of. That gazebo there is the terminus of one of them. The transport system will get us to the Palace in about ten minutes.”
“A palace!” Marim rubbed her hands together, grinning. “I’ve never been in one.”
“And you won’t this time, either,” Jaim reminded her. “You’ll be here helping me monkey-up the fiveskip.”
Marim looked to the captain, her mouth ready to deliver a protest, but a single nod from Vi’ya inspired instead a stream of genetically improbable invective.
When the scout had run out of breath, if not out of opprobrium, Brandon added, “I should be able to use my override to make us invisible to whatever security system is still up.”
Vi’ya gazed at the screen. Just beyond the edge of the forest, on a lawn dotted with yellow flowers, a small gazebo perched. In the distance beyond it the greensward sloped up to gently rolling hills dotted with small trees silhouetted against an evening-yellow sky. There were no other buildings visible.
Vi’ya turned to Jaim. “How many hands you need?”
Jaim said doubtfully, “Well, Marim and I can—”
“One more.” Marim sighed through pursed lips, blowing tufts of her flyaway hair. “At least one.”
Vi’ya paused as Montrose entered, one massive hand pushing Osri before him. The captain studied Osri. “You would undoubtedly be more liability than help with a firejac in your hands, Schoolboy. I assume you can follow directions?”
“Yes,” Osri stated curtly.
“Good. Jaim, Marim, he’s yours. Montrose, equip a party of six, downside interior sortie—”
“Six? The boy can watch the com.” Lokri pointed to Ivard.
“Com’s slaved to engine room,” Vi’ya said.
Lokri’s eyes narrowed.
“Ivard’s a good shot,” Greywing said, her voice sounding too loud on the bridge. “Better aim than you.” Heat crept up her neck, worsening when Ivard shot a glower of reproach at her.
Vi’ya studied Ivard. “You can handle it if things get hot?”
Ivard’s chin came up. “I’m part of the crew. I’ll do whatever I have to.”
Vi’ya nodded at Montrose, reinforcing her earlier order, then added, “Get the Arkad a boz’l.” She said to Ivard, “Go with him. Bring him up on what we just decided.”
Montrose grunted his approval, and left, Ivard at his heels.
“C’mon, Schoolboy, we’re off to Murphy’s Kingdom.” Marim gave Vi’ya a mock-angry scowl, adding, “And they better save us some o’ the take.” Then the three of them disappeared.
Montrose and Ivard returned, arms loaded with gear: lumbar supply packs, bandoliers of petards, a monstrous two-hand firejac for the big Rifter, and five standard jacs in holsters. Vi’ya set hers for minimum aperture, which yielding greater distance and accuracy at the cost of stopping power. Greywing saw Brandon watching this as he put on his pack, attached the holstered jac to its belt, and strapped on the boswell Montrose had handed him.
Greywing put her own on. She could feel the coolness of its inductors against the inside of her wrist until it adapted to her flesh. Somehow that made the reality of walking into danger more immediate than strapping on her weapon, so familiar after hours of practice.
(Your ears up, Arkad?) Vi’ya’s voice sounded inside Greywing’s head.
(Neural induction—nothing like doing things right,) came the Arkad’s voice over the omniband. (These things military-surplus?)
Only the most expensive civilian models had the neural induction feature. Greywing wondered if Brandon was used to that—then she wondered what had happened to his boswell.
“We won’t use these unless we get separated,” Vi’ya said out loud. “They’re spread-spectrum, but there is no sense in taking chances.”
“That won’t work,” said Brandon. “Line of sight only in the Palace, unless you have access to the network, and we can’t take that chance.” He lifted his wrist. “Best these will do for us is help us keep quiet when we’re together. “
Vi’ya frowned slightly.
“That’s what I thought you intended,” said Brandon.
“Don’t need to worry about being overheard,” began Greywing.
Vi’ya interrupted. “Set them to personal, then. Let’s go.”
“Wait,” said Brandon, hefting the bandolier, a dyplast strip with a number of small black spheres attached to it. “What do I do with these? I know what they are, but I’ve not been trained with them.”
“Carry them for us,” said Vi’ya. “If I need you to use one, I can program it through your boz’l.”
On their way to the lock, a blur of white flashed past Greywing, and Lucifur landed on his pads squarely before Vi’ya, his ears back and his tail twitching. The captain stood motionless before the big cat for a time, then leaned down and just touched the top of the broad wedge-shaped head.
Luce gave his ratcheting purr and with a bound disappeared down the passageway.
Greywing’s instinct was to walk next to her brother, but she made herself wait. Ivard took his place among the others. He hadn’t sought her protection, so she had to stop offering it. She fell in behind.
In front of her, the Krysarch was studying the firejac Montrose had given him. Greywing found his absorption puzzling. Had he never seen a weapon close up? It was just like hers: a worn, scratched, but otherwise well-maintained Dogstar LVI, just about the most common short-range plasma weapon in the Thousand Suns.
The grips of her jac were covered with some sort of rough, scaly substance, nearly worn through in a couple of places. The trigger had been polished by years of use, but the black-box finish of the finned radiants around the aperture was flawless. It’s definitely a Rifter’s weapon, she thought. The parts that matter well maintained, but no resources wasted on appearance. I wonder if he sees that.
As they reached the lock, Montrose was still adjusting his harness, which enabled him to carry his weapon at his side yet swivel it up to firing position instantly. Vi’ya slapped the control and, as the doors opened to reveal the dim-lit forest outside, waved her weapon at Brandon in an ironic gesture. “Lead the way.”
The ramp boomed softly underfoot as they descended. The Telvarna’s hull pinged and creaked as it cooled. Greywing could feel the warmth on the back of her neck as she reached the ground.
At the base of the ramp Vi’ya stopped. The Eya’a emerged and glided down the ramp, their feet making no sound on its metallic surface. They moved swiftly in the twilight, their faceted eyes seeming to gather and concentrate the dim light, like liquid-filled diamonds. As they joined Vi’ya she led the group away from the ship.
Brandon took a broad step away from the Eya’a. The rest of the crew ignored them, other than taking care not to come in physical contact with them as they traversed the grassy sward toward the gazebo. The trees loomed immense, their massive, seamed umber trunks so vast that twenty big men could not have joined hands around them, so tall that from their base one could not see the top. They had no branches for the first hundred feet or so above the ground, so the path had the feeling of a colonnade bordered by massive living pillars.
Ivard’s steps lagged as he peered upward. When Greywing caught up with him, he said in a hushed voice, “I didn’t know there were trees so large.”
Greywing tilted her head back to look up into the dimming sky through the interlaced branches overhead. “We sure never saw this at home, did we?”
“Home,” Ivard said, his lip curling. “Home’s Dis.”
And if someone shoots this captain and Lokri takes over? Or someone worse? Greywing thought, but she didn’t say anything. Home to her meant where you were born. Nothing more. Home like Ivard meant it—well, there was no meaning for that anymore. Like justice, it was just a word you used for something convenient.
Maybe Ivard somehow knew what she was thinking, or maybe he just decided he didn’t need to walk by his sister. He rushed forward again, looking around so fast that he nearly tripped on the uneven ground.
Montrose also took in the scenery with evident pleasure. In contrast, Lokri sauntered ahead, as if bored. Directly in advance of him Vi’ya and the Eya’a moved as a self-absorbed unit.
“These trees were planted by the first Exiles,” Brandon told Ivard. “It’s said that some of them were seedlings on Lost Earth.”
“If trees have memories,” Montrose’s voice rumbled in his chest, “then these are the only living things in the Thousand Suns to remember the sunlight of the mother of humankind.”
Lokri looked askance the Krysarch’s way, but got no reaction. The ordered ranks of the forest, scattered with understory trees, low brush and occasional flowering bushes, appeared peaceful. After five days of controlled ship’s air, the scents around them were strong, exciting.
Montrose sneezed. “Just my luck,” the big physician said, when Ivard laughed. “We land on just about the most Earthlike planet in the Thousand Suns, and I get skipnose.”
Greywing’s head clogged, but she could still smell the resinous duff underfoot and the heady scent of the flowers. What would it be like to have these the familiar scents of home? If Lost Earth smelled like this, why did they leave?
Brandon’s body stiffened and he stopped walking. Greywing followed his gaze. Some time ago, an immense branch had fallen from one of the vast trees, its bulk broken on a boulder. Duff had mounded up on it, supporting the growth of understory trees and brush. In the deep shadow underneath it, eyes gleamed. She squinted. A long, blunt muzzle, a deep-chested black-and-tan body resolved.
Brandon took a step toward the dog. It vanished. Brandon’s hand went out, then dropped to his side.
Vi’ya looked back with an air of wary question.
“That’s one of them!” exclaimed Ivard. “It looked just like...
“Such a loyal animal.” Lokri’s voice was acid, causing Ivard to shrink in on himself.
Brandon shook his head, not in answer to Lokri but as if dispelling a memory. He hefted his jac and walked on.
As they emerged from the forest and approached the gazebo, Greywing wondered if the Krysarch was fighting the same curious sense of unreality that she was. He must have played here as a boy, maybe organizing his nick friends into teams, Marines against the Shiidra, like Greywing and the others had before they got to their tenth birthdays and were sold off to the combines.
Or did they play Navy captains against Rifters?
Here he was, leading an armed gang of Rifters into the Palace where he’d been born. Nothing seemed real anymore. She had a feeling that when they left here—if they left—she would never really believe she had ever set foot on the Mandala.
Overhead the first stars of evening appeared behind a faint wash of high cirrus. The gazebo shone whitely against the darkening sky, rising up out of a huddle of flowering shrubs and hedges. Its ornate latticework sides shadowed the interior in mystery.
It was empty, the interior dusty and splattered with bird droppings. Doves cooed under the eaves as they entered.
Lokri flashed interest, the first he’d shown since their landing. “These tunnels widely used? Who’re we going to meet down there?”
“Very few people know about them,” Brandon replied. “The House computer maintains and runs the old transport system mainly so that the dogs can move freely about the Archipelago. Maintenance and rangers use aircars.” He looked around the gazebo, eyes narrowed. Seeking something?
“Galen and I searched for older tunnels. My first dog, Bani, showed us one once, opening into the Palace Minor. We showed it to my father. Turned out his first dog had shown him it when he was our age.” He smiled reminiscently. “I guess it was sort of a family tradition.”
“Sounds more like a family tradition for Rifters,” Lokri drawled, “looking for bolt-holes.”
Brandon’s fingers moved over the woodwork, then under the decorative carvings near the base of a roof support. “Here are the controls.”
Lokri and Ivard found themselves inside a circle of light about eight feet across. A gentle chime sounded. They backed out of the circle hastily. The floor rose smoothly on a slender pillar and a second platform filled the hole as the former floor integrated itself seamlessly into the ceiling above.
Brandon motioned them onto the platform. then tapped the pillar, and the platform sank noiselessly, stopping on a raised dais in a large chamber. Its cement walls were smooth and darkened with age; there was a faint damp smell. A short flight of stairs led downward, and a ramp gave access for automated loaders. A tunnel stretched away into gloomy distance, two parallel strips of metal on the floor glinting in the dim light.
They clattered down the stairs, following Brandon to a control console built into the wall near the tunnel opening. He keyed it to life and entered his personal code. There was a brief, almost subliminal flicker of light as the console scanned his retina. Greywing noticed Lokri stepping back, his teeth showing briefly.
“Identity confirmed. Welcome, Krysarch Brandon.”
Ivard gripped his firejac as the emotionless voice in the console echoed in the chamber. The cadence of its speech was natural, but entirely neuter—there was no intimation of personality. The Eya’a made no move, and Vi’ya watched without expression.
“Query. Status, defense systems, local and planetary.”
“All systems down, both passive and reactive. Critical links destroyed per standing orders.”
Brandon frowned at the console. The others waited, Lokri smiling sardonically.
“They took down the defense system to deny it to the invaders,” Brandon said. “Telvarna is safe from detection.”
Greywing’s insides tightened. So it was true: Arthelion had fallen.
“Query. Status, local security systems,” Brandon asked.
“Passive systems active, with exceptions. Active systems down. Canine system severely limited by hostile action. Thirteen dogs lost to date.”
“Damn it,” Brandon whispered. Then, to Greywing’s surprise, he chuckled, although the sound was sour. “Not a very good score for the invaders,” he said.
Then, quickly: “Command. Cancel surveillance from this location, internal and external. Cancel stored images.”
“Canceled. Canceled.”
He turned to the Rifters. “The systems are still gathering information, but the machines that tie it all together are down. I’ve made sure no one can see us here if the system comes back up. It sounds like the dogs are in hiding.” He turned back to the console. “Is my father in residence?”
“This system does not have that information.”
“Explain.”
‘Numerous internal identification sensors have been disabled. He has not been detected by the remaining ones.”
“Why were the sensors disabled?”
“This system does not have that information.”
Brandon shook his head in frustration. “There’s no way to tell if any of the Family are here or not. I’ll see if I can get some information on activity within the Palace.” He turned back to the console. “Status, housekeeping systems.”
“Housekeeping systems are operational at this time. Authorized access to services continues in the Rouge, Phoenix, and Aleph-Null quadrants. Manual access to comestible, clothing, and hygiene services by unauthorized personnel in the Ivory quadrant and Palace Minor has been enforced by recoding. Other systems are still secure.”
“Identify locations of unauthorized personnel.”
“Most internal sensors in the Ivory quadrant and Palace Minor are inoperative. Repair functions are being hindered, but alternate circuits are being established. Current patterns of manual housekeeping requests indicate predominant unauthorized activities confined to Palace Minor and upper sublevels of Ivory wing of Palace Major.”
Brandon paused, rubbing a finger across the face of the ring he wore. “Are transport activities accessible to unauthorized personnel?”
“No.”
“Send a carrier to this location, eight persons.”
“Acknowledged. ETA two minutes.”
He said, “There’s an odd pattern here. The invaders seem to have cleared all the servants and other personnel out of the residence—the Palace Minor—and the quadrant of the Palace Major that includes the residence. Is that a Rifter custom before looting a place?”
“As if there’s any universal Rifter custom other than anarchy.” Montrose chuckled, a rumble in his big chest that Greywing found comforting. “But no, few are that well organized, or have that much control over their fellows.”
Vi’ya spoke. “That is Dol’jharian custom,” she said. “Outsiders are not permitted access to any area frequented by a Dol’jharian noble. Nothing will have been touched.”
Brandon stared at her, an angry flush high on his cheeks. “You think that Eusabian himself has taken up residence in the Palace Minor.”
The Eya’a shifted position subtly, their faceted gazes unwavering on the Krysarch.
“He swore a paliach against your father, did he not?”
“Yes.”
“Taking possession of his enemy’s keep would be a part of it. I would guess that the other area is for the occupation administrators.”
Brandon tightened a fist, then dropped his hands. “So we have two choices of destination,” he continued. “I know the Palace Minor best, and can direct you to any number of treasures there once I’ve had my shot at—”
Vi’ya took a step toward him. “We are not here to aid you in your revenge. Our deal is simple. You can look for your family in the time it takes us to get information and loot. The Telvarna will need a lot of work, maybe more than we can afford.”
Brandon said, “I meant my search. Anyway, the sublevels of the Ivory quadrant the computer referred to are a maze of corridors and rooms, some very old—in fact, Galen and I once found some old Hegemonic detention cells that had been converted to storage. There might be some prisoners there.”
“And?” Lokri interjected, looking interested. He rubbed his thumb against two fingers in an age-old gesture. “The loot?”
“The Ivory quadrant of the Mandala has the aspect of autonomy, which is associated with the arts. Is there much of a market for fine art among Rifters?”
Montrose chuckled. “Some of the most passionate collectors I’ve ever known are Rifters.”
“If you know the right broker,” said Vi’ya, “there’s nothing more profitable.”
“Good. Then our goals run parallel. The antechamber to the Hall of Ivory should yield a stunning profit. The transport I’ve summoned will take us directly there. We’ll get no help from the house system, but neither will the enemy.”
A puff of air from the tunnel announced the arrival of the carrier, a long, low sled-like contrivance with a streamlined fairing at each end and flanged wheels of some dark substance that fit onto the metal strips in the floor. In the center of the sled was an open space partly filled by a cage.
Lokri let out a laugh. “Wheels in grooves!”
Ivard breathed an admiring “Oh!” and jumped in. “They’re called tracks, Lokri,” he said. “I’ve seen pictures of this sort of thing, but never in person.” He tapped the cage. “Is this for the dogs? Will we see any?”
Brandon nodded. “They’re smart, but these old open cars aren’t safe for them. The computer controls it.” He glanced around, his brow puckering. “I don’t know if we’ll see any. Given the circumstances, it might be best if we did not.”
Brandon waited until the others boarded and then tapped the keys in the small console. The carrier accelerated smoothly into the tunnel. Widely spaced lights held back the darkness. The rush of air past the fairing was loud and constant, interrupted occasionally by a muffled whoomp as they passed a side tunnel. The only other sound was an intermittent clicking from the rails as they passed switching points.
Presently Ivard leaned toward Greywing to whisper, “This place is a maze.” His voice echoed.
“Seems us Rifters have nothing on these crooked old Panarchy chatzers,” Lokri said agreeably.
“Some of those crooked old Panarchy chatzers would be violently insulted to be mistaken for the Hegemonists who built these tunnels,” Brandon said in an equally pleasant tone, his blue gaze meeting Lokri’s cold gray stare.
Lokri grinned, a wide grin that slashed clear across his face.
Greywing let herself observe his handsome dark face, never more attractive than when laughing, or acknowledging a hit. His long curling hair blew back in the wind, his gemstone gleamed in his ear.
Then she deliberately looked away.